Or maybe it’s just coincidence.
The Louie-like-Syn appears thirty, which means nothing. Small but fit, a solid little package of a person, dressed all in gray, with a neatly trimmed mustache and close-cropped hair. Eyebrow arched, he swiftly closes the distance between himself and the wrinkled old woman.
“Greetings,” he says, brightly. He speaks loudly, possibly assuming the old woman is hard of hearing; Ere is glad that at least it allows him to hear what’s going on. As Helena draws near, the Syn’s jaw drops. Whether he is genuinely shocked by her appearance, or simply mocking her to further catch her off guard, the Syn’s next statement makes Ere’s own jaw drop. “Heaven and Hell, you’re a skeleton with skin.”
“High praise from a robot,” Helena says, unblinking.
“Ooh, good one,” he chuckles, maybe admiring her moxie, maybe genuinely amused that she would fling that old insult his way. “How old are you, anyway, Original woman?”
“I’m sure your records can tell you that,” Helena says.
The Syn grins waxily. “Helena Garrison, right? I’m Fredrick.” He offers his name with a careless wave of his hand, as his eyes slide to the left and scans her records. He quotes from them aloud, looking not at her but at something only he can see: “Ah yes, here we are. Garrison, Helena. Eighty-nine years of natural age. Born in Sector 17, formerly Ohio. Family history of high blood pressure, heart disease, and multiple types of cancer: breast, lung, pancreatic. Son, Louis Miles Garrison, died of assumed congestive heart failure, 2057. Husband, Robert Garrison, died in the resistance. Remaining relatives: none. Current health status: undocumented; no hospital visits since the Health Reallocation Act of 2045. Projected prognosis: Death within the year.”
Helena remains stoic throughout this recitation. Frederick the Syn slides his eyes to the right again, then smiles that smile at Helena.
“That’s you? Or did I look up the wrong Helena Garrison?”
“That’s me.”
“And you are leader of this tribe now?”
“I will speak for this tribe.”
“Bet you can guess why I’m here,” he says, almost playfully, a sick parody of Louie.
“I assume you’re about to kick us out.”
“You assume correctly.”
“It makes no sense,” says the old woman. “By your own standards, this area is worthless. Perhaps you’re unaware, but there are few power sources here. None functioning. No reason for an evacuation. We are old. I’m dead within the year, as you said yourself. Let us live out our days here.”
From his position behind the window, Ere is straining to catch the words, certain he is missing something here and there. But he is impressed with Helena’s poise and clear, loud voice. He never before noticed her impeccable posture. He feels proud of her and almost expects the Syn to acquiesce to her request that the tribe be allowed to stay.
“Your information is incomplete, and thereby inaccurate,” Fredrick says, matter-of-fact. “There is nothing of which we are ‘unaware.’ There are many power lines buried in the vicinity, and this building itself has several rooms which will be useful to us in resurrecting the utility of this sector. Nice try, though.”
“We ask that you consider—”
“We consider everything before we decide anything,” the Syn cuts Helena off, no longer even bothering to look at her. Instead, he shoots an almost flirtatious look over at Cal. “And you don’t all have one foot in the grave, now, do you?” Helena opens her mouth to speak, but before even a syllable can escape, the Syn waves his hand again to silence her and keeps talking: “Your evacuation is effective immediately. Migration begins today. Head south, if you want the opportunity for a new camp. Everything north of here is marked for incorporation.”
“South,” Helena says slowly.
“South,” confirms Fredrick, drawing the word out, giving it a ludicrous amount of syllables. “Oh, and while we aren’t particularly interested in expediting your demise, if you decide not to leave, we’ll go ahead and kill you. All right! That’s all.”
The Syn nods, message delivered, and turns on his heel. Helena stares after him, immediately flanked by a scowling Cal. There is nothing more to say. The days of resistance are long passed. The days of marching, not into battle but into retreat, are all that remain.
And just like that, another migration is underway.
Curse of the world.
The sheer mind-numbing boredom begins crushing Ere immediately. Each migration day might bring one isolated interesting incident (a rattlesnake, say) surrounded on both sides by an entire day and night of tedium.
But Ere’s boredom pales as a complaint in comparison to the toll the trip takes on the elders. Crossing uneven terrain, sleeping in makeshift tents, exposed to the elements—nothing about the journey was kind to the aged. Covering twenty miles a day is taxing on the young, but brutal on the old.
They are bound for the swampland known as Sector 27, as far south as you could go before hitting the ocean. Sector 27 was largely neglected by the Syns, other than at its southernmost tip, a port area used by the Syns for business and travel; being such a hot and humid climate, the sector is not suited to serve as residential Syn territory.
Despite being free of resident Syns, Ere still isn’t sure that this direction is best. The swampy sector is home to many large predatory animals, which saw population surges after the Singularity, following the gutting of Original communities there. And slow-moving elders could easily be prey.
Ere walks at the very back of the group, alongside Cal. Though the young men are the tribe’s fastest, and could easily have ranged ahead, a better strategy was having them bring up the rear. From there, they could help any who stumbled, or sprint swiftly to the front to report if there was any danger at their heels, or respond if an alarm was sounded from ahead. The configuration is always Ruth in front, elders in the middle, Cal and Ere in the rear.
With Howard gone, the tribe numbers thirty-one. They almost never speak of their dwindling population aloud. It’s considered bad luck (and is depressing as hell, Ere thinks). Their small census was taken only before beginning a journey, so that throughout the trek, the two young men at the back of the line could constantly count heads, silently tallying to ensure that all were present and accounted for throughout the journey and at the end of each day.
Ere can see his mother all the way at the head of the line, despite more than two dozen bodies between them, since the older tribes-people are all so bent and stooped. Even when he can’t see her, he sees the glint of his mother’s machete, held aloft and brought swiftly down, hacking away the terrain to clear the path for those in her wake. Ere sees the machete slash the air again, and then come up—and stay up.
Everyone stops, this visual cue of an alarm followed quickly by a verbal one as a sound passes quickly, from the front of the line to the back: shh, see.
Shh, see. Shh, see. A threat.
Holding still, Ere strains to see and hear, desperate to pinpoint the danger. His eyes find Cal, whose nostrils flare. Both boys keep their hands on their knives, poised and at the ready. Each knows the other’s guilty secret: they are thrilled to have something happening, and while they don’t want anyone to get hurt they sure as hell won’t mind a little action.
Cal and Ere know that Ruth will swiftly identify the threat. Ruth Fell hasn’t survived this long by overlooking anything. They watch as she holds stock still, listening. Ere strains his ears, darts his eyes, but beyond the damp hum of thick humidity and the looming greenery all around them, he perceives nothing. The absence of a telling sound, sight, or smell is alarming—but then, almost imperceptibly,