Robyn's Egg

by Mark Souza

  When the heat became unbearable, Moyer tried to lower a window and burned his fingers on metal latches. He stared ahead. Black panels stretched out as far as he could see. He wasn’t sure how long he could last, though was fairly certain it wouldn’t be long enough.

  Steel wheels clacked over the joints between rail sections with the monotonous rhythm of a metronome. Sweat glued the shirt to Moyer’s back and matted his hair to his skull. The air felt sauna hot and dry. He sucked air in short, shallow breaths to keep from scalding his throat and lungs. He sat with his eyes focused on the horizon in the hope that soon he would spot the end of the collector field. He maintained the vigil until he grew light headed. He lay down on a seat on the shady side of the car and tried to stay still. It was only a matter of time before he’d pass out. Better to be lying down for it.

  A couple of times he nearly lost consciousness. Something inside him knew if he passed out, he might never wake. Rivulets of sweat trickled down his back like insects crawling on his skin, insects he no longer had the strength to swat. In his delirium they became spiders with long curved fangs. When overcome by revulsion, he would raise up to look out the windows onto an endless maze of black solar panels and scorched earth racing past the car. The deadly band of black extended as far as he could see.

  And when it seemed as though the journey would never end, when his senses had dulled everything into a formless blur of heat and light, Moyer noticed a change so subtle at first he doubted it was real. In the distance, a line of trees crept over the horizon above the solar panels. Moyer knew an equation to estimate distance utilizing trigonometry and the circumference of the earth, but his mind was too emulsified by the heat to do any calculations. Instead, he watched them draw infinitesimally nearer and hoped the train would reach shade before he succumbed. But then again, maybe it was another delusion.

  He let his head droop and sweat dripped off his nose and chin. Two puddles formed on the floor. He tried to guess how long it would be until they merged and whether he would live to see it.

  The two puddles stopped growing as they were about to join, as if drawing out the game to torment him. Shadows flashed across the floor. Moyer glanced up. Tree limbs spanned the tracks above the train creating a tunnel of shade that engulfed the cars. Moyer removed his sopping shirt and used it to protect his hands as he lowered the windows. A cool breeze swirled through the car and was welcome relief. Where it hit his wet skin he was chilled. He stuck his shirt outside and let it flap in the breeze to dry. After he put it back on, Moyer flopped into a seat in the back, weary and spent.

  The rocking of the car and the rhythmic clack-clack of the wheels soothed him and his thoughts wandered. He remembered a time two decades earlier when he rode this train with his father.

  “Do you feel it son?” his father said.

  Moyer didn’t know what he meant.

  “The signal is fading. Do you know what that sound is? It’s peace of mind.” His father beamed and sat back, arms outstretched across the back of his seat. “Nothing in your head but your own thoughts. You can’t beat that.”

  Soon the signal faded out entirely and Moyer did notice. As the net was replaced with a vacuum, he was left with a disconcerting feeling of loneliness. He felt broken, empty, as if something had gone terribly wrong. The normal background hum of information and entertainment had disappeared. There was nothing to do, nothing to occupy his mind.

  His father seemed sublimely happy, which Moyer didn’t understand. Bored and searching for distraction, he turned his attention outside the windows. At first he saw only movement, a blur of green streaming by, hundreds of different shades dancing with shadow and light. His father had mentioned how his mother loved trips into the frontier, and the realization she was gone and never coming back made him lonelier.

  Once he tired of feeling sorry for himself, and quit thinking how this was the worst trip of his life, he noticed the countryside passing by. Forests pressed in around the train creating a tunnel of green. The trees were so different from anything he’d ever seen. CapitalCity had trees, small ones in parks, few and sparse, cloistered by skyscrapers, starved for sunlight; bearing little resemblance to the profusion bracketing the tracks. Wild flowers, purple and white, pulsed in waves pushed by sweet pollen scented breezes. Occasional gusts turned the canopy silver side up like cancan dancers flipping their skirts.

  His father smiled. “As a boy, I spent summers out in country. Did you know your great uncle was a farmer?”

