Attribution

by Christine Horner

  As she walked, razor wire-topped fencing in interrupted lengths and oversized signs declaring Old Faithful and the Inn closed dotted the park’s perimeter. A rooster grocery delivery drone glided down the driveway. Truby had never entirely grown accustomed to the contrast between yesteryear and the onslaught of the ever-arriving future. The longer she stayed at the park, the more she felt the simple life was the natural solution to humankind’s ills, including greed.

  Just then her BioID vibrated slightly under her forearm skin. Fully aware she was technology’s slave, Truby unhappily dug in a pant pocket for her earbud. So small, she had to reach into the end corner of the seam usually reserved for things like dimes and lint. Her BioID vibrated again. Her nerves were jangled as it was.

  “Nice work, cowgirl. Ready for the big rodeo?”

  Truby’s investigative mind instantly went to work on why Lt. General Young was fixating on cowboys this morning. She knew she’d find out soon enough. A surge of adrenaline raced through her body like lightning, or maybe a hot flash?

  Truby began to sweat. “I meant what I said. I’ll expose you; you know I can.”

  “You’re a dead liar, remember?”

  “Yeah, everybody knows dead is code for a federally funded sabbatical, and liar means enemy of the state.”

  “And suicide? Big picture, Truby. Take a deep breath. That’s a girl. Feeling better?”

  Patriarchal belittlement made her blood boil. She hoped she’d never unwittingly dispensed any herself. Any other day, she’d have let loose on the imbecile. Instead, she animatedly mocked him as he went on. If anyone saw her, they would have thought she was having a seizure.

  “I just love our special relationship. Before I forget, I sent you a little thank you for all you do, special delivery. Nail this next one, I’ll see about cutting you loose.”

  It was a promise Truby had heard before. This time, she was going to hold him to it. She had gone far above her pay grade, too far. What she was about to unleash, she still wasn’t sure. The only way she could allay her fears and assuage the nagging guilt was the knowledge that the work was coerced out of her under duress. She may have accepted a plea deal with the government, but it wasn’t for her sake. It was in hopes of someday being reunited with her daughter that kept her going.

  Truby had had moments of great despair along with three years of migraines that made an escape from entrapment, even death at times quite appealing. Though she wasn’t ready to admit it, the lines between what was truth and fiction had begun to blur and become confused in her mind.

  What if you can’t even trust yourself to tell the truth?

  CHAPTER 6

  Americas Sector M9-48B :: New Las Vegas

  “Almighty,” whispered a reverent Olivia Flores, unable to tear her eyes away from the beauty in front of her. “A resurrected Tigris-Euphrates valley in the desert.”

  The straight backs of Global Security Council General Lindor Stenberg and the U.S. Vice-President were silhouettes against a wall-sized 3D media screen operated by two uniformed personnel at consoles in the darkened GSC Command Central Theatre.

  Before them was a live video feed transmitted by a spectacularly engineered bald eagle drone in flight, Eagle-2. In the corner of the screen, a thumbnail of Eagle-2 in repose, its fierce yellow eyes, snappish beak made for tearing meat, and white head were indistinguishable from the real thing. Brown body feathers lifted in the breeze, revealing downy softness underneath.

  Through Eagle-2, the two-story wall became a window to the world. It was as if Flores and Stenberg were the ones floating in the morning’s clear cerulean blue sky before dust and other particles would create a slight haze, dulling the color. This is what had left Flores awestruck.

  The drone caught thermals high above New Las Vegas. Unlike inferior mortal Eagles, it could simultaneously see above and below, near and far. The GSC personnel at the console could direct which camera angle to take, constructing a documentary on the spot that would have taken previous filmmakers months or years to craft.

  On a mission, Eagle-2 soon left behind the modernized lush green city. Old Las Vegas’s marketing slogan once, “What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas,” was now New Las Vegas’s “The Emerald City.” Belonging to Seattle over fifty years earlier, global warming’s rising coastal waters all but took Seattle and the city’s slogan off the map as Puget Sound overran its boundaries to merge with Lake Washington.

