“Stephenson Building,” Simon called out, pulling himself to sit on the driver’s side window as before. “All ashore that’s going ashore, we–oh hell.”

A man was coming out of the building towards them. He was wearing a black coverall outfit that looked to be laced with multiple impact fiber weaves. He also had a sidearm strapped to his belt. His eyes were hidden behind thin black sunglasses.

“Simon,” the man said.

“Well, hello there, Hedrock,” Simon replied, all smiles. “So nice to see you ag–”

“You’re not wearing your suit.”

“Well, yeah, I meant to tell you about that…the damn thing is sort of hot…”

“It’s nothing of the sort. It’s got plenty of ventilation.”

“And constrictive.”

“It’s a size too large as it is.”

“And it’s a horrible color.”

“The only reason it’s orange,” Hedrock said, “is you haven’t taken it out to wear it and adjust the color. I’m right, aren’t I?”

Simon sighed, “I’ll wear the suit. Happy?” He began to slide down into the cab.

Hedrock didn’t smile. “Ecstatic.” He turned to Mayster, who was standing closest, “Ingrate. It was a birthday present.”

Simon stuck his head back out. “I heard that!”

Welsh pulled the rest of his bags from the cab, “Would you two get a room already?”

“Will you be needing anything else?” Simon asked Welsh.

“No, we’re good for now, thanks,” Welsh responded. “Just keep your eyes open and let me know if you hear or see anything out of the ordinary.”

“I remember what ordinary was like,” Simon said dourly, and pulled the cab up and away from the pavement.

Welsh turned to Argo and Mayster. “Gentlemen, this is Hedrock. Hedrock, this is Argo and Mayster. Hedrock’s our resident tech. Anything you
need he’ll make you. Whether you want it or not. But trust me, he knows what he’s doing.” Welsh made his way up the stairs to the front door, calling back to Hedrock all the way, “Check their gear, if you would. And make sure they get full access to the building. They’re on staff with all privileges.”

Threnody was nowhere to be seen. Presumably she had already made her way inside while Hedrock and Simon were arguing.

Hedrock was ushering Argo and Mayster in. In the foyer, he stopped them. “All right, show me your gear. I can’t have bad gear in my house.”

Argo and Mayster exchanged a look, and opened their bags.

“Your packs need upgrading to the latest firmware. Your firewalls are severely down level. I’m amazed they’re still functioning. Actually let me replace your packs altogether…I’ve doubled the capacity of mine, it’s an easy hack. Trust me, you’ll thank me later. These earbuds you’re using are shit, I can replace those. Best to just toss them. I can replicate these smart vinyl platters and get you brand new ones, again, I can cut your access time by a third and I could probably move more controls to the center. These bags are shit, by the way. I can fix that easy. I just got some new impact fiber. We’ll get you some light anvil cases for the gear, too, no more of this backpacking it. That’s neanderthal to the extreme. What is this, a slingshot? I respect that. It needs to be rebalanced, though, look at this. I’ve got just the thing for it, don’t worry about a thing. And your ammunition…wow, that’s pretty ingenious, I have to admit, but trust me, we can do better than…what are these–these are ball bearings, right? Ingenious, but crude. I can fix that, no worries. Okay, let me see…what’s left? Ah, yeah, let me see that sword of yours, Mayster.”

Mayster shrugged, unsheathed his katana and handed it over.

Hedrock examined it, turning it this way and that. Then finally, he pulled his sunglasses off and looked at Mayster in awe. “This…this is kami no tekkou, isn’t it?”

Mayster nodded. “Sure is. God metal.”

“Je-sus…Christ,” Hedrock said. “I never thought I would ever…ever…see one of these. There’s only six in existence, and…hell, five are considered lost. Four now.” He handed the blade back to Mayster with an air of reverence. “That’s…perfection. I can’t do anything with that. That sword is welcome in my house any day of the week.”

He pulled out what looked to be a metal basket of some kind. He began dumping all of their gear, clothes and paraphernalia into it. “I’ll start with your packs and get those back to you. I know it’s uncomfortable to be without one.”

Argo had noticed there was no bulge in the back of Hedrocks’ clothing, nothing there at the small of the back where packs normally went. “I see you’re not wearing one. What, are you like Welsh?”

Hedrock laughed. “No one’s like Welsh. No, I’m wearing my pack.” He indicated his black coverall. “Anyway, let me get started on this. You’ll find some available rooms on the second floor. Pleasure meeting you both,” he said, and then left, his eyes on the now-resheathed katana blade.

“You have a fan,” Argo said.

“The sword does. Only serious weapon freaks know it for what it is,” Mayster replied, smiling. “I like him already.”

There once was a time in which I could e-mail a friend on the other end of the continent and I know that the information I needed or wanted my friend to see would arrive in his inbasket. It would happen promptly, securely but most importantly, it would happen.

The Exodus cost us many things, not the least or most of which was our technological infrastructure. Heavy Tech was the rock upon which we decided to build our church and the rock turned out to be, like in one of those fantasy novels, a giant living creature who was pissed off that we were all living on its back. (Updated 08132170: some people have reached the bizarre conclusion from this statement that I’m comparing Heavy Tech to a chupacabra or Gojira or something…that’s what I get for trying to mix the Bible with Roald Dahl so just forget it.)

The good news is we were already well on our way to carrying our own infrastructure around with us when the end came. Mesh computing meant that as long as I’ve got people with packs between me and my friend, my e-mail will hop-hop-hop along until it reaches him. It will do so, though perhaps not as promptly as in the past (the price we pay for ultimate portability, yes?) It will do so securely, because we all have secure tunnels on our pieces of the mesh that allow for bits and bytes to pass without us ever knowing what’s inside them. Soon the blimps will go up which will give us some additional stability and speed as well.

