Chapter 5

The voice proved correct. The path on which Sorel found himself was soft and sloped only slightly downhill. Two hands, one on his left shoulder and another on his right, guided him well, through intermittent shadows and long patches of warm sunlight. For the most part he trotted straight ahead, steered to the right only a few times. Sorel’s headache had eased with the passing of the leather hood for a strip of cloth to serve as a blindfold. The warm sun on his face and the fresh pine-scented air also helped his countenance, but the twine rope used to bind his hands together rubbed them awfully, in an itchy, intolerable manner.

The trees encouraged him, whispered past his guards to greet him—him who they had heard of from their southern cousins. He only whispered a few grateful replies when his guards were talking to each other. It was good to know that these trees were not too foreign, too cold to bother with him as those of the Reliegh Forest north of Crena: they were harsh trees, impatient and bitter—they had seen much expansion into the forest in the last few decades. But these trees still echoed the spirit of the Jasol Forest. Again, he whispered his thanks—a bit too loudly, for one of his escorts commented on his remark.

“What was that?”

“Did he say something?”

“Course he said something, didn’t you hear him?”

“No. You were talking.”

“And then I stopped. Hey, what did you say?” the one on his right addressed him. Sorel mumbled something incomprehensible.

“It’s still the after-effects. Remember?”

“But that destroys your argument that he’s a natural.”

“Oh…yeah; well, I still think he’s a natural.”

“Then what did he say?”

“Something.”

“Exactly. Which is why I’m trying to get him to tell me.”

“Oh.”

Sorel moaned pitifully.

“See?”

“Alright, so he isn’t a natural.”

“Unless he’s faking it.”

“So you think he’s a natural?”

“No. But if he was, he’d be faking that he was in pain.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Cause he’d be a natural. They do things like that.”

“But you said he isn’t one.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Then why would he fake it?”

“He wouldn’t.”

“So…”

“So I’m trying to get him to speak, to find out if he is or isn’t faking it, to find out if he is or isn’t a natural.”

“Oh…okay. But I still think he’s a natural.”

Sorel wanted to rip off his blindfold and look at his guards. He could barely conceal his smile and had to remind himself to keep up the injured pretense—something he figured might come in handy later.

And suddenly, he was stopped. He figured he was still in the forest—the trees whispering to each other was proof enough of that—but they were faint enough that he thought himself in a clearing. The sun’s beams still caressed his face and the hint of a morning breeze tickled his ear.

“This is the place,” the voice to his left whispered, “Isn’t it?”

“No, idiot, it was three clearings back,” the escort on Sorel’s right whispered back.

“Well I was just making sure, cause I don’t think he’s here.”

“Course he isn’t here.”

“Then are we in the right place?”

“I double-checked. That old pine over there is the same one—the one with the twisted trunk. Remember?”

“No.”

“You never remember.”

Suddenly Sorel felt a chill enter the clearing, like an unnoticed cloud blocks the sun and a rumbling voice chastised his escorts. “Your bickering and shallow minds disgust me. Yet, you’ve fulfilled your mission. Well done, my servants.”

The silence and fear emanating from his two companions subdued Sorel. Something dark and mysterious haunted the voice, a presence that filled his senses with dread. He wasn’t sure he wanted to remove his blindfold now, even if he could. The prospect of meeting a being whose palpable aura was shadow made him shiver.

And he felt the gaze focus on him. He called to the trees for comfort, but even they shrank in the darkness.

“As for you, Sorel—you evaded my huntress. You have some strength in you, and your pride stands just as tall. Perhaps you will be useful,” the voice prodded, circling him, Sorel thought. He considered telling the presence to save his lies and state his purpose up front. But the sheer power radiating from the entity at his side persuaded his question to a much milder form.

“Who are you, and how do you know my name?” Sorel asked, straining to keep his voice level.

“Ah, it is questions you have. Questions are never enough; they only lead to more questions and never to the root of the problem: that we are strangers and are then wary of unidentifiable intentions—that, in our deepest self, we are very much concerned with one thing: our own existence.” Sorel felt the gaze strengthen, tighten, and narrow. “And so, Sorel, you want to protect your own existence. You wish to learn about me, whom you perceive as a threat, in order to survive. I, on the other hand, do not want to reveal much about myself, in the case you could use that information to endanger me. We are at a dichotomous crossroads then, Sorel. At the moment, I hold the upper hand in the battle to preserve our own existences; I know more about you than you know about me.”

Sorel felt the presence pause. “And yet, we both hold assumptions—assumptions that may critically endanger our own perceptions of danger to our existence. You see, we are strangers, and naturally we assume many things to streamline interaction. For instance, we both assume that the other is an intelligent creature capable of understanding. Hence your questions and my reply. We both assume we stand on earth, in the sun, and that the other will recognize these things. So what, Sorel, do we assume about each other, either in strict conscious care or in unconscious streaming, that will affect the way we perceive each other?”

Sorel shifted his weight to one foot, then the other. “That was a question. The underlying problem is that we both possess a fear of the unknown.”

