Non-Applicable

“Today is the twenty-first of March. Spring, I guess.”

On a bowing, plastic crate, draped in a frayed potato sack, a tattered journal rustled in a breeze. The pages fluttered, settling between the evidence of the different hands who had been there before.

A wet, metal tang filled the air and stuffed its way up Ziven’s nose. He pushed his wild orange hair back from his face, tucking a marker behind his ear.

“It’s a little redundant,” he said conversationally, wiping sweat from his brow on the hem of his less than clean shirt. “March. It’s an old earth month. The name originates from Mars, as in, the Roman god of war. I don’t think the intention was that the earth would look like Mars, as in, the planet, in the month of its namesake. It’s just been so hot.” Ziven squinted up at the sky. Almost as an aside, he added, “I’ve never lived in a time when spring existed.”

Ziven traced a careful finger down the line of a straight nose, then the cheek beside it, pausing where the surface caught ever so slightly under his fingertip. He frowned.

“I’ve been thinking of renaming the months, renaming all of them,” he mumbled, casting his gaze over the supplies laid out neatly. From the table he selected a sheet of sandpaper; fifteen hundred grit, nothing too coarse.

Hand moving in small circles over the trouble spot, he continued, “The year before last was the bad year, the year the green dried up and burned. We called it The Collapse. The air was poison. It was the year I couldn’t—the year they—” He stilled, eyes flicking to the left; a habit. The hatch door set into the stone wall sat ajar; a stifled yawn. Tired now but ever waiting for his retreat.

Ziven cleared his throat, shifted in his seat. “You’d never believe what progress can be made in a wounded ozone when there’s no one left to put stuff in it.”

The robot stared blankly back at him. Beyond the boundaries of his metal awning and the sturdy posts that held it in place, fireweed rustled in a breeze. Ziven’s nose wrinkled at their cloying, chemical smell—exhaust, with a floral air freshener taped to the tailpipe.

“It’s still not great, but the air quality wasn’t all that terrible today, and,” he rubbed the bridge of his nose where the air mask had been the most unforgiving, “I needed a break. Needed to breathe.”

The sun beat down on the red mountainside, but in the shade it was tolerable. His skin was tacky and warm. At the joint, his augmented arm was hot against his skin, but the callus there kept it from burning. Beside him, the journal fluttered, mildew stained pages stirring in the wind.

For long minutes, he regarded his work; tightened bolts, oiled joints. It was a little thrown together—arms different lengths, made up of mismatching parts he’d salvaged. One eye dipped a little lower than the other. He’d placed that one on the side with the shorter arm, thought it gave the illusion of balance.

All things considered, the metal shone. The parts were stainless steel, showed no signs of corrosion. He’d polished them to a shine, the robot’s surface reflecting the red, dusty planet around them, but in a hazy sort of way.

Ziven didn’t want to see too much of himself in the silver face. He already felt in his bones all the ways he’d changed.

Anxiety rose in his chest like oncoming high tide. He rubbed at it, knuckles digging into his sternum.

“I need to stop stalling,” he muttered, this time to himself. He flexed the fingers in his augmented hand, taking solace in the way the joints didn’t grind as they moved, and there was no strange tugging.

It will be good, he thought. You need this.

Down the hill, a farming drone sifted the soil. It tended no plants, he’d told it not to. With no other mouths to feed, it did not need to harvest more fireweed until the week was out, if Ziven could stand the taste of more fireweed. Instead, he’d told it to look for grubs—protein.

His fingers hovered, hesitating over the chest panel for the space of two heartbeats. Then, he pulled it open; flipped the switch.

The robot turned on with a soft whir. Eyes, glowing a soft purple. It clicked twice on a blink.

Ziven smiled. “Hello, there.”

The robot’s face turned to him. A soft buzz as the eyes focused. “Ziven, creator, hello.”

“Name designation?” Ziven asked; a test.

The robot shook a little, seemed to settle. “Zero-one-zero-one-zero-zero-one-zero,” it replied, voice a hard rasp through an old speaker.

Frowning, Ziven ran a hand over the stubble on his chin, the skin tugging a little as he left a smear of grease on his jaw. “Not quite,” he sighed. “Do you know what that translates to?”

“Zero-one-zero-one-zero-zero-one-zero in ASCII code translates to the capital letter R in the English language.” A slow blink.

Ziven nodded. “Which means, in turn, your name is?”

“Zero-one-zero-one-zero-zero-one-zero.” The robot almost sounded terse.

Maybe this hadn’t been such a great idea.

He hadn’t been the one to start the project. Jezzo and Andek had. As a way to pass the time, or ignore his presence, he wasn’t sure. The bunker had a way of tainting everything bitter, including memories that shouldn’t feel so far off.

After Jezzo died—Ziven shook his head, clearing the thought. After—Just after, he reminded himself—Andek had taught him, albeit reluctantly. He’d become more amenable once Ziven’s arm was finally working correctly.

Then, after after—well, he was alone.

“R,” Ziven said on a tired exhale. “I’ve given you the name, R.”