This how things were before the Net. Bulletin Board Systems (BBS) would call each other and pass messages back and forth. FidoNet one version was called. It’s the same thing, except the calls are now happening much more frequently. As long as there’s another pack within range, the call is made, the message is passed.

Sneakernet is what they called the version of this that involved shoe leather. I would walk over and hand you media that had the items on it that I wanted you to see. And that’s what I’m proposing for the areas our mesh network can’t reach.

Many people are throwing themselves heroically against the Bowl, trying to create some kind of landline that will connect us with those people unfortunate enough to live out there. Like the people in Arkansas who tried to run a Cat-5 cable through I-75 and out to their little area. It worked…for a while, then died. In the Exodus, when the weather control systems died, they took the middle of North America with them. Long range communications just simply don’t work out there. They just wither and are gone. And no one’s quite figured out why.

Our satellite communications network was destroyed as well. Which is why we can’t get off world, thanks to the fact that the debris field would shred anything we tried to send up.

Therefore, until someone can come up with a strategic, long-term solution to establish a channel of communications with those outside the Atlantic Union, and indeed with the west coast, then I propose going back to what I call Sneakernet 1.0.

Storage media does not seem to be affected by the Bowl. Therefore, anything that needs to be taken out or brought back in to the Union, we simply create a Node that converts e-mails and other communications into a stored form that can then be trotted out to the folks in the Bowl who need it. And they in turn can use the storage media to send things back in.

It’s like TCP/IP but on a macro scale. Break things down into packets and then send them out. Like a Pony Express for our times.

Is it elegant? No. But will it work? I think so. We need to do something in order to ensure that channels remain open. Because there are still numerous questions about what happened and what will continue to happen…and who knows where the answer is going to come from?

Darin Thommson, 08092170

The taxicab hovered around the corner, giving a bit of a terrible lurch and belching a small cloud of inky smoke as it did so. As Argo listened and watched the vehicle struggling to come closer to them, he could swear that the cab was actually chugging in their direction. He didn’t think it was possible for a sky vehicle to chug.

The cab touched down in front of them. Simon pulled himself out of his driver’s side door and sat in his open window, folding his arms on top of his own roof. He was a relatively small man with blond hair and a van dyke that was an orange-red. It was impossible to tell which was his natural color.

“Threnody!” he called out, grinning. “Hullo, love! Might I say that if you were looking any better, you’d be against the law?”

To Argo’s surprise, Threnody smiled at Simon. “Well, you’ve already said it. So I guess we’ll just have to cope somehow, won’t we?”

Simon gave a bark of laughter and slapped the top of the cab, making the poor thing shudder violently. Argo and Mayster exchanged a look. The question passed between them silently, We’re really going to climb into that shitpiece, aren’t we?

They threw each other a mental shrug.

Simon turned his attention to Welsh. “So, what’s the story, big man?”

Welsh grunted and pulled out another cigarette. Where the hell does he get all the smokes? Argo asked himself.

“Home, Si,” Welsh said simply.

Simon gave a sweeping gesture with his hand and the trunk lid rolled back. The four travellers stowed their gear and moved to enter. Mayster turned to Threnody. “Front seat?” he offered.

Threnody shook her head. Was she actually touched at the chivalry of it? She was smiling, after all. “No, go right ahead. I don’t like to sit up there. The door’s up there.”

Mayster shrugged and moved to take the place up front. Argo climbed in back with Welsh and Threnody, wondering, This thing has four doors…what the hell is she talking about?

With everyone in and strapped down, Simon popped in. He pulled his harness in place across his orange-padded jumpsuit and stepped down on the accelerator while pulling his steering wheel backwards.

The cab, with a protesting groaning squawk that sent forth another plume of smoke, rose into the air and into a through-lane, gaining speed.

“There we are, love,” Simon told the cab, patting the steering column with some affection.

“I’m amazed,” Mayster began. “When I first saw this thing I figured it wouldn’t do over seveeeeeee AHHHHH SHIT, WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?”

Mayster had thrown his arms up over his head and was leaning back into his chair as far as he could.

Argo strained to look over, as he was sitting right behind Mayster. Welsh and Threnody didn’t seem to be reacting in the same way, neither was Simon, so whatever it was it couldn’t be too serious.

Sitting in Mayster’s lap was a gleaming silver robot, resembling a cross between a small dog and a huge beetle. It was sitting up in Mayster’s lap, as though begging for a treat. It clicked its mandibles together in something that Argo supposed was a greeting, seeming to disregard Mayster’s reaction to its presence.

Simon glowered at the thing. “Go on, you little bastard: get to work,” he called.

And the thing did. It disappeared back through the cab’s dashboard through a small door, moving swiftly on chittering legs.

Mayster looked at Simon, incredulous. “What…the fuck was that thing?”

“Popbot,” Simon said. “He’s my mechanic popbot. They’re supposed to last for a year but I swear I can only get seven months out of them.”

The popbot in question was now moving across the hood at a high rate of speed. Argo had noticed some rattling going on there. Only stopping for a moment at each connecting bolt, the popbot threw out a leg, snapped a tool into place, and then tightened the bolt.

“Disposable robots for specific tasks,” Welsh explained further. “Simon’s cab is a hunk of shit, so the popbot’s all that keeps him in the air at times.”

“He’s only joking, honey,” Simon said, stroking the steering column again.

“You coulda warned me!” Mayster complained.

“Lady said that’s where the door was,” Welsh said, forcing back a smile.

Argo watched as the popbot finished ensuring the front of the cab wouldn’t fall off, then disappear under the vehicle, where he heard rattling and whirring take place. Seven months, he thought to himself. Amazing.

Then he looked out across the Atlantic Union, which, as he understood it, was nothing but buildings from here to the ocean. Incredible. And the air here was alive with information. He could almost imagine the open spaces around them throbbing with it, every machine passing data to every other machine, tying them all together. Once he understood that the Internet had evolved as the primary means by which the world communicated, over all manner of copper wire and fiber optics. And now that all of that infrastructure was gone, all everyone had was each other.