“And that goes further back to the haunting problem of self-existence. Well done. Now, Sorel, I have learned a little of you, and you have learned a little of me, without answering questions asked out of fear. Tomorrow, Sorel, we will talk again, as we have today, eliminating questions. And in time, you may learn my name, my agenda, my requirements for you. Until then, I bid you farewell, Sorel,” the voice finished. Sorel felt the shadow lift and life return to the glade in which he stood. The whispers of the trees regained their voices and his two escorts seemed to wake from a trance of stupor.

“Alright, come on. More work to do,” the voice on his right demanded with a rough hand on Sorel’s arm.

“It don’t matter to me, as long as we get something to eat. I’m starving,” lamented the voice to his right.

Sorel settled under their grips and trudged back to wherever he was when he awoke. Deciding that the necessary information would divulge itself later, he listened to the trees and tried to banish the headache which pulsed just behind his blindfolded eyes.

^*^

Though Olin certainly didn’t feel the fatigue the other passengers tried to expel with outstretched arms and held breaths, he was ready to move about a bit. The air which invaded the aisles, row by row from the opened exit, was deceptively cool—when he stepped out into a stiff breeze, the temperature dropped drastically. Small shrubs and thin grasses resisted the razor winds cutting through the valley. Olin shrugged his jacket tighter to maintain appearances and glanced northward. There loomed the Welmen Wilderness, raw and bitter, rising into monstrous, bald peaks threatening the deepening blue horizon. It was clear in Shilac, but the sun seemed less enthusiastic in its orbit. The mother and daughter clambered out the door, the young one bundled in a matching jacket and scarf, stuffed tiny gloved hands in her parent’s and shuffled beside her.

Olin strode to silver-polished bench, set his case down on it, but refused to sit. The crisp air relieved him, kept his Central Processing Core cool and efficient. A nagging desolation echoed through the station as the passengers departed with welcoming relatives or distant friends. When he found himself alone on the platform, he decided to call Dr. Wilcox. No answer. His holo-message system came on and Dr. Wilcox’s voice echoed through the empty complex. “This is probably a wrong number. Check your number and don’t call again.”

Olin laughed. He hadn’t heard this one yet. After a prolonged paused it droned on in Wilcox’s most monotonous voice. “Unless you absolutely must contact me. In that case, leave a message without filled pauses. Thank you.” Olin hung up. He wouldn’t bother Wilcox. When he returned his focus to his briefcase, a small chickadee scratching atop his case turned its head sideways, focusing a large black eye on him. Olin met its gaze. What must such a fragile creature think of me? he thought to himself. From somewhere inside of him, a voice reverberated an answer. “Such questions do not expose true intentions. After all perception matters less than essence.”

Olin tried to trace that thought. What key variables of his unconscious processing had triggered it? He was sure it hadn’t been conscious—routed through his short-term memory banks and Spirit Processing Interface; instead it had echoed through his SPI without temporal attachment. He abandoned his cognitive search for the moment and stared at the bird who was pecking at his briefcase.

It blinked twice, three times, then stretched and shook its wings. With a light hop, it caught itself on the breeze and shot from sight, veering behind the building. Olin was left alone again, with only the cold northern wind descending to meet him. He fingered the recorder in his pocket and thought again about calling Wilcox.

A voice from the shadows of the building interrupted him. “I didn’t expect you in a tweed cap, that’s for sure, Olin.” The voice gained texture in the shape of a small, compact man with wire-rimmed glasses as he stepped forward to introduce himself. “The name’s Fargon. I’m assistant to the chief archaeologist at the new Imperial dig here in Shilac. We both know you’re not here because you like to handle a shovel or brush, so I’ll explain why you’re here, at least, as far as I know.” Olin could only crook an eyebrow in amusement at the man’s apparent love for his own voice. When he found his voice, it snapped back at the man with a surprising bitterness.

“So what do you know?”

The eyes behind the glasses smiled, though the lips below them did not. “You are one hell of a machine that should solve all our problems. If not, I’ll ask for a recall.” A moment stuck between their throats, dripping tension. Then Fargon laughed. “Don’t mind me: I wouldn’t know the difference between you and a toaster oven. I just like old things. Oh, here’s your itinerary,” he seemed to remind himself and handed Olin a datachip. Olin fingered it and clutched in his hand. A small holograph popped up. “Can you just plug that in your hand? How handy is that? Wish I had one of those. Save me five minutes in the morning getting dressed. You ready to go?”

“To the ruins?” Olin mused, scrutinizing the itinerary.

“Of course not. To dinner. There you’ll talk with the chief. He’ll give you the spit and the dirt on the project. I need to get back to work,” Fargon chided.

“What do you do?” Olin asked, but wondered if he should have continued the conversation.

“It’s like cooking eggs, really. I break conventions and make them better by doing so,” Fargon stated and raised his eyebrows, setting up the punch line. “I’m a manager.”

“A manager?”

“Yes,” he defended, furrowing his eyebrows at the lackluster response to his joke, “A manager. Do you have all your bags?” Olin lifted his briefcase. “Oh yes, robot. I forgot. Good. Let’s get out of this wind. Come on; it’s a short trip to the restaurant.”

Olin fell in behind Fargon, who muttered to himself about something unimportant. Again, the winds kicked up, snatching at Olin’s overcoat. Somehow he wished Dr. Wilcox was with him. He was the only one with whom he could truly relate. Wilcox had been in his position. He could identify with Olin…unlike this scoundrel named Fargon. Olin sighed. It would be a long week.