You might say we made a strange couple, Eska and I. It’s certainly possible, considering the odd looks we garnered on our return to Netherville.

  Whatever the case, I saw no reason to part now that we’d established a means of communication (Carter had begun to teach her American Sign Language, which I was familiar with from my days as an interpreter). More to the point, I could never have simply abandoned her; not to the snowy wastes, and not to Carter’s empty mausoleum (whose fuel stores for the generators were nearly depleted anyway).

  And so we just went, stopping in Netherville only long enough to refuel the Jeep and to stock up on supplies, before beginning the long drive to Paradise, Montana, and also, more specifically, a place called Barley’s Hot Springs.

  For we had caught the broadcast again (the same one I had heard earlier) on our way in from the wastes. A broadcast calling itself Radio Free Montana—which had promised, among other things, a climate utterly unlike other settlements, and that, and I quote: “Here, indeed, is where civilization begins!”

  It seemed worth another try.

  As for this document and my need to put it to paper—and deliver it to the town repository—who knows? Maybe I just wanted to make sure history was recorded right. God knows, it rarely is.

  And finally, for whoever may find this and wonder at its context—in a future, perhaps, where that context has become mere dust and memory—I offer this:

  Welcome to the Big Empty, the world after the Flashback, a world in which most the population has vanished and where dinosaurs roam freely. You can survive here, if you're lucky, and if you're not in the wrong place at the wrong time, which is everywhere and all the time. But what you'll never do is remain the same, for this a world whose very purpose, it seems, is to change you, for better or for worse.

  I recall watching Eska study the engraving on the way in, her face full of sorrow and yet complexity too, realizing, even then, that I need never fear her again, in light of which, I’ll add:

  It is my most fervent hope that it change you for the better.

  MESOZOIC KNIGHTS (2021)

  It shone lustrously, feverishly, sun-painted red and gold, as though it were on fire—the Gateway to the West (although for us it opened eastward); the towering landmark that meant we had arrived at our destination, our Court of Pelles and Eliazar. Even so, it wasn’t the great arch of St. Louis that had compelled us—Sirs Mortigen, Black Duncan and myself—to ride some 1,500 miles (all the way from Ambergard in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho to the Missouri/Illinois border, on unshod horses), but, rather, the edict of King Craxis—who, having listened to the newcomer’s account (about what he had seen in St. Louis) had, at the behest of Mercurius, dispatched five of his knights—two of whom were now dead—to return physical proof of what the vagabond had (supposedly) seen.

  And yet it was “supposed” no more; for what the man had spoken of—with a tremor in his voice—now lay before us like a mirage (if it could be said to lay at all; for it had stabbed into the Mississippi at such an angle that its rear quarter hovered above the far bank like a cloud).

  “‘As though God Himself had shot an arrow into the earth,’” said Black Duncan, quoting the vagabond. “I must say, it’s bigger even than I expected—easy now, girl.”

  He wrestled with his reins; all of us did. The horses had become nervous.

  “And he was right about another thing. It stinks. Of Them. Positively reeks. Like sulfur mixed with ozone; or like when its little brother was hovering over Lake Coeur d’Alene.”

  “And set the mosasaurs against us,” I muttered. “Or so Mercurius believes.”

  Mortigen laughed. “The beasties? Nah, they were just hungry. Lake Coeur d’Alene couldn’t sustain them, that’s all. Old Merc loses himself in the part—it doesn’t always have to be aliens. Plus he speaks in riddles. You know that.”

  “And yet he has performed miracles,” I said.

  We were referring, of course, to our oracle, our wizard, or at least the physics professor from Evergreen State College who had played him since before the Flashback (and continued to do so); someone who now claimed to have real gifts—an effect of the time-storm, he said; a supposition for which there was some evidence. As for who we were as a group—as an enclave of survivors—we had been the Northwestern Branch of the Society for Creative Anachronism (covering Oregon, Washington, and the northern tip of Idaho), otherwise known as the Kingdom of An Tir. At least, until Craxis—an outsider whose real name was unknown—had taken over and consolidated his power. Now we were Ambergard, a fully-functioning city-state with real weapons and a real stronghold (Castle Hagadone, formerly the Coeur d’Alene Resort and Marina, on Lake Coeur d’Alene). And we were not, despite Mortigen’s flippant tone and demeanor, to be trifled with. Nor were the considered theories of Mercurius to be taken lightly.