He let his visor flip over to watch all of the traffic that he was filtering out and all the traffic that was, even at this speed, driving stories above the ground, passing through his pack and to the rest of the Union.

“How about some music, Si?” Welsh asked.

Argo almost missed it, but a look passed between Simon and Welsh. Simon smiled and threw Welsh a wink in the rear view mirror. “Coming right up. Let me just find it.”

Mayster noticed it first. Argo took a second because he was almost hypnotized by the stats of what his pack was passing. “This is Circus Eclectica out of Richmond,” Simon said, then turned up the volume.

“Holy…” Argo began and Mayster finished it for him in the front seat, “…shit.”

The song coming out of Simon’s speakers was “Open 5 A.M.”

Even though he had never seen a skyscraper before–not in real life, anyway–it wasn’t the tallest of the giant gleaming towers off in the distance that caught his eye first. Even on street level, you could see them above the tenements.

It wasn’t the buzz of skytrawlers and airseds using the roads overhead while their slower, treaded cousins moved in less auspicious ways below.

It wasn’t the people, or even the feeling of the people. While the bustle of humanity was slim here right inside the borders of the Atlantic Union, there was the overwhelming feeling of being in a real city, a real honest to God megalopolis. Argo couldn’t tell what formed that picture, that intuition of the millions of people who lived between here and the ocean. Maybe it was the smells, maybe it was all five of his senses telling him the same thing that his pack’s firewall was: Holy shit, man, what the hell?

They stepped out into the light, left the underworld of I-75 behind, and right in front of them was a tenement building. Up one corner of the structure was the most godawful shitcobble of an antenna Argo had ever seen. It was this that drew his eyes first, and then followed it down to something that looked incredibly out of place.

It was a Nodebooth. Significantly less beaten up than the one in their hometown, but it was virtually identical. And behind it, two men were stacking cases. There was a hodge of different types of cases, but a good number of them were strikingly similar to the metal storage container that they would see turn up at the Nodebooth they frequented.

“That’s right,” Welsh said, following his gaze. “Welcome to Sneakernet at the end of the world. This is where things are converted from Sneakernet 2.0 back down to version 1.0.”

“File sharing the old fashioned way,” Argo said.

“The old old fashioned way,” Welsh countered. “Hang on a second, would you?” He reached into his right coat pocket and produced a small device that looked like half of a silver pen. He held it up to the side of his face. “Yeah,” he said and paused.

“Yeah, we’re back,” Welsh continued, and Argo quickly realized he was hearing half of a conversation. “Right outside the I-75 tunnel. Yeah. Okay, well come on.”
He put the device back in his pocket.

“Cell phone?” Argo asked.

“What?” Welsh looked at him. “Oh. No, not a cell phone. There’s no cells anymore. And not a satellite phone. Because God knows there aren’t any satellites anymore. Well. Mostly. No, it just does voice over IP.” He pointed to the shitcobble antenna. “Reception’s great standing right here.”

Welsh nodded over to Threnody. “That was Simon. He’s on his way.” Threnody merely nodded back and stayed standing as she was. Argo noted that when something was going on that didn’t concern her, Threnody almost seemed to become very easy to overlook–a statue, almost. A statue that can come to life and kill dozens of skinheads while breaking very little sweat, he reminded himself. The picture in his mind of her soaring over the heads of the crowd back at the Lodge was quite clear.

Argo looked over at Mayster, who had been very quiet since stepping out of the tunnel. Argo had chalked this up initially to the shock of finally being where they had always wanted to end up.

Instead, Mayster had his visor on and his earpieces in. He looked through the readings on his visor at Argo, brow furrowed. “I’ve been tweaking my firewall. They have music on demand channels here, man. A minute ago I was listening to somebody playing some fucking twenty-four/seven polka station out of his bedroom. And then I finally found some live DJs spinning from a club over in Boston.”

“Yeah?” Argo asked.

“Yeah,” Mayster said gravely, “place is open twenty-four seven. Spinning all day and all night. Then I switched over to something called Sonic Sphere One, playing trance mashups. And then I switched to a station out of Tampa, Techno Wall to Wall.” Mayster stopped talking. Argo guessed another station was coming up.

“And?” Argo finally demanded.

“Most of it is shit,” Mayster said. “Most of it is absolute fried shit on a bun with a side of fries.” Mayster put a hand on Argo’s shoulder. “We got here just in time. This place needs us, man.”

Welsh, who had been watching all of this from behind a halo of smoke from a recently lit cig, chuckled to himself. “We’re on a mission from God,” he said.

Neither Argo or Mayster knew what the hell to make of that and Welsh, of course, refused to explain.

Argo noticed that they had sealed off the rest of the sub-level, which was for the best. If you grew up anywhere near an interstate that was still standing, you couldn’t help but go exploring. He had heard some of the old stories about how people used to believe that houses could be haunted. His friend Rik had even found half of a shit-quality video on a simputer–some television special on the subject.

Interstates were easy replacements. When the Exodus happened, most interstates were positively packed with vehicles, the slower ones going in excess of eighty miles an hour on the higher levels. When everything Heavy decided to get the hell out–either in one way or another–the passengers in these vehicles found themselves travelling in a system that was no longer smart enough to maintain the three-foot safety space between each vehicle. These were people, of course, who didn’t have implants which had already committed suicide deep within their skulls, taking most of their involuntary physical systems down with them.

As a result, the interstates were a graveyard of twisted metal guaranteed to make children piss themselves, nowhere moreso than below the ground. The lower levels were self-contained and designed for those making the long haul cross-continent. You could drop down and push your speed up to two hundred miles an hour easy. You could take a nap and let your vehicle drive itself, waking you up just to inform you that your destination was coming up at the next exit. If you could get down to such a level, you could easily find crumpled vehicles still carrying the jumbled and fractured skeletons of their occupants. The meat was all long gone, of course, and very seldom did you find anything other than fragments, but it was an experience you never forgot.

