by A. R. Daun
“Do you think we will find more of us?”
“My friend, I wouldn't be surprised.”
Two days later they encountered a quartet of banyans to the northeast, positioned symmetrically along the four corners of the Los Angeles Plaza Park since the 1870s, while to the west more individuals revealed themselves. A lone specimen that towered over the St John’s Presbyterian Church on National Boulevard was raving mad when awakened and the Devourer had to destroy and assimilate it, but a large grove of banyans lining La Mesa Drive in Santa Monica turned out to be a congenial, albeit dimwitted, lot. More promising still, a gigantic sentinel at the Fairmount Miramar Hotel at Wilshire Boulevard proved to be a communicative and congenial soul who was quite content to pass the time reminiscing about the past. It had been planted in the 1880s when the land was the estate of a Senator called Percival Jones, and the hotel that replaced it in 1921 was visited by many luminaries, including Howard Hughes, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, President Bill Clinton, and more. The Gatherer drank in all the memories, slating its thirst for knowledge, as the Devourer advanced across the California landscape, consuming everything in its path.
It was only years later that the Gatherer discovered there was a dark and truly malignant shadow behind the Devourer's simple facade. But by then it was too late.
CHAPTER 38
Year 149 A.R.
Extract from the journals of Ammara Lewis
There is trouble brewing in the west.
This notion comes to me in bits and pieces, memes that float in the digital winds that buffet the abandoned lands of the country and scatter derelict nanotech to the four corners of the map; information packets that sluice through the shallow underground rivers that are all that remain of the once vast network of servers, mobile devices, and embedded hardware that formed the nodes of the so-called “internet of things”.
They warn me in dreams and sudden inspirations that there are terrible armies gathering in the distance, shadowy hordes that are gestating in the deserts of the southwest and waiting for their Master's command. They grow in strength and numbers daily, fed by the gigantic maws of trees grown to massive proportions that span the continent from north to south and harvest nanoflesh by the gigaton, converting the carcasses to malleable matter that can be shaped to whatever form is desired by this man, whom I have taken to calling the Dark Man because his features have so far been hidden from me.
I have told Denzel and Diwi about these premonitions, but they add to my confusion instead of providing some clarity to the situation. Denzel has grown old and quite wise in his own way, but the old warrior in him still tends to default to the way of the fist and the spear when it comes to most matters. He is a special case, my beloved, for he is that rarest of Homo sapiens, one who harbors a genetic aberration that somehow allows him to naturally absorb and assimilate nanoswarm components into himself. This gift, if one were to call it that, shelters him from some of the ravages of time, and he ages slowly and gracefully. I look at him now and I see someone who physically seems to be only in his upper 30s, a prime specimen at the height of his mental and physical prowess. He is all for sending a heavily-armed scouting mission to the Deep West in order to resolve the question decisively one way or the other, and of course he has volunteered to lead it himself.
Diwi on the other hand has grown more retiring and subdued as the years and decades have passed. Like me,she does not age at all, and I think this fact has hurt her, as she has seen those she love age and then die before her eyes. Pablo first, who passed away an old man with many children and grandchildren, but who throughout his life worshiped her and considered her his mami, then a slew of men who I believe were lovers. She also adopted and is raising a young girl, a pretty little thing named Jaq whose natural parents had succumbed to a bout of fever that had washed over the Key Largo Settlement like a red tide and bore away young and old alike. Encumbered by her new care, Diwi advises me to wait and see what happens, and to refrain from probing feints that could antagonize whatever is out there and cause it to notice us.
The two contrasting suggestions couldn't be any more polar opposites of each other, and I ended up being more confused than ever, so I decided to bring in a third opinion. I summoned my son Alexander, and he came immediately, though not with some good-natured complaints. He was the head of the elite Conch Scouts, and they had been preparing for a mission to the Bahamas and the farther Caribbean islands. He loves me dearly, but is always prone to complaining that I mother him too much, and especially in plain view of his other macho comrades.
