Eight, 16 December

Toto! Toto!

Dec 16, 2024

Dronikus, a novel set on a burning planet called Earth.

No going back

Light rain had begun to fall, building to a heavy downpour that continued over the next hours as torrential rains, sheeting down from the skies. Zola knew these rains; they had started with this intensity in the summer months when he was a child and they were now common almost every day, all year round.

He wandered around the edges of the city. He kept away as best he could from people as they sheltered in doorways, overhangs, and under bridges. It took him a few hours of wandering but finally he came to familiar suburban streets. He moved along block upon block of gated communities, sticking as much as possible to the shadows. He passed, unnoticed, by the rator-guards stationed on every street, keeping out of the rain in their small guardhouses. Above the high estate walls, topped with security wires and surveillance cameras, Zola could make out the anti-dronikus privacy nets that stretched from house to house, from street to street, and sometimes, it seemed, across entire suburbs.

He proceeded cautiously, orienting himself. It had been many years since he had last walked in these streets. The rain continued to pour down, the gutters and the streets themselves becoming fast-flowing rivers. It showed no signs of abating. He made his way down one avenue and back up another, until he found the complex he was searching for. He stopped at some distance from the entrance and stood, shielding himself under a tree, observing. No one was about in these conditions and he could not see the rator-guard; it was probably sheltering in its hut. Zola pulled the poncho tighter across his head, strode up to the gate, and punched a number into the intercom. A voice crackled through the speaker. Zola stood very close and whispered: ‘Toto! Toto!’

‘What? Who’s that?’

‘Toto!’

‘I can’t hear.’

‘Toto! It’s me!’ Zola, now almost shouting.

Over his shoulder Zola saw the rator-guard appear and come towards him, vainly covering its Glastic eye against the torrents of water.

‘Identity!’ it demanded.

‘Toto!’ Zola screamed into the intercom.

An exclamation came from the loudspeaker and the gate buzzer clicked. The voice sounded from the intercom: ‘It’s ok, guard. You can stand down.’

‘Right, sir,’ said the rator and turned back to his shelter.

Zola ran through the gate, across an open area and up the steps of one of the houses. The front door swung open and once he was inside, it swung shut behind him. Standing dripping in the hallway he saw another door open; it, too, shut behind him as he went through. He rushed down a few steps into a well-lit cellar. A slight, oldish man stood with his arms open, his face lit up with joy.

‘My boy, my boy, my boy.’ This was Roberto, known to Zola as ‘Toto’. He enfolded Zola in his arms. They both sobbed as they held each other, their bodies shaking.

‘I never thought…’ the old man said after a time.

‘Me neither, I never…’ Zola could only whisper the words.

‘I am so happy, my boy. When I heard you say my name on the intercom I… I… My boy I am so, so happy to see you.’

Zola could say nothing; he simply held on to the old man.

Roberto was a dapper man, dressed in a casual silk suit, his grey hair neatly trimmed, his skin pale. His cellar had been refurbished as a refuge. It was a large room with its own kitchen and table, bed, comfortable seating, and conveniences. It had no monitors, no network enabled devices, no Eyetos, no television.

They sat back on a low sofa and sank into the cushions, still holding on to each other.

‘I was beginning to think I would never see you again,’ said Roberto.

‘So many times I thought I would die. So many times I did come close to dying. But I had the books, Toto, with your scent. And I made things and I built a house, and I had the trees…’

He stopped and they fell into silence. They looked at each other – the surrogate father and the surrogate son – feeling pure joy at being reunited.

Empty dishes were piled high on the low table. They sat on cushions on the floor leaning against the sofas, drinking wine. Zola nestled in Roberto’s softness and warmth. He had had a wash and scrub. Roberto had applied fresh dressings to the wounds on his back and other parts of his body.

‘And “WUWU Living”?’ They both laughed. Zola hugged Roberto, ‘pure genius, Toto. But are you sure? How did you find out? Is she… Is she actually living? And where is she? It’s been so long, I mean, it seems so unlikely.’

Roberto held up his hands. ‘Arthur heard from what he called “an impeccable source” that she is still alive. Being “kept alive” they said. Don’t know what that means. Arthur thinks he knows where she is.’

‘Oh? Where?’

‘You’ll have to ask Agung yourself.’

‘Agung?’

‘Oh, yes. It’s Arthur. He changed his name to Agung.’

‘Agung? OK. Are you still seeing him?’

‘Yes, we see each other regularly.’

‘Is he well?’

Roberto hesitated. ‘Mmm, he has got a lot bigger over these years.’

‘Even bigger?’

‘Some people do, you know, living with this stress.’

‘Agung is a good name, then.’

Roberto smiled at this comment. ‘Tell me how you escaped.’

Zola told him about the brasselleur, the explosion, and the demise of the dronikus.

‘Are you sure none of the dronikus saw you leave the island?’

‘I don’t think so. They were only focussed on the bird. They all flew up after it. It was the last thing they ever did.’

‘But isn’t the brasselleur extinct?’

‘I thought that, but this definitely was one.’

‘That’s so strange.’

Roberto had been Zola’s de facto parent from early childhood. After Zola came of age and no longer needed a tutor and mentor, Roberto was employed in the Pandoke firm, as recompense for his excellent service. He worked in a variety of administrative and marketing positions. Agung, aka Arthur, was a relatively high-level accounting officer with Pandoke. Despite Agung’s eccentricity and occasional renegade views, he was well-respected and trusted in the company, having started with them during the Colinson era.

‘Agung is due here in a few days. They bring him here every week.’

‘So they know that you’re together?’

Roberto nodded. ‘They’ve known for a long time. There is very little they don’t know.’

‘They don’t know I’m here,’ Zola said, lightly.

‘We have to keep it like that for as long as we can.’ He looked at Zola.

‘Sooner or later they will find out.’ Zola stopped, considered for a moment. ‘But I’ll be ready, Toto. They’ll not forgive me, that’s for sure. They’ll probably want me dead.’

Zola felt strong, having escaped the island and finding Roberto. He felt ready for the challenges ahead. But, talking to his beloved Toto, his soul was bare, he could not help but tell the truth. The hesitation, the fears that he had lived with, the violence, and the dread moving just below the surface – in his daily life and in his dreams – were all still there, patrolling his consciousness. ‘But I am scared, Toto…’

‘You are right to be.’

After another long pause, Zola said: ‘To be honest, when I think about it I just want to curl up on my old couch in my lounge in my cabin on the island. Maybe I shouldn’t have left.’

‘Don’t say that. You’re here, you’re free from that place. There is no going back.’

Zola chuckled, ‘yeah, there’s nothing to go back to. I’ve burnt my bridges, as they say.’

Roberto smiled but stared at Zola, his mood serious, his voice measured. ‘I don’t know if you want to hear this, particularly from me who has always counselled caution and restraint. You have no choice at this point, Zola, but to stand and fight. I believe that you have to lead, you have to show what is right and what is wrong…’

Zola interrupted, ‘I don’t know if I can, Toto.’

‘Of course you can.’

‘And Leilu?’

‘If she’s alive, she will be in their clutches, but I’m pretty sure that she is one of the many waiting for you…’

They clinked their glasses.

‘My boy,’ said Roberto.

‘I’m so happy, Toto,’ said Zola.

Hey, what's that sound?

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