Soliloquies Anthology 30.1

by Coralie Olivier

The portal’s energy crackled behind 217 and they felt firm ground once more. The landscape around them was battered, an endless storm of dust that rolled over naked cliffs and mesas. Their thumb rolled over the gear on the right lens to adjust their goggles and a building appeared through the chaotic rush of sharp sand in the air.

No windows betrayed the inside, and the wooden exterior had been blasted smooth by constant, tempestuous winds. The sign above the door, just a flat plank with a couple flecks of paint, held on for dear life. 217 knocked on the door until they found the small trap. Sliding it aside, they inserted their arm inside. Ten seconds later, the door finally opened.

As soon as 217 had shut the door behind them, the calm of the rest stop made them nervous. Music from a rectangular jukebox welcomed them insde. Across from the entrance, the square bar offered shelves of bottles – most of them empty – and a couple of taps. Chandeliers made of deftly organized antlers hung on either side of the room.

Usually, nobody was here. Today, there was a woman at one of the tables, who seemed as surprised to see someone else as 217 was. A glass of beer was set on the table in front of her, an inch of alcohol lingering at the bottom. Neither said anything as 217 removed their hat and brushed the sand off their duster. All of it fell between the thin floorboards. Then, as they walked down the steps, boots clanking on the wood, the woman motioned for the seat across from hers.

“Please, sit with me. It’s not often I see anyone else in here.”

She removed her wide-brimmed hat from the other side of the table to make space for 217, setting it aside on one of the many vacant spots. Her duster rested on the back of her chair so 217 couldn’t see her number. Her chest plate was full of scratches and stains. Her right arm was still hers, though scars had grown hard on her brown skin. Her vambrace had seen better days, as a couple of its buttons looked busted. Her left arm was mechanical, from her shoulder to the tip of her fingers.

217 set their hat on the table and the woman extended a human hand to shake theirs.

“198,” she introduced herself.

“217.”

“The younger generation. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you guys around.”

217 only shrugged. They’d barely ever met anyone since their promotion had been scattered to the winds of the universe. A 100 was even rarer these days, and soon, when the 300s would finish their training, the 200s who had survived would become veterans too.

198 grabbed her beer and finished the glass, then stood from her chair.

“Sit down, make yourself comfortable. What are you into?”

“I don’t drink.”

The woman scoffed.

“You’re the first scout I ever met who doesn’t drink. I figured they all turned us into alcoholics before they sent us off.”

She leaned over the countertop to slide her empty glass under one of the taps and pressed down to fill it. Meanwhile, 217 sat in the opposite chair, letting out a sigh of relief to finally be able to rest. They ran a hand through their long hair, tied back into a ponytail. However, unlike 198, they didn’t remove their duster, or their gloves, or even the faded green handkerchief hiding their nose and mouth. The only thing they removed, once the woman returned to sit across from them, was their goggles, which they set beside their hat.

198 had ear-length hair and a spider web of scars on the right side of her face, yet it was her left eye that was gone, replaced by a prosthetic with no iris. She leaned back in her chair, the wood cricking against her heavy frame, then took a long gulp of beer. When she set her glass back on its coaster, her eyes scanned over 217 once more.

“I think I’ve heard about you, 217. You got a nickname?”

They hated their nickname, but it was bound to come out eventually, so they decided to get it out of the way first:

“Anomaly.”

They saw the recognition in 198’s eyes.

“Yes, I’ve heard about you. I met someone who met someone who met someone who was in rehab while you were there. They all thought you were going to kick it any moment. How much of you did they replace?”

“Not as much as you’d think.”

198 chuckled. She went fishing for something in the inside pocket of her duster, and pulled out a cigar. Setting it down on the table, she used the knife holstered on her thigh to slice off one end. Then, once it was tugged between her teeth, she used the lighter in her left thumb to turn it on. The heavy, sharp scent of tobacco replaced the dusty smell 217 had dragged from the outside.

“What happened? 239 said he heard you got shredded between multiple wormholes.”

“I don’t think anyone could survive getting caught in a knot like that. It’s much simpler than that. A pack of hellhounds.” 198 winced at the thought. “And then I got shredded by the emergency portal.”

The woman chuckled. Her human fingers removed the cigar from her lips as she stretched her mechanical arm in front of her.

“I got this after my very first location. I was cockier back then than I had every right to be. We didn’t have emergency portals back then. Thankfully it wasn’t a pack of hellhounds that found me, just a wyvern. I ran as fast as I could to the portal I’d come through, but I was in such a hurry to get out that I forgot all the safety procedure. The guys in rehab nicknamed me Clumsy after that.”

