The Outcast

by Rik Thompson

  “Yes, I thought of that too,” Book replied.

  “Ah, this is much better. It seems I have discovered some buoyancy within myself,” and then it came to him all of a sudden, “wait a minute, where did you learn how to swim?”

  “Okay, move your arms like this,” Book said as he began to stroke the water with his arms, “and let’s get to the shore.

  “As far as where I learned to swim,” he continued, “it just happened.”

  As the breaking dawn lit the area naturally Donnie and Book using their arms and legs in unison swam to the shore.

  Book surveyed the immediate area. He took note of a rocky strip which extended to a concrete wall. He studied the buildings which reached up from beyond the wall.

  “Well, mister historian, do you know where we might be?”

  “Not yet,” Donnie replied, “I think we will have a clearer view once we are beyond the wall. Let’s take those stairs over there.”

  Off to the right were stairs, and once they were atop the stairs...

  “We must have landed in eighteenth century Europe,” Donnie said, but gazing straight ahead – “We’re in New Orleans. There, ahead, is Jackson Square.”

  “Funny, it looks a lot like eighteenth century Europe,” Book replied, “from my studies in History.”

  They slowly, cautiously sauntered toward Jackson Square, and just inside they noticed a couple of disheveled men sitting on a park bench. Just behind the men and centered in the square was a statue of a man on a horse.

  “Andrew Jackson,” Donnie commented.

  “He beat the British redcoats in the Battle of New Orleans,” Book added.

  “You are quite the history buff.”

  “I am, most certainly.”

  The two men on the bench shared a Bota bag full of wine. They both stopped suddenly as they regarded the approaching pair.

  “Hey, check out those two characters,” Morey said.

  “I am, I am. Look at those threads. They look like space suits,” Jimmy replied.

  Book and Donnie drew up close to the men.

  Morey observed the two, and said, “If you guys are looking to go to Carnival, you are way ahead of schedule.”

  Without any thought whatsoever Donnie answered, “Yes we are going to the Mardi Gras.”

  Book shot a confused glance at Donnie, yet remained silent.

  “How far ahead of schedule?” Donnie asked.

  “Oh, I would say about ten months,” Jimmy said.

  “Want a shot of wine?” Morey asked offering the Bota bag.

  “Sure,” Book replied, figuring to join into the conversation, “what kind is it?”

  “Cheap Port,” Morey answered passing the bag to Book.

  Book raised the bag to his mouth and replicated the method of extracting the contents by squeezing the bag. He smiled.

  “Good; not too bad at all. Want a shot,” he said as he offered the bag to Donnie.

  “No, not the right time of the year ...only at Carnival,” Donnie replied.

  “Is that all the clothes you guys have?” Jimmy asked. “They look kind of wet.”

  “They are,” Donnie replied, “we just took a swim in the Mississippi.”

  “Well, you two guys, come see. We have some dry clothes we can turn you on to at the apartment.”

  They followed the two men up St Peter to Royal. At that juncture the four turned left into an archway and into a red bricked courtyard. Wrought iron tables with glass tops lined the passageway and the entire area was landscaped with exquisite palms, Japanese red maple trees, and shrubs of various diversities. At the far end of the courtyard stood a two-story, brick building which were used as former slave quarters now converted into two one-bedroom apartments.

  “Very nice,” commented Donnie.

  “I agree. What a place to live,” Book said.

  Off to the sides of the courtyard were finite wrought iron tables with glass tops complimented by two chairs at each table.

  Book paused for a moment in the courtyard, “LA.”

  Donnie reached into his memory bank, “LA?”

  “LA, it was listed on that placard, in the craft; the one that said Wade.”

  “Funny,” Donnie replied, “that I don’t have an acronym for, LA, that is.”