The ten-year-old Argo had managed to get a door open on one moss-covered grayish-green vehicle, only to have what must have been three skeletons tumble out and become dust at his feet. In the light from his electric torch, he saw that the upper half of a skull’s face had remained intact, with both of the empty sockets staring up at him…

Argo shook his head. No need to keep thinking about that.

He did wonder absently if anyone still thought about haunted houses anymore. He thought probably not.

The whole world’s fucking haunted now, he told himself. Why bother?

As they started up the slope, Argo heard a pinging coming from his pack. He reached back, slipped on his visor and saw that his firewall was holding steady, but being positively savaged. A quick glance to Mayster showed the same thing happening there.

Welsh was watching them both, one eyebrow cocked, smiling. “Firewalls, right?”

Argo nodded.

“Well, they should be fine for the short haul,” he said. “We’ll upgrade you when we get home. That way it’ll go from denial of service levels to a dull roar. But you never get rid of it.” He spied a piece of masonry lying in the dust and snatched it up. As he placed it in his left trenchcoat pocket he remarked, “Some of it’s just Sneakernet traffic and harmless. Most of it’s spam, though. Just for fuck’s sake don’t accept any pop-ups or attachments if anything gets through.”

At the end of the tunnel was a large metal door with a ring in the center of it.

“Well, boys,” Welsh said, “welcome to civilization. Or the closest thing we could approximate.”

Then he pulled the door open and the lights came streaming in.

He had never worn pain blockers before. If he closed his eyes and didn’t look, he could very well believe that he had lost his right leg from just below his hip on down. But they hadn’t taken the leg. They had merely blocked the nerves and then wired up his knee. He could be jogging again in three weeks, they had told him.
The dull ache on his forehead where the son of a bitch had smacked him with the shotgun was another story. No pain blockers could be used above the neck. And the pills did shit for him.

Sure, he could put his insomnia off on the odd feeling of not-leg that he was experiencing. He could put it off on his near-concussion.

But it was the idea of what he had done while in that temple. The meals he had had. And the things they had called upon.

Stefan didn’t believe in any of that shit, of course. And he had never seen anything like you could find in a horror story lurking in the shadows during the services. It had just been a feeling. A feeling of dread. He remembered when he had still had parents, and they had all attended that church on 10th Street. Sitting there crammed in with a bunch of fellow believers–that high feeling, of belonging, of being secure in one’s belief in a high power. Mountaintop experience, they called it.
Maybe it had been the same thing in the Lodge…just entirely in the opposite direction.

Stefan adjusted himself in his bed harness. He hated it, but it kept him reclined and his leg sticking straight out so that the macromeds outside his knee could conduct their work on the inside. They hummed on a very strange frequency.

He managed to put it out of his mind. He zoned in on the hums of the little machines doing their business, helping him. That was a comforting thought. He stopped thinking about the taste. The mess, Jesus, always a mess.

Stefan’s eyelids flickered and he had almost started to slip when…

…voices.

He had thought that having this two-person clinic room to himself was a blessing when he had regained consciousness. Now he was wishing there was someone else–even someone asleep–in the bed next to him.

How had these people gotten into the room with him? Had he fallen all the way asleep without realizing it?

“Sole survivor,” a male voice said. “Very lucky.”

“Yes,” a female voice replied, “lucky for us. He can tell us things.”

“Things we need to know,” another voice said–female, yes, but this one was quite young, by the sound of her. “We have to follow.”

Stefan could see the young girl walking softly, could make out her shape moving in the gloom, could hear the footsteps echoing around the chamber. How many were in here with him?

Then he could see the man walking in the opposite direction. Heard him speak: “Yes, he will help us stay on the trail. Won’t you, Stefan?” The man turned to look at him. Stefan’s skin goose-pimpled at the mention of his name and then went icy cold at seeing the man looking at him. In the gloom, he had no eyes. He looked wrong.

The woman’s voice again, as she walked by the window. A glow from somewhere outside illuminated a side of her face. A glimpse of scarred skin…an eyepatch. “We know you’re awake, my dear. Why don’t you tell us about your friends…the ones who left you alive.”

“They’re…they’re not my friends,” Stefan protested as the woman slipped back into the gloom. Foosteps echoing all around him, always footsteps. “We had a deal.”

“Tell us about your deal with them,” the young girl said, leaning forward at the foot of his bed. She was in her pre-teens, pretty, but with eyes that flickered cold.

“I gave them information about…about the Lodge,” Stefan blurted. He’d tell them anything, just get out of his room. He felt so crowded. Too many people. “Then they were supposed to leave me alive. Crippling me was never part of the deal.”

He looked down at the girl but she stepped into the gloom.

The woman moved past the window again and came over to his bedside. “I think there’s only one thing we need to know from Stefan. One last thing.” Her voice was so soft and soothing that it almost took Stefan’s mind off of the thing glinting in her hand–a blade. A very large blade that she was turning this way and that. Her one remaining eye was cruel and humorless. “Don’t you think so, Mr. Front?”

The woman’s features rippled, shifted and changed. A second later it was the man standing there with the evil-looking blade. The sound of footsteps had ended.

“Quite right,” Mr. Front said, then leaned in close, using the flat of the blade to reflect some light from outside into Stefan’s face.

“Do you know,” the man with the knife said, “where they were going next?”

But it had, and something had to be done to keep the riff raff out of what had risen in its place. And there weren’t many other eight-story structures running the length of the continent to fall back on. Thus, I-75 found its second life.

As the van tottered east, eventually the interstate became visible. This was nothing new to any of the vehicle’s passengers. Threnody and Welsh had come from here, of course, and Argo and Mayster had both seen I-75 before–at least this side of it.