  Moyer shook his head. He didn’t know he had a great uncle, or what farmers did. Whatever it was sure appeared to make his father happy.

  After they left the train, the atmosphere was alive with sound. Birds sang in trees. Bugs buzzed through the air. Children played in the streets. And no one was afraid. People walked dogs and stopped on sidewalks to talk. Dogs were new to Moyer. At first he was afraid, but no one else seemed to be.

  His father led him through the streets by the hand to the outskirts of town where the distance between houses grew longer. His father’s friend owned a small farm abutting the creek. He also owned a dog. The animal was friendly and Moyer stroked its fur, fascinated. When it yawned, exposing impressive spiky hedges of teeth, Moyer grew distrustful. An animal with that type of weaponry would be dangerous if angered. And Moyer didn’t know what kinds of things might make a dog angry.

  Eve Ganz was waiting for Robyn at the entrance of Bixby’s baby department inside Freedom Mall. Robyn spotted the papoose carrier strapped to Eve and realized she had brought her baby along. As Robyn approached, she noticed the blue trim on the blanket — a boy. “Oh, you have your baby. What’s his name?”

  The baby hung in the carrier asleep with his head tipped back and his harp-shaped mouth open in a gummy grin. His arms draped away from his sides with his tiny fingers balled into fists.

  “His name is Jacob.” Eve’s voice sounded nasally as if she had a cold. It was odd enough to draw Robyn’s eyes away from the sleeping baby to her friends face. Eve’s eyes were puffy and ringed in red.

  “Are you okay?” That was all it took for the dam to crumble. Eve’s shoulders started to quake. She covered her mouth and turned away.

  “I’m so sorry,” she croaked between sobs. “I don’t want to be this way. But he cries all the time and I don’t know what to do to make him stop. I haven’t slept in days. I’m afraid I’m doing it all wrong. He’s going to die and it will be entirely my fault.”

  She dabbed her eyes with the corner of Jacob’s blanket, “On the way over here, the ladies on the tube stared at him as if I didn’t exist. I could feel their longing and the wheels in their heads churning. I was terrified someone would snatch him. Ira and I waited so long for our baby. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.”

  Robyn put an arm around Eve’s shoulders and delicately pulled her in, careful to keep the baby from waking. “It’s okay. You are a good mother.” Shoppers were taking notice and it made Robyn nervous. “Do you need anything from the store?”

  Eve nodded, “Formula and bottle liners.” Robyn led her through the aisles, plucked both items from the shelves, and herded a snuffling Eve to the checkout. “But what about your things?” Eve moaned.

  “I have plenty of time. I can get them later. Let’s get you home.” Robyn charged the items to her account and escorted Eve to the tube platform. Through it all, the baby slept.

  As the tube pulled into the station and squealed to a stop, Eve’s lower lip began to quiver. “Could you come with me?” Eve asked. “I’m too scared to ride alone.”

  “Sure,” Robyn said.

  Their car was only half full and Robyn found a spot at the front where they could sit together. Much as Eve described, Robyn could feel other women eyeing Jacob. When Robyn caught them out, they quickly shifted their gaze and pretended to be doing something else. They were jackals waiting for that one unguarded moment.

  Was this what it was to have a child? Robyn remembered back to the day on the tube when she had foll
owed the young mother, and how she had formulated a plan in her head to snatch the woman’s baby. She had gone so far as to plot her escape route home through the sky bridges. A wave of shame washed over her. She had been as bad as any of them. Her only saving grace was that the opportunity never presented itself.

  When the tube pulled into Market Street Station, Robyn helped Eve out onto the platform positioning herself so that anyone attempting to snatch Jacob would have to go through her first.

  Eve lived in a very nice apartment in the IrsayTower. It was twice the size of Robyn and Moyer’s and much better appointed. Ira was clearly making a very good living. Once inside, Robyn helped Eve out of the papoose carrier and settled Jacob on the sofa. He didn’t stir. She led Eve to the back of the apartment to the master bedroom and helped her out of her clothes. She tucked Eve into bed and told her she would take over for a while, and that Eve needn’t worry anymore.

