Contagious.
The very word frightened Robinson to his core. Not because he was worried about being infected, but because it meant the virus had mutated to its final stage. In his two years on this continent, he had seen an incalculable number of creatures afflicted by the EBU-GENC1 virus—humanoid and animal—yet to his knowledge, all had been born with the disease save for one: his mother. She had infected herself in a desperate attempt to stop the spread of the disease. And while her gambit ultimately proved successful, it came at a cost of her life. Robinson had reunited with her in her final days, only to witness her horrific end. Still, this was worse. Here, he had to watch Friday die day by day, one piece at a time.
Standing outside a transparent barrier, Robinson watched a bevy of remarkable machines do everything they could do to keep Friday alive. Half a day had passed since her collapse. It felt like a lifetime.
Footsteps broke him from his reverie. Robinson turned to see Lysa approaching.
“There you are,” Robinson said. “Where have you been? I asked Gesta to find your hours ago. There hasn’t been a single healer to see her since we arrived.”
“We don’t have healers here,” Lysa said. “We rely on machines—these machines—when accidents arise. And even those are rare these days.”
“So why aren’t they working? I’ve been here all night, and she hasn’t made any progress.”
“Friday has been sedated and her vitals are begin monitored. I assure you, she’s quite stable. We’ve also analyzed you to see if you have been infected.”
“I thought your people were immune.”
“Actually, the word I used was impervious. And even that isn’t completely accurate. The truth is we are susceptible to disease, but hazardous pathogens are immediately expunged when they reach our bloodstream. That being said, we can’t have a contagion on the loose, now can we? Thankfully, you are in the clear.”
“I don’t care about me!” Robinson screamed. “I care about Friday. Her and our child. That’s why we came here. That’s why we came to you. Can you help her or not?”
“It’s not that simple,” Lysa said.
“What do you mean?”
“This disease—the one in your wife’s bloodstream—it’s unique. More virulent than the one we remember.”
“That’s because it’s not the same strain.”
Lysa looked surprised.
“Saah—the man that infected Friday, the man you let get away—went to Atlanta, to the disease center. There, he recovered two vials of the original proto-virus, only these were from a second strain. EBU-GENC2. One he used on Friday. He wanted her to suffer, and he wanted to make sure I was there to see it every step of the way.”
“And the second vial?”
“As far as I know he still has it. Why?”
She ignored his question and asked her own.
“Do you know what he plans to do with it?”
“No. But whatever it is, it won’t be good. Vardan Saah is a ruthless man. Ruthless and cunning. He had scores of his own people enslaved and killed—even our regent—so he could assume control of our kingdom. When he discovered there was a device capable of ending the plague, he chose to destroy it so no one could rise up and challenge him. When that failed—when his family died—he went mad. Even now I suspect he’s plotting ways to make the rest of us pay for it.”
Robinson looked again to Friday. She appeared so frail. The lesions on her body had grown darker, and her face appeared swollen.
“What does this man want?” Lysa asked.
“What his kind always wants: to watch the world burn.”
“Hmm. I need to take this to the body. We will speak on it and decide what, if anything, can be done.”
“And Friday?”
“We’ll discuss her too.”
“What’s to discuss?” Robinson spat. “Either your machines can fix her or they can’t.”
“As I said before, it’s not that simple.”
“Sure it is! Unless … unless you’re unwilling to help her.”
When Lysa sighed, Robinson realized he’d guessed the truth.
“Why?” Robinson asked.
“When EBU-GENC1 first broke out, we worked tirelessly to find a cure. When we fell short of that task, we had the terrible misfortune of watching the lights of the world go dark one at a time. Billions of lives lost. Races and cultures gone in an instant. It was beyond devastating. In the first week alone, fifteen men and women here committed suicide. More would follow. Others still gave their lives trying to limit the destruction that followed. We shut down reactors and opened dams; it wasn’t nearly enough. Men had reached for the stars, and in falling short, they left wounds so deep that only time could staunch them. We knew then there was only thing to do. We would isolate ourselves. The past would be just that. It belonged to the dead and the future would belong to us. That’s why we put those warning signs out on the plains and why we’ve turned back or neutralized any that have crossed our borders. It’s also why we cannot heal your wife. She and you are of the old world, and the people of this city made an oath to never interfere with it again.”
“What an incredible sacrifice you’ve made,” Robinson said with obvious sarcasm. “You must be so proud of yourselves.”
“The oath is a terrible burden, but one we must see through.”
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t shed a tear for you. Let me ask you the obvious question instead: why did you let us in? Was it to gloat over the inferiors? To wow us with all your toys? Or do you simply get off on watching the ants suffer?”
“I understand your anger. And I sympathize with your plight.”
“I don’t want your sympathy!” Robinson shouted, prompting Lysa to draw back. “I’m sure it’s easy for you to sit up here behind your technology and your towers mock everyone else’s troubles—”
“That was not my inten—”
“I’m not finished! You scorn the rest of us for having the oh such rotten luck of being born somewhere else. Well, we didn’t create this world. You did. And we didn’t ask to be thrust into the worst of it. But we’ve never once turned our backs on others in trouble. That’s not what civilized people do. Decency. Compassion. Those are the traits of a better world. But you wouldn’t know that from up here in your crystal towers, would you? You’re too busy basking in your superiority. Do you want to know the real truth? You aren’t worthy of saving us. And I think deep down you know it.”
