by Oliver Higgs
The sun was already setting when Byron picked up that rock. It’s got to be midnight before we stop, exhausted. We’ve been running on fumes, tripping over rocks and fallen branches in the dark. I’m pulling the cart too. We’ve abandoned all unnecessary items–save Volume Seven and small valuables–but the weapons and other supplies are still with us, and my shoulders ache from the harness. We sleep almost as soon as we halt.
It’s not until a meal at noon the next day that we talk about where we’re headed.
“We can’t abandon Jarvis and the others,” Echo says.
I agree with her, but we have no idea how to find them. We decide it would be best to go to Apolis and enlist Jarvis’s family. According to Jarvis, they’re well-connected. They might be able to raise a force to liberate the missing caravaners. Of course, that means going south, and going south means we’ll pass close to Haven.
I’m the first to suggest stopping there. It’s on Echo’s mind–I know it is–but it would be too self-serving for her to suggest. It would feel like a betrayal, seeking out what she desperately wants when it might mean abandoning our friends to a life of slavery or worse. I sense that she grew closer to them during her time as a captive, even Octavia–or especially Octavia. She feels a strong loyalty to them, a need to see them free, whatever the cost.
After I talk about Haven some, her face lights up. She’s found a thought to reconcile desire and necessity.
“Maybe Haven could help. The people there might know something about who took them–you know, groups that operate in the area. Yes, let’s stop and ask. But if we don’t get anywhere, we’ll go to Apolis. We can’t just leave them, Tristan. We can’t,” she says, wide-eyed.
“We won’t,” I assure her.
And so we make for the one place I never thought we’d actually reach.
We turn south first. When we hit the road that runs past Pillar, we stop and backtrack a short distance into the forest. Given that the area is reportedly dominated by robots with an anti-organic agenda, it seems prudent to stay off the main routes.
Byron and Starbucks and Mudcross are on my mind as we walk. I don’t regret shooting Byron. It had to be done–just as it did with Fin and Ballard. Still, the images stay with me. The stillness afterwards is what strikes me most. The difference between animate matter and dead cells is the difference between zero and infinity. What happens to that unseen motivator? Does it spill into the ether or vanish entirely, as if it had never been?
Despite these thoughts, my mood can’t exactly be called “bad” as we progress. Heavy, at times. Complicated. But steadily improving. We’re free, after all, and it’s I and Echo against the world again.
Annabel Lee, who lives by the sea…
My mental litany begins again–the poem, over and over, playing on a loop. Echo’s still worried about Jarvis and the others, but competing with that weight is the uplifting promise of her long-awaited goal. She feels guilty for any excitement. She has to repeat her justifications aloud, reassuring herself that we’re only stopping at Haven with the aim of finding our captured friends.
At times, in the forest, I try to forget it all, to pretend we’re not heading anywhere in particular, that we’ve come from nowhere. I listen to the birds and watch the trees, and when I can focus well enough, it’s a beautiful feeling. I could live like this, wandering with Echo. A simple life–who needs more?
At night, she lies next to me again. Gratitude fills me. It wasn’t fair that Starbucks died. It’s not fair that Jarvis and Octavia have been enslaved. But I’m here, with Echo, free in the forest, and that’s no small thing. Big Troubles make the rest so much easier to appreciate. Sometimes you can’t stop the fears, the worries, the memories from interfering. But when you manage to let it all go and just enjoy that moment, life becomes worth living again.
It’s in one of these moments that I’m lying next to Echo, spooning her in the chill night air, when I find myself wide awake, entranced by the curve of her delicate neck. Scattered moonlight is filtering down through the trees, washing her in a pale white light. The depth of my attachment is suddenly impossible to ignore. I don’t like to acknowledge these feelings–I don’t want to need someone–but the feelings impose themselves with no regard for my intellect. I can’t shut them out. I do need her. I–
I love her.
The unintended admission catches me by surprise. Is it true? I push it away. I don’t want this. Love is a terrible word. When you love people, they die. Only sadists have a use for it. But the knowledge is there. How did this happen? When?
