Petra: Allendian Post-Apocalypse

by Stone, Nirina

  Thirty-Nine

  Sidney

  She runs through the trees, her knapsack bouncing off her lower back as she twists and turns through the forest. She can’t think too much about what she’d just done.

  The explosion was much bigger than she’d expected, but then she also didn’t see Henry run towards them like that until it was too late.

  Her lungs burn as she pushes her legs faster than she’d ever run before. “Brave,” she breathes. “I’m brave.”

  Not at all criminal or horrible like a murderer, her mind recites. It was an accident! She didn’t see him!

  “Brave!” she yells as she continues to run. Tears streak down her face, in an ironic challenge to her words.

  The trees start to thin the further she runs, and she doesn’t stop until she comes to the last line of trees, opening up to a massive body of water.

  She tries to remember if she and Nayne had ever come this far out before and decides they haven’t. There was a lake once, she remembers, but it was a lot smaller than this, and it was surrounded by these ginormous trees with purple flowers all over. Nayne had called them jack-something-or-other trees and said they were her favorites. She’d breathe them in and wear them in her hair. Sidney didn’t have the heart to tell her she’d thought they smelt like pee.

  The flowers’ colors made the violet in Nayne’s eyes pop—she looked amazing, and so so happy.

  Until the tiny lake had dried up and Nayne rushed them out of there so fast, it was like they’d never been. Sidney couldn’t remember why they’d ran, but they didn’t stop for days.

  None of those smelly jack-trees here, Sidney thinks as she looks around. She knows that all lakes in Allenda have drinkable clean water, but she also knows she needs to test it first, make sure none of the chems the city had released into the air to cause the stinging rain has landed here.

  It’s far enough from the city that it should be fine. Still, she puts down her knapsack as she fights to breathe through her still-burning lungs. Her movements are quick, punctuated by an occasional hiccup as she takes out a small container of strips of paper. Nayne had found them in one of the tiny cabins strewn across Allenda. They were lucky, she’d said, they’d found a medicine cabinet that hadn’t yet been ransacked. Probably the last one around. So they filled their bags with all the stuff.

  This is one of the last containers she has though. None of it lasted that long. Nothing in this world lasts long—nothing important.

  She uses a tiny clear cup to scoop up several inches of water. Then she rips one of the papers off and sticks it in. It changes color immediately, a nice friendly blue.

  Good, she thinks. Drinkable.

  She looks around her, waiting for a moment. Then she pulls off the billowy dress the twins changed her into, strips down to her skivvies and jumps into the cold water. She doesn’t surface until she’s had several mouths-full of the stuff. She swims under, staying so long, wondering if she could just turn into one of those mermaids Nayne had always talked about in stories.

  What if she stays below so long, her lungs would evolve and she’d just turn? How long would that take? She knows that’s just fiction—evolution took longer than that, Nayne had always said. Still, she imagines herself a mermaid and twists and turns in the water, swimming further and further away from the shore and her pack. She swims straight down to the bottom, touching the muddy ground below, then shoots straight back up to the surface of the water, wanting so much to be able to fly through it like she’s seen birds do.

  Finally, with her muscles nice and relaxed, she surfaces again and takes a deep long breath, then she lies on her back, staring up into the sky with her arms and legs splayed out.

  It only took Nayne a few hours to teach her how to swim when she was little. “You were two years old,” Nayne said. “And I grabbed you by your pudgy little arms and threw you straight in! At first you stayed under, I nearly jumped in after you. Then your little pink face showed up all smiles and giggles. You were always a natural in there. Like a mermaid.”

  Sidney closes her eyes, remembering Nayne’s face as she shared this story. “Can I grow up to become a mermaid, Nayne?” she’d asked, to laughs.

  Then, when she frowned back, Nayne had held her in her arms and said, “My Sidney, you can grow up to be anything you want, anything you wish at all.”

