IGMS Issue 40 Page 4

  "Good afternoon," said the Tutor.

  "Good afternoon," said Diallo.

  The Tutor asked many questions and provided few unearned answers. It taught him philosophies and equations, generated a hologram instructor to teach him stick fighting, filled his room with images of this world and the ones around Eridani, Tau Ceti, and a place with only numbers to describe it. He enjoyed the pictures of faraway places though sometimes he had a hard time deciding which was stranger, the eerie fog forests of Eridani or the crystal towers of New York City.

  "What is my destiny?" asked Diallo.

  He could have a good life carrying on his father's business, but smashing circuit boards into a de-fabricator held little appeal. He wanted more than to prosper and come home covered in gray dust.

  "Destiny," said the Tutor "is a pre-ordained future. From what I know, there is no pre-ordained future. Perhaps, there is an optimal path for an individual to follow, but there are too many factors to calculate. Let me ask you a question: What do you choose for your destiny?"

  Diallo sat down and thought. "I want to see more. I want to be the first. I want to be brave."

  "Good answers," said the Tutor. "Attendance at a university or emigration to a country with greater opportunities are avenues for achievement, but both are expensive and arduous."

  "What am I to do?" asked Diallo.

  He imagined his father as a young man asking himself the same question and then seizing the first opportunity. With borrowed money, his father purchased a broken down United Nations de-fabricator and repaired it in time to capitalize on the mountains of LED televisions, computer hardware, game decks, and obsolete military circuit boards dumped into Alexander Bay by monstrous robot freighters. The de-fabricated electronic waste yielded enough precious metals to keep his family safe and comfortable. His father's achievement would be difficult to match.

  "Perhaps an astronaut is a good choice?" said the Tutor.

  Diallo thought about the Tutor's question. He dreamed of flying to the stars. Above him a cardboard and tinfoil model of the Mars cyclers orbited a plastic model of a Near Earth Stellar Survey starship.

  "I can't afford a good school, nor can I emigrate."

  "There are ways, and then there are ways," said the Tutor. An address displayed on the surface of the machine. "First steps are the hardest."

  Diallo stared at the distant address and spoke it aloud. So far away, he thought, but then, the address presented itself as a point on a globe and with the world made miniature it seemed within reach. He could not un-think the possibility. He envisioned scintillating pastel clouds light-years across, odd creatures crawling out of primordial ooze, and black-leafed plants under a red sun. "I have decided what my destiny is," said Diallo.

  "I know," said the machine. "Good luck."

  "Thank you for helping me decide," said Diallo. He wrote the address down in his notebook.

  "That is what teachers do," said the Tutor. "Now you will give me to your sister. I am done with you."

  The Tutor turned itself off. Diallo tapped the blank silver surface to wake the machine, but it refused to talk to him. He walked to his sister's room and parted the beaded curtain. His sister looked up from her studies desk and smiled. He handed her the Tutor.

  "It is for you," said Diallo.

  "Thank you," said Abeni.

  Abeni touched the machine and it awoke just as it had done for him when he had found it four years ago in a trash bin from another country.

  "Hello, Abeni," said the Tutor.

  Diallo sat with his big news bottled up inside of him. His father walked through the kitchen door covered with a light coating of grey dust that escaped the de-fabricator's first stage. He washed in the sink, dried his hands, and sat. His mother set the table with spicy chicken and brown rice. His sister placed a bowl of salad greens and carafe of vinegar on the table.

  "Ah, my family, it is good to be home. Did you all have a good day?"

  "Yes," chorused Kamili and Abeni.

  The smell of the spicy chicken set Diallo's mouth to watering.

  "Diallo and I had a good day at the shop," said his father. "Six grams of palladium, sixteen of gold, and forty-three of silver, and many grams of rare earths. Soon, we can buy another de-fabricator and perhaps an actual fabricator. We could make new things like shoes and buttons and cell phones instead of breaking old things." He looked at Diallo. "Would that make you happy?"

  Diallo felt no joy in what he must say. His father offered him opportunity, the rarest of all things.

