TRISTAN

It's so overwhelming that I cannot keep my footing on this uneven ground. I'm surprised that I still know the way.

Knothole looks dead in spite of the sparse survivors from the cells wandering around, and they stop as soon as I enter from the tree line.

So much has changed since we last saw our homes. Our blue sky is fading to a sickening yellow. Clouds from Robotropolis are closer than ever. A gust of dry wind blows through the streets, kicking up dust and dried grass… And there's a structure sticking out of the ground larger than anything we've built, shining brightly and sticking into the sky like it's ready to cut it from the tail to the head. Spill the guts.

Gladly.

I chase down my first thought upon seeing our home again, hoping for… I don't know, an answer. What I get is, "Boy, someone must have cleaned this place this morning."

My second thought was, "I wonder if it is still there…" Doing this is bad for me.

It isn't there, of course. My garden. It died along with the rest of our home, it died right along with her…

It starts. Electrical currents move through the conduit and light up the processor, millions of impulses converging at a single point, a committee of information shown before presiding members. I can feel the dam cracking open. Exactly what I didn't want to happen begins to happen. Memories play in lieu of loud protesting, the dam cracks even more-

no no no no no no no no no no

I can see her, we can all see her, so close to me that I breathe her unconscious breath, her arms and legs still wrapped around me, and I'm thinking about how different it was this time, this specific time. Profoundly passionate yet subdued, quiet, moving around me like a tide and pulling me deeper into her, time passing so quickly that when I opened my eyes again, it was over and she was asleep, clinging tight to me like I just saved her life. I didn't know then, but that was the first thought I had about her having my-

so weak as it is

Amazing how I returned right to it. Details upon details that I had stored away, never knowing that I would come to hate those images because I could never have them again. They exist and will always exist, but I should stop everything if all I have is the past to hang onto. A river pours out and it covers me, forcing me to my knees and burning me alive, and it's too late; the images and memories won't stop coming. They come up for air expecting it to be the way it was, but it isn't, not by a long shot, and my fondest memories, every reason I had for living, they're all raped and killed and destroyed when they see the unflinching reality, the way it is at this very second.

so weak

Now I've done it. Lights in the house of the committee go out. Rabid emotions take over in the edit. Host organisms are preoccupied with the past, their own memories. They shut down the committee of rational thought from time to time, and the body is stuck. This organism in particular is wishing he could take back the last two years of his life. Just strike it from the record.

I'm sorry. You don't get to do that.

Nobody gets to do that.

All this time I was wondering what the point of all this was, what the experiment was meant to accomplish.

He wants to see if we can go on living, and he's giving us every means to do so.

Here begins the experiment.

The survivors are gathering around me, expecting a decision even though I'm on my knees and quietly clawing at the dirt like it will eventually be my grave. Why the hell would they expect this of me? I'm out of my element. I've been out of my element for years.

The house lights come on again. It can't be determined if these internal members are aware of their responsibility, if they know that what they decide will choose a course for their host to follow, a road that in the end has a fifty-fifty chance of ending in death. No capacity for fear, or enough capacity to suppress it. They have to make decisions constantly, forever choosing a course for the host to follow.

Calming down. I stand to my feet, doing my best to mimic the actions of a long-dead soldier, myself five years ago. Difficult to remember what else I would do in this situation.

Well, I wouldn't be so afraid.

Hope is useless outside of a motivational tool. It kept the muscle alive and that was it. Upon exiting, there was an intense drop in the internal graph, new information sent through the stream to tip the scale once more. The presiding committee determines that the host body is wholly unequipped for this new environment; they can feel it getting weaker and weaker, where only hours earlier it was much stronger, as much of a master of its own little universe as it could be.

Every single decision could end in death. That's just the way it is.

Do this or don't do this. Go here or go there. It's easy to lose track of the spinning coin through all the fog.

I would have definitely tried to save everyone a lot sooner. That's for goddamn sure. It's too late to do much of anything now. All of them, even Sabrina and Jenn, are still looking at me like I can fix this when I couldn't save them when we still had a chance. I never used my head.

I ask to anyone listening, "Is this everyone?" What a stock question. And I already know the answer. Trying to save more of us would be like trying to do math with zeroes, to quote a famous author.

"Yes," is the response. I turn to her in time to see her look away, avoiding eye contact.