“May I ask a question now?” Lysa asked. “How civilized can a man be if he carries an axe wherever he goes?”
“Get out of here!” Robinson shouted. “Go! Or I swear you’ll find out.”
Lysa turned and walked toward the exit. It’d been so long since she’d seen such anger. Or felt it herself. She was surprised when her hands shook.
“Wait,” Robinson called.
It wasn’t the request that stayed Lysa’s feet or made her turn. It was the vulnerability in his voice. His eyes were moist, and his hands trembled. Now he looks like a boy, she thought.
“Our child. Can it be saved?”
“Saved?”
“I was told that the virus hadn’t yet spread to our child. If that’s still the case, then Friday would want me to do everything possible to save it. Even…”
Lysa felt pity and something she couldn’t immediately identify for him. Only later would she realize it was shame.
“A fetus shares its mother’s blood from conception. I’m sorry, but whomever told you that was either misinformed or lying. Your child has carried the disease from the moment of conception.”
Back in his room, Robinson sat in a chair near the window that overlooked the gardens outside. The dwindling sun had set the horizon on fire, casting everything but the snow-capped mountains to the north in shadow.
Outside the glass, citizens floated gaily about on their lifts, oblivious to the fact that three people scant feet away were dying. Two of disease. One of heartbreak.
A
chime rang in the room. A dinner bell. It had sounded once an hour since he’d returned from the Medica three hours before. This time, Robinson said, “Give me something that will help me sleep.”
A moment later, a pasty white cube appeared.
He woke groggily at the table the next morning. His body was stiff, and his throat was dry. He didn’t see the man sitting in shadows near the door until he cleared his throat.
“What do you want?” Robinson asked.
“I came to see you,” the man replied.
“Go away,” Robinson said.
The man leaned into the light. “Then who will laugh at all my jokes?”
It took a second for Robinson to recognize him.
“Pastor,” he said.
Pastor smiled. “Hello, son.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
An Old Friend
“Have you been here long?” Robinson asked.
He was trying to make sense of Pastor’s presence. The man had changed. He was shaven, his once unruly hair shorn low and tight. Even through loose-fitting clothes of the inhabitants, it was obvious he’d lost weight. If it weren’t for the scar splitting his cheek and the milky eye, Robinson might not have recognized him.
“A few hours,” Pastor said with a voice that sounded both thinner and heavier.
“I meant in the city.”
“Ah. Seven months. Feels longer though.”
“Seven?” He did the computations in his mind. “You would have had to leave before winter was over. Did something happen? Where are the twins?”
“You haven’t changed a bit, have you?” Pastor grunted. “Still in such a hurry to go everywhere, know everything. Fine. But if we’re going to talk, I prefer some place with fresh air. Somewhere I don’t have to listen to myself think.”
The streets were teeming, though few inhabitants bothered to acknowledge the pair. Occasionally someone would nod at Pastor, whether by courtesy or compulsion, and he’d grunt in return. No wonder they ignore us, thought Robinson. If Pastor is the model for outsiders, he wouldn’t waste the effort either.
“I feel like a ghost here,” Robinson said. “Do you ever get used to it?”
“No,” Pastor replied. “But spend an hour with any one of them, and you’ll find it’s a blessing in disguise. They love to hear themselves talk, but for the life of me, not one of them has anything to say.”
Robinson chuckled, memories of his old friend coming back to him.
“I see civilization hasn’t changed you either. You’re as prickly as ever.”
“That’s what happens when you take away my wine.”
“No,” Robinson said.
Pastor shrugged. “That’s the thing no one tells you about utopia: it’s remarkably short on vices.”
“I guess they should put it in the brochure.”
“Even if they did, who bothers to read the fine print?”
They shared a smile.
“You look good though,” Robinson said. “Younger.”
“Smoke and mirrors, my boy. Smoke and mirrors.”
They found a seat by a small garden. Over the next hour, Robinson recounted everything that had happened since he left the farming village. He spoke of the Cat People and Nameless. He described how he’d been sent to the mines after refusing to work for Boss in Cowboytown and how Trog nearly killed him. He told Pastor of his pact to help Boss deliver her gunpowder in exchange for slipping him into the Bone Flayers’ city. He paused when he got to the part of reuniting with Friday, remembering how sweet a time it was—and how short. Pastor was especially intrigued over his relations with the Aserra and how they and the cowboys brought the Bone Flayers’ reign to an end forever. Saah’s infection of Friday. Their wedding. Their hunt for the City of Glass. The flight from the pack. The children of Troyus. Even Joule’s demise was shared in one long siting.
“You’ve been through a lot,” Pastor said. “More than anyone your age should.”
“You probably thought I’d died.”
“Oh, no. I knew you were alive, just as I knew you’d find her—your wife. The way you spoke of her left no doubt.”
“Words are wasted breath on the road. You taught me that.”