“Hello Mother," he said as he entered the front foyer of the small bungalow that I considered my home for the past 30 years. Alexander has been pushing me to “upgrade” (as he so coyly put it) to one of the much larger MacMansions that dot the Coral Gables landscape, especially since I am de facto ruler of this community, and he considers my home too humble an abode for such an “exalted” position.
He kissed me chastely on the cheek and looked around. I smiled inwardly because I could almost sense the disapproving wince that he always tries to hide when seeing all the various knick knacks and other miscellaneous tidbits of the past that litter the shelves and cabinets of my living room. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle action figures vie for shelf space with Elsa and Olaf dolls, while a Darth Vader figurine glowers at Spock and Picard as the two scramble beneath the shadow of a 1:2000 scale model of the USS Enterprise NCC-1701-D.
“I hope I didn't take you away from something important with your friends,” I said to my son, who chuckled in response.
“No, Mother,” he said. “I was with Natasha when the word came that you needed to see me.”
For a moment, my brain blanked on the name. My son is not only the lone child of the leader of the southern settlements, and an Immortal in his own right, but he is also extremely handsome and gregarious, a true alpha male in every sense of the word. He is a collector of friends of the female persuasion, and has a habit of maintaining a revolving line of simpering and admiring girlfriends. The last girl, a blonde bombshell named Colette, lasted all of two months before being replaced by this Natasha.
I sighed loudly.
“I can never remember all your woman friends,” I said half-jokingly. “When are you going to settle down and give your mother little grandchildren to play with?”
“You know you're the only woman for me,” he kidded back. “None of these girls can measure up to you.”
I preened in spite of myself. How many women in history past the one hundred year mark could have counted the number of wrinkles they had on the fingers of one hand?
“Oh you flatterer,” I said. “I'm no match for these young kids nowadays. I just feel so old.”
“You'll always be the same Mother,” he admonished, now serious. “If not for Denzel you'd be mobbed by admirers. Are you ok? You seem somewhat maudlin recently. If this has something to do with our reconnaissance mission to the Carib islands you needn't worry yourself.”
“No, no,” I said, waving my hands. “I know you and your team can take care of yourselves, especially against the few types of Risen that haunt those islands.”
“Then what is it?” he countered. “Has it something to do with you and Uncle Denzel?”
I sighed again, then told him what I had explained to Diwi and Denzel. When I finished he was silent for a few moments, as if carefully digesting the import of what I had disclosed to him. Unlike his long dead father, who was impulsive to a fault, Alexander had a mind that mulled over problems carefully, dissecting it into its component parts and viewing it from many angles before giving out his verdict.
“So let me guess,” he finally said, and I was glad to see that he didn't question the veracity of my feelings. “Uncle Denzel wants to send out scouts to verify, engage and nullify whatever possible threat is out there, while Aunt Diwi cautions that we should wait and see what develops. And now you want me to weigh in on the matter.”
I nodded. I couldn't have put it more
clearly and concisely.
“We've never had scouts go that far west,” he said musingly. “And all those who tried have gone missing without a trace, most likely due to hazards and dangers that we could not foresee. It would take a significant portion of our resources of fighters and scouts to mount any expedition that could possibly succeed. And if we do go we would need the best of the best to man the team. I'd be volunteering of course, and probably Uncle Denzel would want to lead.”
“No!” I said. “You and Denzel are too important for us to lose. And I have not decided yet whether we should even risk anyone on what could merely be the demented visions of an old lady.”
“But we should not go it alone, since this would affect New Savannah as well,” he continued, as if not hearing me. “Have you discussed your concerns with Marco as well?”
I sighed for the third time that afternoon, and shook my head.
“I'd like to get a consensus on what our options would be before discussing anything with him.” I replied. “With Marco, it's always good to present a united front or he'd find some way of turning it to his advantage.”
