38

Lila Easterlin

May 26, 2045. Sydney, Australia.

Their limo let them off in front of the State Theatre, which had dozens of huge glass doors set under a bronze art-deco façade. The marquee announced Richard II, in a limited engagement. Below that, an announcement read, Welcome, Human Global Ambassadors.

“I don’t believe this,” Bolibar whispered, sidling up to Lila and Oliver as they were led down the aisle past hundreds of defenders already seated for the performance. Lila only nodded, afraid to be overheard. The inside of the theater was beyond ornate—the gold walls were festooned with lush burgundy drapes and crusted with polished metalwork and reliefs carved in marble. Lila guessed it was an exact large-scale reproduction of the human theater it had replaced. It comforted her, that defenders were interested in art, in Shakespeare. What she’d witnessed at the racetrack was less alarming when offset by Erik’s gift and this event. She wanted to see the fine arts museum Erik had mentioned. Even if the art was terrible, it would raise her spirits to see it.

The defender playing King Richard wore a long white robe with gold inlay, and a crown the size of a bathtub, but if the defenders were attempting to act, it was not apparent to Lila. They recited their lines as if reading, moved about the stage perfunctorily, and as often as not looked at the audience rather than the character they were speaking to.

“You seem to have especially positive feelings for our hosts,” Bolibar whispered to her as the performance dragged on. He made it sound casual but was probably more interested than he let on. They were all trying to understand the inscrutable beings they’d created.

Lila felt uncomfortable speaking during the performance, even in a whisper, but it felt rude to shush Bolibar, or ignore him. She kept her answer brief. “I’m so grateful to them that sometimes I feel like I’m going to bust.” She could have elaborated, but their whispering was causing people nearby to glance their way.

Bolibar tilted his head in a very European gesture. “And your country, along with the Canadians, were grateful enough that they provided the displaced Australians with a new home?”

He left it a question instead of a statement. The flat, cold region running from North Dakota to Saskatoon that was now New Australia was not prime real estate.

“Spain didn’t offer anything, as I recall,” she whispered into his hairy ear. “There are degrees of stinginess.”

He laughed, loud enough to make Lila flinch and nudge his arm. “How very true,” he whispered. “We’re a stingy people, the Spanish.”

The defender playing Richard stopped mid-stanza. He came to the edge of the stage. Lila sank into her seat, wishing she could hide. “Why are you laughing? Does this seem like a comedy to you? Maybe you think you can do better?”

Embarrassed, Bolibar shook his head. “I’m—”

“We’ve worked hard to get this right for you. And you’re laughing at us?” The defender reached out almost casually with its front leg and slashed Bolibar across the stomach.

Lila sat frozen as Bolibar’s insides slid out. His mouth hung open, his eyes wide with surprise as he slowly tipped forward.

“Uncalled for!” a defender shouted. It was Erik. He stormed up the center aisle, leaped onto the stage, stiff-armed the defender playing Richard. “Deeply uncalled for.” A dozen defenders followed him onto the stage, roaring. Some attacked Richard; others leaped to defend him.

As they fought, one of Richard’s legs was torn, or bitten, or cut off, and it fell into the seats, slashing open the Chilean ambassador’s back from shoulder to waist. As she screamed in agony, a few ambassadors crowded around Bolibar, crying out for medical attention as he bled out onto the seat and the polished floor. In the seats behind them, defenders roared and jostled. Lila could do nothing but stare at Bolibar, her jaw working, but no sound coming.

One of the defenders onstage fell into the seats, his nose nearly severed, blood pouring from the gash in his face. He landed on the Tunisian ambassador. Lila could hear the ambassador’s back snap before he disappeared under the defender.

“Come on,” Oliver said, grabbing Lila’s arm. She yanked her arm free. “We can’t leave him.” Bolibar was clearly dead, but somehow it felt wrong to bolt. She was in shock, she realized. It had all happened so quickly, so unexpectedly. She’d barely had time to be afraid.

By some silent assent, the combatants suddenly broke off. Erik, who was mostly unharmed, motioned to Luyten at the back of the theater. The Luyten scrambled to clean up the carnage, dragging away defenders and pieces of defenders. One reached across half a dozen rows and plucked the limp mess that was Bolibar. Lila stumbled to her knees and crawled out of the way.

She and Oliver joined the rest of the emissaries at the back of the theater as Luyten mopped the blood. A dozen conversations were carried out in harsh, shocked whispers. Lila turned to Oliver, but she couldn’t speak. They only passed a look. It said all they needed to say to each other. This is much worse than we thought.

