I gesture to Bets and Flip, pointing to the lift. They follow me to my room where I silently motion for them to sit while I go into the washroom. I rummage through the silver drawers and find a stick with black material in it. Troll’s voice appears from nowhere. “You may use this to highlight your eyelashes.” Why the hell would I want to spread black stuff on my eyes? Regardless, this can serve as ink.
“Thanks, Troll. I’ll use this later.” I shove the stick in my pocket. I sit on the loo and jam paper into my pocket. It occurs to me that Troll will have no idea how to read our words because our script changed since the ancient ones left. How convenient. I bend over the sink and write in large, careful letters on a small scrap: WE WRITE. NO TALK. I know Bets and Theo can read, thanks to Teacher. I’ve no idea about Flip.
I return to the room and slip the paper in Bets’ hand. She looks it over and understanding dawns on her face. She hands it to Flip and he nods. He can read. We now have a chance. We find Theo wandering the lower level and hand the paper to him. His bright, optimistic smile spreads wide across his face. Once circulated, each of our subsequent messages is flushed away to who knows where.
Troll suspects nothing. We’re careful to exchange notes as casually and carefully as possible. I’m suspecting that Troll doesn’t understand deception and has no reason to expect that we caged animals want to fly. We’ve been captive here for about a week. There’s no sign that Samuel has tried to rescue us. For all we know, Troll intercepted him and Samuel’s now drawing flies at the entrance of the facility.
The plan’s taking shape. I’d like to get more guidance from Fromer in my sleep. But he doesn’t seem to work that way. My dreams are empty, typically punctuated by the horror of my mother’s death and the loss of Eliza. I wonder whether Fromer knows more about the shipwreck. I suppose he’ll return when he’s ready.
In the time that we’ve had here, we’ve learned much about the people, our ancestors, who lived on earth before us. Troll’s an eager teacher. It seems that there are other intelligent beings than humans in space, but not as many as the ancient ones expected. It’s hard for me to believe, but apparently the earth was filled with humans and machines. Most people did not live in luxury like that provided by our current surroundings. Rather the vast majority were starving and barely scraping by. The green earth was choking and people were lacking water and dying of the simplest things. I can’t imagine it until I think about the wasteland of the broken cities. Seems to me that the people would walk away from all that machinery and start planting their own fields and raising their own livestock. Apparently, that wasn’t possible in those days. It took a huge disaster to get us back to living with the earth rather than against it.
I’m overwhelmed when I learn that the stories of the lights on the moon are largely true. After Troll and the other interfaces crushed humanity on earth, the ancient ones remained on the big white orb and worlds beyond it. Until the night our village was destroyed, our ancestors still inhabited the moon and were watching us from afar. Troll lost contact with its kin on earth when the lights went out up there. About this one thing, Troll is as uninformed as we are.
The morning of our attack comes. We take advantage of one more meal from Troll before it’s time to kill it and escape. Flip takes the lift up to munitions, as he’s done during the past few days. Bets and I gather in the central room while Theo retreats into the recesses of the facility. Time to act wanked. Theo sings drinking songs from the village and howls like a wolf. Bets talks to herself, occasionally smacking her forehead, belly, and butt while skipping. Flip fires weapons upstairs. He’s no longer aiming into the range but discharging haphazardly. An occasional explosion suggests that he’s having fun with the concussion grenades. Much like the night of Fromer’s visit, one of Troll’s boxes approaches me. “Amy Marksman, I require your assistance. Your companions are behaving outside of my performance parameters. This is highly unusual.”
I respond using a language that I invented with my friends when I was five. Complete gibberish. I dance and shout. Troll goes quiet. The lift descends as the armory shakes and shudders the entire facility. I’m sweating as I sway my arms and tap on the box like a drum. Three more boxes appear. One heads toward me, one toward Bets, and the other toward the lift. Troll is apparently not distracted enough. Bets jumps on top of one of the boxes and shouts, “Troll, tell me all about the people who lived here before us, starting with the oldest and ending with the youngest.” It seems that Troll is about to speak when Bets interrupts it. “Troll, tell me about how you were made.” The boxes move toward her. “Troll, how many stars are in the sky?” I keep singing and speaking in tongues as I rush to the lift, joining Flip. Bets keeps asking new questions, interrupting the machine. Flip and I descend into the lower level.
When the lift stops, I freeze. All the mummified bodies are scattered on the floor and Theo has disappeared. Flip has a robe full of concussion grenades and a small launcher strapped over his shoulder. He lobs volleys of explosives randomly into corners of the room. Four more rolling boxes appear and then I feel dizzy. The air grows thinner, as both Flip and I gasp. “It’s sucking the air out,” Flip hisses. “Take this grenade and make it count.” He fires at the boxes while I run toward the small glass cube perched on a table that contains Troll’s mind. The air shudders with explosions as Flip screams. Bets joins him in the distance. All goes grey as I activate the warm metal in my hand and lunge forward at the pedestal.
I awake to dead eyes and a shriveled face, acrid smoke, and more screaming. A mummy of some long-dead captive is draped over me. The screaming’s coming from Flip — he sounds a bit like a cat in heat. The space is washed in red light. I push the debris and mummy aside and crawl toward Flip’s mewing. One of the robots has him pinned to the wall, a large spike extending from the machine and lodged in his skull. His arms and legs are flailing. Rivulets of crimson blood are pooling in his lap. I have no idea what to do. The box is motionless, the light on its top absent. The logical portion of my mind suggests that I killed Troll. But not before it impaled poor Flip, pinning him to the wall like an insect. I start screaming and throwing chunks of glass — Troll’s brain — at the box.
“Oh no.” Theo’s croak from behind me sends me lunging forward. “Poor, poor Flip.”
Flip’s intact eye has rolled back; his screams transform to a soft gurgle. Theo whispers, “There’s nothing we could’ve done for him. He’d make his people proud.”
“Where were you Theo?”
“Getting this.” He extends a hand with a small plate of black glass, warm to the touch. He waves his hand over it and an image of the planet appears above it. “A map. I was afraid it’d be destroyed when we attacked Troll.”
Flip’s no longer breathing and I marvel that I survived the explosion. Shards of glass and plastic are scattered everywhere. I swear it was the pile of dead bodies that softened the blow. “Theo, are we sure that Troll is gone?”
“If you’re considering sticking around to find out, I’d consider you wanked for real. We need to get Bets, collect some weapons and provisions, and then leave.”
The lift no longer works. We climb a ladder and search the ground section for Bets. We call for her, with no answer. Theo shouts, “I’m heading upstairs to get some guns and grenades. Keep looking for Bets.” He begins scaling the wall up the shaft of the lift. The robots are still on the floor, with the chairs and tables scattered about. A stool is jammed in between a pair of steel doors. I approach cautiously and peek in the space. One of Troll’s robots is on the floor, with Bets pinned underneath it. My stomach lurches, expecting to see the same horrific scene that Flip left in the basement. Instead, Bets is breathing, with her short blade jammed in one of the robot’s black eyes. Her head’s caked with dried blood, but the gash appears to be superficial. It won’t be long before she again treats me with loathing.