Both of them, as kids, had wandered far and wide, spending as much as a week travelling out of Indianapolis in all directions. The dojo where Mayster had studied had been built inside a collapsed ramp structure several miles north of here.

What they had not done before, however, was what Welsh did: drive right up to the gate. Two guards, both lizardmen, stood watch. A small ramshackle enclosure sat against the wall of the interstate, underneath the faded red and blue shield that still bore the weathered numbers “75.” Next to it sat a large pile of what looked to be compost and other junk. Argo thought to himself that the stench from that area must be nearly visible.

One of the guards made his casual way over. Lizardmen were a perfect fit for this job: strength and love of heat all in one package. This one had stripped to the waist, wearing only a pair of beaten khaki shorts.

“Welsh,” the guard said, “took you damn long enough.” He nodded to Threnody in her place on the passenger side, then looked in the back to see Argo and Mayster. “These your guys?”

Welsh nodded, “That’s them.”

Lizardman nodded again. “Mind if they step out so we can check them for their shots?” He gave a shrug. “You know I gotta.”

Welsh smiled, “Mickey, I would never dream in standing in the way of your job.” He leaned back. “Gentlemen, Mickey here is just going to check you out. No worries.”

The door slid back and Argo and Mayster stepped out. As they did, there was the sound of a gunshot careening off the interstate. A small puff of dust indicated where the bullet had hit. Argo and Mayster winced, ducking. No one else seemed to pay any heed.

Another lizardman came out of the shack and called out, “Welsh, you bastard. You said you’d just need my van for just a day.” This one was wearing a pair of black shorts and sunglasses. The orange lenses looked strange on his face.

“I’m good for it, Geoff, you know I am,” Welsh called back. “Quit your bitching.”

Mickey, in the meantime, had pulled out a small device and asked Argo and Mayster to offer up their wrists. “This is going to feel odd,” he cautioned, “but it’s harmless. Just checking to make sure you’re not carrying anything nasty inside with you.” He pushed it against the inside of Mayster’s wrist first, and Mayster’s eyebrows went up.

Argo was next and as the device began humming against his wrist, another gunshot rang off the concrete structure behind them, far high and to the right. He tried to duck but Mickey put a restraining hand on him. “No, no, don’t jerk around–it’ll screw up the reading.”

Mayster looked around at them. “Um, are we being shot at? Or is it just me?”

Welsh chuckled. “I was wondering that myself. I thought the mosquitos out here must be huge and pissed off.”

Geoff strode over, his tail dragging behind him, “We were waiting for your ass to get back. I forgot I left Betty in the cargo hold.”

Mickey let go of Argo’s wrist. “You’re good. You’re both good. Thanks for your patience.” He gave a salute with the device and slipped it away again.

Another gunshot, this one pounding against the roof of the shack.

“What a dumbass,” Geoff remarked, pulling open the back of the trawler.

“Who?” Argo asked.

“Every once in a while some idiot will find a rifle in the Bowl and decide to start taking potshots at us,” Mickey remarked as another gunshot screamed into the concrete about thirty feet up. “Usually it’s some asshole who got denied entry. Normally we take them out pretty quickly but this guy’s a ways out. We don’t have the range on anything here to get him and we’re not about to get close enough to let his aim improve. Because at this range, he sucks big time. So we needed Betty.” He jerked a thumb towards Geoff. “But numbnuts over there left her in the van.”

Geoff grumbled something under his breath, felt around in the hold and knocked twice, hard, against the metal floor.

Mayster looked out and shielded his eyes a bit. “How long has been doing this?”

Mickey shrugged. “Sixteen, eighteen hours. He doesn’t get bored easily, apparently.”

Mayster considered. “Not much else to do out there, though.”

Mickey smiled. “Point taken.”

Geoff came out from behind the trawler with Betty. Welsh got out of the van to take a look himself.

“Betty is gorgeous,” Welsh commented, whistling.

“What is it?” Argo asked, “Fifty caliber?”

Welsh nodded his head before Geoff could answer, “Oh yes. My friend, this is a Barrett M99. Anti-personnel with unbelievably sweet range. Kicks like a son of a bitch but it’s all right if you know what you’re doing. May I?” Welsh held out his hands.

Geoff handed Betty over, beaming with pride of ownership.

Welsh hefted the weapon and turned it over, its slate black metal gleaming in the sunlight. “You don’t see many of these anymore. Especially not in this good a shape.”

Geoff nodded out towards the Bowl, “We keep Betty around to deal with mosquitos like that jackass.”

Welsh considered for a moment. “May I?”

Geoff looked at Mickey. A shot rang high off of the wall behind them and they both shrugged. “Go for it,” Geoff said.

Mickey brought a pair of binoculars from the shack and handed them to Welsh, who had extended Betty’s bipod and laid it down on a chunk of concrete that appeared to have been set up for just such an occasion. Welsh nodded thanks and then scanned the distance. “There’s the son of a bitch,” he breathed. “I make him about sixteen hundred yards out. The sun’s winking off of his scope.”

“He’s shooting like this with a scope?” Mayster asked.

“See? What a jackass,” Geoff remarked.

Welsh handed the binoculars to Geoff who trained them on the target. Welsh then setup Betty on the chunk of concrete, crouched behind the gun, leaned into it and took aim. He looked up after a moment at Argo, who was standing five feet to one side of the muzzle. He motioned for Argo to step back. “The shock might hurt if you stand there,” Welsh explained.

Argo did not need to be told twice.

Welsh crouched down again, and after three seconds, squeezed off the round, bracing for the recoil. In the boxed in area by the interstate the sound was like a thunderclap.

Welsh looked up at Geoff who gave a thumbs up after a second. “Mosquito swatted. Nice shot.”