As the last of the dead were carried away, Vladimir went to the front, waved his arms at the murmuring crowd, and said, “Please. Quiet, please. Please, sit. Let us continue.”

Lila was sure she’d misunderstood. Continue? As in, continue the play?

The lights dimmed. Actors returned to the stage, including a Richard understudy. They waited, looking expectantly at the emissaries.

“This is insane,” Azumi Bello hissed. “We’re just supposed to sit back down? People are dead. The defenders must allow us to notify their kin, their embassies.”

“Too much is riding on this,” Priyanka Vadra, the Indian ambassador, hissed. “Let’s just do as they say for now.”

Dazed ambassadors shuffled down the aisles. Lila looked around, seeking—she didn’t know what she was seeking. The real defenders, maybe—the ones who’d saved her life.

Lila was sure she wouldn’t make it through the rest of the performance. Surely she would faint, or be unable to stifle her overwhelming urge to run. The seats around Bolibar’s bloodstained one were empty; ambassadors were glancing around, eyes wide, afraid to move or speak. Lila risked a glance back at the section where defenders were seated. They were watching the performance as if nothing had happened.

Vladimir was not happy when their small contingent insisted on walking home, rather than riding in the limo. They told him they needed air, and time to mourn their friend.

“They’re insane,” Azumi said as they waited for the light—an enormous red moon hovering far above them—to change. “Did you see their reaction?” He shook his head, his arms folded tightly. “They’re insane.”

“They have less regard for life than we do, I don’t disagree,” Oliver said, “but ‘insane’ implies their thinking and behavior is incoherent. I have to disagree.”

“They’re insane,” Azumi repeated.

“Poor Bolibar,” Galatea whispered.

“Let’s set their mental state aside for now,” Sook said. “We have to decide what to do.”

The red light blinked, turned green.

“We should demand they lift the cloak so we can contact our governments,” Galatea said.

“We should leave,” Azumi said. “This is a madhouse.”

Lila shushed him. Half a dozen defenders were trailing behind them.

Azumi lowered his voice. “They kill like it was nothing.” He gestured toward a Luyten operating a bulldozer on a construction site they were passing. “Starfish everywhere. And this ‘special friend’ nonsense. I have a wife; I don’t need a brigadier general defender at my side every minute of the day.”

“We can’t leave yet,” Lila said. “Even if it’s dangerous, we have to know what we’re dealing with, why the defenders invited us here.”

“I agree,” Oliver said.

Azumi sighed theatrically. “Fine. Then let’s demand we get down to business. We’re here on a diplomatic mission, so let us proceed with the diplomacy. No more plays. No more special friends. I’m telling General Baxter I’m not available for any more films, or lunches, or cocktail parties.”

“You’re breaking up with General Baxter?” Galatea asked, in mock shock. Everyone burst out laughing.

“Yes,” Azumi said, “I’m breaking up with him.”

Lila didn’t have the heart to do the same with Erik. In any case, she wasn’t sure she wanted to. His violent nature disturbed her, but hadn’t they made him that way? The human race was alive because Erik and the other defenders killed so efficiently, without fear. All humans bore some of the responsibility for that. In some real sense, the defenders were the blameless ones; they were simply expressing what they’d been engineered to be.

The question was, since there was now no need for killing, could the defenders extinguish their violent instincts, or channel them into socially appropriate behavior? There was no alternative, really, unless the defenders decided to stay isolated. Lila thought they could do it, given time and guidance.

“Let’s not forget, they have positive qualities,” Lila said.

Sook laughed harshly. “Were you just in there?”

Lila ignored her. “This special-friend thing is a good sign. They crave close relationships, especially with humans.” She glanced at Sook. “Yes, I was in there, but what about them?” She gestured toward the defenders following. “Most of the defenders adore us.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to encourage these close relationships.” Azumi made a chopping gesture. “We should keep our relationship with the defenders strictly professional.”

Up ahead, a Luyten was loading a delivery truck with pallets of oversized milk cartons. It was crimson, on the small side. Lila slowed, studied it as they passed.

She couldn’t be sure.

“Are you all right, Lila?” Azumi asked.

Her heart was pounding. She wanted to ask the Luyten if she was right, if it was the one, but there was no point. It knew she was asking, and it chose to stay silent.

She continued past it. Had it shown itself to her on purpose? If it was the Luyten who’d killed her father, wouldn’t it go out of its way to avoid her? Maybe it wasn’t the same one. There were millions of Luyten, and even if the crimson ones were rare, there still must be thousands of them.