Margaret Stohl - Idols

EASTASIA SUBSTATION

MARKED URGENT

MARKED EYES ONLY

Internal Investigative Subcommittee IIS211B

RE: The Incident at SEA Colonies

As promised.

Below are excerpted records of communication between Fortissimo (“FORTIS”) and his AI (HAL2040—the early iteration of the somewhat rudimentary Virtual Human we know as “Doc”). These are initial attempts by Fortissimo and his AI to contact the foreign object first thought to be an asteroid, and thus labeled Perses, proving early awareness of potential threat.

Note: Fortissimo’s use of “hello world” (in this case, done in multiple languages) is an ancient programming trope. Displaying the phrase “hello world” indicates success in getting a new machine to connect to its network, to communicate, or show some intelligence. By human standards. (Note: Physical Humans, that is. Virtual Human standards are by nature much higher.)

Yours,

Jasmine3k

Virt. Hybrid Human 39261.SEA

Laboratory Assistant to Dr. E. Yang

HAL2040 ==> FORTIS

Transcript - ComLog 04.13.2042

HAL::PERSES

//lognote: {PERSES communication attempt #413};

sendfile: ascii.tab;

sendfile: dict.glob.lang;

//lognote: as before, sending files with dictionaries/text protocols;

sendline:hello world;

return:. . . . . no response;

sendline:01101000 01100101 01101100 01101100 01101111 0100000 01110111 01101111 01110010 01101100 01100100;

return:. . . . . no response;

sendline:48:65:6c:6c:6f:20:57:6f:72:6c:64;

return:. . . . . . no response;

sendline:an ki lu sal an ki lu sal an ki lu sal an ki lu sal;

return: . . . . . . no response;

//lognote: communication attempts in English, binary, hex, ancient languages find PERSES unresponsive.;

Sleep only brings nightmares. When I wake up, I return to consciousness as suddenly and as restlessly as I left it.

Sitting up, I want to run, gasping for air in the cold. My heart pounds and every beat is a question.

Where am I? Are we safe? Are we still free?

I fall back on my side, staring into the growing shadows of the wild desert brush in front of me.

No Sympas. No ships. No Lords. Nothing I haven’t seen for the last week now.

I study the landscape like a clock as I try to catch my breath. The long shadows mean it’s nearly dark, which means it’s time to get up and move. The terrain has grown increasingly strange, alien almost, as we’ve crawled from rock to rock in the darkness. Anything to avoid the Sympas combing the desert, looking for us.

We sleep in the day and travel in the night now, ever since our Chopper went down.

At least we have established contact with Doc through the comlink cuffs—thanks to the com relay Fortis was able to salvage from the crashed Chopper. Doc keeps us away from patrols and, we hope, moving toward somewhere safe. He’s been tracking Sympa deployments since our Chopper went down; they’re looking for us—everywhere—but they haven’t found us yet.

They. The Embassies. The Lords. It almost doesn’t matter which, not anymore. They’ll find us, whoever they are in the end.

It’s only a matter of time.

The longer we wander in the desert—exposed to the elements and targeted by the Embassy—the stronger the grip despair has on me.

Despair from the bleak truth that, back in the Hole that once was Los Angeles, even without the Icon, the Embassy reportedly still has all the power, and the weapons.

The bleak truth that, according to what we learned during our too-brief stay in Nellis, Catallus has come down with a fury on the people of the city, and the Projects run uninterrupted.

I look up to where Lucas sits across from me, huddling in only his shirtsleeves on the red rocky ledge. It takes me a moment to realize that Lucas has laid his torn Embassy jacket over me, along with his blanket.

He smiles, almost shyly, and I soften, seeing the cold purple-blue of his mouth.

I don’t know why I can’t just say what I think—that I’m grateful, that he’s thoughtful. That when I see his mouth I want to kiss it, kiss him, but since we are never alone, I don’t dare.

My empty stomach growls as I turn to see who else is there, just in case I’m wrong. I’m not; Fortis snores on one side of me, under a pile of brush that can’t camouflage his woolen, red-toed socks pointing to the sky like two knit rabbit ears. Tima is passed out on the other side of him, covered in dust and almost completely hidden in a neat zigzag of folded arms and legs, like some kind of compact military gear. Brutus is nestled in the crook of her knees, himself snoring so loudly you would think he was Fortis’s son more than Tima’s dog. Ro, as usual, is nowhere to be seen, but he doesn’t like to sleep near any of us, not since we left the Mission.

He won’t get that close to Lucas.

To me.

Things will get easier for all of us, Fortis says, when we find a way to get where we’re going.

The Idylls, Fortis called it. “I’ve found it, with Doc’s help. A Grass base. The only camp out here.”

I was confused when he first said it. “Idylls? Why do they call it that?”

“Because it’s paradise, love. Where the Icons can’t hurt us and the Lords can’t fly.”

“You mean somewhere over a rainbow? Like the old stories say?”

“I mean somewhere under a mountain. Like the old combat manuals say.”

But I still don’t understand how we’re supposed to find some Grass Rebellion base even the Embassies can’t. And I have a difficult time believing there even is someplace safe. Someplace where we can plan our battle against the House of Lords.

But none of us has a better plan. Or better rations. Or enough water. Or another way out of here.

So, like the good soldiers we are quickly becoming, under the mountain we go.

“Dol?”

I jump as Lucas touches my shoulder, startling me out of my reverie of mountains and soldiers. He wags his head in the direction of the nearby hill. His hair falls lank in his face, curling against his jawline. “Come on, Dol. I have something for you.”

Looking at his overgrown hair makes me realize how long it has been since any of us has done anything as normal as getting a haircut. Not to mention the bloody gash on his forehead that snakes above his eyes like a second brow, his trophy from our crash—same as my bruised face, Tima’s swollen ankle, or Ro’s busted rib.

And all of our empty, aching bellies.

Still, even this messed up, he’s breathtakingly beautiful, Lucas Amare.

“Something for me?” I’m caught off guard, but Lucas offers me his hand and I take it, pulling myself up after him. The second I touch him, I feel it—the warmth that comes from the way his heart beats in time with mine.