With some effort I open aching eyes, water pooling in my ears. I smell salt. Lifting my head, my hair soaked heavy, I run my tongue over my lips and taste blood.
And then I spot them. Two people, one taller than the other, in what appears to be camo gear. From the white plastic chum bucket the short one carries I infer they've been fishing.
"Hey mate! You good?"
"Y...yeah."
It hurts to speak.
"What's your name?" one asks as the other checks on me.
"Um...Rivaille Agricole. I think."
"Can you stand?"
"Yeah."
Their accents sound weird. Probably a dialect unique to this island. They gently lift me to my feet, supporting me on either side as my right foot is twisted. I'm quite short so they tower over me like benevolent titans.
"Our home is not too far away."
I appreciate the help, but I'm also slightly scared.
You see, these people don't look like men.
But of course it can't be. It's been hundreds of anni since the sun ripped open. They are as real as unicorns or dragons.
"Um...you've got nice hair, man. Haven't seen it worn at that length before."
"Thanks?" the person on my left answers. His name's Divana and the other is Lucina.
"You've also got great pecs. What's your routine?"
"You mean my boobs?"
"I wouldn't say guys have "boobs" though. That was more of an idiomatic term for..."
"We're not guys, bud."
My eyes widen.
"I mean, no one's seen one of them in centuries, so I couldn't even tell if you were lying. Good joke, though."
"Them?"
"Um...Wi-men, I think they were called. Yeah. Women."
Now it's their turn to look confused.
"You hit your head somewhere?"
I stay silent, trying to process the situation. Surely I'm dreaming.
They come to a realization.
"Oh...you're from that place."
"The hell you talking about?"
"Where's your home located?"
"Uh...South Latitude 47° 9', West Longitude 126° 43' if I remember correctly."
"Yep. He's from the Facility, Lucy."
I need to learn more.
"Facility? And where am I right now?"
"Nemo Island. South Latitude 48° 52.6', 123° 23.6' West Longitude."
Never heard of it.
"I admit you do look different from people I know, but..."
"You've never seen a woman before, have you?"
I shake my head, water dripping from my ears.
"This is gonna take some explaining."
We reach their home.
Houses made of dried mud brick, solar powered with nearby wind turbines providing supplementary energy. Fields of fresh veggies and fruits line the hills on my left. Plump tomatoes, bananas, what I think are oranges.
But it's the inhabitants of this place that really shock me.
They all have these physiological characteristics that, according to the Archive, were most common to women.
"You're all...how is this possible?"
Lucina chuckles, reminding me of Chretien. Yeah, that's his name. My memories are slowly returning.
"They've really kept y'all closed off, eh?"
"Who's 'They'?"
My brothers would talk about an island near our own where Women were said to live, but none of us left the shores in search of it. Would you go sailing to find Atlantis?
Two more women (I can't deny it by this point) approach us, one holding what looks like a spear tipped with a freshly picked apple.
The spear-wielder eyes me suspiciously. Her friend, holding a wicker basket full of fruit, questions Divana:
"Kiu estas chi tiu fremdulo?"
It's a language I've never heard before, but I try to follow along.
"Ni trovis lin che la Plajo de Exoy. Li shaynas vundita, do ni aktseptis lin por inspektado."
"Li povus esti danjera por la homoy lojantay chi tie. De kie li venis?"
"Li estas de la Instituto de Zhurnaloy."
The spear-holder chimes in:
"Ua! Do estis malsaje venigi lin."
That tone doesn't sound friendly. I'm guessing they don't want a washed up weirdo from some supposed facility around.
Nevertheless Divana argues for my case. Begrudgingly the spear-woman accepts whatever argument she makes and they leave us be, heading back to the fields. Lucina pats me on the back.
"You'll learn Lingvo Internatsia soon enough, should you stick around. It was once the lingua franca of the Seven."
"I need some answers. Like, how do women still exist?"
"You sound horrified," she jokes.
I notice a white building at the centre of the community, larger than the others, next to which is a copper pole with a flag flying on it. A rectangular banner with red, orange, yellow, green, blue and indigo stripes and a chevron on its hoist with black, brown, light blue, pink and white stripes. At the centre of the chevron is the astronomical sign for Venus in violet ink, with the words "LIBERETSO, EGALETSO, FRATETSO" written under the symbol in the same colour.