  “What the hell are those?” mumbled Black Duncan, his voice muffled. He was chewing some jerky from his saddlebag, peering at the top of the arch. “Are those—people, or something?”

  I followed his gaze—to where three dark shapes hung suspended from the monument (they were small enough in comparison that we hadn’t even noticed them earlier), then quickly fished out my binoculars.

  “They are,” I muttered, adjusting the lenses. “People, I mean.”

  I focused on the figures’ faces: on their blue, lolled tongues, their blank, bulging eyes. “What’s more, I’ll characterize them. Hanged people. Just kids, really. Teenagers. All boys. They hanged them from the windows.”

  I handed the binoculars to Mortigen.

  “Weird that the vagabond didn’t mention it,” said Black Duncan.

  “They probably weren’t here then,” I said. “The decay hasn’t set in.”

  “He’s right,” said Mortigen. “They’re too fresh. Probably hasn’t been a week.” He ground the eyepieces. “Their clothes are clean—casual. Did you notice that? Like they’re crisp from civilization. The tall one’s even got a slipper—”

  “It’s a good bet we’re being watched,” I said. I unhooked my helmet from the saddle and held it in my hands; then scanned the area to where a nearby bridge crossed the Mississippi. “We should get moving.”

  “Eh?” Mortigen lowered the glasses and looked at me, surprised. “And test our virtue so soon? That isn’t like you, Galaren.”

  I’d started to move away; now I curbed my horse—his name was “Scar,” due to an old jousting injury—and cantered back.

  “By which you mean you know me to be as prudent as I am faithful, of course,” I said—and drew slowly along beside him. “Ah, but you flatter me too much.”

  He looked at me tentatively, calculatingly, his face bathed in sweat. It was the same look he gave me when I bested him on the field: one part submission, one part guile.

  I extended a gauntlet to him. “We are blood brothers, Sir Mortigen, never forget—forged in battle; tested on the field. But be assured: when it comes to Lady Emeline—I am as eager for the contest as you.”

  Upon which—hesitantly at first but then with surprising enthusiasm—he clasped and shook my hand; and we went. Toward the nearby bridge and the other side of the muddy, orange Mississippi. Toward the sleek, dark, (possibly) alien ship—the anomaly—with its hideous smell and trail of crepuscular, yet somehow iridescent, debris—like shards of stained glass.

  By the time we’d trotted close enough to the wall of semi-trucks and other vehicles (which were positioned midway along the bridge), as well as the massive signpost which had been attached to the side of one of the trailers—the sun had crept below the horizon and the sky begun to turn a bare, brooding mauve. Still, it was enough to read by, and what we read was as clear and succinct as anything I’d encountered: ILLINOIS IS OURS ... DO NOT PROCEED. VIOLATORS WILL BE SHOT. —a chilling message made more so by the number of bees buzzing and crawling about the sign.

  “What’s this?” asked Mortigen, and cantered closer. He indicated a hive, a massive thing, which lay on the roof of a nearby car and yet, somehow, was wholly independent of it. “They’re busy, for twilight. Look.”

  I nudged Scar up beside him and looked (finding it highly unusual that a colony would build their nest in such an exposed way), saw a broken branch sticking out from beneath its papery mass. “This didn’t form here—not naturally. Not at random. It was placed.”

  There was the clop-clop of hooves as Black Duncan joined us. “Yeah, but, who on earth would do that? I mean, if you’re trying to scare people off, wouldn’t that sign—not to mention those bodies—be enough? It doesn’t make sense.”

  I stared at him, dumbly. “Beats the hell out of me,” I said. I studied the small hole in the nest’s bottom, which was a riot of activity. “It almost looks like they’re fighting ...”

  “Or fucking—more likely,” said Mortigen. “See the ones with the big eyes? Those are the drones; the males. All the others are female.” I must have looked at him queerly. “My uncle was a beekeeper,” he said.

