Out of Time by Ryan Matthew Harker (ebooks online reader txt) 📕

“We’re waiting,” Sammi speaks for the first time in an hour.

“For what?” My head lolls her way and I bat my eyelashes at her.

She giggles, “For a sign.”

“Oh.” I’m feeling kind of drunk and it’s all I can think to say. “Well I don’t think I can wait for a sign,” I confide. “That rapscallion, Ras, has something to do with finding TRU. I need to know what.”

“So what are you gonna do?” Sammi leans close and nearly whispers in her own intoxication.

The Curator is all but forgotten for the moment. I stare into her eyes and whisper back, “I’m not certain, but... I think I’m about ready for bed.” Between the day I’ve survived, and the alcohol, I find this statement to be very true as weariness sweeps over me.

Sammi swallows the rest of her scotch, a mischievous gleam lit in her eyes, and stands above me with hand extended. “I believe I can help with that,” she invites.

A boyish grin splits my face and, without hesitation, I too swallow the remainder of my scotch, set down my glass, and accept her proffered hand.

Sammi pulls me to my feet and we both stagger into each other’s arms. Holding onto each other for support we offer our goodnights to the Curator and take leave of his generous hospitality.

As the door shuts behind us I’m sure I feel my teeth vibrate.

The next morning (or whenever it is I awake) my head aches most unjustifiably considering the relatively small quantity of scotch I consumed. I have very little time to ruminate on the obvious potency of the descendant of this beloved liquor when the source of my slumber’s interruption are readily, steadily, and quite loudly repeated: screams, cries, and the all too familiar sound of a certain type of fingerfire. Zenociders!

Sammi awakes beside me and we both bounce into our clothes at the same time. I can see her dressing out of the corner of my eyes but have no time to ponder the delicate curves I’ve come to know so well in the short time since she led me from the Curator’s to the cramped comfort of her own hovel. I’m covered first and rush to the sheetmetal door, prying it free of its warped jamb to peer out on Cocoon Town. The frantic scene that meets my eyes as I peer through the one inch crack is one of barbaric chaos. Zenociders are invading the snug sanctum of the Temporal Refugees by the dozen, swarming out of the cavern’s entry tunnels like ants they descend upon these gentile people of Cocoon Town without mercy. While some stick to the ground others still take to the air, propelled by twin propulsion systems attached to their backs, or maybe, I look closer, not attached but actually integrated into their bodies! They are cyborgs after all and have jetpacks. With the advantage of air this doesn’t bode well for the denizens of the deep. I shut the door and turn towards Sammi.

“I’m going to need my...” Weapons dies on my lips as she shoves my AR into my hands. One heck of a woman, that’s for shore; she doesn’t see my grin in the dark.

Headache thrust aside I open the door and take aim at the nearest Zenocider. It’s one of the flying ones and it’s just aiming its deadly finger at the nearest back of a helpless, fleeing woman as my high velocity rounds tear through it. Crashing to the ground right in front of me I leave the safety (and comfort) of the doorway and jump over its twitching corpse.

Sammi’s right beside me with her own barking cannon, shouting, “We must get to the Curator!”

I nod in agreement, not caring if she catches it. The old robot’s shack is where I’m heading and I’m sure she’ll follow.

My AR and Sammi’s hand cannon make short work of any opposition unfortunate enough to get in our way, but the closer we get to the Curator’s home the more futile our chances of getting there begin to look. It appears the harassment and murder of refugees is only a hobby for the Zenociders today. Most of the cybernetic forces are concentrating on the area immediately surrounding the Curator’s domicile. I know a useless situation when I see it and grab Sammi’s shoulder, dragging her out of sight around the corner of a hut before a large group of the relentless machines spots us.

“It’s no use!” I shout over the din of the invasion. “We’ve got to get out of here!” Her eyes relay a painfully emphatic ‘NO’, but she can’t help but agree with me. She nods and blinks back tears of frustration.

“Follow me!” Shouting her features are once more set in a grim mask of determination.

Though not swaddled, once more my guide, the young woman leads me beyond the ever tightening ring of Zenociders. Following blindly I don’t even consider the path I’m on to be a trail in any sense of the word. I suppose that makes ‘path’ obsolete as well. Half scaling huts and dashing through hovels Sammi appears to be taking a direct line to a very specific destination. In this instance her destination is a rust and grime encrusted iron hatch with a wheel lock in its center. The determination of fear driving her muscles, Sammi attacks the wheel lock with all of the ferocity of a wild animal. The wheel lock’s determination is stronger than hers though and it refuses to budge. I join her assault with a savage ferocity of my own, grabbing the right side of the wheel lock and leveraging my body under it. I push with all the strength of my legs while Sammi pulls down on the left. For all the effort our reward is a slight creak and the wheel shifts barely a fraction of a turn.

As I prepare to renew my efforts I happen to glance behind us. With a cry of surprise I abandon the wheel lock, grab up my AR, and blast a pair of Zenociders trying to sneak up on us.

