SILAS

 

 

I tumble forward over the lip of the hill, pushed by some tremendous force, waves of intense heat billowing around me, warping the air. I pull Frosty in against my body, protecting her head and neck. We hit the slope, rolling, a big burp of flame roaring past overhead. 

The sand is coarse and packed, like a bluff made of sandpaper. Which makes sense, I suppose, but it kinda hurts.

Even with the burst of fire past and gone, the heat itself seems to follow us—going suddenly from the sauna-esque heat of the desert to the inside of a stove. A strong, distinct scent permeates the vicinity, one that I now recognize as burning metal. I smelled it back in the room with the tanks, I smelled it in the passage when the minibikes exploded, and I smell it now.

As we arrive at the base of the hill, my back slams hard into the ground, Frosty on top of me, of her shoulder digging into my chest. Her body rises and dips to the cadence of my breathing. 

I'm still trying to catch my breath. And I'm listening. Waiting. Because I'm not entirely sure what happens next. For the past twenty minutes, maybe longer, it's been one potential catastrophe after another. So where's the next one? Where's it going to come from?

There's a thump as something lands on the packed hillside sand just a few paces away. A thick plate of metal. Charred black in parts. Actually on fire at one end.

Well. If that's not a sign the mech is dunzo, I don't know what is.

With that thought, some of the tension starts to leak out of me. 

The air is quiet and still, now. No wind. No rustle of sand shifting. Just the faint noise of burning wreckage on the other side of the hill.

There's something almost peaceful about it. 'Burning Cyberpunk Wreckage ASMR'. Why not?

Wait. I'm forgetting something. I'm such an idiot.

"Hey," I say, narrowly stopping myself from referring to her as 'Frosty'.

"Yes?" She says, unmoving, the side of her head pressed against my chest, tangles of her hair draped over my arm.

"You okay?" I say.

She hesitates for a couple of seconds. "No. Not really." Then, "Are you?"

There's a question.

I don't answer right away. Instead, I find my mind drifting. Traveling to places I wish I could stop it from going.

When I first woke up in the tank, I knew something was wrong. But I thought, at least to some extent, that the problem was with me. That there was some glitch on my end. That none of this was actually real.

But how can I deny the reality right in front of me? How can I simply dismiss these moment to moment experiences? If reality isn't real, then what tools do I have to find the truth? How am I supposed to make sense of it?

I say—know—my name is Silas Turner. Frosty says I'm something called a Blast model, and she seems to think that's all I've ever been. So who's right?

And on top of all of that, there's this ominous feeling I can't shake. That this is all some psychotic distraction my brain has concocted to keep me busy. Anything to not have to deal with what happened.

And the worst part is, in that regard, it's almost working.

Almost.

"No," I say, finally, in answer to the question. "Not really."

"You still don't remember," she says. "Do you?"

"No," I say. "Should I?"

"Not...necessarily," she says, wincing. "Shit, this hurts."

"Do you want to move?" I say. I start to sit up.

"No," she says, prompting me to lie back down. "Not- not yet. I need to think."

"Okay."

Silence for a moment. Long enough I can feel the demons that are my thoughts beginning to wheedle their way back in again.

"I saw something in the facility computer," she says. Her body thrums faintly as she speaks, vocal cords vibrating against my torso. "When I was patching myself up. A few hours before we were attacked, the system received a signal. A data transfer of some kind."

"You think it's related."

She starts to nod, then stops, with a grunt of pain. "At the very least, I believe it's how we were detected."

"Detected?" I say. "By who?"

"I think the data surge, whatever it was, messed with the OS. I think that's why neither of us can get the system up and running. Furthermore—and this is admittedly more of a guess than even a theory—I think you received the bulk of the data. I think you may have been the original target for it. Why, I don't know. But it would explain your amnesia. The data transfer must have scrambled your memory unit."

"Okay," I say, mulling it over. "If any of this is true, where does that leave us?"

"There's another hidden facility not far from here," she says. "If we head north, there's a high plateau, and some canals that run through it. We can lose them in there. Once we get to the Darvin facility, there's some equipment there we can use to start getting to the bottom of this."

"You mean," I say, "We can use it to see what was in that transfer?"

"And get our OS's back up."