Welsh smiled. “Thanks for letting me use your Betty.”

“Well,” Geoff smiled, “she’s an easy girl, but we love her out here.”

They walked back towards the interstate. The guard by the gate opened it up for them to pass through. Argo and Mayster grabbed their gear while Threnody finally stepped out of the van. She carried a rucksack over one shoulder.

Mayster looked at the guard and nodded over towards the heap of trash. Argo had been right, it was pretty rank now that the wind had kicked up. “What’s the deal with the above ground sewage?”

The guard grinned. “Attracts rats,” he said simply. And then when Mayster gave no reaction he grinned more broadly. “Finger foods.”

Mayster nodded as Threnody walked up to join Welsh.

“Done playing man games?” she asked him.

Welsh had drawn out a cigarette and now lit it. “For the moment.”

“Can we go now?” she asked.

“But of course,” he grinned and blew smoke from his nostrils.

“Good,” she said, a smile sneaking in at the corners of her mouth.

As Welsh and Threnody climbed out in front of the small one-story dwelling, Argo and Mayster looked at each other, sharing the unspoken exchange “This is a van?”
The only Airtrawlers they had seen prior to this one had been at the local junkyard. No one had the patience or the skill anywhere in the region to create skycraft that could tolerate the environs of the Bowl. The particles would get into just about any engine or hovereye and eventually clog it to the point where it would chew itself to pieces trying to compensate for the loss in thrust.

Airtrawlers were good for one thing–moving a few thousand pounds of goods from one place to another. Normally this was done through flight, but someone had taken the short, stunted wings of the ‘trawler off and mounted the entire cab and storage area onto a set of large tank treads. The end result from the outside was one of the ugliest land vehicles either of them had ever seen and was a cobble only a few steps above shit, but out by the Bowl, utility was key. And it easily carried them and all of their gear out towards the city limits where Jeni’s parents were waiting.

Whoever put this vehicle together had also done a decent job of sealing the cab itself. One could always tell how well your seals were working when you tipped your vehicle one direction or another while on a hill…the sand would run together and slide to one end of the vehicle, following the pull of gravity.

Here, in this Airtrawler-van, only a few bits of grit skittered around the inside as they moved. Mayster nodded his approval.

The man and woman, Jeni’s parents apparently, had been waiting outside of their home as the “van” pulled up. The man was old, though how old they could not have said–his face showed heavy weathering from the Bowl’s constant storms. He was wearing a disheveled military uniform that looked as though they had tried to unwrinkle it as best they could.

The woman, much younger than her husband, perhaps early thirties–had laid her head against the crook of his remaining arm. Her face was a twisted mask of misery and the dust on her face had been cut through by her tears.

The man’s right arm was missing from the shoulder down. His uniform’s unnecessary sleeve had been folded up to the shoulder and attached there, the neatest fold anywhere on his person.

Welsh walked up and put one hand on the woman’s shoulder and the other against the man’s side–a gesture of comfort. Neither of them inside the van could hear what words were spoken, and that was a blessing, they thought.

Threnody approached bearing the box that contained Jeni’s remains. They had found the box for her, the general consensus being that a bag was not the best way to return the poor girl to her home.

Threnody had asked for a piece of twine, which they had managed to find amongst all of Mayster’s stored shite. She had run it from one side of the box to the other, creating a makeshift handle.

Her foresight was commendable, for as the woman looked up to see the box coming closer, she broke free of her husband and ran into the house, her hands covering her face.

The man watched her go and then turned back to Threnody, bowed his head a little–perhaps saying thank you–and then he grabbed the box by the twine handle, holding it a bit by his side.

He looked down at his burden and even from here, Argo could see his face change. He shifted it a bit at the end of his good arm and Argo said aloud what he was thinking, “He’s…thinking how light the box is.”

Mayster ran a hand back over what little hair he allowed himself. “Okay, I’ve seen enough. I’m going to…” he looked back into the storage area of the van “…do anything else. Let me know when they’re headed back here.”

Welsh could obviously tell it was time to go and let the two bury their daughter. A hand went to Threnody’s shoulder. She stepped forward, said something else to the grieving man, and then gripped his lessened shoulder in support. Then she started back to the vehicle.

“It’s breaking up,” Argo called back.

Mayster did not answer. Argo knew that Mayster had buried a child himself, but never spoke of it.

Welsh patted the man on his arm and then turned to go.

Threnody took the passenger seat up front. Welsh got into the driver’s space. Both of their floorboard suction units removed the sand and grit from their boots as best they could.

Mayster came forward into the cab, rubbing at his eyes. They were red, but he said nothing.

Welsh started the van up and moved forward past the house, waiting until they were good and clear before picking up speed.

Argo watched in one of the mirrors. The man stood out front for a while, holding the box containing his daughter. Then he walked inside his house with the movements of a man who has nothing else he can possibly do.

Sunday Oct 14, @03:40AM
from Alistair-mobile[editor]: marked *CRITICAL*

Before you start reading the rest of this, INFO DUMP. Before it’s too late, take everything you have and dump it to legacy media. HVD-RW, your iPods, anything you have. Print on Real Paper if you have to, just backup everything to NON-HEAVY TECH MEDIA IMMEDIATELY.

If you cannot dump everything or you have no legacy anything, release your stuff to the Net. At least if you go out, somewhere, someone will grab it and save it.

If you’ve started that process, keep reading.

AVOID ANYTHING HEAVY. Something’s wrong with it–it’s all gone to shit. Japan went offline first last night at 2:14AM GMT. Shortly afterwards, I saw a terra-satellite photo before that satellite went out. Japan is now on fire. The entire country is lit up with fire. New Zealand followed them. They haven’t caught fire; they’ve just gone completely dark. The systems I had that were Heavy have all not just shut down, but fried themselves. The server in the corner had smoke coming out of the front of the case until I used the fire extinguisher on it.

