CHAPTER 27
~Date Unknown~
The boundaries of Conqueror's territory were marked by a special desolation, a no man's land long since abandoned by those who feared becoming the tyrant's future subjects. The trade routes here were long abandoned even by Conqueror's own forces, who were more inclined to build their own routes than use a network of ill-kept and hard to spot footpaths. One such footpath led to Westhigh, a three days' walk through immolated grasslands that offered little of interest or value. Lifebringer's retinue moved as quickly along these paths as they could, though their pace was far slower than the norm. Lifebringer was clearly downplaying his injuries, but opted to soldier on, accepting only self-treatment for his pain. Storyteller was doing his own share of suffering - walking the path with his head turned, always waiting to hear the sound of an army on the march, the forces of enslavement come to restore the human prize that they had plundered.
It was no small mercy when Westhigh finally came into view. Day had just broken as they neared the facility, the path marked by long shadows from the rubble monuments that dotted the horizon. Little had changed in the months since Storyteller's first visit - a bit more overgrowth, a few more fallen bricks, or perhaps even this was merely his imagination. The building itself was as it ever was, a stalwart remnant of a better age.
"Here it is," said Storyteller. "My destination."
"I still can't understand why you would want to come here" said Lifebringer sporting the same puzzled look he had when Storyteller first mentioned the ruin. "What are you expecting to find?"
"My past." Storyteller approached the entrance. "You are free to come in, as well. I would be happy to vouch for you with the inhabitant."
"This is your quest," said Lifebringer. "We have a route to keep. We'll pick it up against to the southeast."
"Conqueror's territory?" It was Storyteller's turn to gape in amazement. "You're returning?"
"The people there are the ones who need us," said Lifebringer. "Hopefully, this is the last time our paths will cross. You're nothing but bad luck."
"A shame. I was hoping to meet you again, once this business was settled. I do truly admire you, even for our differences. It has been so long since I've conversed with a man of your principles." Storyteller gave Lifebringer a shallow bow. "I wish you safe passage."
The retinue began its trek back along the southeastern road, and Storyteller turned back to the ruins, stepping through the main entrance. "Archivist?" he shouted, his voice bouncing down the corridor and fading into oblivion. No response returned - there was no sound save that of the click and hum of the insects preparing for dormancy. He advanced into the corridor, searching for any sign of activity, but there was none to be found. "Archivist? Are you here?" Again, there was no response but the echo.
Clearing aside a few boards, Storyteller uncovered the stairway that led into Archivist's workshop. His heart quickened for thought of what he might find - the girl dead, perhaps, or captive to some pack of raiders. He listened for signs of distress as he crept down the stairs, but the air was still and silent. The workshop was much as he remembered, and at the very least there was no sign of a violent struggle, but neither was there proof of Archivist's presence. Storyteller's thoughts swirled - surely the girl had not left?
"One more step and you're a dead man, you hear?" There was a flash of movement to the right. Storyteller spotted Archivist hunkered behind an overturned table, wielding what appeared to be a crude crossbow made from scrap wood. "Storyteller? You came back!" A wide smile crossing her face, she ran over and threw her arms around Storyteller. "You've been gone so long. I was positive that you were dead."
"I came perilously close to the grave, but I always pulled through." Storyteller stepped back from Archivist. "But why were you so sure that I had died?"
"Well, no one ever comes back," said Archivist. "I figure everyone dies in the wastes. It's very dangerous out there. They eat people out there. You could have been eaten."
"I've never heard of such things." Storyteller studied the crossbow, an unwieldy weapon but certainly intimidating. "Truth be told, I was concerned for your safety as well. I'm glad to see that you are well protected."
"Yeah, if this thing worked," said Archivist, casting the weapon aside. "So, what's going on out there, anyway? Tell me about those brushes with the grave. What was it that came after you? Was it robots? Mutants? The living dead?"
"Nothing so thrilling, I'm afraid, but I did find something for you." Storyteller reached into his satchel. "Now, keep in mind that I haven't been terribly delicate with this, and I can't tell you if it works..." He produced the computer component, holding it gingerly between two fingers.
"You found one!" said Archivist, gaping in shock at the object in Storyteller's hand. "Did you get this in Nexus? What did you have to do for it? Anything sinister? Anything...sultry? I'll try not to judge."
"I didn't find it in Nexus," said Storyteller. "I had to travel farther south."
Archivist took a step back, covering her mouth. "You didn't." Her eyes went wide. "You did! You were in Pinnacle! Oh geez...Is it true that Conqueror has a giant library and a science museum and rare historical artifacts and..." She took a deep breath, clenching and unclenching her fists. "...No, not now. We can talk about that later. Right now, there's work to be done. Bring that thing over to the table, it's time we tested it out."