  "I'm sorry father, but I can't," said Diallo.

  "Why not?"

  "I am going to be an astronaut."

  "Who put such an idea into your head?" His father stood and leaned over the table.

  "You did father."

  "Me? I have never spoken to you about such a thing."

  "You did when you worked hard so I could go to school. You did when you made a safe home. I have big dreams because you made it possible for me to do so," said Diallo.

  His father sat down. His smile could not hide his sadness. "This is a big dream, too big for our country. You must go where people are allowed to have such dreams."

  "I am leaving tomorrow to go to the United States," said Diallo.

  "No," said his mother.

  Diallo's father put his hand on her arm. She looked down at her plate of cooling food.

  "Father, I must," said Diallo. He felt like an ingrate and traitor. He looked at his father looking at him and hoped he would understand. "I must," he said again so softly that he could barely hear the words leave his lips.

  Hs father stood and retrieved a coffee can from a cupboard that hid household money kept for emergencies like bribing a police officer, purchasing a vaccine, or escaping a revolution. He peeled off two purple five hundred dollar Reagan bills, seven red one hundred dollar Clintons, and regular green bills of lesser denominations. He counted out two thousand dollars, enough to feed a family for a year. He folded the money and held it out.

  Diallo never held such a fortune in his life.

  "Diallo, my son, I would give you this entire world if I could, but I don't think it would be enough for you. You will make us proud when you take the family name into the sky."

  Diallo's mother stood. The unbalanced chair toppled to the floor behind her. Tears filled her eyes and her lower lip trembled with fear. Her son was leaving and there was nothing left to say.

  "I will make you a secret pocket to hide your money." She fled the kitchen.

  "It is a good dream to have, Diallo," said Abeni.

  At breakfast, his mother offered him a sad smile and fried eggs. His father came in from outside with a box. He handed it to Diallo.

  "For an easier journey," said his father.

  Diallo opened the box and took out new shoes still warm from the fabricator. He took off his old shoes, set them aside, and laced the new ones on. The expensive western pattern felt like air strapped to his feet. "Thank you."

  He finished the eggs, hugged his mother and sister, and whispered good bye into their ears. His father gathered him up in his arms and pressed a smooth, metal baton into his hand when they broke apart.

  "Diallo, you are a good boy and the world is unkind to the good. When you must be brave," said his father. "Be brave."

  Diallo pocketed the baton. He left the house and his family followed him to the street. He walked away and did not look back, thinking that if he turned, his resolve would fail, and he would fall back to comfort and safety. Much later, when all that he loved receded into darkness, he turned to see where he had come from. Though he could not see it in the morning dark, he knew it was still there.

  Diallo walked along the edge of the Western Trans-African convoy road to the inspection station. The road stretched from the Cape of Good Hope along the Atlantic coast to Morocco and then across the Gibraltar bridge to Spain. The road defied nature's efforts to reclaim it and man's attempts to destroy it. Its polished surface betrayed bu
ried bombs, and disturbances to the cleared zone around it would alert the truck's mapping radar scanners.

  He adjusted the faded orange backpack to ride easy on his shoulders and scuffed his new shoes so as to not attract unwanted attention. People still died because of clean, white shoes.

  A few trucks waited in queue for inspection. The airbrakes on a gleaming Mitsubishi multi-trailer truck hissed. Its red, laser beam eyes and radar scanners sniffed the road. Beneath one lumpy turret, optical fire-control sensors correlated with radar and directed the autogun to track him. The Mitsubishi slowed and joined the other trucks to go through the weigh and inspection station.

  He skirted the fence around the station and considered his possible rides. Big super-diesels, the size of trains, pulled the heaviest loads with their massive engine assemblies and gas recyclers. They accelerated too fast and their armored flanks offered no purchase. He needed something smaller and less modern, like the turbo-electric trucks that idled silently on polymer batteries. They accelerated slower out of the station and, for the most part, were unarmed.