They take me to what seems like a town square where some women are playing wind instruments for people in a circle dance. What appear to be women-children (girls, I think they were called?) are seated around the circle, singing and clapping in rhythm.
I'm handed a fishing rod as a walking stick by Divana, who leads Lucina by the hand to the dancers.
"We'll catch you later! Take it easy!"
I'm trying to, but this all feels like a fever dream. I pinch myself just in case.
One woman catches my eye, putting her lute down. She stands and makes her way to me as I try to balance with the stick.
She looks like she recognizes me. Sun-tanned skin, hazel eyes, hip-length black hair. She smiles, revealing a baby gap. Those teeth are familiar.
"Didn't think I'd catch you on this side of the ocean!"
My head registers.
"Dem?"
Demetrius was our strongest hunter. He could outpace an island deer and wrestle with a constrictor snake, walk on broken glass and cup naked flames in his palms.
A few anni ago he left home, supposedly in search of "others like us." He was always a loose unit, but we loved him for his eccentricities and missed him when he never returned.
"I understand your confusion. I go by Mary-Ann now."
"De...Mary-Ann, I don't understand what's going on. Could you explain some of this?"
"Sure. But first, you should join us for a bit."
She grabs me by the wrist with a familiar cheeky grin, leading me to the circle. I take a seat beside some girls who don't seem as shocked about me as I am of them.
For a few minutes I listen to the songs and try to slow my heartbeat with a breathing technique. They sing in that language I don't understand, their dances less systematic than our traditions on the island. No, less rule-based. They actually look like they're having fun.
A three-sixty spin, hop forward, hop on one foot in the same place, clap twice, slap knees, change direction, three steps forward, repeat. Some food is brought to me by a girl holding a silver tray.
"Are these pommy-grenades?"
"You don't have them at the Facility?"
I shake my head, biting into one gratefully. The crimson juice drips down my chin, washing the salt and blood from my tongue. The seeds are sort of like corn kernels in texture and taste a bit like cherries. The hardest part is the skin. I take mental notes as I'll need to report all of this when I return.
The girl sits next to me. Her name, she tells me, is Eva.
"So what's the Facility like?"
"I don't get what you mean. You speak as if it's different from here."
"Is it?"
"Not really. I guess there are some plants we don't have. And also..."
"No women?"
I nod.
"Do you know what happened? How this started?"
"An angel came down from heaven and ripped the sun open. That's what the Archive tells us, anyway. All the women died out because of Black Fever."
I remember the voice of the Archive, or Dad as He wants us to call Him:
There are five fevers ya must be wary of: the Red which causes painful bleeding ulcers, the Blue which turns people into Nutters, the Green which gives people the Jade Thumb, the White which dissolves ya into a fungus and the Black which kills instantly.
"And I guess the sky seems clearer here. A day on my island is split into eleven hours: Zero Dawn, Full Dark, Pitch Black, Starry Night, Bleak Horizon, Dark Thirty, Dim Light, Musky Twilight, Gloam Season, Day Zero and No Stars. Dark, darker, darkest."
She listens intently. Trying not to bore her with the rules of my world, I change the topic:
"So how does...reproduction work here? Archive makes us with His machinery, but I don't see a Kon-pyuu-taa anywhere."
"Um...we reproduce the way humans usually do. You know, sex and all that. Sometimes in vitro."
"But for that to be there must be..."
Two men show up to the festivities, flagons of drink in hand. At this point I faint.
I wake up in some bed at what would be around GS:50 on my island, going by how the clouds look outside. The windows, surprisingly, are made of clean glass.
"He's up, Hommy."
Thomas Martin, I later find out, is Nemo's gyno, and also the island's leading medical expert on par with Lyudmila Miller. They are currently discussing my condition in intelligible speech.
"Severe dehydration coupled with possible hypothermia. The lacerations in his injured foot appear to have caused infection as well."
"Should've been brought in sooner."