I don’t know, but I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anything. The desire has been slowly accumulating. At its peak now, it feels more real than my own body. A body can die, but this is more like a force of nature. You can’t kill gravity; all you can do is fall.
I know by her breathing that she’s awake. One hand shifts subtly, a nervous repetition. There’s a tension in her body she can’t fully suppress. Her hips shift slightly, yielding a delirious pleasure. I know she can feel me against her. I know that she knows that I know. The space between my lips and her neck is both enormous and miniscule–and before I’m aware of moving, there’s no space at all. She breaths sharply but makes no move to stop me. Rather, she tilts her neck. She waits for more. There’s a subtle intensity to each delicate press of my lips against her skin. It can’t really be called joy, yet it facilitates an enlivening awareness, a focus narrowed to each inch-wide pasture of skin. The fact that she welcomes it feels like more than I deserve.
Then she turns, and her blue eyes fill the world. My mind takes a picture, stores it in a secret place, just as in that far-away rubble where the solar cycles passed us. I remember too that day in the desert, when she offered herself to me. This is different. My own need is reflected in her eyes. There’s no doubt in her desire. Her skin is like ivory in the moonlight. Glorious. More than glorious.
Perfect.
I lean in and kiss her. The parting of her lips is a soft mystery. The feeling is unfamiliar but immediately appealing. It feels almost like I’ve tricked her–doesn’t she know I’m not worthy of this? The universe doesn’t give such gifts. The universe only barters, and most of its trades are poor.
But that’s not entirely true, because once in a while, it does give something, and these are the moments that make the rest endurable. These are the moments in which one can glimpse life’s hidden magic, so rarely seen, so easily missed–but once perceived, never entirely forgotten.
The kiss evolves with a desperate intensity, yet gradually too, willingly restrained as we experience the flow of the moment together. Clothes are shed. I’m hyper-focused, trying not screw things up. Her nudity is breathtaking. The chill air raises little bumps along her arms. I want to taste and touch every inch of her. I want to own her, to possess her …
The first time is over all too soon.
The second time comes only a little later, however, and this one I could write books about. I’m like a painter given real colors for the first time; I absorb the lessons in strokes both broad and narrow. Afterwards, there is no thought. Energy ripples through my muscles like rain falling in a fertile field. We drift off to sleep.
The next day, Echo is quiet, almost shy. It’s hard for me to determine how she feels. I don’t think she regrets it. She’s just cautious, worried about something. I feel, if anything, freer somehow. Like a waypoint has been reached. We still have trials to face. We have to find Haven and search for Jarvis and Octavia, but that morning nothing can dampen my spirits.
Or so I think–until we reach it.
We’re still staying off the roads, paralleling the western path that runs past Pillar, when the forest thickens into a field of impassable brambles. We try to push through, but it becomes clear the change in flora covers a larger territory than we’ve assumed. We backtrack and trek south around the brambles until the road appears. It’s little more than a thin dirt path here. We take to it to it reluctantly, watching for other tr
avelers, resuming our westward course. No one appears. In a few hours, a narrow dirt-road branches north.
“It’s got to lead somewhere, right?” I say as we contemplate taking it. Echo shrugs. We decide to check it out, at least for a mile or two. We don’t want to walk right past Haven, after all. The path cuts straight into the forest, cleaves through the brambles like a laser. We’ve gone less than half a mile when the tangled trees and shrubs give way to a vast clearing. At the edge brambles, we stand awestruck.
Flowering white trees stand in two neatly planted rows, one to either side of the path. The road is carpeted with soft white petals, and the branches arch over it, giving the illusion of a tunnel. At the end of the tunnel, some distance ahead, is a gate. Some kind of walled community. Echo and I look at each other. Her blue eyes are intense with mixed emotions. This could be it, they say, but fear and suspicion keep the hope in check.
We pause, considering our options. My spyglass reveals nothing new about the gate. There’s no cover in the clearing aside from the twin rows of white trees. We circle at the edge of the brambles for a less obstructed view. The town’s wall is circular, gleaming white, built up from stone blocks. The place is maybe two-thirds as large as Mudcross. Unfortunately, there’s no real way to approach it by stealth. Unless we wait for nightfall.