  The apartment looked like two dock workers lived there. Clothes were scattered all over the place, and in one corner, stacked up in a pyramid like fashion were bent and twisted beer cans. Carl scanned the apartment, “Lemme see what do we have here for clothing for the boys. Ah, maybe we’ll be okay with what -”

  “You guys just won’t fit in with those duds you got on,” Joe said scratching his nose, “got to get you into some more, as I would say, indiscriminate clothing.”

  Carl tossed a flannel shirt toward Donnie, “Try that on for size.”

  Donnie began to rustle with his silver top.

  “Uh, why don’t you go into the other room and try that on,” Book said, “you know how bashful you can be.”

  Book strolled over to a pile of clothes on the far side of the room, and grabbed a shirt and pair of pants, and then another pair of pants for Donnie.

  “This should do it. Please excuse us for a minute, “Book said, pointing to the other room, “let’s try these on.”

  They sauntered into the other room.

  “What was that all about, Book? I mean, I was only trying to act like a human would.”

  “For true, as we would say here, in New Orleans. But how would you explain the panels in your chest, and on your back?”

  “Mardi Gras?”

  ELEVEN

  The Los Angeles Population Control Board building is abuzz with activity; with the boy and the robots’ departure from the base on the Moon. However; they were a bit mystified and confused to how all this was contrived and accomplished, and such a shock from a failure to inject a discourse as to how to go forward with both the investigation, and or, apprehension of the pair. After all the searing heat of re-entry into the atmosphere immolated the craft resulting in no footprint as to trajectory or landing of the escapees, only speculation, which was a shot in the darkest sense of the term.

  Head of the Los Angeles PCB, Sylvie Robers stared down the members, seated at the elongated table in the middle of the redwood office, in defiance, and when, at last she spoke she left no doubt at all of anyone in the room concerning her vigilance to recapture the two fugitives.

  “As the craft disintegrated as it arrived into the atmosphere, we can assume that the two fugitives were destroyed in the process. I do not assume that; I don’t assume that at all. Those two, in my mind and heart are on the surface, somewhere, and by god I will find them.”

  The plan was to obtain the code to the boy’s implant to locate the two, the same method she used in Shirley McAllister’s foot to track and send her to prison for ten years. The tiny wafer of electronics implanted into his left foot would be used once again to lay down a dragnet for the two fugitives.

  · * * *

  They walked along the streets of the French Quarter to the sounds of music. They tried to contrive a plan of action, and act upon it in concert to what they both agreed on and believed would work.

  “LA must be the place where we need to go. It’s got to be there; the answer has to be there.”

  “Yes, I agree,” Donnie said, “we learn the term and we go to the place.”

  · * * *

  LOS ANGELES POPULATION CONTROL BOARD

  “We have a make on the boy,” Jenkins told Sylvie Robers.

  “Where is he?”

  “New Orleans.”

  “Okay,” she took a deep breath, “we don’t want to rush in there and grab him. We want to set it up properly so there are no mistakes.”

  “He is just a boy.” Jenkins replied, “It will be a piece of cake – “

  “Let’s just bake this cake the right way - understand?”

  “He’s chipped, we have his location and apprehending …” and then his voice
trailed off for a brief second, “the cake will be perfectly baked, and frosted. I understand, Miss Robers.”

  · * * *

  They passed the Super Dome and continued on to the Interstate Ten, going west. As they walked the streets of the French Quarter, they wound up in a bar on Decatur Street, Bonaparte's Retreat. It was unusual to see grown men with long hair milling around in the bar. Since Donnie seemed to be the one that initiated the conversations in their journey so far, he picked one of the long hairs out of the group, standing there with a woman and asked the question, “Pardon us, could you tell us where LA might be?”

  The young man who sported a classic pair of black horn-rimmed spectacles that accented his coal black hair replied, “LA, Los Angeles.”

  The pleasant young man, in the ensuing conversation, though brief, also set the pair of travelers on the right track which would eventually lead them to the freeway.

  “I am not too sure this is such a great idea,” Book said as they headed slowly onto the on ramp, “there are too many cars here and it’s a bit intimidating.”

