The Desolate Guardians (3 page)

In my half-dark and very isolated server
room, I couldn't help but feel for him. Merry Christmas to you,
wherever you are, friend…

After spending the last several nights trying
fruitlessly to find the source of that haunting message, I was
beginning to lose hope… but, then, I found something.

It wasn’t the source of that message. Far
from it. Instead, I found that the hierarchy of our network was far
taller than I’d assumed. I oversaw all of it in the off-hours, but
I’d never personally mapped it. There’d been no need.

Last night, though, I began understanding
that our network was a massive conglomeration of smaller networks
that were each separated from one another in all respects - except
for us. We served as the backbone for an enormous range of systems.
Each was very different, and some were in other languages entirely.
I’d known our organization was huge, but I’d never quite guessed at
the true extent of our reach.

Maybe I was going about this all wrong… maybe
I shouldn’t have been searching for the origin of a message clearly
made to be untraceable. Maybe I should have been searching for
related initiatives or keywords… had he been military? Had he
strictly stated
he was military, beyond mentions of a
commanding officer? I guessed I’d have to go with that assumption,
in any case.

Everything in the message had been too vague.
That was the core problem of the modern age: there was too much
information available. It was impossible to sift through it all
without key words that acted almost like in-plain-sight passwords.
You could have the best decryption software in the world, but it
was useless unless you actually knew what to look for. Certain
combinations of words pulled data out of massive networks like
plucking gold out of the ether.

Thinking about it like that, I suddenly felt
very certain about my next search:
the only defense we have
against nightmare is the power of self-sacrifice.

I tried that search first on a very small
network, and, to my triumph and amazement, an exact result
appeared.

For a millisecond, I hesitated. My random
browsing online was one thing, but this was a specific inquiry into
obfuscated communications…

On the other hand, I would inevitably do this
at some point once the boredom and curiosity became unbearable. Why
not now?

I opened the file up to the relevant section.
It was an audio log with an automatic text transcription…
curious…

***

01110001 01110101 01100001 01101110 01110100
01110101 01101101 00101101 01110100 01110101 01101110 01101110
01100101 01101100 00100000 01110100 01110010 01100001 01101110
01110011 01100011 01100101 01101001 01110110 01100101 01110010
00100000 01101100 01101111 01100111

Day three-hundred sixty-three:
cloud
cover below is thinning today. Found footprints in the snow.

Day three-hundred sixty-four:
nothing
new to report. Merry Christmas. Tell Lundvik I haven’t forgotten
that she owes me a bottle of tequila. Footprints were just my own
tracks… again.

Day three-hundred sixty-five:
cooking
a rabbit I found. Late Christmas present? Amazing. How could a
rabbit have survived up here? I still see birds sometimes. Nature’s
adaptability is astounding.

Day three-hundred sixty-six:
so it’s
been a year since I’ve heard back, as far as I can estimate. Is
anyone still listening to these things? I think sometimes I talk
just to hear my own voice. Is that weird? Things wouldn't be so bad
if I just had somebody to talk to. I have to admit, I've been
having hallucinations. I'm not sure how much longer I can hold this
down. Tell Lundvik I don't think I'm going to be able to make it to
that date we always talked about...

Day three-hundred sixty-seven:
blizzard raging below. Found footprints in the snow. Spooking
myself yet again with my own footprints… it's like my brain just
doesn't want to acknowledge I'm the only human being on this
mountain.

Wait… I never went up
there
…

Taking cover behind rocky outcropping - is
someone else here? If anyone is listening, please advise.

No? Ok, then…

I don't see anyone… not seeing anything in
the crags…

I'd rather not be caught unawares. I don't
think I can go back to camp and sleep knowing somebody might be out
here. I… have to follow the footprints.

Who could possibly be up here?

[breathing and crunching sounds; twenty-six
minutes]

Creeping up the crags, still don't see
anyone. The wind is terrible up here. Lundvik, I'll have you know I
blame you for this. I'm doubling that debt to two bottles of
tequila. The cold up here is the worst. Climbing rocks with numb
fingers was not in my plan for today. I'd kill for five minutes
next to a fire.