I’m on the West Coast and the lights are already out here. Everything’s out. All of my systems are offline and the only reason I can talk to you know is that I pulled out my old pack and patched into a legacy landline that the building supers never saw fit to remove. Damn thing still works, it’s amazing. But it’s about the only thing that does.

I’m looking out my window and I’m telling you the truth: from here it looks like the end of the fucking world, guys. In the light from the emergency beacons I can see some people lying on the sidewalk. From here, they don’t appear to have a scratch on them–it’s like they just dropped dead. There’s a building across the street on fire, with the backend of a car sticking out of it–the goddamn thing must have just careened off course and into the side of the building.

I’m checking the Net traffic, and all the Heavy Tech shared services are down in a line that’s spreading both east and west. West got hit faster, probably because the Pacific slowed it down heading east and this way…maybe…I have no idea. I don’t know what’s happening, do NOT e-mail me asking. Do not waste any time. In fact, disconnect from the Net as soon as you have read this and processed as much dumping as you can. Take everything you own offline. Those of you who’ve hacked your implants, take those offline too, if you can. There’s not much happening online right now anyway. I can’t get to any of the newsfeeds to find out what’s happening–everybody that the line has already passed appears to have gone dark. The line is now heading for the Rockies. I don’t even know if anybody will read this.

Maybe it’s some kind of problem that has nothing to do with Heavy Tech, but I’m telling you: all the legacy stuff still works while everything else even remotely Heavy is dying all around me and is apparently taking people with it. So I’m not taking any chances. And neither should you.

I hope that this is just some kind of system outage that we can quickly recover from. I hope that all the people I see out there are really unconscious. I hope that we’re all sitting in here in a few days and back online and you’re all welcome to tell me what a raging asshole I am for crying Giant Fucking Wolf like this. So until then.

[//dotINFO ALERT/10142164/0346//]
[Post 45129001 of 45129001] ]]> http://www.darkbluemonstropolis.com/2005/11/29/chapter-24/feed/ http://www.darkbluemonstropolis.com/2005/11/29/chapter-23/ http://www.darkbluemonstropolis.com/2005/11/29/chapter-23/#comments Tue, 29 Nov 2005 20:35:00 +0000 Widge http://www.darkbluemonstropolis.com/?p=9 Argo blinked once, twice, hard. He was still sitting on his bedroll and leaning back against one of the concrete islands on the roof. Above him began a row of hydroponics. He looked up at them and then around, reorienting himself.

He must have dozed off, but for how long he could not say. He was about to flip down his visor and check the time, but there was a nagging realization: something had woken him.

The low roar outside was not it–for someone born and raised in a Bowl city, that was just background noise one often forgot was there. No, it was something else. Argo glanced up and over the rim of the concrete island and the something else in question walked into view.

It was Threnody, moving almost silently across the surface of the roof. She was dressed only in what appeared at first to be a set of shorts and a tank top. Another moment and he realized it was one piece and bearing pads of impact fiber in several key areas.

Argo wasn’t sure, but he thought it must be the kind of undergarment that mech pilots used to wear, back when there was such a thing as a mech pilot. It left her arms and neck bare, as well as most of her legs. It was a faded white, and the contrast with her light brown skin was a sight to behold.

The metal staircase that led to the roof–the bottom steps creaked, no matter how stealthy you tried to be. God knows Mayster had tried to sneak up on him while sparring enough times that he knew what to listen for, even asleep.

The only sound she made now as she walked was the faintest of padding noises as her bare feet touched the concrete. She walked slow and with the way she moved, Argo was reminded of the great cats that used to exist in the world. He had no memory for their names, but the gist was all that was needed: he was watching a predator in motion. Even though he was behind the island and she had not once even come close to looking his direction, Argo was certain his presence there was known. Whatever she was doing, though, it did not concern him. He was not worth notice, he felt.

He took some kind of unnamable comfort in this.

She reached the fountain and cocked her head a little, perhaps studying it. It was a movement he had seen domesticated dogs perform, when they were curious about something they had run across.

As she paused, Argo noticed something underneath the garment. Across the backs of her shoulders, which were only partially obscured by the fabric, appeared to be a tattooed design of some sort. It fanned out across her shoulder blades, and led down below the back of the garment.

Then he could see no more of it, for she turned to one side and knelt on the concrete.

She placed her hands on her legs, sat up straight and he could see her chest expand as she inhaled deeply. Her eyes closed. She took her time with her breathing, slowing it down, slowing it down.

She stayed like that, seemingly meditating, for what must have been five minutes.

Just as Argo was deciding to turn in for the night, her lips moved the smallest amount. She had said something, a word, but he was too far away to hear it properly.
One of her pistols appeared on the ground at her knees in response to her summons. Argo eyed it as best he could; the last time he had seen her pistols with their wide open mouths they had been busy, speaking invisible words that reduced men to wet ribbons.

As Argo watched, she picked up the pistol in her left hand, opened her eyes–

–and brought the muzzle directly up under her chin, with her finger on the trigger.

He was on his feet before he realized what he was doing, but the shout died in his throat when he felt the hand grab his arm.

“Easy, hero,” he heard Welsh saying softly. “Stand down.”

Argo turned to see him standing there, trenchcoat and all. Then he looked from him to Threnody and back again. “But she–”

“–won’t do it,” Welsh finished for him. “At least she hasn’t yet.” He studied Argo’s face for a moment and then pulled him down behind the concrete island again. “Let’s let her have her private moment, shall we?”

Welsh sat back against the island and fished in his pocket, producing a cigarette.

As Welsh lit it, Argo half-asked, “She’s done this before.”

Welsh inhaled and nodded, “Countless times.”

Argo digested this then continued, “Every night?”