  But New Las Vegas’s abundance didn’t end at its city limits. The scenery was breathtaking not only from a planetary perspective but as a testament to human engineering that had created a fertile valley out of a forsaken desert. Project DupliCity had not only transformed a region of the Earth scorched by previous generations’ shortsightedness, but it was also about to transfigure the world more than only a handful of people, including Flores, knew.

  The General turned with a small smile, gazing pointedly into Flores’s eyes, “That’s why you are invaluable to WREN, Madame Vice-President. Imagine this beauty and its bounty in every desolate corner of the Earth.”

  “I have, General. And I told you my conditions.”

  “Yes, yes, Olivia. I agree. Total transparency.”

  “And a top-level security clearance.”

  He extended his palm like an olive branch—or a snake.

  Finally, she took it. Some snakes are harmless.

  CHAPTER 7

  Down on one knee, not far from the Inn, Truby held her HD video camera shoulder height. The camera’s little red light blinked in warning that only ten percent battery life remained. She swore—not at the low battery which was a constant as the old batteries hardly held a charge anymore, but at what she saw through the viewfinder.

  “B-roll. Taxpayer dollars fund government waste,” Truby verbally tagged the video she shot.

  “I’ve been here for nearly forty years,” a park ranger leaned in to peer more closely at the drone. “Strangest creature ever to wander into the park—besides you.”

  “Nice, Pete.” Truby didn’t bother to look up. She didn’t know when the veteran had stealthily wandered in with his walking stick, but it no longer surprised her when his droll manner would interrupt a precious few moments alone.

  Before them at the height of three feet plus was Eagle-2 shifting from foot to foot. Tilting its head quizzically, the drone opened and closed its beak periodically as if tasting the air.

  “Looks pretty real to me.” Truby didn’t wait for Pete’s response, continuing in her reporter’s voice, “At approximately 10:19 a.m. Mountain time, an animatronic military drone was dispatched for personal use to a remote location at an unknown cost to taxpayers.”

  “Never go by appearances. Feel with your heart. There’s no soul there, no life. Didn’t your grandfather teach you anything?”

  Truby gave up, shutting the camera’s viewfinder. Pete was in a dour mood today; she could feel that. She never took it personally. It was just Pete’s way of seeking attention. Even at seventy-eight years of age came the desire to feel needed and valued.

  “Look at you. Even polished the badge today. Old Faithful dried up six years ago, and you still wear the uniform. I’m impressed.”

  “Nice, Truby.”

  “No, really. I mean it, Pete. You never know who might show up.”

  Pete lifted his sunken Native American frame a little higher to face Truby. The height of the midmorning sunlight set the hollows underneath strong cheek bones, casting golden flecks into fixed brown eyes. Truby’s imagination filled in the rest—a revered tribal chief in full feathers and hand-constructed, dyed leather. Through him, she saw the man Pete’s grandfather was, and still was via his progeny, and she was awed.

  Straightening his synthetic mud brown tie and khaki cotton cuffs, “Turn that thing back on.”

  If it made Pete happy, Truby would do it. He rarely, if ever, asked anything of her. She got down on one knee to shoot from underneath to dramatically enhance the mystique of the man. “All yours, Pete.”


  The descendant of a chief looked directly into the camera, clearing his throat first. “You never know when my girl, Old Faithful, will wake up. Until then, everyone should have meaningful work, and a warm heart.”

  Ouch. Moment over. She closed the viewfinder and set the video camera gently on the ground. Ignoring Pete, Truby stood and began gently probing around the Eagle’s body. Starting underneath one wing and then the other, she next went to the chest. Logical hands carefully worked as they probed through thick feathers. She found what she was seeking, fingers tracing a square pattern.

  Deciding not to let Pete’s last quip drop, “I had both once, you know.”

  She gave the plump chest a hard thump with a fisted right hand just below the uneven changeover from clean white to dark brown. Truby jumped back in case the bird of prey somehow took offense. Not a peep out of the lifelike creature still tasting the air.