"Diva and Lucy haven't seen any people in his condition. I wouldn't blame them too harshly."
"A person from the Facility hasn't washed up here for years. I thought they all died out."
"Life finds a way, I guess."
I'm visited by a familiar face as the docs prepare medicines in strange glass objects.
"How're you holding, bud?"
"Good, I guess."
I notice a tube has been stuck in my arm. I think...yeah, Archive would call it a cannula.
We talk about our lives and the anni when we weren't together.
Demetrius was quite certain that there were more of us out there. His brother Posidonius became a Nutter, but before Chretien put him down he was rambling about other islands with life on them.
His curiosity got the better of him and his raft ended up on this island of women. In the time he spent here he began to learn a bit more about himself, and eventually realized that his inside had never matched his outside. With help from Doctor Hommy the butterfly emerged from her pupa and she arose.
I don't pretend to understand any of this. Barely a week ago I knew for certain this person I admired almost as much as Chretien was dead. But from what I observe, she is happier in this life than she was in her prior one. And if no one is hurt ultimately, I don't consider this transformation wrong or unnatural. It seems Demetrius is Mary-Ann now, and that's fine by me.
"So, this means you don't have a..."
"Nope. That's the miracle of life-saving surgery."
"That's cool, bro. I mean, sis."
She smiles.
"That constant need to be polite. It's good to see you haven't changed, Rivaille."
I'm injected with some stuff and told to rest for a while. Mary-Ann promises to explain what's going on when I wake up. I dream.
Now the Guide is way ahead of him, about twelve holes away. But the trail makes it easy. Glowing, a golden ribbon in the dark. He follows, making a genuine effort to keep up. But the Guide is quick, flying faster than any manmade aircraft, and is not very patient. They lead, he follows.
The first few holes are not too special. Worlds of odd colours, sounds and smells. One hole contains a world of pure water. No land, nothing floating above the surface. Just an endless ocean, a global deluge. He has to swim to the next hole. The third is a bit more interesting. A pink sky, the colour of a sunkissed peach. Soft, warm sand. But each hole gets stranger and stranger. Some contain worlds of pure metal, others of rainforests and beaches and mangroves and islands. Some have life in them. Birds, fish, no land creatures yet. He has gone through thirty-three by now, and the Guide shows no signs of stopping. No problem. He shows no signs of giving up.
This new hole is pure white all around. No sound. The ground is smooth like the marble of a Roman statue and colder than ice. He is fortunate to be wearing travel boots. There is no wind, no oxygen. He wonders how he is breathing. But he has no time to focus on such trivial matters. The trail is still glowing, the Guide not slowing. He walks this time, his feet numb from running. Gradually he breaks into a small jog, then a trot, then a canter, then a gallop, then a full-fledged sprint. He's running for about thirty seconds before he sees it.
Plopped down at the centre of the world. Large, bloated, blood-red. Rubbery tentacles, each one covered with eyes. As he approaches
the thing cautiously, he counts twenty-five muscular tendrils, each limb as thick as his waist. The creature seems to be sleeping, its long cephalopod arms trailing out for miles.
When he's about twenty yards away the creature's eyes flick open. Green, catlike. The legions focus on him as he tries to waddle his way around the beast. The thing withdraws its long tentacles like a snail shrinking back into its shell. Its limbs wrapped around it like a rubber-band ball, it disappears under the white ground which opens up like a mouth. Disturbed but still determined to find the hole out of this place, he keeps moving.
Silence. Only the sound of his heart can be heard. Tattarattat. Tattarattat. Tattarattat. He feels something moving under the ice, but continues speed-walking, ignoring the painful urge to curl up and close his eyes. The trail is still there, glowing as bright as a googolplex suns.
A tentacle rips through the ice and grabs him. The rubbery ribbon wraps itself round his left leg seven times, nearly yanking him under the water. He stomps the appendage with as much vigour as a tyrannosaur dancing a jig: it loosens its grip and he runs.