More comes back. Gauging the answer throws me off guard. Her hesitation is palpable. It is easy to tell that she is lying. The electrons are charging, the battle begins on the decision on whether or not to call her on it. Believe her or don't. Figure out why she's lying or save who you can. Look for more. Count your blessings and cut the losses. Here, the graphs come up. They measure the will to survive, how many lives the host is speaking for, any ticking clocks, any reason why she would be lying or if the sensors are mistaken. They debate and they compare. They stand up and take votes. Everything is a popularity contest, even on a molecular level. I focus on her and through a prolonged series of inquiries and broken down neural connections, I remember that her name is Alexis. That she was training to be a doctor. Her eyes remind me of Holly.

"Okay." It is mumbled. My hand touches her shoulder and I can feel her relax through the miniscule amount of contact. "Want to hear something funny? … I can't tell if we're outside."

Nobody laughs.

Maybe it was the delivery.

They follow me closer to the village square, where the structure imbeds itself into the ground. I recognize the material when we get closer to the tiny entrance. We all recognize it. It all falls into place. I never thought once to mention aloud the black building we all saw being constructed. I must have known on some level that they had seen it too. What was inside was meant for all of us to see. If that's the case, then what we are doing now is also meant for us. Our avenue of escape is another part of the equation. All we have to do is walk it.

I have an excuse prepared in seconds. We're doing this because this is how their backwards minds work. They were doing us a favor by locking us up, killing the ones we love, starving some and beating others, and their biggest favor, setting us free and offering a way out. If we don't accept their hospitality, if we choose to die fighting an impossible fight against them, it is our fault. Entirely our fault. That is why we must accept. It will be the last thing they expect.

But nobody asks any questions.

Inside, it is comfortable and relaxing, made especially for us. To our left, our beds hang lengthwise out of the walls, plenty of room for everyone. In the center is a circular container, possibly for food and water. The roof tapers out to a point far above us, air vents and filters benignly smiling down on us. To the right, machinery blinks and hums soothingly, display screens glowing with maps of our atmosphere, our planet, and… beyond. Way, way beyond.

"Hidden from your human hands."

It's a ship. A rocket, capable of piercing the skin of the upper atmosphere and going deep, deep under, following a perfect path to a preordained destiny on the other side of the universe.

This is what Robert meant. This is what our purpose is.

Barely a second passes before I'm at the control console, searching for the ignition switch. "Get in and hang on."

We're doing it. We're really doing it.

Even if they didn't follow me in here, I still would have done it.

It still hurts the organism to say goodbye like this. However, what is deeply ingrained within the complex records of the committee is that what the host wants is hardly ever rational or best. The committee decides what is best, whether or not the unpredictable body obeys. Our host wants to stay. He cannot. Years of practice of doing the opposite of what the body wants has taught him how to handle it.

Pretend it isn't happening to me.

Sabrina shuts the hatch tight, getting help from Jenn, their weak arms twisting the wheel closed. They turn and offer a smile for me that I can't do much with, but the gesture is nice. They find two empty chairs at the console and strap in.

That is my real reason, my excuse for leaving; it truly is easier this way. If I stay, I have to admit that I'm working towards the past, starting over to get back what I used to have. I can't do that. There is no starting over. There is no rebuilding our empire. We get what was given to us -- survival -- and that's all. To create another empire, it will take about three or four generations to get over the past, to truly be free. And that won't last very long. Thus… no need to get worked up about living. No need at all.

The echoes hurt too much.

There is no window, barred or unbarred, to give us one last look at our dying planet. It's okay, we can imagine it just fine.

I flick three switches upwards and hear the conduits powering up. Exchanging information. Same old same old. There is rumbling all around us, heat below our feet, and I press the last button.

I can do this. It is possible. I can forget. I can forget everything. I can forget how to hope. I can do it. I can live for the future. The future is all that exists. One task at a time. Finish one and acquire another. Get off the planet. After that… we shall see…

The rocket cuts slowly at first, then indiscriminately, coldly into the decaying atmosphere, cutting along the stomach from the neck to the tail, cutting close to the backbone and slicing through ribs, separating skin from meat, eating it off the knife and throwing out the rest. It grows dark. The rumbling overwhelms me-

He wins the game. He wins.

Our guts spill out like the sky,

and everyone, all of us,

no matter how far we run,

we are food for the slaughter,

dolphins blindly swimming,

waiting to be devoured,

in an ocean full of sharks.