  “You prick!”

  “Now we get to the truth.”

  “Not you, you prick.” Truby had an idea who had sent Eagle-2. Another thump and a small refrigerated box-like section of the chest area slid open. “Large enough to carry a deadly virus.”

  “Or its cure,” said a ruffled Pete. “Don’t always expect the worst from your fellow man.”

  Truby pulled out a clear container filled to the brim with roughly eight ounces of a tan, creamy substance. Truby made a face. Handwritten across the top in sloppy scrawl was “Liverwurst” with a heart after it.

  “Life just keeps proving me right.”

  Curious, Pete stepped closer, peering down at what Truby threw to the ground. “A cold heart or liver in this case. But it’s a start. If you’re going to waste your gifts, I can’t stop you.”

  Pete was outplayed by loud music and flashing lights. Zedd, the park’s professional shopping concierge with dark blue hair and pale skin in his early thirties, interrupted them with his presence alone. “You dropped something.”

  Truby snatched the bra from Zedd that had fallen out of her back pocket during her walk.

  “I was in the middle of ordering this buki jacket with built-in GPS.”

  “When you remembered you had six.”

  “Well, at least I don’t leave my dirty underwear lying around everywhere,” his techno-clothing all flashing lights and Nirvana. “Get this! U.S. Geological Survey shows another swarm of earthquakes at— Badass!” finally looking up from his device to notice the bird. “Can I make it a pet?”

  Just then, the eagle drone closed and secured its secret compartment. Kicking its talons backward, it stirred up bits of wild grass and dirt as if clearing a runway.

  Truby, Pete, and Zedd stepped back to give the creature room. Instead, it surprised all three by lifting vertically to streak across the big sky, breaking the sound barrier with a small sonic boom.

  “Good thing you didn’t name it yet, Zedd,” Pete said.

  CHAPTER 8

  The seven-story central lobby of Old Faithful’s main lodge relaxed Truby. Nerves both raw and weary, Truby found the simple arts and crafts style chairs and large Indian rugs that dotted the room’s expanse to be soothing. There was local forestry wood everywhere from a bygone era that now boasted eco-friendly building materials such as hemp and bamboo.

  Truby’s eyes slowly traveled upward in amazement absorbing each rock’s unique shape and size. Somehow the five hundred ton, eighty-five-foot-high stone fireplace, a stalwart symbol of what the Inn had endured and may yet endure gave her comfort. Yet, she was wound tighter than the oversized ironwork clock on the north side more than twenty feet above one of the four main hearths.

  Truby’s personal alarm clock was beginning to sound. She stared at the clock trying to recall something Pete had once said. The earth’s magnetic field, something about the North pole being the source of negative energy. Truby’s sense of foreboding and anxiety began ticking a little faster as her train of thought gained momentum. A woman’s intuition and empirical evidence tend to contradict one another—initially. Though she had learned to pay closer attention to intuition over the years, today she was choosing logic and reason for the simple reason she didn’t like what intuition had to say.

  Voices peaked at the south end of the lobby. Hopefully, some positive energy. But, when Truby got to the dining room, it was nearly all out war.

  “Two planes, three towers!” yelled Cadence, part-time yogi, and aspiring cyber sleuth.

  Hector, the park’s IT engineer, grabbed at Cadence’s computer tablet still projecting a looping video of the three towers falling in lower Manhattan. “Because of the difference between heat and temperature!” Smart eyeglasses tilted precariously in his fervor.

  Truby hopped up and over the highly polished antique mahogany bar swinging long legs around to the back side. Setting her computer down, she began to work on the little package the green-eyed dragon had delivered. Probably another gem from Young.

  Cadence stood, swinging her hologram colored hair with zeal to challenge Hector, “What about Tower Seven? No plane. Truby, tell him!”

  From the first night Truby had arrived to join the menagerie, these two had been inseparable lovers. One an attractive twenty-eight-year-old Californian, the other a typical thirty-year-old left-brain dominant with prematurely graying hair, you would have thought they were opposites. They attract, but right now, they were repelling. Hector and Cadence paused mid-argument for Truby’s tie-breaking vote. As they waited, she knew they were both calculating their next move depending on what she said.