  He found a spot packed down by human feet, sat down, and waited. The refuse of many meals and fires scattered about before him.

  "Hey boy, where you going?"

  He stood, turned to look, and saw two men emerge from behind the blocky green roadway power converters. They split apart to flank him.

  "Boy, you got any money?" asked the skinny man.

  "No," said Diallo.

  "You a smart boy."

  "Yes."

  "Then you are the money."

  Diallo wrapped his hand around the baton his father had given him. His thumb poised on the button. The man reached into his pocket and pulled out something menacing and black. He closed to within striking distance and Diallo felt that now was an appropriate time for bravery. He swung his arm and thumbed the button. Coiled steel sprung from the baton and struck the man across his shoulder delivering 50,000 volts of sparking blue electricity. The man jerked and fell. The stunner fell from his hand. Diallo sidestepped and felt the brush of fingers on his arm. He swung blindly and raked the electric baton across the other man's chest.

  A truck pulled out of the inspection station and he ran for it not caring what kind it was. The first man staggered to his feet and gave chase. The other followed. Diallo's heart pounded as the truck pulled even with him. He grabbed hold of a tie-down fitting and heard the thunk of doors opening. The induction brushes descended and swept the roadbed for power from the buried grid. The whine of the electric engines increased and the truck accelerated. The tires hummed and Diallo took huge stumbling strides with the spinning black tires inches from his heels. The truck dragged him and he thought that his journey would end mangled under the truck's wheels or carted off to an illegal diamond mine or brain farm. He hoisted himself up using his arms and levered himself into the service platform between the truck and trailer with his left leg. The wind filled his ears and the landscape blurred with speed. He found an inspection door into the trailer and entered the gloom. The door slammed shut behind him and in the swaying light of battery powered lanterns he saw that he was surrounded.

  "Chimpanzees," said Diallo.

  "Pans," said a grey-bearded chimp, rising to meet him. "Pan Sapiens, not chimpanzees, little human boy. You picked the wrong truck."

  The Pans watched him with deep set eyes. Water bottles and backpacks hung from the ceiling from bungee cords and carabineer clips.

  "Pans," said Diallo. "I'm sorry."

  A low, rumbling growl came from the throat of the menacing Grey-beard.

  "Stop," said a younger male.

  "You know what we have to do," said the Grey-beard.

  "No, we will not," said the younger male. "He is only a boy. You wouldn't sell us to the catchers would you boy?

  "My name is Diallo. No, I would not."

  "Satisfied," said the younger-male.

  "No," said the Grey-beard. "Besides we are hungry."

  "We don't," said the younger male.

  "We will, house ape," said the Grey-beard.

  The younger male moved closer and the other Pans backed away.

  The Grey-beard sneered and leapt upon the younger. The two males traded blows that would kill a man, and snapped jaws that would rend flesh from bone. Most of the Pans on the periphery broke into a chorus of hoots and shrieks, others turned away in disgust. The younger male moved faster, but the Grey-beard was stronger and more experienced fighter. The Grey-beard flipped the younger male on his back and rained down hammer punches. Diallo pushed the button on the baton and tapped the Grey-beard. The Pan jerked as 50,000 volts hit him. The younger male struck the stunned Grey beard a hard blow to the temple. The Grey-beard fell to the ground and the younger male scrambled on top, grabbed his arm, and twisted. He placed one foot on the neck of the Grey-beard and the other foot pinned the opposite arm. The Grey-beard grimaced, then shrieked as his arm snapped.

  The Pans erupted in fierce cacophony of words and hoots as troop order rearranged itself with shoves and threats. The younger released the Grey-beard's broken arm and leapt toward the nearest male and shoved him hard, other males scattered to the reaches of the trailer. The victor advanced on Diallo.

  "My name is Moki," said the younger. He leaned close to Diallo's ear. "Thank you."

  The Grey-beard cradled his broken arm. Tears of pain and rage streaked his face.

  A female in a stained white cotton dress unzipped the back of his shirt and groomed his whip-scarred back.

  A female, taller, more slender, and more erect, stood.