"Because we can't do that here, for some reason?"

"I mean, in theory" she says. "If the complex wasn't already compromised. You're not seriously wanting to go back in there right now, are you?"

No. She's right. Between her injury, and the fact that we would be in an enclosed space, soon to be overrun. Something tells me we wouldn't have enough time to get down to the bottom of anything, not with all these bots on our heels. We have to change the game.

I stare up into the sky. It's bright and dreary at the same time. A muddy cloudscape, if shiny with the sun's light.

"Is the OS really such a big deal?" I say.

"If either of us still had our OS intact," she says, "That bot chasing after us wouldn't have made it more than a couple steps into the armory."

I don't know what to say to that. I don't know how to even process it. There's so much I don't understand. And I’m not sure if I even want to understand.

"What do I call you?" I say.

"Salvo," she says. "You call me Sal, for short."

"Do I?"

"Yes, Blast," she says. "You do."

The light from the sky is starting to hurt my eyes. If I stare long enough, maybe I can discern something. Maybe I'll find some thread I can pull, something I can unravel, unveiling some secret at the heart of this strange place I find myself in. 

"Sal, what is all this? What are we? And what are they? And why are they coming after us?"

She sighs. I can tell she's thinking it over. "It wouldn't be an efficient use of time for me to explain everything. Instead, we should try to get your memory back. I think that's what we need to do. We need to get on that bike and head north."

"Okay." She's right. There will be time to figure all of this out later. Unless there isn't. In which case...well…

"Can you take me to it?"

I sit up, setting 'Sal' into an upright position against the hill. She looks like a mannequin, arms and legs in odd positions, head turned at a weird angle.

"What?" She says, side-eying me.

"Nothing. You just look...interesting."

"We're both going to be pretty interesting if we don't get a move on. Or at least, all the various, scattered pieces of us will be."

I stand. "Geez. Message received."

I pick her up. 

She's awkward and unwieldy to carry. It's like that thing Gemma used to do when I would pick her up to forcibly remove her from my room. She'd go all limp, and I swear she'd suddenly be four times heavier when she did. 

In the case of Sal, I heft her up onto my shoulder and carry her like a bag of rice. She gives no complaint.

Once again, I'm marching up the side of one of these stupid dunes. Halfway up, I have to squint as multiple beads of sweat start dripping off my forehead and down next to my eyebrow, barely missing my eye. The very air of this place is a like a giant heat lamp.

Unbidden, I remember a scene from that show where the plane crashes and all those people are stuck on that mysterious tropical island. After a certain point, a number of the castaways start questioning whether the island is even real. And one of them says, 'It's a bit hot for heaven.'

Great. There's another terrifying concept that gets to rattle around in my brain, now.

Lost. That's what the show’s called.

Kind of like what I'm starting to feel like right now.

I crest the hill and start making my way down the other side. I have to do a sort of side-walk, like a crab, easing my way down the slope. The last thing I need right now is to drop Sal and injure her any further. Not just because she reminds me of someone, and not just because I want her to be okay, but because I'd be aimless in this weird, post-apocalyptic hellscape without her, and likely dead pretty soon after, given the state of things up to now.

Bits of debris are strewn about the area. Metal joints and plates and pistons and wiring. Some actively burning, others darkly seared in places, like grilled steak.

Not that any of it smells like steak. It’s more like a burnt electric wiring odor, now that I’m close enough to it to really take it in. That, and a faint, rotten egg, sulphuric smell, which I’m all too eager to get away from.

The bulk of the wreckage is a big, molten pile of metal, with some tufts of flame licking at the edges. The smell is the worst there, and there are unpleasant waves of heat emanating from it as well. I steer as far clear of it as I can.

The bike is as I left it, on its side on the ground. It appears to be undamaged. I really hope that’s the case. 

I decide to set Sal down for a moment, gently laying her flat on the ground. I pull the bike upright by the handlebars and push out the kickstand with my foot. 

I should probably make sure this thing still runs.

I put my thumb on the power button, about to press it. But then…I hear something. A low humming. Almost like a distant train or plane.

