Читать книгу Idols - Margaret Stohl, Margaret Stohl - Страница 17

“Doc? Can you hear me?” Lucas’s voice brings me back, and I open my eyes.

He flips the switch on his cuff. The sound of static rises and my heart sinks. “Doc? I’m talking to you.” Lucas waits, but there’s no response.

Tima frowns back over the relay. “I don’t understand. It should work.”

Ro kicks at the dust in front of him. “Dammit, Doc. Freaking answer us already!”

“Colloquial profanity does not in any way expedite satellite-based connectivity, Furo.” Doc’s voice emerges through the crackling static, and it’s all we can do not to start screaming.

“Doc! I’d kiss you if you had a mouth, you sexy thing.” Ro shouts up to the sky, as if Doc were everywhere in the universe. Which, sometimes, it feels like he is.

“And I would exchange data with you if you had a dataport, you exemplary specimen. Analogically speaking. Is that correct?”

“Close enough,” I say.

“Either way, I am very happy to hear from you. Which is to say, now that I am able to continue our communications, I am better able to assist you, which as one of my primary functions, I equate to the proximate emotional state defined as happi—”

“Got it. Happy. We don’t have time,” I cut in. “We’ve lost Fortis, Doc. He’s gone.”

Gone. Most likely, dead.

I feel strangely guilty telling him. Cold. As if we are notifying Fortis’s next of kin. A brother, or a son. Which is, of course, not Doc.

He’s information. He’s not a person.

But Doc, for the first time that I can remember, has no response.

“It was the Lords,” says Lucas, soberly.

“We don’t know where Fortis is now. All we know is, we’re running out of supplies,” Ro adds.

“And we think the Embassy is tracking this relay, so talk fast. What should we do, Orwell?” Tima sounds wistful, and I realize how dependent we have grown on both Doc and Fortis. How lost we are now.

Another moment of silence passes—then the words begin to flow, rapidly. “Of course. A direct approach is required. The situation is extreme. I will apply all necessary protocols.”

“Please,” says Tima.

“In summary: You are correct in your assumption that Fortis has been taken from the immediate environs. His biological signature is nowhere within my current range. Beyond that, I cannot confirm the status of his physical being.”

So he really is dead. Dead, or he might as well be. I can’t feel him—he’s far, far away.

“That all you got?” Ro asks.

“You are also correct in your assumption that this relay is monitored.”

“I figured as much,” mutters Lucas.

“Then we should kill it.” Ro scowls. “If they’re tracking it, they’ll be back here any minute.”

“So where do we go? What are we supposed to do?” Tima is starting to panic.

“Please hold.” Doc sounds strange. “Termination protocol engaging.”

“What?” I shake the cuff.

“Recalling Termination message. In three.” Doc seems to be on some kind of autopilot.

“Wait, what?” Now I’m really lost.

“Two.”

But Doc’s answer isn’t from Doc at all.

“One.”

It’s Fortis. At least, an echo of Fortis. His voice. His ghost.

“Ah, listen carefully, pets. If you’re hearin’ this, it’s because I’ve reached the miserable side of a sorry end, or been stuffed back into the Ambassador’s Presidio Pen somewhere.”

“How did Fortis know?” Tima shakes her head.

“I’m surprised we’ve made it this far,” the recording continues, “if you want to know the truth. And it’s enough, at least as far as I’m concerned. This isn’t about me anymore, you understand? It never was. Forget about old Fortis, find yourself some kind of transport, and get safe. There’s an emergency map hidden in the relay. Doc has been programmed to download whatever coordinates you’ll need to get out of here.”

“It’s like he was planning for this,” Ro says, annoyed.

“I think he probably was,” says Tima, sadly. “After all, he’s not just a Merk. He’s a soldier.”

“You mean he was,” Lucas says, quietly.

“We don’t know that,” Ro says. I can’t bring myself to say anything at all.

Either way, the Merk’s voice continues. “So listen up, then, you little fools. Don’t be stupid. Don’t be brave. Don’t take the high road—that’s for blowhards an’ idiots. Stay alive. Stay together. Look out for each other. You don’t know how important that is. If I’m still alive, I’ll come back for you. If I’m not, I’ll come back from the grave and kick your sad arses if you give up on each other.”