I cast aside my rifle. Adrenaline courses through me and I grab the wheel with a mighty heave. “Aarrrgh-A!” I yell to increase my strength. The wheel creaks again, and we give it more strength; where we find it, I don’t know.

Finally the wheel breaks loose of its rusty mortar and begins to spin somewhat freely.

“Yippie!” Sammi shouts as we turn the ponderous wheel.

With a clank it stops suddenly and I strain to open the hatch, revealing a dark tunnel just big enough for the two of us to crawl through. The air is rank but we have no choice. I grab up my AR as Sammi climbs inside and, with one final look at the devastation of her snug little underground community, I climb in after her.

High above Cocoon Cathedral a crack in the ceiling hides us with lofty shadows from the terror stricken people unwillingly herded along the stone below, and their biomechanical shepherds. Sammi and I are wedged in tight, our perch the perfect eerie from which to observe the lower proceedings.

Having crawled and shimmied our way through narrow tunnels, through ancient cobwebs and the feces of small midnight dwelling critters, squirming through dust and the littered debris of collapsed ceilings until our knees and palms were bloody, our escape eventually led us to the greater security found in these higher elevations.

A greater view also.

We watch as down below the Zenociders prod and shove the people into a huddling, fearful crowd around the Curator’s house.

“What are they doing?” Sammi asks.

“I don’t know,” I admit, straining to make sense of the garbled words that float up from the cavern’s floor.

With the residents of the Cocoon rounded up the Zenociders take up positions in a circle around them, fingers at the ready. Dispassionate and motionless as these sentries are the people they guard are human still, and, though restless already, grow perceptively more so as something disturbs their disturbed discomfort. I shift my gaze beyond the Housing District and notice another group of Zenociders emerging from the unseen recesses of an entry tunnel. Within their folds struts a man who, even at a distance, can’t be mistaken for anyone other than Ras Adoc Davison.

The small group of Zenociders and their leader stomp up to the mass of refugees. The fearful crowd parts like the Red Sea as they approach and within a matter of moments Ras stands in front of the Curator’s modest dwelling. The door opens and out steps the old robot, an escort of Zenociders, one to either side of him, close on his metal heels.

“Hello C.RO.N.O.S.,” Ras’ voice carries softly but clearly above the sudden hush. I barely have to strain my ears to catch his words.

“Ras,” the Curator drones emotionlessly and falls silent.

“Quite the city you’ve got for yourself here,” Ras’ benign remark is full of undisguised facetious contempt and he gestures about. “I would have thought you’d have done more with the time I’ve allowed you here.”

“We’ve done what was necessary and no more,” the Curator responds. “You’ve made sure our lives have been too difficult for much else.”

“Ah, yes,” Ras chuckles remorselessly. “I suppose I have, haven’t I? Of course it didn’t need to be like this. I built a home for all of these people and offered you a place as their ruler, but you would have none of it.”

“You built them a prison,” the Curator declared. “And offered me a place as their warden. Were you so surprised when , instead, we chose to revolt?”

Ras’ shoulders slump in an obvious sigh which I can’t hear from this distance, and answers, “No, I suppose not. Though I had hoped it would be otherwise.”

“So long as your evil perpetuates, it will forever be so,” the Curator gravely states.

Without warning Ras changes the subject, “Where is he?”

“Where is who?” the Curator deflects.

“You know who, you damnable robot! Where is Galileo Jones?!” The change from controlled authority to violent aggression is swift and the surrounding people shrink from the venomous energy Ras radiates.

“Davey Galileo Jones?” the Curator questions and Ras nods his head affirmatively. “I don’t believe he’s been in this era for more than four hundred and fifty years.”

Although I look down on him from behind I know that Ras’ face clouds over with rage. Reaching for a black truncheon hanging from his waist he raises it and strikes the Curator a resounding blow across his face. Though the impact rings with a dull metallic thud that reverberates around Cocoon Town, the robot’s head barely turns to one side as the truncheon connects. Standing all the straighter the Curator’s sunken blue orbs glare into Ras’ golden eyes.

“It seems you doubt the veracity of my words,” the Curator observes and Ras once more beats him across the face with his club.

“Of course I do, you rusted out box of bolts!” Ras screams. “I stood face to face with him no more than a day ago! My Zenociders chased him for more than five blocks! I know one of your filthy rats helped him to escape here! Now, I’ll ask you one more time, Where Is Galileo Jones?”

The Curator shakes his head and replies, “I don’t know?”

It’s the truth, technically, but Ras has had enough. His body grows rigid with fury before he shrugs with a calm acceptance. Turning from the Curator he faces the Zenocider bodyguards who flank the old robot and lifts a finger to his throat in a sign of decapitation before stalking back through the crowd with the cyborgs he’d arrived with. Standing a step behind the old robot, the two Zenociders each lift one finger to point at the back of the Curator’s head. With a crackle of energy hot bolts fire from their fingertips and the robot’s blue eyes burst with a shower of sparks and he crumbles to the ground, no longer a sentient creature