“Yes, Ziven, creator.”

Ziven stood with a stretch, joints popping.

“Let’s get to work, R,” he said, slinging his bag over his shoulder, adjusting the thick strap so it covered the place where metal met skin. The fabric bulged, too full with his mask tucked inside. It knocked into his hip, but better safe than sorry. The hat he put on his head and tied under his chin had a large brim, the only protection he had from the sun.

The robot slid a little on the hill’s loose stone as they hiked down. Too late he realized he’d forgotten to install tread, the rubber roll of it somewhere among the mess of his desk. Andek’s flat, unamused stare flashed through his mind. You’re always forgetting the details.

He’d have to fix that when they got back, no need to waste daylight now.

Ziven walked behind it with his arms out—ready to catch it if it started to fall. His fingertips tapped lightly against the R’s thin waist, pressing with each unsteady step. He did not want to polish it again.

At the base of the hill they walked between the two farming drones Jezzo, then Andek, then Ziven had repaired. They produced a strange, straining sort of whine as they tried to irrigate the dry soil, only to kick up dust.

Ziven coughed.

From under his hat he peered up at the sky. It was a hazy sort of blue, cloudless.

“R,” he started, gaze sliding to the robot, “what’s the probability of rain?”

“Current atmospheric moisture: insufficient for precipitation. Probability of rain: 0.0003%. Historically, rainfall predictions in this area before The Collapse were 15-25%, dropping significantly in the five year lead up as a result of large amounts of methane in the atmosphere. Current rainfall predictions fall within expected variance.” Its feet made a rhythmic shush as it walked next to Ziven, joints silent. After a moment it said, “Would you like me to notify you if that increases to a meaningful value?”

Ziven pushed an annoyed breath out of his nose, grumbled, “Yes.”

“Would you like me to simulate the sound?”

“No,” Ziven snapped, then scrubbed a hand over his eyes. It was too soon for him to feel this long-suffering.

The robot fell silent.

They made their way across the dusty earth—a veritable sea of purple off to their right, rolling steady in the breeze.

The fireweed hadn’t come back as he’d remembered it before The Collapse.

His father had worked all along the California woodlands as a part of the forest service. He’d piloted crafts that dropped fire-suppressant over the forest fires that never seemed to end. They’d lived among them, him and his brothers, in a specialized glass dome.

They moved with the fire, staying the longest when the wind pushed it away from the hills and down into the valley. There had been days where they couldn’t go outside for how deeply they’d moved within the hot zone—trees collapsing around them, flames painting the shadows in deep shades of orange.

But then, sometimes, he’d wake and there’d be no fire. Just smudges of green and purple outside the glass that had pressed through the ash. Smudges because the glass was foggy, because it had rained.

The days of that were short, but he’d loved them the most.

After The Collapse, the fireweed didn’t grow back with any green, stalks brown and tough.

As a kid they’d eaten the young shoots in the spring with a side of mashed potatoes. Now it was all he ate, nothing to wash down the bitter emptiness but stale, refiltered water. It reminded him of the way he remembered hating asparagus when he was a kid. Now he’d give his last organic arm just for one taste of something truly green; fresh.

He ran his tongue over his teeth.

The smell hit him here as it always did—the rough scent of old fire. It hadn’t gone away since the flames had died down, there hadn’t been anything to wash it away.

He’d avoided this invisible boundary for so long, the place where the smell reminded him of home, of a family he no longer had, even when his eyes told him the truth.

With R by his side, he stepped through it; didn’t let himself slow.

He inhaled the strange but familiar air.

They walked on until the ground was more black than red, the crunch of the earth under their feet muffled by ash. That’s when Ziven stopped. Beside him, R did, too.

He was silent for a moment, looking into the dead forest of black.

Most of the trunks had crumbled, but some still reached into the sky like spires. Between them, husks of downed drones and other crafts that had ended up there, one way or another.

“R, I need you to find something for me,” Ziven said without turning to face the robot. He rubbed absently at the seam of his shoulder joint under the bag’s strap. “FSC-3092, callsign: Smoke Hopper.”

“Affirmative, Ziven, creator.” R’s voice was without inflection.

He looked to the sky.

And that was it, wasn’t it? Just another day. For him and any of those left on this dusty, red planet, the sun would set and the moon would rise. But it was finally time he put the last of it to rest.

Ziven followed the robot silently as it drifted between the copse of blackened trees and gnarled, twisted metal. The crafts lay where they’d fallen, broken, the contrast stark between them and the organic material.

He didn’t look inside.

R’s steps were sure and even. It gave no reassurance that it knew where it was going, Ziven just had to trust it did.

The insects were louder here than he’d ever heard before, the ambient buzzing grating on his nerves where they were used to silence. They flew too near to his ears and he tensed, unsure what he’d do if one decided to land on him.

They walked for an hour, R never slowing, even as it would turn and pick up a different heading without warning. Ziven didn’t ask, and R didn’t supply an answer.

Overhead, the sun was unrelenting. It wove through the reaching trunks that offered no shade to beat down on them, reddening the pale skin of Ziven’s shoulders.