  She should have wanted to grow up to be with Nayne forever, she thinks. What a selfish thing to wish for, becoming a stupid mermaid instead of wishing Nayne would just be with her always.

  She dives under the water again before the tears can fall. Nayne seems to be in her mind completely right now and, much as she enjoys the memories, it’s the feeling right after she indulges in them she can’t stand.

  The emptiness—knowing that they’re just thoughts now, that they might not even have happened exactly as she remembers. That they won’t exist any more the moment she doesn’t exist any more.

  Unless—she thinks. Unless she writes them down. Then they will always exist. Maybe someone someday will come across the words. Maybe then they’ll remember Nayne for her, and they’ll remember her.

  So she swims back to the shore, planning a way to write these things down. Her skin won’t be good enough any more, she knows. She’ll have to find something more permanent. As she reaches the shore, she looks around her. Nothing to write on.

  Her knapsack will have to do for now. It’s the one thing that’s on her all the time. It’s made of great material—solid and sturdy canvas. She takes the pen out and starts scribbling her memory about the other lake with Nayne. She knows most of the words won’t be spelled right but it doesn’t matter. She writes in small letters so she can jot down lots more.

  As she scribbles, the water on her skin dries off under the sun and small freckles she’d never noticed seem to pop to the surface of her skin.

  She wonders how long she could stay here, wonders just how far from the outer limits of the dome she is. There was a map once that Nayne had had on a tablet. One fine day, the tablet simply stopped working—wouldn’t take a charge under the sun, nothing. So they’d wandered aimlessly for a while.

  Still, Nayne said, “Just keep going straight. Eventually you’ll get to the end.” Then she’d laughed so hard, she ended up holding her sides.

  Nayne was silly, Sidney writes on her knapsack. Though the spelling’s all off, she means to write: She was silly, beautiful, brave, she was kind, smart, and she did everything she could to keep me safe.

  That’s all she can write before she bursts into tears again. She caps the pen quickly and shoves it deep into the knapsack, then she throws the pack on the ground and lies her head on it, meaning to rest for just a few more minutes before getting dressed and back to traveling south again. She will leave the white dress, she’s got better clothing in her knapsack, better for traveling out here.

  South, she thinks, then she’s back on her haunches.

  Taking out the tiny compass, she looks around again, but sees that south would be straight through the lake. She can’t even see the other shore from here. Taking the long way around, would be west of here, but who knows how long that would take?

  Who knows how long Petra would recover and come looking for her—?

  Though she’s a strong swimmer, Sidney knows she won’t be able to swim across, not without getting exhausted.

  So—think.

  There’s nothing in her trusty knapsack that would help. She certainly can’t fashion a working raft out here. These trees’ bark would do, but she has no rope, nothing to bind them together.

  She knows she has no real choice but to walk around the lake, no matter how big it is. So, feeling well rested enough, she shrugs her clothes on, pulls on the knapsack and treks west.

  Forty

  Henry

  His chest burns, like something’s digging into it, pulling muscles out. He wants to cry out but he can’t even move, least of all open his mouth to scream. Still, the digging, ripping, scalding sens
ation seems to travel from his chest all the way around to his back, down his torso, his arms, legs. Everything burns.

  There’s nothing left but the fire through his limbs and he wonders if this will last for eternity. He will lose his mind if it continues another minute. Yet, he’s not able to thrash with the pain, not able to grunt. Even that little bit of relief would help, but he’s frozen still.

  His breathing hitches as the searing travels up his chin, to his nose, his eyes. Then it feels like his eyes will pop out of their sockets. He’s been in pain before, he’s withstood torture at the hands of raiders, but this. This new thing. He wants his death to come sooner than this, surely it isn’t supposed to hurt so much after death?

  He’s seen faces of the dead before, they’d always been at peace, it seemed. His face can’t be peaceful right now, with this sort of searing fire running though him. He imagines his skin sloughing off, melting and seeping into the ground as his insides also turn into liquid.