I turn my gaze upward, to that muddy skyline. There’s something moving up there, like a toad wading in a brown pond. Some kind of vessel. Not a plane, but an airship. It’s large, and beige. I get the feeling it’s some kind of carrier ship. As it moves in the sky, the enormity of it impresses itself on me. I realize I’m slack-jawed, staring. 

“That’s the ship, isn’t it?” Sal says, behind me.

“I didn’t know there was a ship,” I say. “But I guess I do now.”

“There’s always a ship,” she says.

Well. The more you know.

As I watch the ship, it shifts in place, and I can see a sort of platform jutting out under a broad opening that looks like a hangar bay. There’s a distant, dark speck of an outline of someone standing out on the edge of that platform. Just…standing there. 

Whoever it is, I get the sense they’re watching me at the same time I’m watching them. There’s an interaction happening here, even across this vast expanse between us. We’re sizing each other up, gathering our resolve, deciding the next move. 

Only, given the circumstances, I’m pretty sure all I can do at this point is run.

****

Razor studies the biodroid. He could use his own advanced lenses to zoom in, but he taps into the ship’s cameras again instead. The ship's cameras give a higher definition picture at this distance. He can also use them to look at his quarry from multiple angles.

The one standing next to the bike is definitely a Blast model. Razor doesn’t need to consult analysis data from the ship’s computer. There’s no mistaking that face. Every moment he's confronted by it leaves a stark imprint in his memory banks.

The other Biodroid is a Salvo model. It appears to be incapacitated at the moment.

These two Biodroids. They've managed to wake up in time to avoid being killed inside the stasis tanks. But beyond that, they’ve fared worse than Razor might have expected. 

Not that it mattered, before. Before, he would have sent continuous waves of bots after them, wearing them down while he continued to focus solely on his research. But now, a member of the elites is involved. Now, Razor has to take care of this personally. 

The way these Biodroids have survived up to now begs a question. Because neither of them have activated their protocols. So…are their operating systems malfunctioning? Or is this a clever, elaborate ploy to lure Razor in close, before pulling the trigger?

Razor prefers not to tussle with a Blast model—or anyone equipped with a Blast Protocol, for that matter—if he has the choice. Most Biodroids would say the same. Maybe that’s why Daimon wants Razor to do the deed. Just in case. As powerful as Daimon is, you don’t survive long in his position without being a little cautious now and then, Razor supposes. 

Rogue or not, it’s conceivable that this model could become a threat to Daimon. Not today or tomorrow, but somewhere down the line. It’s in the realm of possibility. So it’s in Daimon’s best interest to make sure this Blast is apprehended and neutralized. Why he doesn’t just want it destroyed, Razor doesn’t know, but that’s beside the point. Daimon wants the model stopped. And why do it himself when he can send Razor in his stead?

And if Razor disobeys, the Greenery will disappear. His years of research will be gone. Because Daimon doesn’t make threats lightly. Razor knows that.

He takes a deep breath, then grimaces, remembering he's no longer inside his clean, carefully oxygenated environment of the Greenery. The Greenery is a snapshot of the way this part of the world used to be, before the air itself turned sour and rank, and the ground was still fertile and life-giving.

There's no way to turn back the clock. And no way to fight the system as it currently stands. All that's left is to preserve and remember the things that used to make this world so beautiful.

Razor steps just a few paces over to the air bike, engine rumbling, hovering a couple feet off the floor of the platform. He settles onto the bike, just as the ship's computer informs him the Sand Seekers are ready for deployment. From a prompt menu, Razor selects the option to execute.

****

I watch as things move on the sides of the ship. Mechanisms shifting. And then I realize that those are hatches, opening up. And then things start to drop out of those hatches. Their exact shape and purpose is difficult to discern, but they glint in the light as they fall. Twelve plummeting, meteoric objects. Until suddenly they're no longer falling, but curving, jets of flame issuing behind them as thrusters engage.

Missiles? Maybe. Whatever they are, they're headed straight for us.

I get one last glimpse of the platform next to the hangar bay, and the human-esque shape from before, only this time they're on some kind of vehicle. As I turn to grab Sal, I glimpse the vehicle on the platform push off and begin its descent, mirroring the path of all the dozen other missiles in flight.

"It's bad, isn't it?" Sal says, as I lift her up. With the way her head's been tilted, she hasn't witnessed our pursuers yet.