  I watched as a drone with an injured wing struggled free of the mess—and promptly fell to the pavement. “They’re outnumbered—whatever they are.”

  I shifted my focus to the barrier. “Okay. So. Obviously they were more concerned about vehicles than foot traffic—because it’s pretty porous. We can get through it.” I indicated a gap. “How about there—between that ambulance and the UPS truck? What do you say?”

  “I say we’re going to meet a hail of gunfire the moment we cross that line,” said Black Duncan.

  “We don’t know that,” said Mortigen. “Guns have gotten scarce; ammo even more so. Besides, it’s getting dark.” He looked at me as though he were making a pitch. “I say we ride for the opposite side as fast and hard as we can—weaving in and out of each other, winding between cars. If there’s snipers, they won’t know what to focus on. Then we get lost amongst all those railroad cars, fortify one for the night, and, in the morning, test our virtue against the shards. Every one of us.” He looked at Black Duncan and then back to me. “And may fortune favor us all.”

  I stared at him with something like pride; he was, after all, however competitively inclined, however filled to the brim with guile, a Knight of the Lake—of the Heart of the Awl. And we would meet this Truth together; just as we had so often met on the field (and would again—only with un-blunted tips—should both of us prevail).

  “Aye, Mortigen,” I said, and clasped his gardbrace. “A wise plan.” I looked back and forth between them. “We’ll use our riot shields—just like the charge on Post Falls. I’ll take point, followed immediately by Mortigen; Black Duncan, you bring up the rear. Do not stop until you reach the rails—then get off the bridge as fast as you can. With luck, they’ll be little to no resistance.” I crossed myself even though I wasn’t Catholic, or even Lutheran. “May God be with us.”

  “May God be with us all,” they repeated, and took up their shields.

  And then we went: approaching the opening and cracking our reins; thundering forward as the dusk trembled and yielded before us (and no gunfire erupted), weaving in and out of the empty vehicles and time-displaced cycads—and leaping over fissures—like clanking ghosts.

  Until we’d gained the opposite side and made our way down a collapsed section of the bridge—laughing, capering, carrying on. Until we’d unfurled our bedrolls in the cold, empty railcar (having forwent a campfire so as not to reveal our position) and curbed our banter (so as not to betray our fear); and, slowly, reluctantly—for tomorrow we would be judged—let slip our grip on the world.

  Comfort. Warmth. Sturdy, clean-smelling sheets. It was still dark out.

  I sat up with a start.

  Silence, or nearly so. I blinked and rubbed my eyes.

  The room was simple, sparse, nondescript, like a hotel room. And yet two things were immediately apparent: The shower was running—or had been, for I could now hear the sound of taps turning; and my armor and weapons were gone.

  Not just removed—not, say, draped over a nearby chair—but gone, vanished. Vanished and replaced with ...

  I rubbed the silken material of the tunic between my fingers. Whatever this was.

  I threw off the blankets and stood even as the bathroom door opened and a woman wrapped in a towel stepped out—and immediately froze, as though she’d been unprepared for what she saw. “Oh, my,” she said.

  “Oh, my?” I must have looked bewildered. “Wouldn’t that be my line?” I took a step closer. “You act as though you’re surprised to see me here. Why?”

  She seemed to relax and to regain her composure. “Surprised? No. No—not really. And yes. A progenitrix is always a little shocked; by the reality of it, I mean. The directness. At least, at first.” She moved toward the kitchenette. “Would you like a drink? Something to take the edge off?”

  I watched as she took out a bottle of wine and paused, checking to make sure her towel was secure—then fetched two glasses. “I still want to do my hair, if you don’t mind. I know it’s silly, but—”

  “Enough! Where are the others?”

  “Oh, they’re here. They’re with their pro—they’re with their partners.”

  She approached and extended the decanter—but hesitated before giving me the corkscrew. “How do I know you’re not going to gouge my eyes out with this?”

  “You don’t.” I snatched her by the wrist suddenly and yanked her against me—the bottle falling and smashing against the floor—then brought my face close to her own. “I want you to take me to them—do you understand? Now.”