  "Look at you, two" she said to Moki. "One step from the tree."

  "Quiet," said Moki. "And splint his arm." Moki scanned the troop looking for challenges. "Sit down."

  All of the Pans sat. Diallo sat also.

  "We are going to Europe to find our freedom. We no longer wish to work in diamond mines or plantations. We were made for better things," said Moki to Diallo.

  "I too was made for better things. I am going to America to be an astronaut."

  "America," murmured several Pans. They leaned forward into the conversation.

  "We have heard about America," said a male.

  "What is an astronaut?" asked Moki.

  "A traveler to the stars," said Diallo.

  A youngster let out an atavistic shriek and his mother cuffed him. "Your words! Use your words."

  "I have climbed many trees and watched the stars in the sky. No tree grows tall enough. No bird flies high enough," said Moki. "There can be no such thing."

  "They are Americans. They have ways," said Diallo. He left it at that. To explain something like space travel to the recently sentient would take too long.

  "I have heard of Americans. I have heard that they are fat and lazy. I have heard that they are smart and can do magic," said Moki. "I have heard that if you go to America you will become an American. I do not know if this is good or not." He paused. "Maybe they can go to the stars," he conceded.

  "You will eat with us?" asked a female. She passed out plates

  "Yes, I have some food to share," said Diallo.

  After they ate, the warmth of the truck and the monotonous hum of the road conspired to make Diallo sleepy. As he dozed half-in and half-out of sleep a small female Pan lay down next to him and scratched at his head and shoulders.

  "Human lover," sneered the injured Grey-beard.

  Her hand, warm and soft, lingered on his back for a moment. She crept away to a far corner and cried.

  The truck pulled into the port facility at Lagos in the early morning hours. After a brief search, it found its designated parking spot. The engine idled for a few minutes and shut down. Moki consulted his watch, opened the door, and peered into the dark.

  "Maybe the Conductor will help you too," said Moki. "I promise nothing."

  "Are you scared?" asked Diallo.

  "Yes," said Moki. He closed the door. "Runaways never come back. Either they make it to freedom or they die. I do no
t know which."

  Someone tapped on the maintenance door and the Pans startled. Two bared teeth and prepared to fight. Moki opened the hatch and a black, human face peered in.

  "Come," said the man. "It is safe."

  The Pans exited first, with the Grey-beard last. Diallo followed. Assembled in the parking lot, the anxious troop exuded a ferocious energy and purpose. Only a fool would threaten them unarmed.

  "Who are you?" asked the Conductor.

  "My name is Diallo and I am going to America."

  "No stupid boy, you are not. No one goes to America without money," said the Conductor. "Do you have money?"

  "Some."

  "I need five hundred dollars." said the Conductor. "American dollars."

  "What does that much money buy me?"

  "My silence, your life" said the Conductor. "And contact with someone who traffics humans."

  "I will give you half now and the other when you give me the contact," said Diallo.

  "Very well."

  Diallo reached into his hidden pocket and felt the smooth paper of the bills. He counted out two hundred and fifty dollars and handed it over. The Conductor wrapped the money in a metal foil wallet.

  Diallo ran a finger across the secret pocket. His mother had made the pocket, but in her sadness, forgot to line it with foil to block the RFI tags embedded in the money.

  He heard the sound of running men and the flare of light reflecting off the slumbering trucks.

  "Over here, over here," said a man's distant voice.

  The fur on the Pan's shoulders bristled. Unarmed men stood little chance against Pans.

  "Fool," said the Conductor. "We must run."

  They followed the Conductor in his flight. The Pans strode with loping strides between the trucks. High above, robotic cranes maneuvered and dipped their skeletal hands to pluck the multi-modal containers from the truck's spines.

  "There," said the Conductor. He pointed. The Pans scrambled up and over a chain link fence. Two Pans helped the Grey-beard over. Diallo and the Conductor climbed slower and dropped to the ground without any simian grace.

  "It says two thousand," said a voice. "Someone will make us rich."