Warmth… oh, warmth…

[final exasperated gasp]

[silence; two minutes]

[loud footfalls]

Ice. Goddamnit, ice. No footprints.

Did you hear that? Was that… a
gong?
Are you hearing this?

Oh, it was just cracking ice… there are some
pretty gigantic cliffs up here past the crags. If someone really
had gone this way, where would they have been going? Blizzard's
moving up the mountain, I have to go back.

If anyone's listening at all, now would be a
really good time for some contact.

[ragged breathing and climbing sounds;
twenty-two minutes]

The footprints - they're gone! Driving snow
here, did it cover them up already? Or am I starting to imagine
things? Maybe I should follow them the other direction… where did
they come from? What direction was it? I can't remember…

Did you hear that? Can't see anything in the
blizzard, but I swear I heard a footfall.

I'm considering doing my lookout route, just
to feel more secure… but I know that'd be deadly in this storm, and
I wouldn't see anything anyway… what would you do, Lundvik?

No, you're right, that's a bad idea.

If there
is
somebody out there,
they'll never find me in this storm. If I can't see
them,
they can't see
me.

[footfalls on snow; eleven minutes]

Hey, fire's still alive. Saves me some
effort. Wish these godforsaken cans of beans would cook themselves,
too… but I suppose that's too much to ask for.

I'd kill for some warmth right now. I hate
sitting so far from the fire. If only I could reach out and warm my
hands by that flickering heat… but that's my game, isn't it? I can
never have that blessed warmth, but I can't freeze solid, either,
now can I? Stay just on the edge of alive…

It's alright, Lundvik, you can sit closer to
the fire. You're fine. Just don't touch
me
, or you'll end
up… cold, like I am.

Oh, this place? Some travelers must have set
up this little niche and hideaway. Food here to last years. The
rations I came with ran out months ago. This little find was kind
of an amazing stroke of luck. They were supposed to get me out of
here long before -

[groan]

Damnit. I'm hallucinating again. I know
you're not really here.

But it's still nice to have someone to talk
to.

Now there's an interesting thought: does it
matter if I talk to figments of my imagination if I'm the only one
here?

I suppose I'm happy for the company.

Would you like a can of beans? No, of course
not. You haven't got a stomach. It takes me an hour to get one open
with these numb, shivering hands anyway.

[single sob]

I want to go home…

[drawn breath]

No, no, it's fine. I have weak moments
sometimes. It's the cold, and the shortness of breath. It gets to
you. I've still got warm sun and bright beaches and memories of you
in my head, but I'll never have those sensations again. In a sense,
you're still alive… and I'm not. I could feel alive again, if I
could read any of these damn books. Two hundred and fourteen books,
on shelves, alongside the food! Somebody thought ahead. Survival
isn't just physical.

You want me to follow you? I would love to,
if I could… I appreciate you wanting to save me, but I can't go
with you. I can't be saved.

[wind and crackling fire; forty-seven
minutes]

Yeah, the storm's breaking. It happens
sometimes. It won't last long.

That? That's
it.

Yes, all of it. That's
not
the ocean,
rookie mistake. You can tell when the light hits it - the spectral
blue glow, it's unmistakable. It's the GLORWOC.

Yes…
all of it.
Everything but the
mountains. It's the altitude and the cold. It needs oxygen and
heat. That's why
I
can never warm up. You know that,
Lundvik. It's all over me, all over my skin - it preferentially
consumes the skin, remember? As long as I stay cold, as long I stay
high up, I can keep living, keep performing my duties, and it'll
never start in on my organs. Up here, my skin heals just barely
fast enough to stave it off.

It does hurt. It's eating my skin all the
time… very slowly, mind you, because of the cold… but imagine
little scrapes all over your body, over every single square inch.
Imagine those scrapes made raw by cold, imagine not being able to
fill your lungs, imagine shivering every hour of every day, ten
feet from a blessed fire, but if you get close, if you try to warm
up… if you
ever warm up…
then you'll end up like
them.