  The roadway was packed with cars going west and east; entering the highway as well as exiting the throughway.

  “It will be fine. It seems like this continent we’re on, has a bunch of these for modes of transportation. I have not seen anyone crash into another one yet. We’ll be fine, the robot replied, though suspiciously skeptical.”

  “Where do we start to bum?” Book asked.

  “Bum?” the robot countered unsure of the meaning of the word he thought misplaced.

  “Yes, you know, bum a ride? Isn’t that the way it goes?”

  “Absolutely,” Donnie replied. “We just stop right here in the middle of this entryway – “

  “Freeway,” Book reminded.

  “Freeway and we just stick out our thumbs like this. You know like they did back in the early days.”

  Book smirked as he screwed up his face a bit, “and they will just stop and ask where we’re going?”

  Donnie tried to smile, “yes, they will do that.”

  It was about fifteen minutes later that a late model pick-up approached the pair on the ramp and stopped.

  “I am only going a few miles, just outside the Parish line, but it may get you all out of all the city traffic.”

  “Great – that’s just great,” Book said.

  It worked, and as he and Donnie looked for a way into the truck, he saw it as a portent of things to come. Donnie helped out once again pulling the door handle and opening the door. The boy jumped in first beside the driver, and the robot followed and closed the door and soon they were off and running down the freeway. The man who picked them up was quite a bit overweight, wearing a yellowed out white shirt, jeans, and black suspenders.

  “You guys, been standing out there long?”

  “No, not at all, and thank you kindly for the nice gesture of giving me and my partner a ride,” Donnie said.

  “Nice truck. But doesn’t it run on gasoline?” Book asked.

  “Heavens no, there isn’t any of that in the world anymore. Us tinkerers, and there are many of us here in the states have installed today’s technology. And we do not like the newer forms of transportation. We don’t like ‘em at all. Some of us use plutonium, and some use the older standard hydrogen to power our vehicles.”

  The man would slide his ball cap back off his fat head, wipe the sweat from his brow, and wiggle down into the driver’s seat. This was no ordinary ball cap, it was a Massey Ferguson cap, and by the looks of it one would have thought George Washington had worn it when crossing the Delaware. It was that old.

  “Yeah, just like you fellas, I used to hitchhike all over the place, back in twenty-twenty. I rode the trains mostly, but there were many occasions when I was on the highway. I can remember some cold ass nights on the road. You guys hitch a lot?”

  As Donnie had been the spokesman the whole trip so far, he decided to back-off and let the boy do the talking for a change.

  “We have not bummed for a long time; just about a day actually.”

  The man grinned. “You guys are pilgrims then – name’s Joe.”

  “Pleased as punch to meet you, Joe,” Donnie said.

  Book oddly glanced at the robot, “Pleased as punch?”

  “Absolutely,” Donnie replied, “it is an honor to meet up with such a fine man as you.”

  Book sat back and inhaled the scenery; he watched as the trees danced by as he lent an ear to the twang of the country music on the radio. Those guys sound funny singing, he thought as he tapped his foot to the beat along the beige carpet on the floor of the truck. The ride relaxed him and made him anxious when he saw in his mind’s eye how the rest of the trip might go, all the people he was to meet, and all the adventures he and his companion would have along the way. He fixed his focus on the white stripes on the highway that separated the lanes, and as they were all so uniformly laid out he wondered how they got to be so precise, but quickly abandoned the thought as his mind invented the machine, on wheels, running down the highway and precisely marking it, as the truck ran down the Louisiana highway. The boy took in all the road had to offer, and as his gaze shifted to the rear window, he noticed two red and white vehicles coming fast toward them.

  The boy jabbed the robot with a start and enough force to get the robot’s attention. Then he pointed toward the rear of the truck.

  “Why are those cars going so fast?”

  Donnie turned a bit to look out the back window of the truck.

  “Trouble,” he whispered, and raising his voice, “Joe, we want to get out right here.”

  Joe regarded the robot.

  “Now?”