217 held back a chuckle. During training, they didn’t tell them about the veterans, the ones who’d been searching the universe for decades with nothing to show for it. They only focused on the heroes who’d found something, some clue, some scrap of research, some prototype that the scientists at home had used to delay the End. There wasn’t a world out there that wasn’t falling apart. This world was falling apart too, and one day, a scout would come over only to find that Ye Old Harbour Pub was gone.

“Was this your first injury?” 198 asked.

“My first big one, yeah.”

She took another drag of her cigar then flicked it over the ashtray.

“I lost my eye a couple of months ago. Closest I’ve come to death, or, well, I was sure I was gonna die this time. They had to replace my kneecaps once, but thankfully not the legs. I heard from another scout that they’ll take any excuse to remove your limbs, replace them for prosthetics, so you can work longer without a break, but I don’t think that’s true.”

“I don’t think that’s true either. And hey, they’re working on synthetic skin now.”

198 shrugged.

“I’m used to my arm. Let the youngsters have their beauty treatment.”

She set the cigar aside to drink, then sighed.

“Why did you want to become a scout?”

217 hummed as they thought for a moment.

“I guess… I guess I wanted to help my people. Maybe you don’t remember, maybe you were already out there back then, but South Arcadia was gonna sink pretty soon. But K-871 found these notes in this world they called ‘The Withered Empire’ and the scientists found a way to stabilize the ground beneath the district. And I thought it would be so cool to be like that, like this scout. Bucks, they nicknamed him. I could do that, I thought. I could become a scout and get a cool nickname and find new, unexplored places, and give them a name, and find a way to save my home.”

For a second, there was that spark of childish optimism back in 217’s chest, glowing like the tip of 198’s cigar, but it was quickly extinguished.

“How about you?” they asked. “Why did you become a scout?”

“Didn’t have a lot of choice. They needed people for their promotion, to get to a hundred recruits, and I got caught stealing food. Work camp or scouting. I figured scouting would be easier. Like I said, I was cocky.”

The music on the jukebox switched to an old violin song that 198 didn’t seem to like, as she groaned and stood from her chair. She leaned over the screen and pressed the buttons until she found one she liked, a piano accompanying a low, gentle singer. Then, she returned into her seat and drained half of her remaining beer. When she set the glass back on the table, she asked:

“Did you ever find anything?”

217 sighed.

“One time, I thought I’d found some scrap, but the science division let me know afterward that it was nothing.”

198 clicked her tongue against the back of her teeth and picked up her cigar, tugging it between her teeth once more.

“I haven’t found jack shit either. The longer it goes on, the more the devastation has eaten everything. Even us. I mean, the first time I came here, about half of the room was taken. It was lively. They even had someone working the bar. I heard from the K-genners that this place used to be full all the time. Now… I think it’s the last time I’m ever gonna see it.”

She took another drag, keeping the smoke in for a long minute before exhaling it through her nostrils.

“You think there’s only us left?” she asked.

217 had no answer. Sometimes it felt like that. They worked alone, journeying from broken world to broken world, searching rubbles and ruins. The last time they were around other scouts was during rehab, but 217 wasn’t exactly sure how long ago it had been. Scouts died every day, at the hands of dangerous alien creatures, under collapsing buildings, or shredded by the portals they used to travel. None of them knew when their fellow scouts died.

“The L-300s are graduating soon,” they offered in response.

“I’m sorry for them.”

The screen on 198’s vambrace flickered with a beep, and she sighed. Her break was over. She glanced at the screen.

“Looks like I’m going on the eastern branch.”

She stood and finished her drink, setting the glass back on the table like she had no intention of cleaning it away, leaving behind a sign of her presence. She picked up her duster and slid it on, and 217 finally saw the faded, grimy number on the leather. Then, she picked up her hat and placed it over her head.

“See you around, Anomaly. Take care.”

As she left, she patted their shoulder. 217 didn’t turn to follow her exit, only listened to the sound of the heavy door opening, the howling sandstorm outside, then the door slamming shut. The music from the jukebox filled the space once more. 217 looked over the empty beer glass, and the cigar in the ashtray, still smoking. Pushing up the sleeve of their duster, they saw they still had thirty minutes left to their break. They’d never tried a cigar before. Might as well give it a chance now.

Lowering the handkerchief in front of their face, 217 picked up the cigar between two fingers. It was difficult to open their metal jaw wide enough to slide the chewed end of the cigar in between their teeth. It felt like the joints had rusted from disuse, since they didn’t need to eat or drink anymore, and the box in their throat spoke for them. Still, with a bit of concentration, they managed to open wide enough to bring the cigar in their mouth. It had been a long time since they’d smoked anything, but the habit returned with a vengeance. They inhaled, feeling the burn in their lungs, then exhale through their nostrils – the scientists hadn’t bothered giving them a new nose, just the necessary holes to breathe.

On the jukebox, the music switched to a jauntier tune. 217 leaned back into their chair, closed their eyes, and enjoyed the moment while it still existed.