Welsh shook his head, “Only on nights where she’s killed a bunch of people. A little meditation, some pranayama, and she makes her peace with Death.” He gestured with his cigarette. “That’s how I interpret it, anyway, I’ve never asked. I’m just always on hand in case she needs me.”

Argo looked at him. “Has she ever?”

Welsh smiled. “She hasn’t yet.”

Argo rubbed his fingers against the stubble on his chin. “Those pistols she has. I’ve never seen what they can do to people.”

“Ah,” Welsh tapped two fingers against one of his temples, “that’s because they weren’t designed for use on people.”

This clicked something home for Argo. “They’re anti-mech weapons, aren’t they?”

Welsh kept smiling and nodded a little, impressed. “That they are. I’m surprised you could recognize them. Even when they were standard issue for pilots, I’m sure you didn’t get much of them in this part of the world.”

“And your weapons…you use folds to store them, don’t you?”

“Again, you are well-read,” Welsh answered. “Yes, they sit in folds until we need them. Easier than carrying them around.”

“Welsh,” Argo said, “all of that’s heavy tech.”

Welsh nodded. “You’re just full of answers tonight.” He rubbed at his forehead. “Yes, sorry. I’m always cranky when I have to wake up and stand suicide watch. Yes, they’re heavy tech weapons.”

“But no one uses heavy tech anymore,” Argo said. It was such a patently obvious thing to say, but he had to say it regardless.

Welsh smiled and shrugged, “No one but us.”

“How is that possible? It should all–”

“–go batshit and wreak untold havoc? Perhaps it should. But it doesn’t. The people we work for have made some…arrangements.”

Argo’s confusion must have been plain on his face, for Welsh kept going. “Look, here’s what you need to know, although most of it you’ve probably already figured out. Threnody’s not just a singer. I’m not just her manager. We’re not just running around on a musical tour. We have a job to do and we’re doing it. The job gets crazy more often than not, but the whole world’s crazy now.” Welsh studied him for a long moment. “How old are you, Argo?”

“Twenty-seven.”

Welsh chuckled. “Twenty-seven. Jesus, I’m old. Listen–you’ve never known anything but the way things are now. But when I was a kid…it was always about the future. We were always so excited about the future. The future was coming and everything was going to be easier, faster, better. That’s what we believed. But now…well, the future has come and gone. And all of us that managed to survive it leaving…we’re all just making do with the ruins and remnants.”

Welsh held out his hands and Argo realized that he had been holding the metal ball this entire time. Argo handed it over.

“This your ammunition?” Welsh asked.

Argo nodded.

“It’s a ball bearing, isn’t it? Where did you get it?”

“It’s from the giant automated tractors they used to use in the Bowl before…well, before it was The Bowl.” Argo explained, “They’re hollow. So I cut them in half and then punch holes in them. I put a timer inside that counts five seconds from when I launch it and then it sprouts these.” He pulled a small metal rod from within his pack. “Helps it hit what I aim for and stay there instead of bouncing and ruining my day. Once it hits, the charge I put inside explodes.”

Welsh nodded his approval. “I like that. I like that a lot. You rogue the ball bearings from out in the Bowl?”

Argo took the ball back. “Mayster and I go out every once in a while. When it’s calm for a long stretch. Grab what we can and then get out before the storms kick up again. It’s hard to miss the tractors. They’re broken into pieces and the paint’s been sandblasted off of them, but they’re there. Like the film reels of when they used to find animals’ skeletons buried in the ground. You just dig forward through the Bowl and suddenly they loom up out of the nothing.”

Welsh finished off his cigarette in two long drags and ground it out against the concrete island. “You know,” he said, “I wasn’t entirely truthful with you. About why we’re here.”

Argo sat up a little straighter. Whatever secret mission Welsh and Threnody were on, he was suddenly unsure he wanted to know details…although he knew it was far too late for that. “Share what you know.”

“We had been thinking about heading out here for a while, so when our friend got word to us about Jeni and the Lodge, that just stepped up our agenda.”

“What agenda is that?” Argo asked.

“Finding you and Mayster,” Welsh stood up.

Argo blinked. Whatever answer he was expecting, that was not it. “Finding–? Are you fucking with me?”

“No. You’ve been sending songs back across Sneakernet for…how long?” Welsh asked.

“Almost eight years,” Argo managed to say; his mouth seemed very, very dry.

“We heard one of yours about a year ago. ‘Open 5 A.M.’, it was called. You and Mayster had worked on it together. Eight minute track. It was great. Thren and I talked it over and decided we needed to head out here and audition the two of you.”

Argo didn’t know what to say to that.

Welsh stood up and put a hand on Argo’s shoulder. “I know, it’s a bizarre concept, isn’t it? You fire stuff out into the ether for years and have no idea who’s listening to it, or if anyone’s listening at all…but what do you know? Someone is. And someone responds. You think about it and know it’s going to happen, but when it does…it’s just a strange feeling.” Welsh smiled. “And there you have it.”

Argo blinked. “Wow.”

“Wow is right,” Welsh said. “I need to get up in a few hours and I haven’t slept at all. We’re going back across into the Union tomorrow, so I need you somewhat rested. Get some sleep, kiddo.”

Argo nodded, “Yeah. Sure thing.”

Welsh walked off. Argo stood up as well and noticed Threnody was gone; perhaps back downstairs and sleeping now that she had made her peace.

“Hey, Welsh,” Argo called.

Welsh turned around.

“Thanks,” Argo said simply. It was insane to try and think of something else.

Welsh smiled. “Great,” he said. He then reached over, grabbed a few pieces of loose concrete from the wall and placed them in his pocket. Then he was gone.

Argo laid down and tried to calm his mind, though it kept racing around in all directions. They were leaving Indianapolis. In the morning.

That thought wore a groove in his consciousness and wore it down until he finally began to nod off. His last thought before he finally fell asleep was: when Threnody left, I didn’t hear the stairs creak. At all.