By Simon Drax
October 6, 2009
* * *
“Where ARE we going, exactly?” Mori said.
“Oh, the end,” Trista said sleepily. “The end.”
“Yeah, of course. But in the meantime?”
“Hmm. Well, would you believe the wreck of the Imperial Japanese Battleship Yamato, sunk more than a century ago? We shall resurrect the once mighty ship and incinerate the scourge of the Nox Golgoth from every corner of the planet! It shall be glorious. Big guns, booming music. Would you believe that?”
“I would not.”
“Nor should you. Ah, you are a savvy one, Mori Kim Marr. I always had a good feeling about you.”
The sleek black car swept down the empty highway under the white glare of an indifferent sun. Frost sat behind the wheel, alone with her thoughts, silent under the hum of her circuits. Billy was awake but quiet beside the robot. Through the car’s windows the landscape flowed past in a steady stream of orange desert and brown shrub, the occasional gnarled naked tree. Trista and Mori lolled together, languid in the back seat. The vehicle was firmly under Frost’s control—it was safe to doze, dream, talk. Mori and Trista made a half-hearted stab at telepathy. It wasn’t working.
“When I was a brat…”
“Two?”
“No, six. This girl…”
“Friend?”
“Enemy. She was a selfish little cow. I hated her…”
“And you killed her, thus cementing your alienation in the orphanage and ultimately all of society, and thereafter you discovered drugs and alcohol, poor Mori…”
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