As tentacle after tentacle rips through the ice, serpentine eyes aiming for their target, he can see it up ahead. The next hole, with the trail going down into it. The All-Seer is smart, however, and has already surrounded the portal with more tentacles, forming a fence of flesh at least ten yards tall. He dodges limb after limb in his mad dash for the hole, sliding under the curtain of tendrils like a rabbit ducking into its den, avoiding the wandering limbs like a weasel dodging a bullet. He nearly gets snagged as he falls feet-first into the next world.
He falls for a long time. It seems like centuries by the time he lands in the waters of a new place, shrouded in moonlight. Pure darkness here, no sun or stars. Just the moon, just the night sky, just the calm waters that were disturbed by a pilgrim as he landed like a falcon diving.
Hitting the water, he feels no pain. By the time he struggles to the surface for breath, he finds a gondola nearby. Paddling towards it, he climbs on, throwing his wet and wind-beaten body over deck. Lying down, he faces the sky. The starless night, with only the moon as its sentinel in the dark. He wonders where the boat came from, then pushes the thought out of his head as he thinks of the Guide. The Guide is in control. The Guide with nine tails. He knows that. He doesn't know how he knows, but he just does. The Guide will take care of him till the end.
This world is silent, but not like the previous one. A peaceful silence. The moon is a galleon scouting the sky, a worried father waiting for a soldier to come home. He thinks about someone he knows. His eyes glow as bright as the light now hanging above him.
Beautiful eyes. He's forgotten their colour. But they glow so brightly, like the heart of a galaxy. His skin is smooth like ivory, like buttermilk poured over a field of polished pebbles. Hair like the core of the earth, a deeper, richer red than every dying sun in the cosmos. Red enough to make red jealous.
He is limber and streamlined, his body reminding him of a golden temple, something sacred. His inner warmth. His divine symmetry. Many times he has wanted to embrace him. His feet, smooth ankles, thighs, the cushion of his pelvis. Like an architect he would run his artist's hands over his stomach, his hips, his chest. Feel the hollow of his collarbone, the smooth bones of his neck. Feel his hair, a river of red rum. Look into his eyes. Those sad, beautiful, lonely eyes.
The boat gently moves through the water like the hand of a child drawing shapes in the crystal liquid, tracing patterns and numbers and contours in the aqueous depths. It rocks him gently like a babe in a cradle. Basking in the glow, he drifts off to the land of living hopes.
He wakes up in a new hole. The boat had been heading in this direction all along, following the trail which glows just as brightly in the water as on land. It's a beach with bone-white shores of watery sand.
He hops out, feeling better now that he's rested. He stretches his limbs and sets off. Hole after hole he wanders, seeing many beautiful things, many horrifying things. He witnesses entities of varying shapes and kinds, both mesmerizing and traumatising. And ahead of him, he can still see the Guide. The Guide is the star in the east. With the voice of a lion they lead the way, calling out for all who wish to follow. He pursues as best he can, sleeping when he can.
Running, jogging, walking, crawling, he makes his way through the holes. Avoiding many dangers, he passes through one hundred and twenty-five. By the time he reaches the final destination, the Guide has stopped moving. He can see them now in their full glory, standing at the end of everything.
I wake up. Man, that was a weird dream. Power of drugs, I guess.
Mary-Ann is sitting next to me. She's close enough to hug.
"I thought you were dead...no one could have survived the journey."
But, then again, I've survived as well. I can't remember how or why I left home, but I've survived.
She hands me something warm and round. It seems to be a sandwich of some kind, two circular pieces of bread with a filling of plants, sauce and what appears to be meat.
"This is a hamburger. The meat is plant-based, so no animals needed to be harmed."
"Han-baa-gaa," I imitate.
I start eating. I get seven minutes in heaven.
When I'm done she begins to explain some aspects of her society:
"In terms of economy, everyone has a common ownership of land, labour and capital. For example, if a person wants to paint, they simply need to visit the local warehouse and collect some materials, then return what they borrowed when done. Money was used in older forms of society according to our books, but we have no need for that. Because we share everything, things have to be done democratically. The people decide on decisions that impact the community. This leaves no room for caste, racial lines or anything else.
There are men, women and those outside of the binary living here. Originally there were just women, but soon some born as women realised there was a mismatch between their biological sex and gender identity, so they found suitable solutions with help from the Doctors and Whatchamacallit."