Storyteller followed Archivist to one of the work tables, which held the guts of a computer (or perhaps several) stripped from its case and shoved into a new makeshift container. Unlike the other broken machines, this one was hooked up to various devices - a sign that, despite her concerns, Archivist was fully anticipating that this one would work. She shifted a mirror to throw light onto the machine, then took a pair of forceps and lifted the component from Storyteller's hand, studying the pins in the dusty illumination.
"No way to know if this thing is going to work until we run power into it," said Archivist, hunkered over the table. "This'll take a minute. Make yourself at home. Have some jerky."
"I'm not sure if my stomach would accept a bite," said Storyteller. "The anticipation has stifled my appetite."
"You are so awesome with your words! Okay, let's get this set up." Archivist leaned in close, sweat forming on her brow as she carefully set each pin into the circuit board. "Okay, we're good. Let's turn it on."
"I take it you fixed the solar battery?" said Storyteller.
"Yeah, but then I got to thinking. How long's that rickety old battery going to fuel this thing? Fifteen minutes? Twenty? Not nearly enough time. So I dug around in the building, and found this." Archivist pulled on a rope that led under the table, revealing a small cart carrying a yellow box from which wires emerged. "It's a portable generator! Awesome, huh?" She grabbed the loose wires and crammed them into components on the mutilated computer, reapplying electrical tape to hold them in place. "Shit. Sorry, this happens sometimes. Just another minute."
Storyteller knelt next to the generator. "It works?"
Archivist grinned madly, eyes traced with unalloyed glee. "It works. And I found some fuel, too. Gotta figure that it'll run the computation machine for at least two, two-and-a-half hours. Minimum! Could be a lot more! Imagine all the secrets we can uncover in that much time!"
"Perfect," said Storyteller. "Now, all we need are the discs."
"They're right here." Archivist held up a weathered green backpack, removing a disc in a translucent case. "I kept all the ones in good shape in here, just in case I had to ditch the facility. Also..." She grabbed a three-ring binder filled with sheets of paper, most of which were burned to some degree. "...I have my notebook. Gonna transcribe what I hear and make my own historical record. I'd like to engrave it onto big metal plates so it'll last if this happens again."
"You're quite the ambitious one," said Storyteller, sporting a gentle grin. "May I do the honors?"
Archivist opened the binder and fished a charred pencil out of the backpack. "Start it up."
Storyteller took the cord in hand and gave it a firm yank - the machine grumbled for a moment before letting out a roar and springing to life. There was a staccato click from inside the computer as the fan, crudely repositioned in its new casing, struggled to spin. Archivist cringed with each creak and whine, chewing at her cuticles as the machine struggled to wake up. One by one, the tiny lights on the various components flickered to life, winked our and turned on again. Then there was a hum from the monitor, growing brighter and brighter, displaying the image of some forgotten operating system.
"It works..." Archivist started laughing. "Something I fixed up works! I did it! Wait...I've never actually used one of these things before. I mean I've read about it, but..." She handed one of the discs to Storyteller. "You must understand these things. Could you put this thing...y'know, wherever it goes?"
"Certainly." Storyteller searched the machine until he found the old disc drive, slid the disc into the half-open tray, pushing it shut. "I hope that this part still works. The lasers that perform this task tend to wear out quickly."
Archivist tugged at her hair. "No more doubt from you! I'm doubting enough for both of us!"
The computer emitted a faintly audible whirring sound, and a new window emerged on the monitor. "It seems that the laser survived," said Storyteller. "My doubt was misplaced, it seems."
"Sorry, it's just that I'm very, very invested in this." Archivist squinted at the screen. "Okay, this says 'Edward Page personal.' You think you can show us that one?"
"Absolutely." Storyteller found the mouse - a bulky thing that had been reassembled with Archivist's delicate touch - and clicked the file. "And there you are, the contents."
"Okay, cool." Archivist pointed at the screen. "What's that one that says 'Audiolog'?"
"It's an audio file," said Storyteller. "A sound clip. Are there speakers here?"
"I guess?" said Archivist, eyeballing the machine. "I put everything in it, don't know if that stuff works though."
"Then there is an easy way to find out," said Storyteller. "If these old speakers still work, we can hear what the disc's owner had to say."
"A voice from the past? Ooh, perfect. Let's give this a shot."