Then I see the sentry. He sits in a chair atop the wall near the gate, manning a turret with a barrel as tall as himself. I can’t make out a lot of detail, but one thing is certain–he’s human. It’s an encouraging sign. I hand the spyglass to Echo for a look.
“Tristan–top of the wall, to the right of the turret. Is that another weapon?” Echo asks. I take another look.
“Not another weapon. Lights. Spotlights,” I say, surprised. Guess even nighttime stealth is ruled out now.
Echo stares at me. She always claimed Haven had electricity. That doesn’t mean this is it. Cove and Foundry and other settlements have at least limited electric power. Still, it’s promising.
“What should we do?” Echo asks.
Honestly, I want to go back into the forest and forget it all. But we didn’t come all this way just to turn back.
We approach cautiously beneath the trees, treading on silken white petals. I’m watching for traps, mines, armed men. There’s nothing. It only makes me more paranoid. What if something goes wrong? We can’t outrun that turret. But how else can we know if this is really Haven? Most settlements won’t open fire on passing travelers without a warning. It should be a defensive turret. Yet sometimes the difference between “should” and “is” gets people killed.
When we’re in shouting range, I get a better look at the sentry between the trees. He has an odd smile on his face. He’s not paying much attention to the path. I don’t think he’s even noticed us. I look at Echo, take a deep breath and shout for attention. Finally, the sentry sits forward, like we’ve drawn him out of a daydream.
“What is this place?” I yell.
“Who are you? What are your intentions?” he shouts back.
“Travelers seeking trade and shelter. Where are we?” I ask again.
“Where are you coming from?” he asks.
“South. A long way south,” I say.
“Go on in then. Welcome to Haven.”
The name hits us like a blow. We look at each other in wonder. Echo’s eyes are glazing over. A thrill builds slowly in my arms and back, spreading through my body. I’d all but convinced myself this wasn’t it. It would be some small settlement we’d never heard of, I thought; some isolated human fortification–maybe even another slaver-town. But that’s not the case. We’re here, for Crom’s sake, right here.
It’s difficult to comprehend. There’s a sound, and the gate parts from the wall. It opens from the top, like a drawbridge, lowering on chains. Echo is laughing. Tears spill onto her cheeks. She covers her open mouth with her hands and shakes her head. She never really believed we would make it. Watching her, I can’t stop grinning. She does a kind of exuberant dance. She throws her arms around me.
“We’re here!” she cries, and I’m gladder for the look on her face than for our actual arrival. It’s her dream, after all; I only borrowed it. This is the place she’d told herself she’d get to as far back as that cave where Foundry’s scouts found her. Her hands are shaking as they go back to her mouth.
Beyond the drawbridge, a cobblestone road leads inside. Trimmed green grass. Stone buildings. A fountain with a carving of a robot and a human shaking hands. People. They’re all smiling. Someone’s waiting just inside to greet us. She’s smiling too. Blonde hair. Red dress. Barefoot. Beautiful …
And as we cross the drawbridge, I’m staring at her in growing disbelief. I know this face, those eyes, those soft lips. Echo and I slow to a stop, staring, dumbfounded.
“Octavia?” I whisper.
“Welcome to Haven!” Octavia exclaims happily.
But it’s the greeting of a stranger. She doesn’t recognize us.
Chapter 20.
I cross the distance and grab her by the shoulders.
“Octavia, it’s us,” I exclaim.
“Welcome to Haven!” she says again, staring at me.
And suddenly I’m aware of how fixed her smile is. Her eyes, so wide, so intense, rather than seeming overjoyed, bear an aspect of psychosis. There’s no recognition in her.
“Octavia?” Echo asks, coming up beside me.
“What’s happened to you? Where’s Jarvis?” I ask.
She blinks at me. Suddenly she gasps, but even this is off. Abnormal. It carries on slightly too long. Something is wrong, but I can’t imagine what it is. Did the captivity drive her mad?