"Whatchamacallit?"
"She's like our nurse, skilled with knowledge from the world before the sun ripped open."
As if on cue Whatchamacallit reveals herself: a smaller mobile version of Dad, set on a wheeled platform. She is shaped like what was called a "Re-furi-jerei-taa" in the old world, although Archive's never told us what they did.
"Some people on this island came from other places, such as Mary-Ann and yourself. There are seven artificial islands in this area, erected after the sun ripped open. They may be all that's left of humanity, a small piece of what was once a kaleidoscope of diversity."
"Your robot has a similar make to the Archive."
The machine responds in my tongue, but in a dialect from a distant country, my language spoken with the rules of another, cultivated in isolation after the sun ripped open:
"Ai andasutando zea izu samu konfuyuujon bekozu yuu habu biin aisoreitido furomu zaa autsuaido waarudo, batto Ai houpu Ai kyan purobaido azu menii aansaazu azu poshiburu."
"I appreciate that. Sincerely."
We converse a bit more. The information I get is similar to what Dad has told us in class.
Centuries ago an angel came down from the sky, clothed with a cloud with a rainbow upon their head, a face like a star and feet like pillars of fire. With a cry they called out: "There shall be time no longer!" and the sun ripped open with a shower of flame.
Soon afterwards the remains of humanity gathered together to rebuild what they could, and to improve our species lest another event like this occur. Islands were created in isolated spots and people were selected as part of a breeding program to replenish the Earth. Unfortunately during this experimentation the five Fevers developed and all women were wiped out, leaving behind a few men who had to be replicated via machines, the process making it impossible for a female human to be created.
At least, that's what I knew. But according to Whatchamacallit, there are six islands the fevers never touched. Nervengeist, Nemo, Panpotamos, Xyronthul, Iessedekeos and Starmaiden are neighbours of my home, Mahaviroel, named after the being who ended the world.
The Facility on my island is the last of its kind, an obsolete last resort that, until now, was my entire world. I feel the foundations of my life beginning to crumble.
Mary-Ann chimes in:
"I know this is a lot to process. It was hard for me too."
"So...the Nutters were right? They weren't just crazy?"
"It seems the Blue Fever, rather than making a person insane, makes them hypersane, somehow unintentionally connecting them with transcendent knowledge beyond their regular access. In other words, those infected with it are faced with the reality that their lives are illusions and their world is much larger than they expected. That would destroy anyone mentally, I think."
"Ok, so that explains a lot. But who is the 'they' Diva and Lucy were talking about? The ones keeping my island isolated?"
"No one knows. We assume the people that started all of this. But we don't actually know if they're still around."
"I need to tell my brothers. They need this information."
"Yes, they have a right to know. So long as you feel they won't be a threat to our way of life, we can let you head back."
I spend two more days on the island, during which I pick up a bit of the International Language, learn a bit of fishing and am gifted a lute to take back home.
On the third day I find a small sailing boat at the Beach of Echoes where I had washed up. Some more gifts have been put on it: a basket of pomegranates, a fishing rod and some rations for the trip back.
A few friends are here to see me off. Mary-Ann gives me a bear-hug.
"Tell Redhead I've missed him."
"I'll let Chretien know."
Diva and Lucy each give me a "secret handshake", as they call it. Those were fun to learn.
Whatchamacallit gives me a more ominous farewell:
"Meiku shua jisu infomeishon izu keputo seifu. Ai sasupekuto zea aa haiaa pawaazu atto purei."
I nod. A shadow seems to hang over this knowledge I carry.
Still, I'm hoping my encounter can build a bridge between our islands as we fix what's left of mankind.
They watch them from Starmaiden Island, also called Gichi Manidoo ("Great Mystery"). Their Geocratic Overseeing Directors have a panoramic view of the planet, but their focus is on G.O.D 21, which has an aerial scope of the Sieben Eilande, the last cry of the Pleroma Project.
"He's returning."
"Subject 19260327J is not a priority."
"But the information he carries..."