Storyteller clicked on the file and was greeted by a hiss coming from one of the recesses of the machine. A few seconds later, a voice emerged from the right side, distorted but audible. Both Archivist and Storyteller leaned in, eager to catch every single word:
"Good afternoon, world. This is Edward Page, future ace reporter, here on behalf the Northwest High Beacon. This recording kicks off a year-long project on the future of journalism. There are many out there who have declared real journalism dead, saying that it's been wiped out by cynicism, or the corrupting influence of money, or an obsession with speed at the expense of depth or accuracy. And those are real issues, I won't lie. But what I'll be doing over the course of this academic year is demonstrating that there's still life in this craft that I love.
My arguments are threefold. Point One: Young people are not overly cynical. This is an excuse adopted by older generations to excuse their failure to act. Point Two: Technology is not the end of journalism. The internet is just a tool, and like any other tool, its value is in how it is used or misused. Point Three: The truth never changes. The world may be a much different place than when my great-grandfather investigated the Chicago Outfit, but the truth remains the truth, and nothing will ever change that. This is Edward Page, signing off."
"Incredible!" said Archivist, furiously scribbling in her binder. "We've just made contact with a world that no longer exists! This is so much more incredible than I would have dared to hope!"
"I believe I remember this young man," said Storyteller. "I read the stories he wrote of the cutthroat competitions at his school."
"They cut each others' throats?" said Archivist, recoiling from the screen.
"Merely a figure of speech," said Storyteller. "I meant that their competitions were intense and dishonest. He recorded their deeds for posterity, on this very disc it seems. I know he always wished to record the truth, but I'm sure he never imagined that it would be like this."
"You'll need to tell me about this later. Oh, so much to record." Archivist pointed at the screen. "What's this one?"
"I think this one's video," said Storyteller.
"You mean we'll get to see what the school actually looked like?" Archivist giggled, the binder jiggling in her hands. "Awesome! Let's not waste any time, then. Start it up!"
The screen was replaced by an image - two young men in what appeared to be a school library. One of them was a bit on the doughy side, with a round, friendly face; he held a memo book and a pen. The other one was skinny and pale, with an air of frustration that was noticeable even on the damaged monitor.
"That's Edward on the left," said Storyteller. "The other...I've met him as well. Paul was his name, Paul...Liston, that was it. There was another boy chasing a vendetta against him. It became a very famous story for its madness. This must have been one of Edward's expose videos on the whole affair."
"Well come on!" said Archivist. "Let's see it!"
A few seconds later, the image began to move:
EDWARD: ...Okay, it's running. This is Edward Page, on scene. We're well into the season for Trivia Master, a fine school tradition and a lot of fun for most. But there's another tradition that's not so savory, not so fun - cheating. Dirty play. Sabotage. I'm sitting here with competitor Paul Liston, who - as a member of one of the teams widely favored to win - is, I suspect, no stranger to fowl play. Paul, why don't you give us your take on this issue?
PAUL: What is...Ed, I didn't agree to talk about this.
EDWARD: It's part of the investigation. Are you worried about retribution, Paul?
PAUL: What investigation? Since when was there an investigation? I thought you wanted to talk about Trivia Master.
EDWARD: We are. This is part of it. What, you're not about to tell me that you've never been a target for this kind of thing? We've all heard the stories...are they all lies?
PAUL: I don't want...Ed, you know what people are like, they love rumors, they blow things out of proportion. God, Ed, I don't want people thinking I'm some sort of victim here.
EDWARD: It's only rumor?
PAUL: Yes!
EDWARD: What about your rivalry with Aaron Bellamy? He's here, you know.
PAUL: ...In the library?
AARON (enters frame): That he is. Afternoon, Paul.
EDWARD: Perfect timing, Aaron. We've been talking about Trivia Master and fair play.
AARON: You've been trying to spread rumors about cheating, haven't you? Shit, Ed, this is low. You're chasing rumors now, Mr. Murrow? It's all hype, you must know that.
EDWARD: The things I've heard-
AARON: I've heard them all, too. The things I supposedly did, the things Paul supposedly did...are you a cheater, Paul?
PAUL: Never in my life.
AARON: Exactly. It comes down to this, Ed: I don't need to play dirty to kick his ass.
PAUL: Same here.
EDWARD: So, you're not enemies?
AARON: Ed, I've known this guy since we were eight. I want to beat him, but I don't want to hurt him. Honest.
PAUL: Neither do I.
Storyteller stared at the monitor in disbelief. "No. It's not right. This can't be right."
Archivist spun to Storyteller. "What do you mean?"
"But I remember this. I met both of them, and they despised each other, I saw it. And I remember the day Aaron turned his wrath on us, on the town..." Storyteller sat on the floor, holding his head in his hands. "How could my recollection be so wrong? What's wrong with me?"