“Ok,” he admitted. “I can see the logic in that. But you know what my advise would be Mother. We can't hide out here forever and just wish events would pass us by. At the very least we need more information about anything that might threaten our settlements, and in order to get that information we will need to send out scouts. I don't see any way around that.”
He paused for a moment.
“At the same time,” he continued. “Aunt Diwi is right in that we have to be concerned about triggering any conflict, so whatever we put together needs to be small enough to avoid detection, but skilled enough to fight its way back if the need arises. We'll also need an Immortal in the mix as a precaution against unexpected encounters with the Risen.”
“And I suppose this plan includes you?” I asked almost bitterly.
He looked at me seriously, and I could see his father in the stubborn set of his jaw and the lines – “mule lines” I used to call them – on his furrowed brow.
“Mother,” he explained. “I'm not a kid anymore. I can take care of myself. And more importantly, it is my sworn duty as leader of the Conch Scouts to do everything in my power to keep the Settlements safe. I've been on more missions to the Risen Lands than I can count.”
“Alexander!” I said loudly, and winced as I stretched the word into four long syllables, with extra long motherly pauses in between. I almost felt like placing hands on hips and perhaps twisting my son's ear to complete the picture. But I went ahead and said what was on my mind anyway.
“You don't have to remind me about your work with the Scouts,” I continued more calmly. “If I remember correctly, I personally gave the go ahead for you to form the team, and I am well informed about all its accomplishments and contributions to the welfare of the Conch Settlements.”
He started to argue, but I made a shushing gesture.
“You will stand and be quiet, Commander Lewis,” I said sternly, and he stopped himself and waited. He might have wanted to continue the debate as my son, but I was also his liege and ruler, and it was to this exalted title that he grudgingly deferred. If I felt any guilt at all about such an underhanded tactic, I quashed it by remembering that most useful of rationalizations: that as his mother all that I was doing was for his own good.
“I will take your suggestions into consideration, and I will inform you later of my decision.” I said seriously. “That is all. Dismissed.”
“And Alexander?” I said as he turned to go.
He turned back.
“Yes, Mother?”
“I love you.”
This time the sigh came from him.
“I love you too Mother,” and he came forward and kissed me on one cheek.
I watched him as he left the house. He has always been a good boy, and for one moment the love and pride that I felt for my son threatened to overwhelm me and bring me to tears. But instead I forced myself to think about what he had said, and to consider all the possible alternatives that did not putting his life and the life of Denzel on the line.
Later that night, after we had eaten some dinner and were putting the dishes away, Denzel suddenly spoke up.
“So I take it that Alexander wants to take a scouting expedition to the Deep West?” he said sotto voce, as he wiped sauce smudges from an ancient ceramic plate that had a faded Disney World logo embossed on its front.
I did a slight double take. We've lived together for so long and know each other so well that sometimes I can almost believe that we have some kind of telepathic link between us.
“Don't be so surprised,” he said, chuckling humorlessly. “All I did was put two and two together. I knew Alexander visited you earlier today, and now you've been moodily silent all through dinner...which, by the way, was a nasi goreng dish that I slaved over and which was pretty darn good, if I do say so myself.”
I pecked him on the cheek and looked up at his fine nilotic features.
“I'm sorry dear,” I said repentantly. “I thought it was a fantastic dinner! Was the rice new crop brought in from New Savannah?”
He harrumphed and then threw back his head and laughed heartily.
“Mara darling, please refrain from diverting me from the topic at hand.” He scolded me lightly. “Yes, it's new crop from your old friend Marco. Now answer the original question or I'll have to force it out of you!”
He moved threateningly towards me, making tickling gestures, and I shrieked and backed away.
“Ok ok!” I shouted at him. “Yes! Yes Alexander came here and basically volunteered himself for an expedition. He wants the Conch Scouts to handle it. A small fast team that goes in and out unobserved. Now you stand down Mr. Harrison!”
He stopped approaching and rubbed his chin with one hand, serious now.
