Enemy (29 page)

     She cleared her throat, spoke with a voice like unintended trauma, knowing full well the agony that her inquiry had caused within the man before her.

     “What was her name?”

     West inhaled atmosphere and tears, whispered more than spoke into the night.

     “Abigail.”

     The name hung in the air, seeming to enjoy the freedom from years of hiding in the deepest and darkest part’s of a young soldier’s broken heart.

     “We married young and lived dangerously, but we were happy. She died while giving birth to our son. He was stillborn. It shouldn’t have happened, it was one of those things… The doctors tried their best to save her, but she had lost too much—I mean, they tried everything, but it was too late, and… The blood was—When she was taken from me, I lost everything I’d ever loved. She rescued me from living the life of a corn farmer in Nebraska; she showed me the world and became my world. How she could ever love someone like me, I never—”

     “West, don’t—”

     “After Abby died, I joined Milicom. I had nothing left but a house filled with baby toys and clothing and diapers… and her. She was everywhere I looked in that house. I could see her face in the mirror, I could smell her on my pillow, I could feel her everywhere. Oh, Abigail… I had to escape, and Milicom helped me to escape. It was years before the Quebec War, and years after War Three. I figured I could travel the world with the Reconstruct Fleet and try to forget my prior life. I served some time in Africa and South America, helped rebuild some cities, but it wasn’t working out. I still had eight years on my Milicom contract, but I wanted to come home. They really didn’t need the homefront personnel at the time, and they said the only way they’d let me come home was if I was enrolled into a special program that Milicom had established, a covert program to develop advanced weapons systems from a technology that couldn’t be explained—”

     “The Styx program.”

     “Yeah. They brought us here, a fine crop of bright young patriots. They sent us into the light, and those of us who came out again had become something not human.”

     “How many of your group survived?”

     “There were fifty of us in my test group, Level K. Two of us came out alive, me and an ex-Irish Blood Army soldier called Ember. After us, there would be only one more group sent in before the Quebec War interrupted the program. Level L was made up of two men, both pretty high-ranking Milicom officers, Richter and Michael.”

     “How many of you were kept off that island after the war?”

     “Santa Fosca? After the Chicago.. incident, supposedly the lower levels of Styx were exiled to that island. In reality, most of them had to be killed. And I was among the lucky few who had to do most of the killing. The only Styx left here on the mainland after the purge were Levels K and L, well, only Richter was left at that point. What happened in Chicago started in Montreal years before.”

     “What happened in Chicago, West? Were the reports true?”

     “A lot happened in Chicago. I think that that’s a story best left for another time.”

     “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

     “Don’t worry. I just need to get some fresh air for a while. This place is depressing me. I think we should move on.”

     They rose, West blowing out the flame of the oil lantern. Outside was a confusing murky gray. Day blended into night blended into day.

     They moved on.

     Morning?

     Hayes rolled up his sleeping bag, which had remained vacant the night before. The campfire had sputtered itself to a weary death at some point during the night; neither he nor Maggie had noticed. They had been warm enough.

     There was no wind, but the air was brisk enough that Simon pulled the collar of his thermal vest up around his neck. He could see his breath quite easily with each exhalation. Mid-June. The planet was dying.

     His sleeping bag rolled tightly and strapped to his rucksack, he looked over at Maggie, who was engaged in similar business. She smiled quietly at him, and touched his mind briefly, warmly. He walked over, draped his arms loosely around her hips. He bent down and touched his forehead to hers, kissed the tip of her nose. Her smile widened, and her dimples made their appearance. Simon picked up Maggie’s pack and kissed her neck as he stood back up. She slung the pack over her shoulders and took Simon’s hand in her own for a brief moment.

     It was time to walk. They had a long road ahead of them, and neither knew how much time they had left. The planet was dying.

     They began.

     broken by a silent question

    
WHAT IS IT((?))

     THE UPLOAD OF THE POPULACE IS COMPLETE. WE HAVE DONE ALL THAT WE CAN WITH THE PLANET. WE HAVE SALVAGED ALL OF THE PATTERN THAT WE CAN.

    
THE STAR((?))

     WE HAVE FOCUSED ALL ENERGIES ON THE COLLAPSE. WE CAN DO NOTHING BUT WAIT NOW. THIS WHEN HAS BEEN DRAINED OF OMEGA’S LIFEBLOOD.

    
THEN LEAVE ME. SALVATION AWAITS US IN THE PURPOSE. WE WILL AWAIT THE COMPLETION IN THE SILENCE AND THE STILLNESS.

     YES. THE STILLNESS.

     the black sleeps. the black parts.

     How many days?

     They returned to the alien vessel beneath the mountain at least once each day, whether to reassure themselves that the orb was still there or to hope that it had disappeared, neither knew. It floated at the center of the spherical chamber still, day by day growing a little brighter. Satisfied or perhaps disappointed, they always returned to the surface.