Sacks of bones, muscles, and organs flailing
around on the floor in agony as the GLORWOC finally starts
dissolving the rest… it leaves the eyes and the brain for last. Why
does it do that? Is it just some cruel happenstance? I saw dying
parents watch their children dissolving, families screaming…

It's no wonder I've imagined you. Can you
imagine living with the weight of all those horrors on your soul
while you cling to life on the edge of freezing? While you report
back, day in and day out, hearing nothing in return? We might not
have been able to save them, but we
could have tried.
The
only defense we have against nightmare is the power of
self-sacrifice, right?

[sobbing laugh]

Oh, you don't have to move. You're safe,
sure. If there's any in the snow, it's dormant. You're clean and
safe as long as you don't touch me. I'm the only warm and infected
thing on the mountain… and I certainly never get close to the
fire.

[sobbing and breathing; two minutes]

I really wish I could go with you, but I know
I'm gonna die up here. I just can't give up. That's the human
agony, isn't it? Survival at all costs. Who knows, maybe GLORWOC
simply stops after a year of trying to consume something? Maybe
someone back home will find a solution. Maybe I'll grow immune
somehow. The slightest sliver of hope is my damnation. I've had a
long time to think about that.

[deep laugh]

I would just love to hear a single word from
another living human being. That would be my Christmas present. Or
maybe glasses, to read these damn books. I was the ideal candidate
for this post, being so far-sighted… and now I'm surrounded by two
hundred mental escapes I can't even read.

[wind and crackling fire; eighteen
minutes]

Guess I'm sleeping then. Be a good
hallucination, won't you, and keep the fire going? Don't worry if I
shiver. I never stop.

Day three-hundred sixty-eight:
cloud
cover thinning below after the blizzard. Doing the rounds again. No
change. Never any change. Just a vast ocean of spectral blue
devastation, horizon to horizon. Found footprints in the snow -
here we go again.

[breathing and crunching; thirty-eight
minutes]

Except… they just stop.

They just stop in the middle of nowhere.

And there's a box.

A thrift-store cardboard box, filled with
dozens of cheap glasses…

[rapid breathing]

I knew you weren't Lundvik. She'd have never
gone brunette.

[laughter; fourteen seconds]

For
this,
I'll bring that debt back
down to one bottle of tequila.

***

The log's last entry had been placed today.
Was this going on somewhere
right now?
Who was this person,
and how many desolate and delusional men were out there, living in
isolation as part of some… some organization? He'd said the exact
same words: the only defense we have against nightmare is the power
of self-sacrifice. If I hadn't had those words, I'd have never
found the log, so he had to be connected to -

Wait a second.

A brunette woman.

In both messages, a brunette woman had
inexplicably visited in the last few days. She'd said little the
first time, and nothing the second. Had she just sat there
listening to that poor cold man speak his mind? What was her
agenda?

And… wait…
what the hell?
What was
GLORWOC, and how were there oceans of it around a mountain? Surely
someone would have noticed? Surely there'd have been news about
what sounded like a global disaster…

And there was.

On the same small network on which I'd found
the audio transcript.

Oh my God…

Cached copies. It was all cached copies. The
network didn't exist there, not anymore. The timestamps went back
years…
articles about the GLORWOC threat, stories about
containment attempts, news pieces on cults that worshipped and
spread the spectral blue to as many people as they could, world
governments banding together at the last, and then… silence.

But that couldn't be possible.

The world was right here, and perfectly
fine.

Just where
did
this small network
originate?

Seized by a terrible suspicion, I sifted
through the data on that network, and many others. It became clear,
in short order, that I was right. Our system didn't just connect to
our
Internet and
our
network - it connected to dozens
of Internets and networks of widely varying sizes, and every single
one carried with it a unique set of trends, memes, and
histories.