  Robyn prepared a bottle, sure that Jacob would want one once he woke. She sat on the floor next to him and watched him sleep. She resisted the temptation to stroke his hair. It looked soft and fine as rabbit fur. She leaned close and drank in the sweet, florid scent of Jacob’s skin. She pulled away with a smile on her face.

  Her daughter was so close now, mere days away from decanting. Robyn crept onto the net to find Moyer, to warn him she might be late. There was no sign of him. She assumed he was still at work, shielded by the Digi-Soft net filters. Moyer was a big boy and perfectly capable of fending for himself.

  Chapter 24

  The old train stopped in Mannington at mid-morning. The station was empty. The town dilapidated, abandoned and unfamiliar. Moyer scanned his surroundings to get his bearings, trying to recall the way to Harter Creek. Nothing felt familiar. It all seemed smaller and decayed, as if time in a fit of rage had pummeled the buildings with heavy fists. Towering trees overhung the streets having grown unchecked for over two decades. Some had fallen blocking the way and no one had bothered to remove them. It was the village entropy called home.

  Moyer closed his eyes and listened for the sound of rushing water. For a moment he heard it, and then it faded. He opened his eyes and saw leaves settle into stillness and realized then that what he thought was water was the susurration of wind through the trees. In the stillness there was no sound other than birds singing.

  He walked straight ahead. It was as good a choice as any. The asphalt under his feet was heaved and cracked. Morning sun pushed transparent snakes of heat writhing upward from the ground. It reminded Moyer of an old photograph of a dried lakebed his mother had taken as a teen. She said it made her happy knowing such open places existed, even if she would never see them again.

  Automobile corpses slumbering on shredded tires lined the street. Rust stains radiated from beneath them, vestiges of mortal wounds. Few still had glass in the windows, and the ones that did were coated white with decades of bird guano. His father told him of days a century ago when there was still oil and cars covered the earth. He said people lived where they wanted and went where they pleased.

  Broken power lines snaked along sidewalks. All but a few houses lay in ruins, nothing more than stacks of broken wood sunken into crumbling foundations. He couldn’t believe people still managed to live here. There were no signs of life. The few remaining intact houses stood lifeless, frail and ready to fall.

  The road turned and rose up a hill. Moyer knew he’d made a mistake. He turned and started back at a trot, past the train station and into the heart of town. Brick storefronts bordered the street, their plate glass windows broken out, and displays stripped of wares. He continued on. Without the net, he had no way to track time, though he was sure he was already late. Within minutes he was panting and slowed to a walk, sweat dripping from his brow, clothes sticking to his skin again. It was going to be a hot day.

  A kilometer further along, the road ended. Moyer stooped hands braced on knees to catch his breath and heard the sound of water. A dirt trail began where the sidewalk ended. The trail passed through shoulder high grass and saplings. Within a few meters the path descended into a thicket of cottonwoods. The dense canopy blocked all but a few dapples of sunlight. The air beneath was dank and cool.

  The rush of water filled his ears. Moyer started down the hill. His shoes skidded across damp soil. His feet flew into the air. He slammed down on his back and slid to the bottom. Pain shot through his lower back. He came to rest sitting in a puddle of brown water. He swiped a hand under his shirt. It bumped the knife tucked under his belt. When he examined his palm, he was relieved to find it wasn’t bloody. What would have happened to him if he’d gigged himself on his blade like an idiot? What did people do if they were hurt out here?

  He stood and examined his muddy clothes and shook the muck off his arms. Two long furrows in the dirt marked his descent. He’d have to find another route for his return. The hill was too slick to climb back up. Moyer had no choice for now but to continue down the path.

  The trail emerged from the trees at the water’s edge and joined a trail paralleling the creek. Moyer headed upstream. It was a hunch, but Moyer trusted it.

  Ahead, a gap in the trees promised a view beyond the verdant wall encapsulating the creek. It was a chance to catch his bearings.