"Don't beat yourself up," said Archivist. "So you remembered something wrong from half a lifetime ago. Hey, I can barely remember a week ago. No big deal, right?"
"You don't understand. I-" Storyteller sniffed the air. "...Do you smell something unusual?"
"Now that you mention it..." Archivist squinted at the computer. Smoke and sparks were pouring out of the ventilation slots. "Uh...I think something's wrong..."
Storyteller shot to his feet. "Archivist? You may wish to step away from the machine..." Even from several feet away, he could easily spot an unnatural glow radiating from inside the computer casing and feel heat seeping out. "...Quickly."
Archivist didn't react, frozen as she was with terror, staring dumbstruck at the computer, the orange flashes that emerged from the cracks in the case reflected in her terror-broadened eyes. "Fire! Fire!"
"Don't panic. It's small yet, we can still put it out." Storyteller grabbed one of the large sheets that was laying across the table. "Here, help me smother it."
Storyteller's hands could not move quickly enough to stop what came next. A tongue of flame spat of the side of the machine, contacting a small trail of gasoline that had leaked out of the generator. Instantly the room was flooded with angry light as the flame consumed the generator and the table. Archivist, numb with fear but still holding some command of her senses, snatched the backpack away from the destructive wave. By that point, there was no stopping it - the fire was growing, fed by Archivist's reconstructed book collection and the bottles of decades-old solvents scattered without care for safety around the room. It moved more like an entity than a force of nature, slithering to block off what routes of escape there were.
"No no no no no!" Archivist was panicked, throwing whatever objects were handy at whatever windows were yet unbroken.
"Don't do that!" Storyteller dropped to his knees, pulling Archivist down with him. The room was filling with a dense black smoke, made all the more caustic by the chemicals and computer elements it was consuming. Storyteller looked around frantically. "Is there another exit?"
"I don't know!" screamed Archivist, still clutching the backpack. "I can't think, I can't breathe!"
"All right. I think I remember where the stairway is. Come on, there's no time."
Storyteller took Archivist by the wrist and led them both through the still growing blaze towards what he could only hope was a way out. Blinded by the caustic smoke, his sense of touch was all he had to guide him. His hand landed upon the first step of the staircase - not yet blocked by the flame, though it was close at their backs. Wasting no time, he sprinted to the top, pulling Archivist along with him, and through the doors to the relative safety of the wastes.
The two of them sat side by side and watched as Westhigh burned. At first it was only smoke, pouring out of the gaps and mingling with the haze, giving the sky a bloody hue. Westhigh was little more than a pile of bricks, but there were still things within to ignite, and the flames slowly spread through the building's interior, leaping out of the shattered windows as it reached for air. There was the occasional crack as some worn timber succumbed to the blaze and another section of the ceiling gave way. The fire achieved what the apocalypse had failed to do, and still desiring satisfaction, it quietly smoldered beneath the surface, the pop of each spark sounding like a mocking laugh.
Archivist was too stunned to cry, capable only of staring at the fireplace that had once been her home. "I must have used bad wires...or maybe there was something flammable in the case by the thing."
Storyteller put his hand on Archivist's shoulder. "I'm sorry. For what it's worth, I doubt that it was your fault."
"Well, there goes everything," said Archivist, pacing back and forth. "Everything I had - everything I was - is in there, turning to ash. All my books, my workshop, my projects...Wait a second, where am I supposed to live? Westhigh was the only home I ever knew! Where am I supposed to go now?" She grabbed hold of Storyteller's garment, twisting it tight in her hands. "I can't live out in the wastes! The gangs will eat me alive. Literally, I'm sure."
"Calm down," said Storyteller, taking Archivist by the shoulders. "This is bad, but it's not the end of the world. That, you've already survived, remember?"
"Okay, but where am I gonna live?" shrieked Archivist. "I can't wander like you. Look at me, I'm not built for it!"
"There are many settlements around here," said Storyteller. "I'm sure that one of them will take you in. We will follow the trade roads north, and see what we can find."
Archivist brushed away a tear. "You're really great, you know that?"
"You can thank me once we've found you a home. Now..." Storyteller noticed the backpack. "...You chose to bring that along?"
"Are you going to make me leave it?" said Archivist. "I know it's silly, and I'll never find another working computation machine, but these are still too valuable. I can't just leave them."
"Not to worry," said Storyteller. "It's your burden. If you are willing to bear the weight, it is yours to take."
"Oh, I can handle it just fine," said Archivist, adjusting the straps. "Let's head out. Hey, maybe this'll work out after all, give me a chance to see the world for real. Right?"
"Right," said Storyteller. "And what a world it is."