Chapter 3 - Missed Rendezvous
"Are the clay pigeons ready, Oliver?"
"They're ready, sir."
"Pull!"
Dr. Zito has grabbed his collectible hunting rifles and clay pigeons and has assembled with Oliver on the wide lawn just outside my second story, bedroom window. I hear the launcher click, and an orange pigeon flies across my window's view. An instant later, the roar of Dr. Zito's rifle echoes off of the walls without shattering the flying target. Though his effort failed, the doctor is laughing in the time it takes for him to reload his weapon and for Oliver to prepare another pigeon into the launcher.
"Ready, Oliver?"
"Ready, sir."
"Pull!"
I think Oliver might have had a conversation with Dr. Zito, who has undertaken a surprising health kick the last few weeks. With the doctor's permission, Oliver has modified our creator's diet, replacing all those plates teaming with meats, gravies, potatoes and desserts with recipes composed of kale, beans and quinoa. Oliver escorts Dr. Zito each morning and afternoon during casual strolls about the estate. Oliver tells me he hopes such walks provide a good, preliminary activity before more strenuous exercise the robot hopes to introduce into the doctor's schedule. What I think might be the largest modification in the doctor's habits, Oliver now oversees the dispensary of Dr. Zito's favorite liquors, allowing the doctor only a single drink of scotch or bourbon before our maker goes to sleep.
And Dr. Zito has been burning through clay pigeons the last several mornings. Oliver let it slip during my exam yesterday that he doubts the doctor takes much physical benefit from all the shooting, but the robot doesn't deny that the activity seems to charge the doctor's interest for other recreation. I count the doctor's hit and misses as I climb onto my room's elliptical machine to begin my own regimen, a distraction that eases the drudgery I associate with that piece of exercise equipment.
"Pull!"
Still, I'd rather be immersed within my online game of goblin kings and spider queens. The game's launch screen glows on my computer's monitor, ready to catapult me into my beloved digital realm at the click of a mouse button.
The priestess of the Lehmur moon greets me with a ping each time my avatar's pixelated form manifests into the game. I never hesitate to respond to her invitation, and with a quick circle and click with the mouse, the game takes me to the priestess who, if I don't count Oliver, has become the best friend I've ever known.
Together, we have mapped the entire ice continent of Ibyld, have braved the dens of the snow-saber tigers to earn the cartographer achievement reserved for the game's most dedicated map-makers. We have descended through the vast levels of the wicked, underground tower to look upon the foul necromancer's secret library, whose books have revealed the hiding place of that dark master's bone army. We have accumulated skills in our battles with brigands and bandits, and our investments in our abilities have taught us that virtual world's art of animal training so that we call wolfs, falcons and dragon pups our companions. All of that game's locales which I thought I knew so well seem new to me with the priestess beside my avatar, as if she's breathed new life into all those glowing mountain cities of dwarven craft and seaports of mankind's ship builders. With the priestess' company, I've come to love the game more than ever.
"Pull!"
Though I've composed in-game letters to that priestess numerous times, she has yet to respond to any of my missives. She wastes no time to type banter into my display bar while we track the moaning witch. She gives me no response when I inquire if we might open a channel so we might speak to one another through our computers' microphones. That priestess who has become my constant partner within that digital world remains silent, leaving it up to my imagination to fill in any of the details concerning who controls that pixelated avatar my heart hungers to know.
The exercise routine Oliver has programmed into my elliptical machine buzzes when complete, and I hurry to my computer's keyboard. I find myself back in my game's world after only a few minutes. My warrior strides through the labyrinth streets of the Fay capitol. I expect to see the priestess around each corner, perhaps purchasing supplies from an alley vendor, or crafting textiles for barter at one of the city's many workstations. Yet I fail to find her no matter where I look, and I realize that the priestess has always found me. A quarter of an hour passes, and my spirits fall. Perhaps the being who truly controls that priestess is at work. I certainly hope that whoever guides that priestess has not become too ill to join me in my favorite game. I hope that the player behind the priestess' face has not been harmed. It's not a half hour since I've entered that game without the priestess' company, and I'm already imagining terrible reasons for my friend's absence.
"Pull!"
The echo of Dr. Zito's weapon bounces off of my room's walls and nearly distracts me from hearing the tone of my computer as a virtual letter enters the mailbox belonging to my warrior. I hold my breath and click the blinking envelope icon. The letter bears only "friend" in the composer field, but my gut knows the priestess has sent the missive. My gut knows the letter will explain why she is absent. My gut knows that the letter will promise a new rendezvous where the two of us can be reunited.
The letter's contents prove cryptic. In the glowing, script font used by the priestesses of the Lehmur moon reads the following message:
Ernie. I am a friend. Both beyond the borders of this game and the fences of the doctor's estate. Companions want to meet you. See us at midnight on the other side of the south fence. Your Priestess.
My heart races. A friend outside of the game? A friend on the other side of the estate fences? I peek at the clock. It's not even ten in the morning, and the minute hand doesn't move the slightest though I stare so long that my eyes start to water. Midnight has never felt such a long way off. I've never felt mystery bring time to such a standstill.
"Pull!"
The rifle's explosion that follows the doctor's scream sounds all wrong. The boom thunders in my room, and Dr. Zito howls in pain. I hurry to my window and see the doctor rolling on the ground, his hand covering his face. Blood trickles out from between Dr. Zito's fingers. Oliver's treads speed to the doctor's side, and two of the robot's arms pull the doctor's hands away to inspect the hurt that has been inflicted upon Dr. Zito's face. The back of Oliver's head blocks my view from the window of whatever injury has befallen the doctor.
A third of Oliver's six arms administers a needle into the doctor, and our maker's howling subsides. Oliver's hands work quickly to wrap bandages about the doctor's face. And then, Oliver's head turns toward my window. My heart freezes.
I've never been so afraid of that robot as Oliver's telescoping eye extends and whirls to focus upon my face, no doubt already appraising my parts for whatever piece Dr. Zito suddenly requires. Oliver's never made me tremble like I'm shaking now, but I've never had something as magnificent and mysterious as a midnight meeting with a priestess to look forward to. I jump away from my window and bound into the hallway. I can't think of anywhere to go. I can't think of anywhere to hide. So I dart towards the mansion's back door. I run in the opposite direction of that window and of Oliver. I don't slow down to consider how I might scale the estate's fence. Such thinking is too far ahead. At the moment, all I can do is concentrate on running, on fleeing from that contraption of arms and scalpels Dr. Zito has pieced together for the purpose of harvesting me.
Though my blood is burning in my limbs by the time I bound through the back door, my heart freezes as Oliver appears on the back lawn.
"Please stop, Ernie. There's no need to run. I promise you will not feel any pain or discomfort. It will be over before you know it."
Something stings the back of my neck. I stop running as a warm sensation follows the pinch of pain. My fingers gingerly feel the small dart protruding from my skin. I can hardly gather several more breaths before my mind whirls, before the darkness expands and covers my vision. I sense that I am falling, but I feel no impact.
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