Chapter 7

Olin’s earphone buzzed just as the dunes of the Tiri desert came into view. It was Dr. Livingbree. The old doctor had been close to him, ever since he had rescued the man as one of his first actions in this age of the world. Olin tried to answer cheerfully, despite his bland surroundings. The voice on the other end, twisted and shaken by some knot in the throat, did not seem to be Livingbree’s normal one. But before he asked the doctor outright what had happened something restrained him. The man beside him stared straight ahead—too straight, without wavering. His ears seemed to twitch in anticipation. Olin monitored himself.

“Go on.”

“Olin,” the voice stammered, slightly confused, “I…I don’t know how to say this.” Olin heard him take a deep, trembling breath. “Dr. Wilcox and Eva Decon were abducted from his manor this morning.” A thousand questions launched through his systems, and Olin wanted answers. But he refrained from asking the doctor, who continued. “I don’t know who they were or why they were after Eva and David. I don’t even know why Eva was there in the first place or where her grandfather, Sharle was at the time. But I do know Wilcox was dead serious when he asked me to contact you, Olin. He’s going to need your help.”

Olin nearly shouted his agreement when another warning went off in his CPC reminding him that he was not alone in the vehicle. He monitored his emotional response and stated flatly, “Yes, I’m interested in your product.” He paused slightly, then continued. “But, I have no means to buy it at the moment. May I call you back later?”

Dr. Livingbree’s voice sounded enthusiastic that he had deciphered the simple coded speech. “Yes, Olin. Please do. I will be ready to talk to you whenever you are free.”

“I will. Thank you. Have a good day, too,” Olin replied and hung up. Fargon turned his head sideways.

“You buy from telemarketers?” he wondered with a crooked eyebrow and a half-smile.

Olin held his palms open and gestured towards himself. “All the new upgrades. Everyone wants me to try them out. Some aren’t so great, but most work well. And they’re quite cheap—promotional items or prototypes.”

Fargon stuck out his lower lip. “Sounds like a trashy gimmick to me. I mean if someone offered me a new liver or some flashier fingernails over the phone, I’d tell them to go kick a Sanyx.”

Olin could only shake his head and gaze back out the window. A rogue blackbird flitted alongside the vehicle. It fought what seemed a strong breeze, climbing higher with each stroke of its wings, then diving and soaring back to its position next to Olin. The struggle to maintain airspeed eventually wore on it and the bird veered off towards the dunes.

The next hour passed awkwardly. Whenever Fargon felt inspired to talk, it was a long, rambling comment about the project, though he would never fully explain Olin’s involvement, or he pulled some pointless anecdote which he found hilarious from the seemingly infinite reservoir of his memory. Olin found it easy to ignore his comments, storing them temporarily, just in case he said something intelligent.

When Fargon finally stopped the vehicle, it seemed to Olin he stood in the middle of nowhere, with some dunes to the south. “Where is the ‘Imperial Headquarters at Tirac’” he asked, quoting the itinerary the emperor had sent him. Fargon picked at his teeth with one finger and scratched his head with the other.

“Good question. I think its still a bit further south…maybe a bit to the east, but honestly, it doesn’t amount to Sanyx spit,” Fargon said, rambling again. “If you look towards the dunes, you might be able to see the imperial flag.” Olin turned and scanned the horizon. Fargon pulled a pistol from his jacket pocket and continued. “But seeing how your plans have changed anyway…” he trailed off with a sneer and carefully placed Olin’s head in the sights of his weapon.

Olin heard the click of the safety and dropped to the ground. The blast echoed across the dead plain, rumbling back from the dunes seconds later. Olin rolled and kicked Fargon from his feet before he could assess his miss and fire again. Springing to his feet and retrieving the weapon, Olin pointed it at Fargon and stepped on his chest. “Tell me what I want to know and you might live. Hold your tongue one second longer and you’re Sanyx bait.”

Fargon held up his hands, blabbering, “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Don’t kill the messenger! You disarmed me. You win, alright.”

“That is not what I want to know…” Olin threatened, pressing the barrel to the man’s forehead.

Fargon gazed crosseyed down the barrel, then focused on Olin’s eyes. “Alright, alright. The Emperor wanted me to kill you—destroy, dismantle you, whatever—I don’t know the why’s and what for’s. He says, ‘Make sure he’s never found again and an extra thousand if it’s done before tomorrow.’ I’m not one to refuse that kind of money.”

“Who contacted you!” Olin demanded of the strangely calm man.

“A little friend of mine,” Fargon smiled. “Right here,” he said and tapped his jacket pocket. The electromagnetic surge almost overpowered his interior circuitry, but Wilcox had equipped his system to deal with such an attack. Olin did not experience the arrest any normal computing system might have, but it did wipe out his temporary memory banks. When he came to, he was on his back, struggling to pry a pistol from a man’s hands. Fargon’s hands. The breached connections were repaired and Olin rolled, wrenching the weapon from Fargon’s grasp. He had no qualms with killing the man now. Olin stood, took three steps backwards, firing with each step.