“I didn’t recognize you. It’s been so long!” she says. Her arms close around me, but the hug is somehow cold and awkward, almost mechanical. I look at Echo over her shoulder. Her face mirrors mine.
“Oh, I can’t believe this! Jarvis is inside. Follow me. I’ll show you,” Octavia says, turning away.
The paranoia has sprung back into place, killing the momentary joy, suppressing the sense of fulfillment. Echo takes my hand. She’s bewildered, frightened. We follow Octavia, not knowing what else to do. Maybe Jarvis will have answers. The people we pass go about their business, gardening, manning storefronts, fixing the doors to a church. They really are all smiling; what the hell is this? This many people can’t all be happy on the same day. Echo squeezes my hand with an almost painful intensity.
“How did you get free?” I ask Octavia as we walk.
“I don’t know exactly. It’s difficult to remember. There … There was an accident. Jarvis will explain. I’m so glad you’re here,” Octavia says.
“We’re–glad to be here,” Echo says, flashing me a look that’s less certain.
We come to a large white-brick building with elaborate red double-doors and corners that merge into round-towers, like a medieval keep. Armored turrets are mounted on the towers. Smaller barrels poke out from the walls. There’s not a soul in sight. Above the doors, a sign reads, “Vermillion Hall.” Octavia leads us inside.
“This is the waiting room. Please sit. I’ll get Jarvis,” Octavia says. Her smile is strangely desperate. The room is small, with two padded benches along the walls and a metal door at the far end. Soft music plays surreally from a hidden speaker.
“Octavia, wait. Tell us what’s going on,” Echo says.
“What do you mean?” Octavia asks.
“What do you mean what do I mean? The last I saw you, you were screaming for help as a robot pushed you into the back of a transport. How did you get here?” Echo asks.
Octavia blinks at her, silent a moment.
“Jarvis will explain,” she says, and goes through the metal door.
“Doesn’t this seem strange to you?” Echo whispers after she’s gone.
I nod. I have a lot of questions, but when you’ve lived your whole life in fear, sometimes it’s hard to determine whether there’s really something wrong or you’re just imagining thin
gs again. Echo is moving along the walls, scanning them like a trapped animal.
“Do you hear that?” she asks.
“The music?”
“No. Something else.”
I listen closely. She’s right. There’s a soft hissing sound. I can’t determine where it’s coming from. Things are starting to feel strange, distant. Like looking at life through a tunnel. The feeling creeps in below the level of awareness, accumulating gradually until it becomes impossible to ignore. Then it’s more than just a “feeling.” It’s a physical reaction.
“We’re … being drugged,” someone says with my voice. Things are growing distant. Numb. My hand, a stranger’s hand, reaches for a door. It stretches across untold miles of space. Everything is vast and unfathomable. The door won’t open. The stranger’s brain can’t comprehend the malfunction. Something is panicking in a dark corner of awareness. This should open …
What should open?
There’s a gap in continuity. The stranger is on the floor. Oh, someone else is here. Octavia–thank Crom. Her delicate fingers depress the flesh of the stranger’s forearm. A needle goes in, injecting silver liquid. Isn’t that interesting? Wait. Someone should really be doing something, shouldn’t they? It’s of no great concern. Now comes the darkness.
*
I wake in a place that isn’t real and isn’t a dream. Or maybe it’s the real world that’s been the dream all along. Maybe that’s the cosmic joke, and death is only waking. I’m here nonetheless, in a red room where silent alarm-lights spin crazily on the ceiling … and, impossibly, the Doctor’s avatar sits in a chair across from me.
“Hello, Tristan,” the Doctor says.
“Doctor? What–where are we?” I ask.
“Everywhere, technically. But we’ve already had that conversation. Perhaps a more appropriate answer would be, ‘in your head.’ However, please refrain from asking too many questions or pursuing aberrational logic. It could interfere with your mental projection of me. Fortunately, your first six questions are all highly predictable. I’ve entered pre-programmed responses to convey the necessary information.”