The voice pulls back. “Ah, the rest is all just slobber an’ drivel, then. That’s it, Hux.” Fortis sounds strangely gruff. “Cut it off.”

The voice disappears, and when Doc speaks again, he sounds like Doc, not Fortis.

“Doloria?”

I take the cuff, speaking into it directly. “Yes, Doc.”

“Would you characterize this as an emotional moment?”

I twist the cuff in my fingers with a sigh. “Yes. I believe it is.”

“Then I believe I should formally and linguistically clarify that I am sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, Doc.”

“Is that correct? If not, I have downloaded over three thousand seven hundred responses appropriate for remarking upon the loss of human life. Would you care to hear them?”

I smile, in spite of everything. “No, thank you, Doc.”

He pauses again. I’m not certain, but it seems like he is hesitating.

“And you are certain this kicking of the bucket is not a virtual dirt nap but a physical one, Doloria?” Doc relays his programmatic death-phrasing tonelessly. The effect is eerie.

The others exchange glances.

“I hope so, Doc, but I don’t like how it feels,” I say.

Ro takes the cuff from me. “He’s with the Lords, Doc. It’s not like they’re having a tea party up there.”

“No. It is not remotely plausible that tea is involved. Especially if Fortis is currently occupied pushing up the daisies. On the farm. Which he bought. Before he goes to sleep at night. With the fishes.” More event-based phrasing. Doc has done his research.

“Orwell! Enough.” Tima’s tone must be unmistakably clear, even to a Virt, because Doc changes the subject.

“Yes, agreed, that is enough. I have evaluated hundreds of thousands of routes since the recording of this conversation, and have determined the following: according to ancient census reports, there should be an abandoned settlement approximately thirty kilometers south of your current position.”

“And?” Ro squints at the cuff.

“And such a remote settlement is statistically likely to require transportation.” Doc’s voice echoes through the sunshine.

“Private transportation,” Tima says, with a glint in her eye.

“Precisely. If you can procure an operative vehicle—”

“That’s a big if,” Lucas interrupts.

“And if you can follow the old highways,” Doc continues, “you should be able to reach the Idylls in one day.”

It all sounds too good to be true—which lately has meant that it is.

“Wait—the Idylls? Grass fairyland? That’s still the best we can do?” Ro snorts.

“It is, according to the maps, the most logical destination for the four of you, within the region. This is what Fortis wished. Before buying the pine condo. Or a one-way ticket to getting carked.”

Doc’s voice is even, as if we were just discussing the weather.

“What’s this thing about a map?” I ask.

“Anomalies detected,” says Doc, ignoring my question—and suddenly sounding less like a person again.

“What?” Tima looks up. “Orwell? Are you all right?”

“Anomalies detected.” It’s like he’s stuck on one phrase, like he’s broken or something.

“Doc?” Lucas frowns.

“Anomalies detected.” More static. Then—“Triangulation protocol running.”

“That’s not good,” I say.

“Transmission origins detected.” A burst of static subsumes Doc’s voice—until Tima drops the relay into the dirt.

Silence.

“That was the Embassy, wasn’t it? The anomalies?” Lucas is the first to speak.

“Think so.” Tima kneels in the dirt, scrambling to yank the wires from the back of the metal box.

“Triangulation protocol?” I say the words, but I don’t really want to know the answer.

“As you said yourself. Not good.” Tima wraps the wire back around the relay. She doesn’t look at me.

Ro shrugs. “You heard Doc. We better get started.” He stands, grabbing his snake. “Time to go find us a ride.”

“And a map,” says Tima, examining the relay box more carefully.

Ro starts walking down the side of the road, whistling. As if a fleet of Sympas—or worse, the Lords—weren’t on their way toward him.

But with nothing else to say, we all follow.

Fortis is gone. Doc has spoken. The Idylls it is. We have our orders. Even if the Merk who gave them has croaked, as Doc points out.

Because for now, we’re still alive. For now, the Lords are still just a threat.

For now, every step is a privilege. Proof that we are still alive.

Or rather, that we are still allowed to live.