Unforgotten

Zeelen transmitted from the kitchen: “‘Mysteries abound where most we seek for answers.’ You know who wrote that? It was Ray Bradbury. Think he may have been onto something.” She picked up an apple, ruby-red, unmarred, and hesitated, before biting. It was juicy, and delicious. A new theory was required.

Across the compound, Basurto responded from another kitchen, one that looked exactly the same as the one in which she stood: “Perhaps he had a chance to visit here first? Which department does he work in?” He swung his palm light around. The place had lost its power feed. Refrigeration, a single fixed light source, security net, the computer terminal: all lifeless. Clothes that should have been laid out on the bed, reading sheets upon a desk — none of it was in evidence, in any room. “‘I’ve got nothing here, Z,” he added. “This makes seven units I’ve found, like this. In your section?”

“The same,” Zeelen sighed. She double-checked the window’s ultraviolet screens; they were designed to work without needing to be powered. A spear of amber light lanced across the plain, from the setting sun to the Silliphant Estates, the only human colony on this world. “Would have to pick this week to drop by and find out that they went some place, didn’t invite us. Ilesciu and the council left everything to chance, didn’t they?”

Basurto laughed at the very idea of that. He stepped outside, started down the ramp of the dwelling — a mushroom-shaped structure, like the rest of the living units in the Estates. Constructed on a plain in the verified middle of nowhere, it was a current home to four hundred seventeen humans and an assortment of companion animals. Everyone seemed to be away from home.

A bark, from across the quadrangle, that was not animal in its vocal style, jolted him. Basurto hoisted his portable flamekit and started to run, then really run. What in the mighty Concordance made that noise, here, now? “Did you get that, Z?” he yelped into his other arm’s comm-sleeve. “We in any shape to deal with someone’s stray mutt?”

She dashed out of the uninhabited apartment she had been investigating, pitched herself down the stairs, almost stumbling on its lowest rung to an unsatisfying crash. She fumbled with her flamekit, but just briefly, cursed herself for the clumsiness. She was a licensed planetary scoutship pilot — a flamekit was second nature to her, more so than it was to the investigator, Basurto, whose job it was to gather scientific evidence, to explain the radio silence Earth had received from the Silliphant colony. “Tell the 'ghosts', we are not amused,” she growled, as she ran.

^^^^

It was not a dog, or a cat, or a banded forager from one of Zeelen’s favorite destinations, that balmy planet she had visited far too seldom for her own taste, especially at that moment; but it was a bark. In fact, the noise maker itself looked like a barker, the type found in a circus. “Attention, ladies and gentlemen!” it announced with a broad grin that projected no mirth, only a clinical simulation of enthusiasm. “The show is just about to begin. Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please!”

Zeelen arrived only a few seconds after Basurto did. She was older than he was by a couple of years, but in much better physical condition; he spent a lot of time sitting at viz mats, she surmised, poring over information that helped him solve his cases. She sat a lot, too, at the controls of a scout-ship that had brought them here from Earth — but when she wasn’t sitting, she was running. And something about this whole place made her want to run around. “What’s the idea of trying to scare us like this?” she demanded, of the artificial circus performer.

“Where did everyone go?” Basurto added, stepping just close enough to the barker to glare into its glowing eyes. The barker seemed reluctant to give answer; suddenly it was quiet again, still again. Basurto took pains not to touch its back as he stepped around to get a look. No visible means of any support that he could find. “Starting to think this might be some sort of a big joke,” he said. “Like everyone’s going to jump out of the ground, shout at us: Ustedes son los únicos fantasmas aquí!”

“If I take your meaning, it would be their fault, turning us into ghosts,” said Zeelen, rechecking her flamekit’s readiness to fire: viable. “I’ve no wish to miss out on a good carnival, but in this case, it feels like we’re supposed to provide the entertainment, and that’s not what I get paid to do — is it what you get paid to — ”

Something skittered, a few paces behind, then beside, them, on… its way toward the settlement, from a patch of local foliage behind them. Many rows of metallic spindles curved in facing rows, beneath it, acting as its legs, to push it along. Hover-tech was more standard for larger vehicles; this was not meant to carry people, or small animals. It was a snooper, devised to investigate unhealthy terrain far ahead of its human users.