  What’s worse is, despite the torture, his ears no longer roar so he can actually hear sounds of wind in the trees above him, with the occasional chirp of a bird, all the sounds of a nice warm afternoon, perfect for a picnic. Not for the bonfire that’s got him caught in its wake.

  His mind screams, begging his body to stop, to just die, begging his cells to help numb him, as the leaves continue to rustle above him.

  Then he hears a different sound, one that’s hardly natural in a forest. A moving, shuffling sound. He knows there aren’t any large animals in Allenda, but this one. Human?

  Could it be a raider? He fights to open his eyes but they burn so much, they shut back down again as hot tears roll out. He imagines his eyes bleeding though he tries to open them again.

  What is this new thing, coming to him? Maybe whatever or whoever it is will put him out of his misery. Maybe this will all end sooner than later?

  It rustles up closer. Then it speaks. “Henry.”

  He recognizes the voice, but the burning overwhelms him to the point he can’t try to force the memory upfront.

  “Henry,” she says again, closer to his ear. The bot, he thinks. Petra.

  When she doesn’t speak again, he wants her to hurry. He wants to tell her to ram her hand through his head like she did with the other raiders. And now.

  But of course, no matter how much his mind yells her name and begs to please make his death quick, he knows she won’t hear a thing.

  He finally gives in to the fire. If this is what he deserves after the life he’s lived before, then this is what he’ll have to suffer. Maybe it’s all deserved after all. He was a raider once. He hurt other Allendians, he’d killed.

  So maybe this is exactly what he deserves.

  No sooner does the thought run through his mind than he starts feeling a cooler sensation on his chest, like a salve. It still burns, but somehow less. Somehow like dipping into lukewarm water instead of a boiling pot. The sensation travels through his body like the heat did before. First to his back, torso, his limbs. A lukewarm feeling is a welcome relief after all that scalding pain.

  Then it cools even more and he can finally breathe. Of course he’s been breathing this entire time, but this time, the air doesn’t feel like it’s ripping through his lungs, leaving behind holes and shards of glass.

  The sounds around him amplify as he hears the rustles in the trees increase as though the wind has picked up.

  Then she speaks again. “Henry, can you hear me?”

  He doesn’t dare to open his eyes again, he doesn’t dare to move. What if it all comes back the moment he does? What if he ends up unable to move or speak and he’s burning again?

  A few minutes later, his chest almost feels normal. There’s still some pain but numbed somehow, like he’s floating in a vat of ice-cold water. In fact, the cool is no longer cool, now it’s turning into something freezing. What is this new thing? It never gets this cold in Allenda, but he’s felt this before—from one of the iceboxes they used to have as children. They’d keep their meat and food there to keep them fresh longer.

  That’s what he must be in—an icebox—but why? Then, even that becomes unbearable and his teeth start chattering. He still keeps his eyes shut closed, wondering if he’s about to freeze to death. It’s a different type of paralysis. He can’t even open his eyes though he would have been able to just a couple of minutes ago. Now, they’re frozen shut. His teeth continue to chatter.

  “Oh,” he hears, then more movement, and finally the cool warms up. He waits for it to turn into a burning sensation again but after a couple of minutes, it’s only barely too cool, then warm, then cooler, then almost a normal regulated feeling.

  Henry’s chest relaxes as he realizes all his muscles have been tense and taut for who knows how long. Finally, after feeling somewhat normal except for a slight throb still in the middle of his chest, his eyes open and he looks into Petra’s concerned face.

  “Your heart is regulating,” she says as she scans him. “There is still some tissue damage here and here.” She points somewhere to the middle of him. “But, given time, you will heal, Henry.”

  He takes a deep breath, remembering the feeling as whatever it was that blew up took out a chunk of him and a decent chunk of Petra too. He knows what she’s made of though, knows what she’s capable of, so he’s not entirely surprised that she’s fine now. If there’s anything else he’s ever been more sure of now, it’s that he should be dead. There’s no way he should have survived that blast.