Holding her by the waist, I turn her entire body so she can see.

"Uhhhh...shit," she says.

"Yeah," I say, setting her down on the back part of the bike seat. I've got her leaning against my torso so she doesn't go sliding off. I take off the ridiculous jacket I'd brought with me—it's not like I'm gonna need it in this heat, anyway.

"Blast-"

"You keep calling me that," I say, as I tear the jacket down the middle.

"Because that's who you are," Sal says. 

"Are you gonna tell me what those missile things are?"

"Sand Seekers," Sal says. "They're just as fast on the ground. But Blast, there's an operative out there. I think there are higher-ups involved in this."

"I don't know what that means."

"It means," Sal says, "We're screwed if we don't get this bike moving. Neither of us are in any position-"

"I'm working on it!"

I take the torn length of cloth from my jacket and loop it around Sal's waist. I set her up so she's looking straight behind us, so she can see things I can't while I'm driving. I sit on the bike, tying the cloth tight against my own waist, tethering Sal to my body.

I press the power button on the bike.

A ringed outline around the edge of the buttons flickers for a second. Same with the entire dashboard.

Seriously!?

"Take your time," Sal quips, behind me. 

I press down on the button, holding it this time, even though that wasn't how I started it before, down in the armory. This time, the lights flicker again, and the engine actually sputters a little, shaking underneath me. But then the lights go out completely, and the engine is still.

This time Sal doesn't say anything. And that almost worries me more.

What am I supposed to do now? Run across the desert on foot? With her strapped to my back, no less?

One more try. I at least need to give it that.

I hold the button down. The lights flicker. The engine grunts and coughs.

"Oh, come on!" I yell. 

Almost as if in response to this, the engine suddenly crackles to life with a triumphant shriek. The lights on the dashboard solidify.

I knock up the kickstand and hit the throttle.

Streams of sand spew and spit from underneath the tires, before the traction catches, and the bike is pulled hard up the side of the embankment, as if yanked upward by an invisible rope. Cool air rushes past my face. The bike hits the top of the embankment and goes flying over, airborne for a few seconds, before the bike jolts hard as we land on the ground.

I let out an excited whoop of a yell. For some reason. Adrenaline is weird that way, I guess. Dangerous, scary circumstances become...exciting. Maybe even addictive, crazy as that is.

"Blast!" Sal yells into my right ear. 

"Yeah!?"

"This isn't north."

Ope.

"Why didn't you say so!?"

"I just did," she says. Then, "Take us ninety degrees to the left."

I do as she says, slowing the bike and looping around a clumpy spire of rock. I take off down a stretch of more even terrain, though there are bumps and rises along the way. I weave the bike left to right, and left again, avoiding the more treacherous inclines.

Soon, things are flattening out, and I can see the cliff-like rise Sal was talking about. A giant, smooth, maroon rock wall in the distance, stretching across the horizon, defining it.

The side mirror must have been bumped in the commotion earlier, because it's angled downward, giving me a dizzying perspective of the ground underneath the bike. 

Helpful.

I tilt the mirror up. In it, I see sand spraying up in the distance behind me as the projectiles—Sal called them 'Sand Seekers'—start crashing into the dunes. Shortly after being submerged in the sand by the impact, they burst out and begin skirting along the surface at high speed. They remind me of the minibikes from before, only these have one thin, blade-like wheel, and two thrusters behind, causing them to skim across the sand, weaving back and forth among the dunes in a natural, almost organic way, like a school of fish navigating currents.

And then there's that 'operative', as Sal put it, riding some kind of hoverbike. While I can't make out any fine details, they have a masculine build, like me. Like me, he's definitely some kind of robot guy, though the metal parts and joints seem more blocky than mine—from what I saw of myself, or can remember. There's these flat, sharp, almost jagged-looking edges. The grey material covering the metal doesn't have the shine that mine has, though. It actually looks kind of rough and smudged. Tarnished.

Wait a minute. He's holding something. If I knew better, I might guess it's some kind of...rocket launcher?

"Blast..." Sal says.

"I see it."

But just as I say that, there's a bright flare at the front of the launcher, and a puff of smoke out the back. And a shrill, whistling sound, getting louder.