“I'm sorry Mara,” he finally said, and came to me and enveloped me in his strong arms. I melted into him, burying my face at the soft juncture between his neck and shoulder, letting the tension flow out of my body and hugging him back.
We stood like that for a minute, then he gently extricated himself and looked down at me.
“You know he's right, don't you?” He finally said. “The Scouts are the toughest and most highly-trained force we have, and the only ones experienced enough to have a fighting chance of going deep and making it back alive. And if what you say is true, the sooner we find out more about this threat the more time we'll have to prepare.”
I turned away from him.
“I know that Denzel,” I said angrily. “Don't you think I know that? But that doesn't make it any more palatable to me.”
He came forward again and embraced me from the back, but said nothing. Denzel is a kind, caring, and intelligent man, and he knows when it's time to talk, and when it's time to just stay silent and hold me. I wouldn't be surprised if many a marriage had been saved by the judicious use of silence and the calm that it brings to marital arguments.
“Please take care of my baby,” I begged softly.
“I will Mara,” Denzel replied. “I'll bring him back to you. You have my word on that.”
In all the years and decades that we have been together, Denzel has never once broken a single oath he has made. He is the kind of man who does not make promises lightly, and by the time I lay my head on my pillow later that night, the heaviness in my heart had lightened considerably, and I fell into a restless slumber soon thereafter.
In my dreams a great banyan tree covered the world, and under its gigantic canopy hellish figures danced and capered among the decaying corpses of butchered men.
Yours in Time,
Ammara Lewis,
Miami Settlement,
June 17, 2169
CHAPTER 39
Year 150 A.R.
Old Fort Jackson, New Savannah, Georgia
1000 km north of Key West Conch Settlements
I do not want to be God. It is a tiring business wit
h little fringe benefits.
- Lady Ammara
They waited patiently as the Lord Marco lounged in deep thought.
He was seated on a high-backed throne that shone with a glossy dark oak finish. Next to him, a young slender girl was draped face down on a dark red velvet ottoman, her arms and long coltish legs dangling loosely and her tight uncreased buttocks shining like two small ebony moons in the fading afternoon light as Marco absently caressed them with one hand.
“And you're saying how many men did we lose?” Marco asked in his deep gravelly voice, then swiped idly at a butt cheek with a horse hair flogger that he held in his other hand. The flogger had a red and black leather handle and made a soft thudding sound as it connected with naked flesh. The girl jerked and moaned. Pham politely looked off into the distance for a moment before replying.
“Three men, my Lord,” he said grimly. “And we lost two rice trunks as well, though one can be salvaged.”
Beside him Jaq was openly gawking at the entire scene. They were standing several paces away from the throne, which sat atop a platform ringed by three wide steps. The room was dimly lit, a vast cathedral whose emptiness, save for the central platform and rows of stone pillars that supported the timber roof, only served to emphasize its grandiose size. Dust motes drifted in slow downward spirals from the high ceiling above, their lazy ballet choreographed by puffs of wind that wafted in from arched windows with open wooden shutters. Light from the scattered windows seemed to creep stealthily into the room, a breeder of shadows and darkness rather than one of illumination.
Marco sighed heavily. “I will visit the Altamaha area to prevent this from happening again,” he said. “Send messengers to inform
them to expect me in a week.”
Pham nodded, and Marco turned his gaze to Jaq, who gaped up at him.
The girl had been mostly silent and watchful during their day-long trip back to the Old Fort. Pham could tell that she had been impressed by the extensive and indelible marks on the surroundings made by the rapidly-growing colony. Endless paddy fields stretched into the distance along the tidal rivers that extended long wizened fingers inland from the eastern seaboard, the resulting creeks and streams funneling rainwater from the uplands and across the irrigated rice fields before finally emptying into the green Atlantic. The ripening grain had turned a golden yellow color by this time of the year, and entire fields rippled like vast ocean currents as the rice stalks swayed in the breeze.