“After it,” snapped Basurto. “We’ve got to see where it’s going to take us.” The flamekit on his hip felt good. Felt ready. Even as he said it, it tumbled to a stop, just at the edge of an east-facing courtyard. Zeelen and Basurto slowed their own approach, waiting for something to happen. A slight wind began to rise, tousling her reddish-yellow hair, raising goosebumps along his exposed forearms. The snoop hummed softly, then ceased to issue sound.

^^^^

It lay in pieces on someone’s dining table, just a couple of hours after that. Zeelen’s mechanical skills came in handy, but she was willing to defer to a professional specialty of Basurto’s: he managed to transfer some power to the cooking unit and fixed them something to eat for dinner. He talked to fill the time until they could eat; this would be their breakfast — their first actual meal of that day. “It’s happened a lot. Abandoned towns. Twentieth century: an entire city, Pripyat, was evacuated in a day, after some horror with their nuclear plant. Aghdam, in Azerbaijan, was forced to empty out during a war — an invasion force. Barkersville, like our friend out there? It was a Canadian frontier town — then, it was burned. In the Antarctic, they left the Deception Island. A volcano was only part of the reason why.” He rubbed his eyes; it had been a wearying day. “I did my reading while you were signaling Earth. Oh, there was this place in Namibia — Kolmanskop. That’s a Dutch name, isn’t it?” She remained impassive. “The sands took it back.”

“And that brings us almost up to date,” Zeelen said, pouring another glass of wine; she could detox in a hurry, if the need arose, and the scoutship could fly itself, given the proper instructions. “We did all of the usual stuff, when we came into orbit. Radiation? Normal background levels. No toxins in the air, water or soil. No signs of a disaster, like... a fire, or a... leaking nuclear pile? Certainly, no war, because there’s nobody down here to make war upon a human village — is there?” She took a sip. “Where did they go? Their families want to hear from them. Does this seem reasonable to you, Bas?”

A stillness in the air descended upon them, with almost perceptible mass. They locked eyes. Basurto glanced over his shoulder, at the sleeping pods, visible in the room behind them. It was not late enough for them to retire for the evening, but as long as there was nothing else for them to do, it—

The warning chirp from her comm-sleeve jolted them in their seats. They were on their feet, rushing to the viz plate, Basurto smiling in expectation of a positive explanation; Zeelen withholding her emotions, pending news of the disappeared citizens. The UV filter on the wall did not prevent them from recognizing a lightbody skimmer, a two-seater, flitting towards town on its magnetic-levitation field. They exploded, all but literally, outside to meet the returning vehicle and interview its pilot and passenger.

They walked toward it, Zeelen vigilant but unarmed, Basurto keeping his options open by grasping his flamekit’s stock. The lightbody halted. Dusk had left it looking little more substantial than a darkened shape, but they could ascertain with the optic settings in their helmets that the lightbody was unoccupied. It had brought no-one home… but still, it spoke to them: “This is Radu Ilescu speaking. I am the mayor of the Silliphant Estates… You must have many questions. Pilot, the craft is programmed to return. I assure you, we're feeling just fine. We look forward to meeting with you.”

The wind’s keening grew louder, a dramatic touch that Basurto found so preposterous, it provoked laughter from him. Zeelen shot him a glower, and tapped upon her sleeve: Are you losing your wits, detective? Quick to follow suit, he tapped out his reply: It may be a trap, but it tells us… more than we know now, at least. Zeelen shook her head, expanding upon her interrogative: We may have to do some killing, do you realize that? I'd rather not! He sent: It is a distinct possibility, then shook his head: We won't do that, but we will bring these people back with us. He motioned for her to assume command of the lightbody. She started up the engine, idling, for him to board. Wind keened. The pilot’s console glowed dimly, awaiting her supervision. An aching minute more, and it would be night.

© Eric Wolf 2022.

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