“Yes, but intentions are everything. To have one objective, a singular goal, and to then commit every ounce of your being to seeing that goal through, that’s how civilizations are built, my boy. How a technocracy like this came to be.”
“They refuse to help us.”
“The ballots haven’t been cast just yet, dear boy. Give it time.”
“Lysa said something about an oath.”
“The oath,” Pastor grunted. “It’s taken as gospel around here, which has always struck me as rather funny. For those totally committed to egalitarianism, they are extraordinarily rigid in their flexibility.”
“What does that mean?”
He looked around, his eyes last trolling the sky.
“Come,” he said, getting to his feet. “I want to show you something.”
They walked through the city again, this time travelling north of the glass towers until they came to an empty road that led out of the city. A small wooden bridge spanned a trickling brook down into the evergreen forest. As Robinson passed the first magnificent tree, he felt the pressure in his chest lighten, and his air came more freely.
A sculpted but sparsely trodden trail led between the rubicund giants.
“What kind of trees are these?” Robinson asked.
“Sequoias,” Pastor answered. “They’re among the largest and oldest living things on Earth. In their natural environment, they’ve been known to reach three hundred feet tall and higher. Stunning, aren’t they?”
Robinson agreed. High above, a woodpecker drummed noisily, its bright plumage iridescent in the sun.
“You wouldn’t know it by looking at them, but they are alien to this region. The lack of natural humidity, sun, and arid soil should make it impossible for them to survive here. And yet they flourish. Do you know why?”
“Because the inhabitants want it that way.”
“Precisely,” Pastor said approvingly. “This vale is full of similar marvels. Genus and species from around the globe. And only here can they live in harmony.”
“How do you know so much about it?”
“I’m a conservator. Of the forest that is. You see, everyone citizen here must have a discipline. And as an outsider, I can never be a master. This is the next best thing. The funny thing is that most of them would consider this beneath them. Not me. I find I’m much more at peace out here than inside.”
Robinson knew what he meant. When he lived in New London, life was orderly, from the direction of the streets to the schedule of the bells. Routines were good for structure, but at some point, the mind was always wondering what was beyond the walls.
“You asked about the village,” Pastor said with a swallow. “It’s not an easy thing to speak of. They were an odd people—those farmers—but we’d grown to like them. They were what my father would have called ‘salt of the earth,’ meaning they didn’t have time for nonsense. They worked hard, scraped by. And that was enough.
“After they’d repaired their village, I convinced them to add a few defenses. Nothing big. The homes were too far apart to raise a wall, so we built a stronghold instead. That way, if another attack came, everyone could fall back to the center of town and make a stand. The twins even took charge of the training—bow and lance work mostly—but the villagers began to show signs of improvement.
“Then winter came. And with it snow like I’d never seen. Most days, we couldn’t get out the door. So, I put on some winter stores.” He patted his belly. “And told stories. And drank enough beet wine to turn my teeth blue.”
Robinson smiled.
“But the best part—what beat the band—was the mute brother. He found love. You remember the blond lass?”
Of course, Robinson thought as he nodded. She looked like Tessa.
Pastor smiled
at the memory. The smile faded.
“One day, a party attacked from the south. The villagers had gotten lax manning the sentry post. I’m as much to blame as anyone. We didn’t expect them to come in winter, and not in such numbers. They struck fast and were merciless. Setting fire to homes. Cutting down everyone as they fled.”
“Who were they?” Robinson asked.
Pastor shook his head. “Marauders. No one important. The mutes and I made it to the fields before we heard the girl’s cry. I knew instantly he would go back for her. Somehow he convinced me and his sister—in their unspoken language—to wait for him at the river. But after we’d freed the horse and cart, she turned back. How could she not? When we reached the farmhouse, it was fully ablaze. I saw them through the window and knew it was too late. They were both engulfed in flames. I thought that image would be the hardest part to forget. But it wasn’t. It was the sister’s screams. Even without vocal chords, she issued a howl that haunted me. Haunts me still.”
“What happened then?” Robinson asked softly.
“Nothing. We retrieved the wagon and fled.”
“Wait. She went with you? She’s here?”
Pastor nodded. “Mostly.”
“Well, at least she’s safe.”
“We’re all safe here,” Pastor said. “Yet safety itself can be its own kind of prison.”
“You don’t believe that any more than I do.”
“Don’t I? What if I was to say that right here, right now you could go back, trade everything you’ve been through, to wake up safe tomorrow in your own bed across the sea? Would you do it?”
“If it meant Friday was alive and well? Yes.”
“Even if it meant you would never see her again?”
“Yes,” Robinson said, but in his heart, he wasn’t sure.
“Then you’re a better man than me.”
“I don’t know about that,” Robinson said, turning toward the trees. “Remember the day we parted and I told you how I sacrificed a cure for the virus to save Friday instead?”
“I do. And I remember telling you that no child your age should have to make such a decision.”
“Well, it happened again. When the battle between the Aserra and Bone Flayers was raging, I found their leader, Arga’Zul, and we fought, but I was no match for him. He had me and was about to kill me when I pulled Friday in front of me. It stayed his hand just long enough for me to run him through.”
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