  “Easy. You’re hurting me ...” She shook the hair from her eyes as she struggled. “You’ll be with them soon. Besides, Hespa won’t allow it—not before fertilization. Please, don’t—”

  “Who is Hespa?” I squeezed her wrist tighter even as she yelped. “What do you mean, ‘fertilization?’”

  “He—Hespa is our Administress, the viceroy of Matropolis. The one who established Progenistroika. But you wouldn’t—” I shook her by the arm—too hard (she couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds). “It—it’s a breeding program; designed to—oh, don’t you see? There’s no men here, only women. How else could we possibly—”

  “Who are the men strung up from the Gateway Arch?” She recoiled as though in shock and disgust. “Answer me. Who are the poor sods and why did you hang them? Or did they refuse to participate in your, your—”

  “Progenistroika,” she said, still looking horrified. “The Multiplying; the Great Restructuring.” She looked at the floor and the shattered glass—depleted, pitiful. “And I don’t know who those men could be. I—I never leave the hotel. I don’t even look out the windows.”

  I eased my grip on her, slowly, begrudgingly, studying her face. “I—I believe you, somehow. I’m not sure why.” I let go of her wrist. “There’s no deception in your eyes. No guile.”

  We stared at each other in the stillness of the room.

  “Nor yours,” she said. “Even in anger.” She bowed slightly and re-met my gaze. “I’m Josephine, of the Holy Order of Progenitrices and Servants of Progenistroika.”

  “Galaren,” I said, “of the Lake and Heart of the Awl.”

  She seemed to think about this, appearing distant, distracted. “Like Galahad ... the knight who found the Holy Grail.” Her face lit up suddenly, beautifully, as though she’d had an epiphany. “That’s what you were doing camped out in our territory. You’re on a quest!”

  I had to smile—at her accurate assessment, it was true, but also her effervescence, which was intoxicating. “Why, yes—yes, I suppose we are. A quest for a shard of the mothership—that great, dark shape which lies half in the river and half over the land, your land. Surely you’re aware of ...”

  Her blue eyes flicked up and down my body; it wasn’t on purpose, it was just something she did. A tick.

  “The Devil’s Spade,” she finished, seeming to shiver at its very mention. “The Ark of the Old Ones.” She looked at the glass-strewn floor. “Aware, yes. Familiar with—no. Hespa says it is pure evil and that to touch it would be certain death.” Her expression changed abruptly, from seriousness to outright horror. “But what on earth is it you intend?”

  Again the eyes—bedroom eyes, with a life and animus of their own.

  “I—we ...” I found myself hesitating, in part because I was unsure how to put it, but mostly because I was becoming increasingly intrigued, increasingly allured; to the point that I was losing my focus on what mattered—which was the liberation of my accoutrements (as well as my friends) and the resolution of our quest. Indeed, what was needed now more than anything was information, raw data. I needed to know where we were: the dimensions of the room, the layout of the building. I needed to know if there were guards—and if so, how many, and how were they armed?

  “You said that—before fertilization—you wished to do your hair.” I took a chance and placed a hand on the side of her head, an act of gentle dominance. “Do you still wish it?”

  She closed here eyes and didn’t move—and I thought for a moment I’d erred. Then she opened them and just nodded, slowly, resolutely. “I do,” she said.

  “Then go, Josephine. Make it so. And close the door behind you. I want ... I wish to be surprised.”

  “I have to tell you,” she was saying, her voice slightly muffled by the door, “that if it’s a piece of the Ark you’re after—I think that’s quite foolish. Hespa is right to call it a thing of pure evil; what else could something be that was seeding the clouds with those awful lights?”

  I approached the door of the unit and paused, considering what she’d said, then reached out and turned the knob, slowly—only to find it locked from the other side.

  “Because that’s what it was doing—seeding the clouds; launching little replicas of itself, like satellites, like glowing arrowheads. At least, until we came out the next day and found it half in the drink—with a trail of wreckage behind it ... your shards.” She laughed, brusquely. “Better be ready, though. Because the dinos love that thing—and its shards. They’re everywhere out there. Hespa says it’s because they’re connected; the saurians and the ships—the lights, whatever—that they share a bond and can recognize each other. As for me, I don’t know. What say you?”

 

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