The Archivist by Tom D Wright Page A

mates for breeding and then if the male won’t leave on his own, she drives him off. At least, that’s what it said.”
    “Seems like a fitting symbol,” I respond, only half facetiously.
    Danae snorts a laugh, then says, “We recognize our own kind. There’s plenty of tiger in you too. So tell me: this thing we came out here to get; you called it a generator. What’s so important about it?”
    It is my turn to poke at the fire while I think of a reply. There is an answer, and there is a real answer. I decide to take her question at face value and give her the simple response.
    “I can’t tell you much about the Archives, but I’ll share what I can. You’ve probably heard stories about the Demon Days, when Intellinet caused all computer-based tech to self-destruct, and civilization basically collapsed.” Danae nods, so I continue. “Well, Intellinet missed a few places that had older technology, and one of those places became the Archives. We have managed to keep it running, much of it for far longer than it was designed to last. But some very important things require an advanced infrastructure, which just no longer exists.
    “When those things fail—and some of them already have—we don’t have any replacements, and won’t in our lifetime. Probably not for quite a few lifetimes. But if this generator works the way we think it does, it could buy us some important time. I’m not at liberty to tell you exactly how, just that it could.”
    How would I explain lifting satellites to higher orbits or salvaging parts from the Lunar bases to someone who probably knows less about science than an Old Time kindergartener?
    “So,” Danae says slowly, “this thing wasn’t just another curiosity for your collection. It actually is important.” She bows her head and then looks away. “I’m sorry, K’Marr. Really, I had no idea.”
    Danae re-wraps her blanket around her shoulders and lies down, facing the night and her thoughts. For a while, I feed the snapping flames and build up a considerable bed of embers. Distant snarls and yelps from what sound like coyotes echo through the trees, up the hill from where I dragged the bodies.
    Mother Earth is taking the Disciple and his companions back into her bosom. There might be something to their beliefs for all I know, but I do not plan to rejoin Mother Earth any time soon.
    After making sure my crossbow is cocked and loaded with a bolt, I stack a pile of wood near my bedroll. The sound of the feeding frenzy reaches a crescendo; Danae glances fearfully into the darkness downhill.
    Hauling my backpack over, I reach into one of the many tiny compartments I have sewn inside to organize my gear, and pull out one of my small indulgences. I picked up this little treasure on retrieval about fifteen years ago, and use it from time to time when I need a morale booster. Danae looks like she could use a boost, and I am certain she has never experienced something like this.
    I am not sure why I am doing this. Maybe I still feel guilty, or I am just a sucker for kittens and crying women. I power the iPod on and unfold the earbuds. The means to modify the playlist is long gone, so I am stuck with the musical taste of someone who has probably been dead for at least thirty years. But it is not a bad collection, and I know exactly what to pull up.
    When I crouch down next to Danae, I indicate silently that she should place the earbuds over her ears. With a puzzled look, she complies. She jumps as the auto-morphic earbuds detect her ear and mold into shape over her earlobes. That is another technology we will not see again for a long time.
    When I press play, her eyes open wide and her mouth drops as she sits up. She listens to the symphonic sounds of the Moody Blues as they play “Nights in White Satin,” followed by “Late Lament.”
    Her head drops into her hands as she quietly weeps. There is something intensely personal about the private world she is experiencing. Embarrassed, I