Fargon stumbled to his knees, held himself for a prolonged moment with shaky arms, his mouth gaping. “One of those ‘trashy gimmicks’ made special order from Dr. Livingbree.” Olin quipped. As Fargon’s left arm gave out, Olin walked to the vehicle, opened the door, and headed south, one hand punching Dr. Livingbree’s number on his earphone.

“Yes, Olin?” came the old doctor’s breathless reply.

“I’ve been attacked, too. I just killed the assassin, but my circuits may need some repair soon. He had a small EMP device. I took his pistol.”

“Oh my! Olin, I’m glad you’re okay, but I do believe Dr. Wilcox has been abducted. You must help them.”

“How? I need information,” Olin replied.

“Does your vehicle have a satellite uplink?” Livingbree inquired.

“Yes.”

“Good. Connect to this server,” Livingbree instructed and read off the address. Olin did as he was told and accessed the mainframe. “Okay, ask your questions. Let me know if you need anything.”

“I will, doctor. Thanks.”

“I hope you’re successful, Olin. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” Olin finished and ended the call. He diverted his attention first to deciphering his exact location. Once the positioning program was running, he ran a direct search for “IHT: Imperial Headquarters at Tirac.” Olin lifted an eyebrow at the result—this was better than he had hoped.

^*^

Light like lime dusted the woven crimson reeds on which Sorel slept with smooth spots, filtered through the myriad of leaves waving and whispering above him. A melancholy breeze shook them lightly, played with Sorel’s clothes, and tugged at a stray tuft of his hair. But it was the shadows dancing across his face and crossing his eyelids that finally woke him. When his eyelids slanted open, the trees welcomed him with silhouette arms.

The colors made him squint and inhale through his nose. He massaged his eyes and sat up in the forest clearing. He was alone, save the distant chirp of a bird somewhere welcoming the sun as it cleared the mountains to the west. Sight itself was a relief of sorts. Sorel investigated his surroundings and recognized his old home and his ancient friends towering over him. He jumped to his feet and whispered a joyful greeting to them.

But they seemed concerned, sighing their misgivings about his change. “What change?” he questioned the old oak, who pointed him towards the stream and his drinking pool. Under his friends’ careful watch, Sorel crept to a moss-carpeted boulder and peered into the rippling watery mirror. A different creature gazed back at him. The burning eyes staring into his own stirred his memory. And then he remembered the face of the figure of light and shadow: it was his own now.

Sorel wiggled clawed fingers in front of himself and twitched a pointed, hairy ear. His furry cheeks itched and he brushed them with the back of his hand. A shiver shook him and he glanced at the sleek coat of fur that now covered most of his body, save a thick leathery skin covering his abdomen like worn gray armor and the palms of his hands and feet. He turned his narrow face sideways and reached behind his ears to claw at the thick, bony horns curving straight behind him. He felt them with both hands.

A shiver raced down his spine, and further. Sorel felt something behind himself twitch. He turned to find his fluffed tail curving and snapping in the air. It smacked the leaf-strewn ground, begging for attention. He pulled it into his arms and stroked the fur back down.

The oak had been observing patiently with all of his cousins. Sorel turned to it with drooping lips and concerned eyes. “I don’t understand,” he pleaded to each of the trees. Their bark softened from brown to gray and no longer held their twigs proudly aloft.

In the ancient language the oak lamented, “You have become like your maker. You gazed upon him face to face. You are Sorel, forest friend, but you are also now a Corcea, forest fiend, corruptor of life. Sorel, look at your footsteps.” Sorel turned from the liquid mirror. Where his soles had pressed the soil, the leaves went black with decay; he felt the earth struggle against his poison. “Please, Sorel, you must leave and do not touch the water, or the whole of the valley will suffer.”

“But I didn’t choose this, I didn’t ask for this!” Sorel defended.

“You looked,” the oak explained.

“I was blindfolded.”

“You were tricked, but the fact remains you looked; now my roots burn beneath me because you did. Sorel, we treasure you, but you have become our enemy. Please leave, before we must evict you.”

“But I want to stay; you are my only friends,” he cried to all listening.

“Sorel,” the oak whispered and straightened, “we will cherish you in our memory, but until you have purged the corruption from within you, you cannot stay.”

“What must I do?” Sorel pleaded.

“Do not look.”

“At him?”

“No. Just remember, do not look. Now, farewell Corcea—may you return to us Sorel, forest friend,” whispered the ancient oak and slipped back into slumber. Sorel’s shoulders fell and he sighed. As he made his way to the edge of the forest, the brush parted for him, trees pulled their leaves from his reach. Sorel fixed his eyes on the ground, apologizing to each dying leaf the curse he would bring upon it. Guilt, like the thick, black ooze in his footsteps, ate away at him. Here he was, in the place he feared most: solitude.