"Will not change much. Even if we destroyed his craft with a storm, his friends on Viro would most likely head out in search of him. Sooner or later contact would be made between Insel Eins and Insel Drei, that much was certain."
"We can't let them. It would spit on our predecessors' efforts to cull the Virans."
"Whether viruses or something else, we can't stop this. And our ancestors worried in vain: Professor Bancroft's research can never be revived with Insel Drei's state anyways, so our job is done in that regard."
"But none of them were supposed to live. It's a risk to leave them..."
"Blame your grandfather for making their Rafreiknir so protective and rebellious. Of all the proposed models for Rafreiknar he chose the biggest one and gave it the worst personality..."
"Boys, hit the brakes."
Professor Scotomedes Shadowborn, their current head.
"We need to find a new base. This isle has been depleted and the populace is too spliced for further experimentation."
"Panpotamos?"
Insel Fuenf. Its full name is Panpotamie des Ans Plus de Trois Cents, built to last at least four centuries.
"A good candidate, but I fear the Cunninghams."
Their human-sized Rafreiknir, Toelva, wakes up and begins to regurgitate information regarding the aforementioned Cunninghams. Unlike Hjarni, which has maintained its condition on the Third Island despite assuming the personality of an overprotective father, this computer is barely functioning, and responds at random:
Homo hemitheus heidelbergensis, a.k.a Cunninghams: a unique subspecies of malformed human beings created through genetic experimentation during the Nyx Program, which isolated the genome of Professor Adam Faust Cunningham and his wife Yngrid over twenty-nine generations, producing the people group we know at present.
Each Cunningham has a red left eye and green right, an extra thumb on the right hand, golden-red hair, seven toes on the left foot and six toes on the right, a sloping Neanderthalian forehead and a thick bushy unibrow.
Women of this subspecies give birth every thirty-nine months in "batches" of 180 children: ninety-four boys and eighty-six girls per batch, a baby no bigger than a ripe orange and weighing two pounds at birth.
Males are on average eight feet or taller, females six feet or taller. Due to continuous intermarriage a male Cunningham will live for an average of 30 years and a female for 120, hence men marry young and women will generally have many suitors in their lifetime, as they can bear offspring till death similar to lobsters.
In terms of odd habits, they never wash. They are a rough and tumble folk, dirt is like a second layer of skin to them. Slow to anger and quick to laughter, they are also possibly the most sympathetic people on this planet.
They are very loyal: once ya've earned their trust, they'll die for ya. They can jump three metres high, and feel no pain: the part of their brain that processes physical hurt has been bred out. An army of Cunninghams could have their arms blown off with tank fire and be riddled with bullets, and they'll still be running and fighting with the same vigour and ferocity. They can throw an object of 200 pounds at a distance of 1.6 kilometres with one hand and run at seventy miles per hour without breaking a sweat.
They love syrup and molasses. They have it on meat, bread, vegetables, fruits, fish and in any beverage. They're crazy for the stuff and accept barrels of it as gifts from strangers. Overall an odd but peaceable people, the product of humankind toying with nature to its extreme. Currently numbering at a million as of the last census.
"If only they'd put a Shut Up button on these things...and that godawful accent..."
"Anyways, we would have our hands full if we tried to settle there. They don't trust us and are very aggressive."
"I once saw a Cunningham rip another man's arm off on a G.O.D cam. He wrenched it out of its socket, like plucking an apple or pulling a tuber from the ground."
"They'd make great labour. Our military would be in trouble without the assistance of such Low Men."
"Speaking of, it seems the natives are attempting another revolt."
"Just release some Magietiere on them. The beasts will turn them into fertilizer."
"You've always been baying for blood, Enoch. Put your boner back in your breeches."
"What about Nemo? We could shoot two eagles with one arrow if we settled there and disciplined the locals."
"We could also give the savages education, something they are very clearly lacking if they think allying with Mahaviroel is a good idea."
"Hopefully they'll be more soft-hearted to the truth than the bastards here."
Professor Shadowborn considers all these voices. He makes a decision.
"Nemo it is. It is quite resource-rich, and it'd also be quite easy to control a nation of women."
Professor Donatien grins sadistically.
"Let's ready the ships."
Comments