He fanned out his hat as best he could.

R suddenly stopped, magenta eyes brightening as it scanned the ground. Then, R turned to Ziven.

“FSC-3092 located, Ziven, creator. Would you like me to do a damage assessment?”

Ziven’s eyes clouded as he stared at the downed hovercraft, the glass of the cockpit curled in on itself and melted. It wasn’t clear if it had shattered first, or if the fire had eaten away at it entirely. But there, the tell-tale red stripe from nose to tail—half the callsign missing on the wing; burned, paint shriveled.

Like a burial mound, the ship was entirely surrounded by fireweed. Here the scent was less cloying, like someone had left mint burning but only recently snubbed the flames; something distinctly purple and bright mixed with the smoke.

“Ziven, creator, would you like a damage assessment?” the robot asked again.

Ziven blinked; slowly shook his head.

His bottom lip trembled on an inhale. “What—” the word came out cracked; he cleared his throat. “What human remains are left?”

There was a moment of silence while R stepped closer, scanning the inside. After long heartbeats, the sound of insects like the drilling of stone, the robot said, “Organic material detected. Bone fragments present. Degree of thermal damage: severe.”

Ziven chewed his lip; said nothing. He watched the robot, bracing.

“One partial mandible remains intact,” R continued. “Dental structures largely preserved.” Its eyes whirred as they zoomed in, violet hue warming the inside of the cockpit. “Cross referencing available records…”

Ziven’s heart leaped to his throat and he flinched; choked on it.

“Probability of match: 87.91% to CAL Fire Pilot, craft callsign: Smoke Hopper, name—”

“Stop!” Ziven yelled when he found his voice, pressing his palms over his ears.

R stopped immediately, stepping back from the craft and straightening.

Even the insects fell silent, startled by the sudden noise. The small ship blurred in Ziven’s vision, like fog-laden glass. Smudges of purple stood sentry at the corners of his vision, glowing against the black and red of the world.

It was long minutes before his thundering heart beat steady and slow in his chest once more.

The robot waited, purple eyes blinking patiently, until Ziven lowered his hands.

“Would you like me to preserve the remains for transport?” asked R.

Ziven closed his eyes; brushed a tear from his cheek. “No,” he breathed. “No, I’ll do it.”

From his bag he pulled the coffee can. Old now, and the lip darkened with rust, the red Folgers can was cool in his palm. He’d only just dumped the old grinds this morning. Brown dust coated the silver bottom of the can as he looked inside it—the smell of it stale but somehow achingly fresh, like salve on a wound.

Carefully, he stepped towards the craft.

The inside was just as R said, scattered with the burned remains of organic material. He hesitated only a moment, rubbing his fingers against the soft meat of his thumb. The metal of his augmented arm clinked softly against the hull as he used it to brace himself; lean in.

Ziven picked up the jaw bone first, brushing it off with a still hand. The missing tooth he remembered was still there; a molar on the left side. He placed it carefully in the can. It made a tinny clank.

He picked through bone and ash, going slowly at first to reclaim pieces of white from the ash-covered earth. Then, he began scooping it into his palms, pressing all he could into the can.

Finally, he stood.

Ziven turned slowly to the robot, who watched him from where the fireweed thinned.

“Can you show me the way home, R?” Ziven asked, the words a thin rasp.

Without hesitation, the robot said, “Affirmative, Ziven, creator,” before beginning the slow trek back towards the hill and the bunker Ziven called home.

Ziven held the can clutched to his chest with his organic arm. The insects had picked up again, buzzing loudly and rustling the fireweed as they zipped between clusters. Slowly, the smell of smoke retreated as they stepped back over the border of the lands he knew like the back of his hand—unfamiliar sounds replaced by the strained whir of the farming drones.

Without instruction, R emptied the drones’ collection baskets into its chest cavity—a temperature controlled storage compartment Ziven had designed once the bunker had run out of nonperishables. He chose not to think about the hollow tink the grubs made, and how little it sounded like there were.

When they returned, he stared for a long time at the peak of his hill and the cold flare, chewing his lip. Then, to the two graves facing the waning light. He looked to the sky again.

Against the hazy, orange sunset, the green indicator lights of a slow moving transport ship blinked steadily.

Ziven made his decision.

He lit the flare, the hiss drowning out the song of the insects. R was silent as it moved through the bunker, the door yawning wide to the hot air and rotten earth.

With his hands, Ziven dug up the vessels containing his brothers. Andek tucked inside a hardware tin, the same one he’d stowed photographs in when they were kids. And for Jezzo, the artist, a paint can, Palladin Blue.

Nails caked with red earth, he tucked them next to the coffee can in his trunk, next to his journal.

R stepped up beside him. The transport landed in a cloud of dust.

They gave him a room, temporary, with hard edges in shades of gray and white. From the window he watched the red and purple of earth recede.

Ziven didn’t look at the robot as he asked, “R, did I make the right choice?”

“Environmental viability below sustainable threshold for 8.7 years. Question of correctness is non-applicable.”