  The ground rose gradually. Near the crest he saw a church spire jutting above the canopy. He smiled, succumbing to an upwelling of accomplishment. Though his opportunity to meet with the giant might already be gone, he’d made it this far.

  A well worn trail cut through high grass and vines to the church steps. A steeply pitched slate roof capped fieldstone walls and culminated in a decaying wooden spire tilting to one side. Ivy grew to the top of a row of stained glass windows running the length of the building.

  Other than the leaning spire, the building still appeared sound. In a shady plot on the side of the building, headstones poked up at odd angles above the weeds. Moyer had heard the dead were once buried in the ground in days long past. He wondered if bodies were still under the dirt. The concept of rotting bodies trapped beneath the ground made him shudder. It was so unclean, and the thought of bacteria and insect larva eating his remains was disgusting.

  The church doors were cocked open. Inside the dark narthex, scents of lemon and smoke mixed with old, ammoniated urine. Wooden benches stretched forward in neat rows, uniform and intact at the front, gapped and disheveled at the rear. Splinters and wood chards littered the floor where pews had been busted apart for firewood. Shafts of light tinted blue, green and red by colored glass filtered through gaps in the ivy, and danced on dusty air.

  “You’re late,” the giant roared from behind him.

  Moyer jolted and turned. “Sweet Jesus, can’t you make a little noise.”

  “You picked an odd route.”

  “I’ve never been here before. You were watching?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why didn’t you help me?”

  “I had to make sure you weren’t followed.” The giant sat and tipped back his hood revealing a head closely cropped whitish-blond hair. Moyer sat beside him on the same pew a meter further down.

  “So why the sudden interest in the old ways? You didn’t want to hear it a few months ago.”

  “Let’s just say circumstances have changed,” Moyer said.

  “Ah, circumstances.” The giant’s hand flashed toward Moyer, who tried to dodge away. A heavy arm forced him down and pinned his chest to his knees. When the giant released him, he held Moyer’s knife in his hand. “What prompted this?”

  “Your people jumped me once. I didn’t know what to expect so I brought a little protection. How did —”

  “The shape of the handle is stenciled in dirt on the back of your shirt. Do you have any other surprises?”

  Moyer looked sheepish. “No.”

  “You realize, had you tried to use this against me, things would not have gone well for you? I can consciously overcome much of my training, but I can not control my reflexes.” The giant set the
blade on the pew beside him.

  “You’re soldier-class, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “How does a soldier wind up the founder of Begat?”

  “Just because I’m a soldier doesn’t mean I can’t think.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. What I meant was did you come up with this on your own? You are fairly young. I assume you deserted the military.”

  “No, I failed a psych eval and was classified obsolete.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I started thinking on my own and questioning things, including orders. They don’t tolerate that in the army.”

  Moyer’s brow furrowed. “If you don’t mind my asking, what changed you?”

  The giant’s face softened. “I was in the Euro-theater tasked with guarding political prisoners at Bedzin. One was an old man who used to be a priest. Guard duty is long and dull. We would talk to pass the time. He started reading me stories from The Bible. Do you read?”

  “I read,” Moyer said, “My father started me.”

  “I didn’t read at the time. It wasn’t a skill they wanted soldiers to have,” the Giant said. “The old priest taught me using his Bible. When we got to the part of Genesis with the lineage and all the begats…” The giant noticed the confusion on Moyer’s face. “Have you read The Bible?”

  “Of course, the Approved Abridged.”

  The giant smiled. “That’s not The Bible.” Reaching forward, he pulled a book from a rack mounted on the next pew and handed it to Moyer. “A gift.” The book was much thicker than any Bible Moyer had ever seen.

  “Anyway, when we got to all the begetting, I didn’t know what it meant. The old priest explained to me that in the time before Hogan-Perko, before the genetic plague, God gave man the ability to produce children without help. This was the way God intended. The priest said Hogan-Perko was trying to replace God and convince people they must come to them for children.”