  A few tables over Zedd pretended to listen to music, pale blue eyes shifting gleefully to the fighting couple, waiting for his opportunity. Two men, one woman, you bide your time if a threesome isn’t an option.

  Too much togetherness, you get to know people. When she first arrived, she was highly suspicious as to why the government would hire a yoga instructor, an IT guy, and a shopping concierge for a shuttered Inn. Over time, as Truby slowly recruited them for odd jobs, she grew to trust them. The younger adults did help with property maintenance, shouldering more responsibility as Pete began to slow down. Old Faithful and the Inn were Pete’s life. At least the government had a shred of decency to keep the old man employed and preserve the national landmark.

  Truby stalled, fiddling with the package to get inside. Stamped everywhere was the word, “Fragile.” Life was fragile. A precarious walk atop a razor thin fence that sliced you open no matter how measured each step. War for the young who don’t know any better, and the old who refuse to evolve, Truby, for her part, kept above the fray as much as possible. Logic it was.

  “Okay, let’s investigate. The facts... There is a difference between heat and temperature, and, there were only two planes, yet three buildings went down.”

  Cadence and Hector launched at one another simultaneously. “Three building go down at the rate of a freefall in their own footprint exactly the same!”

  Ignoring the firestorm she just ignited, Truby cracked open a carefully wrapped oversized fortune cookie. Strange.

  Zedd made his hero move. “Cadence has a good point if you think about it. Remember all those engineers that signed the petition?”

  “My girlfriend is none of your business. You are the least qualified person in this room . . .”

  Inside the clearly non-edible cookie, a slip of paper and an unusual rock. It was silvery gray with striations on one side and somewhat rough with sharp edges. The fortune read, “Opportunity knocks for the last time. Will you answer?” The lucky numbers were 8 2 3.

  Truby froze with fear, then quickly worked the large gumball-sized rock and fortune into an empty bison salt shaker before anyone noticed.

  De ja vu, this couldn’t be happening again! Was there anything left to take from her? Truby’s pulse pounded as she neared a panic attack when she suddenly regained control of her senses.

  Unbelievable!

  An attempt by Young to goad her into another wild goose chase. He had always been shockingly transparent. In fact, Truby consi
dered his lack of reserve one of his many weaknesses. Young knew Truby’s weakness for pursuing the truth, one he repeatedly exploited. After years of suggesting certain satellite images were fake, she’d finally been caught at an off-limits facility, violating her plea agreement. He’d lied to her for sport. His way of getting her to give up more of her freedom voluntarily. “Style,” he’d called it.

  “I hope you people are never locked up in a six by six cell together. Wait, I hope you are.” Pete made his usual non-entrance.

  “Even with the facts, what do we know about truth?” Truby asked to break up the quarrel.

  Hector and Cadence mumbled in unison what they’ve heard Truby lament more than once, “Truth is relative.”

  “All I know, is one minute we’re a bunch of park employees, and the next, Truby shows up, and she’s showing us the real world is a lot more screwed up than we thought,” said Zedd.

  “Truth is, I was blissfully enjoying all this for myself until you four creatures threw yourselves on my doorstep,” said Pete, his hand-carved walking stick his constant companion.

  “Yeah, Pete, that’s not quite the way it happened.”

  Zedd was going to argue with an old man? Was it a full moon?

  Feeling more uptight than ever, Truby exhaled sharply before donning a pair of smart glasses launching an oversized media screen. “Exactly. Truth is relative, like time and space. A regular funhouse hall of mirrors. Your version, my version won’t destroy or even save the world. It’s the collective story we tell that writes and rewrites history. Get it?”

  “That poor bastard just got it!” Pete’s walking stick pointed in the direction he meant.

  On the media screen above the dining room’s oversized fireplace mantle, PNN was airing the story of an old cowboy riding naked on horseback across the barren West as a cautionary tale.