ABOUT AN HOUR LATER. PUEBLO, COLORADO. 12:15 AM MST. TUESDAY, JULY 22, 2025.
The moon was still
low in the sky and dim. Darkness wrapped the old, empty tract
houses in monochrome shadow; not just a ghost town, but the ghost
of a town.
Arnie wished he’d
asked Ecco to walk with him. We could have
gone over mission details, and I could’ve had somebody to eat late
supper with.
Or he could have just
taken a house close to the center of the city in the first place.
I’d already be home. Why did I act like a guy
who wanted to be lonely?
He could see the
watch’s lantern glinting half a mile away. I
could run and join them and just stay with them till they passed my
house. Lots of people do that. But the time to have done
that would have been to catch them on Main, in front of the
courthouse; now, they’d wonder what had frightened him. They might
ask. What could he say?
Deep breath. Walk and
breathe like you’re going to fight; if it turns out you are, it’s
one less thing to worry about, and if not, it calms and clears
the—
“Doctor Yang. Doctor
Yang, doctus in the doctrine, the indoctrinated
doctor.”
Arnie spun one step
backward into the space he’d been about to walk into, cross-drew
his knives and held them at ready. “I’ve been expecting
you.”
Teeth gleamed in the
dark under the blanket; the eyes were black blobs around the greasy
promontory of the nose. “Expecting to stab me?”
“If necessary.” Arnie
shifted his weight for a better stance.
“Now, whatever
happened to that civilized old academic world where everyone took
the time to express mutual respect, and dallied a while in chat,
and listened patiently to each other before entering into the
actual business at hand, Doctor? Shouldn’t we be sipping sherry and
considering—”
“Manners and respect
are products of enough people having enough time and comfort; you
are the ones who put an end to that.”
Aaron slowly, loudly
applauded him. He was the only thing moving or making a sound in
the oblong shadows of the houses and the splintered and sliced
patterns of dingy moonlight. “You are thinking of holding me and
shouting for the watch.”
Arnie shrugged. “Why
not?”
“Because if you
don’t, you might get three more questions answered. Whereas if you
do capture me, you have to hope my nervous system is no more
programmed than Ysabel’s was, so I have seizures only about as bad,
and that my heart and arteries are in no worse shape than hers, so
that I don’t have a fatal stroke or heart attack.”
“I don’t have to hope
that hard. I’m thinking about stabbing you.” Arnie shifted his
weight and let his rear foot rise, extending it in front of him and
setting it down. About four more steps would close the gap. “But I
would like your answers to some questions.”
“What is your first
question?”
“What do you do, now,
when you have doubts about Daybreak?”
“Daybreak forgives me
because I am so powerless, and I let Daybreak fill my mind, so that
I can go on and do the work.”
Arnie advanced a
step; he wondered if weapons were trained on him in the dark. An
arrow or a spear out of nowhere . . . but one lunge, tackle him,
hold him down, capture a Daybreaker, think how people would look up
to him, just one leap—
Teeth showed under
the blanket again, and the spots of the eyes narrowed. “Exchange,
Doctor Yang. Have you told your owners that you’re talking to me
yet?”
Arnie swallowed hard;
the question was shrewder than it looked, for either he’d have to
say “yes,” and be led along; or “no,” and admit that he was
conspiring with Aaron. Or I might . . .
“I’ve told them exactly as much as I think they should know; does
that make them my owners, or me theirs?”
“Ownership is always
an error. Now your question.”
Another step brought
Arnie close enough to spring, but Aaron was cooperating . . . but,
dammit. He couldn’t think of what he intended to ask Aaron. He
stalled with, “What is the purpose of Daybreak?”
“Purpose is so human,
and therefore useless, of no value, a shame. Gophers dig; they
don’t calculate angles of repose around their burrows. Geese fly;
they don’t do celestial navigation. We do not need to know the
relative marginal propensities to consume of the grasshopper and
the ant. Daybreak will free them from human imputation, which makes
all things dirty; to the pure, all things are purposeless. No
thinky-thinks, no wordy-words, no math, no meaning, no purpose.”
When had he closed the distance? How did his hands now press down
on Arnie’s wrists, lowering the knives? “Exchange. My question.
Mister Ecco’s mission has changed and he is going to the
Northwest.”
Right, that’s the wrong direction, I can just say
yes—Arnie’s head was turning slowly, indicating
no.
“Going
northeast.”
Arnie tried to keep
his head still, but he had an eerie sense that Aaron was reading
his thought: don’t nod, don’t nod, for God’s
sake don’t nod.
“Going farther east,
crossing the Wabash?”
Don’t nod. “Exchange,” Arnie croaked. His hands
were down by his sides where Aaron had pressed them. They were
face-to-face; Arnie could smell the dirty blanket and the foul
breath.
“Ask.”
“What are you
doing?”
“Daybreak only
does till day is broken. After that
Daybreak does not do. Daybreak
is. I won’t take my final turn of
exchange now; you will owe it to me.”
Arnie was alone on
the street. In the distance, dogs and coyotes howled, the sharp
yips mixing with the deep bellow of some hound; closer, he could
hear the clatter of the watch, with all the gear hanging from their
belts and harnesses; closest of all, the sound of the last breath
of night wind rustling the leaves of a cottonwood.
Miserably tired, he
headed home, resheathing his knives, his mind all on bed, reminding
himself to record this in his journal, fighting off the question
Record what?