  “Yes, we want to go hunting?”

  “For Christ’s sake, you don’t even have a weapon.”

  “Stop the truck! Stop the truck, now!” Book shouted.

  Joe hit the brakes hard because he suddenly became fearful for his life.

  “Here, get out then. You guys are too radical for me.”

  Donnie snatched at the door handle of the truck precariously and pulled the door off. The robot and the boy left Joe - the passenger door lying on the side of the road – mouth hanging wide open and most likely in a state of shock – and fled the truck for the nearby woods.

  The boy sped past the robot running as fast as he could for the woods. Donnie could not keep up. The motion servos had been far surpassed by today’s technology, and his software was in dire need of an upgrade.

  Just like that the cops arrived at the scene, blasters drawn and taking up pursuit.

  “Halt!”

  The boy dove into the woods. Donnie could not dive. A shot rang out. Donnie sort of flinched and then fell headlong into the woods.

  “Donnie, Donnie, are you all right?”

  “--------awright.”

  The metallic voice garbled, and then, nothing.

  The boy ran fast through the woods leaving his friend behind.

  TWELVE

  “We got the robot,” Jenkins said over the phone to Sylvie Robers, back in Los Angeles.

  “That’s not important. What’s important is that we get the boy.”

  “He got away.”

  “I don’t give a good crap that we got the robot. We did not get the boy; getting the robot doesn’t mean a damned thing.”

  “I have to disagree, Miss Robers,” Jenkins replied, “we got the boy’s confidant, and now he is one little lost lamb, and we will have him apprehended in no time. Remember, we still have that chip in his foot and there is no way in hell he can escape, maybe delay, not escape.”

  Sylvie Robers hung up the phone. This day certainly wasn’t headed in the right direction.

  · * * *

  INTERSTATE 10 – DUTCH TOWN, LA

  The boy, unbeknownst to him had fallen asleep in the small town, not too far from the setting of the Celebration of Life Rock Festival, in Gonzales, LA, in the middle of June, 1971. A passing thunderstorm in the early evening hours drenched the
boy.

  The boy emerged from the woods here. He got a short ride here in the evening, and went to sleep, after a thunderstorm had passed. He was soaking wet but still managed to fall asleep, he was that tired. Prior to his slumber he thought of his friend and it seemed now, more than ever, he would have to fend, take care of himself - no more would there be someone to fill in the blanks as far as communication with the earthlings. That would have to be on him now, and as he gained his footing standing now in his disheveled condition, he wondered how his life would be. He took a moment to formulate a bit of strategy, and decided that he would press on to Los Angeles and try to solve the mystery, of the only clue he had: find out if his name Book, could be a part of the plate he read in the space craft, Wade. He would seek out and find Wade Industries in Los Angeles and from there find his origin much like his friend, Donnie did.

  The boy turned to his back pack. He unzipped a side pocket and pulled out his tablet.

  “It is a good time to start this,” he said out loud.

  While his wet clothes dried, partially by his own body heat, and the warming of the day, the boy began to write. He chronicled his departure from the Moon, up until his now soaked condition sitting in a clump of woods, near a small town.

  SOMEWHERE IN SOME STATE

  I don’t know where I am. I know yesterday I was New Orleans, in Louisiana, with my friend, Donnie, a humanoid, first generation robot, probably made at a Wade Industry, in L.A., my destination. I am drying out from a storm last night, and will continue my journey in a while.

  The sun came out finally and the storm was way gone when the boy had dried out enough to proceed to the on ramp. He brushed back his hair which was getting longer by the day, and dusted off his clothes as best he could and stepped out of the woods.

  It was about that time an old beat up Subaru station wagon sped by the boy, and then pulled to the side of the road. The boy took off running for the car.

  He was quite surprised as he was getting into the car, because there, in the driver’s seat was a young, blond haired girl, in a red and black plaid flannel shirt which enhanced her honey colored hair. She flashed her hazel eyes at the boy, “Where ya headed stranger?”