  “How—” he says as he looks down at his chest. His shirt is mostly burnt off, leaving his torso and arms bare. His chest, he thinks, as he stares down at what’s remained of it. The skin around the edges of where he was hit is still charred, red and itchier than anything than he’s ever experienced before—even that time bed bugs had taken over his childhood home.

  He reaches for the middle of his chest where she’s done—something—to him. Instead of his usual light brown skin, with the occasional tuft of unruly black hair, he touches something silver and flat, metal. Not flesh. Not human.

  “What—” he says as his finger gingerly touches the flat surface. Cool to the touch, like a metal pan before the water comes to a boil. “What did you do to me?” He wants to yell but he’s still not quite healed, he knows he’s weak. If he were to try to stand now, his limbs will crumple under him. Still, he stares up at Petra as she bends down to his eye level.

  “I healed you, Henry,” she states as if it’s obvious exactly what she did. “You were near death and so I healed you. That is my role.”

  He doesn’t take his eyes off her. Does she mean that—

  “Wait. What did you put in me? What is this thing? What does it do?”

  “I poured some of my material into your wound,” she says, “so that you could live. It was the only way to stop the infection and to keep your heart beating.”

  He never heard of such a thing. He knows that androids were built to protect Allendians and heal them when necessary, but with medicines and salves, not by pouring themselves into their charge.

  “You need to take this out of me,” he says. “Immediately. You can’t leave this in me. That’s not what healing means. You don’t turn me into—well into you!”

  She offers him a light smile. “I haven’t turned you into anything, Henry. That’s not what this does. It is mending your tissue inside, right now. It will work fast, and you will heal and you will live. Without this, you would be dead.”

  “This—” It’s been a while since Henry’s been around civilization. Still, he remembers most of the laws of Allenda. One of their earliest laws is clear. Allendians aren’t allowed to modify their bodies in any semi-permanent way—no tattoos, no piercings, certainly no modifications this big.

  “This is illegal, Petra.”

  She tilts her head, as if to analyze her database on the details. “It is,” she accepts, “but my first obligation is to protect Allendians, to heal them when needed. This is what I’ve done.”


  “And you’ve broken an Allendian law to do it. For me. Why—” He’s never met a bot like her before—not one that can decide for itself, that moves past its programming—if that’s what happened here.

  She pauses. “I’m—not sure.” She stares back at him, and almost seems human, he thinks, with the way her brows furrow just so. “But Henry, medicine wouldn’t help you live. Mere stitches wouldn’t help you survive this. I had to—”

  His eyes grow big. “You did this to save Sidney, didn’t you?” he says, understanding in his voice. “If I died, Sidney would be guilty of killing a fellow Allendian, and you’d have to punish her for it.” Of course punish in this case means an instant death sentence.

  “So you made sure that I’d heal and you didn’t have to harm her. Wow.”

  He stares at her again, amazed with just how different she is from other bots he’s come across. She’s capable of making her own decisions, capable of caring—actually caring for a child. To her own detriment—?

  She takes in his words and seems to understand. “I wouldn’t have harmed her anyway, for I know it was an accident. Accidents like that are not punished in this way.”

  He’s stumped again. Despite her words though, he knows there’s truth to what he’s said. He was near death—she could have checked him, known that there was nothing she could do, and she would have cremated him. There’s no reason she’d feel the need to save him. No one would have held her accountable for him.

  And, fact is, now she will be in trouble when the re-emergence happens. So will he, probably. Modifications like this are not forgivable to them.

  Now he’s left confused. He knew she was dangerous—he saw what she’d done at the mansion. Now, he’s not so sure. Is she dangerous if she can make decisions like this that would mess with the laws of Allenda? Just to save the girl from harm?

  Then he remembers that Sidney ran south, and tries to get up on his feet.