     They had completed their survey of Diablo. They found food, but neither was truly hungry. The days and nights blended together into a sinuous progression of time. The sky remained hazy and gray. Did time still progress? No wind, no sunlight, no movement. Just cold. Static. Dead.

     July? Maybe.

     What were they waiting for? Was this to be the end of the world, a calm, cold, freezing cessation of movement and breathing and life? Was this all that there was to death? Sometimes West wondered if they were dead already… He did not want to discuss that with Patra.

     Is this heaven? Hell? What dream suffocates us?

     He could sense something… Somewhere out there, the almost imperceptible touch of the thoughts of others. They were coming as fast as they could. He would wait here with Patra as long as they could. He would—

     “West?”

     He looked up at her glimmering face, which was canted diagonally beside him at a seemingly impossible angle. They sat on a swing set in a laughable excuse for a playground in a laughable excuse for a park in the middle of Diablo. If the miners and soldiers had possessed no need for a case of Pepsi, then surely these playground toys had not seen any attention since at least the turn of the century. Had there ever even really been children in Diablo? They sat on fragile, cracked black rubber straps hung from rusty antique chains which themselves were suspended from a creaking, somehow dangerous-feeling metal frame. Patra swung noisily, leisurely back and forth, her legs kicking out, body swinging low and then high and repeating. She had been swinging for hours, it seemed. West sat on the swing beside her, motionless, arms wrapped around the chains and hands sitting lazily on his bent knees. He had been studying the dusty scratch of dirt before him with quite some interest when Patra interrupted his visual geological survey.

     “What?” He looked over, his gaze following her swinging, childlike movement.

     “Do you have a first name?”

     She had a silly grin on her face. He smiled, laughed, shook his head. “How long have we been together, walking around this ghost town? A week, two weeks?”

     “I don’t know. A month, maybe? I can’t tell anymore.” Swing back, swing forth.

     “Neither can I.”

     They sat in silence for a while, West remaining stationary, Patra traveling in an ever-decreasing arc beside him. Eventually, she stopped swinging and came to a rest beside him, kicking up a small cloud of dust that settled back to the ground a little too fast for her comfort. The air was dead, oppressive, freezing. West was quietly thankful for the cessation of the rusty creaking sound that had been grating through his head at Patra’s every motion. Now at rest, the sound stopped, much like the landscape stretched before them, a world at rest, silent.

     Is this heaven? Hell? Drowning in this...

     He felt her looking at him, and he turned to face her in his swing. She still had that silly grin on her face. He had long ago gotten over the initial shock of being near a metal human, and he found her smile quite intriguing.

     “You never answered my question.”

     “What?”

     “What’s your first name?”

     “Oh… I don’t have one anymore.”

     She frowned. “What did it used to be, then?”

     He saw that she was not going to give up. “Don’t laugh.”

     “I promise I won’t laugh. How bad can it be?”

     “Adam.”

     She blinked once, then her smile widened, and she began to snicker. “Adam West? Wasn’t that the guy who played—”

     “Shut up, Cleopatra.” He said it playfully, but before he knew it she had stood up and pushed him out of his swing onto the cold dusty ground. She stood over him with her smiling face an image of silver fire. “Batman my ass.”

     With that, West kicked her legs out from under her and she fell not gently to the ground, landing mostly on top of him. “Egyptian queen my ass.”

     They laid in a pile on the ground, laughing loudly, appreciating the echoes their laughter made down the mountainside. Neither questioned the moment. They laid on the ground, looking up at the gray shell that was suffocating the planet, laughing about dead African queens and dead American television actors because their reality was too terrifying to laugh about. Patra was on top of West’s arm, so he pulled her over and they hugged each other in an only slightly-more-than-friendly embrace. West felt like a child, invigorated, refreshed. The swing floated back and forth above them; his right leg was still ensnared in the metal and rubber device. Patra’s attack had caught him off-guard indeed.

     The sky moved above them. They knew not what it was that strangled the earth, and neither wanted to discuss the suspicion that eventually the atmosphere would be consumed by the silver web and they would suffocate. Day by day, the silver web seemed to inch closer to the surface. For now, they were content to lay on the dusty earth at look at the sky like children.

     Lying on our backsides, just waiting to convert, the sky’s an open wound when the clouds resemble our ex-lovers.

     The thought struck West suddenly, unexpectedly. He thought for a brief moment he heard whistling, or whistling of a sort, but then it was gone. James Richter used to whistle like that. All the time.

     He felt Patra’s gaze again, and when he turned to face her, she looked down guiltily. “What is it, Cleo?”

     She quietly smiled, face not exactly as lithe as once it had been. She quickly turned to him, leaned over, gave him a quick kiss on the lips. She searched his eyes for approval, and found it tenfold.

     She stood, took his hand, helped him up. They brushed the sand and dust off of themselves. West was about to wrap his arms around her when she grabbed his hand and began pulling him back up the mountainside, toward the mine entrance.