Even I can admit this much… Analog is a beautiful place. I always remember it the way it was the night I showed up. True, I was asleep. I was dead to the world again, rocketing through the atmosphere on an open top future barge, drooling all over the side of my face and the shiny golden deck, but I can still describe that flight. Trust me, I’ve cobbled it all together from the thousand or so flights home since, and from a few important recordings taken that night.

It took us a little more than three hours. I’m sure we flew over cities like Denver and Minneapolis, or any of the small places in between, but they weren’t down there anymore, not really. Their skeletal remains were buried under a blanket of quarter-moon lit fog, so I wouldn’t have seen them anyway. There were some grotesque new structures in that graveyard of steel too, but I wouldn’t have seen those either, even without the fog. Machines don’t need visible light to find their way to the barn in the dark.

When we reached what used to be called the St. Croix River, the sight of Analog’s lights glowing on the horizon compelled the pilots down to fish slap altitude. They raced each other up the river, over the falls, into the forests of what used to be called Northwest Wisconsin, and across the long series of wild lakes that stretch north all the way to Analog’s outer wall.

Whoever crosses the outer wall first wins. Thirty Seven crossed the line first that night, and I happened to be on his barge. He went vertical across the finish line, just to show that he could shed gobs of speed and still win. The other three barges crossed nose to nose. No self respecting barge pilot ever races for second place.

The outer wall runs across the beginning of what used to be called the Bayfield Peninsula. It’s a lot like you’re imagining it, even though it’s made of composites that didn’t exist in our time. It’s four hundred feet tall, around fifty miles long, bristling with ramparts and artillery, and crawling with patrols.

The blanket of fog didn’t reach Analog, so the wall garrison was able to celebrate the Legion’s victory by beaming spotlights onto the washboard clouds in the upper atmosphere. Civilians across the countryside joined in, with barn and porch lights blinking at us for miles in all directions. Whenever one pilot spotted people standing under their lights cheering, they all waggled their barges side to side in response.

People were everywhere when we reached Analog Centre, the capital city. Believe it or not, Saturday night is still a thing, and people were already out and about. As we made our way down the Memorial Canal through the heart of the city, we flew slowly, waggling at the crowds as they poured out of various establishments to raise their glasses. Once we were through the city center, we cruised over the beach and met our final welcoming committee out on the lake, half a mile from shore where the Archive stands tall and mighty.

The Archive is by far the largest pyramid human beings have ever constructed, and the fact that it’s coated in mirrored glass only makes it more majestic than largest ever already makes it sound. At night it’s a golden beacon enchanting the waves of that cold, sweet sea Analogians still call Lake Superior.

About three fifths of the way up its hide, the pyramid skips in a few levels to make room for a huge terrace. Everything above that terrace up to the tip of the pyarmid is the Legion’s abode, where a wide retractable platform extended out to retrieve our barges.

Dozens of impatient legionaries rode the platform out to greet us. Mostly they were there to see Shades all bound up. Centurion and Blackbird carried the little creeper between them, paying no attention to the mob. Shades remained eerily still, eyes hidden behind those sunglasses.

No one noticed me. Ten and Eighty Three made a point of hiding me in the middle of the pack. I don’t think many people would’ve paid any attention to me anyway, given who Shades was, but Ten didn’t want one person to look twice, and that’s almost what happened.

One person, whose powers of perception are not easily bypassed, did look twice. This next part was worth so many replays... Before the guys could sneak me into the secure depths of the Archive, Ten tripped over an invisible something or other and fell flat on his face. The parade left us behind while he pushed himself up off the floor.

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“Hahaaa, wow…” Eighty Three said, resting his end of the litter on his hip so he could clap enthusiastically. “That’s where Jay Bob’s butter fries will get ya, bud.”

Ten stood up without his end of the litter and did a full three sixty in search of whatever tripped him. “What in the h-”

With gentle whooosh, a giant Minuteman statue landed on the platform. The bay doors clunked shut and caused Eighty Three and Ten to glance back, which is when they spotted him. Rushmore tipped his black tricorne hat. “Fellas… Who ya got there?”

Both Ten and Eighty Three froze and looked at each other as the giant walked toward us. Rushmore was like living gray granite, so you would expect heavy clomps and some T-Rex quakes, but he was practically a mouse. “Fellas?” he asked, squinting his plasma globe eyes curiously. He knelt and crouched until the brim of that hat was at their level. “Aren’t levitators usually brought before the Council immediately?”

That made Ten antsy as hell. “Didn’t you talk to Centurion?!”

Rushmore rubbed his chin and then tipped his palm up. “Guess I should have. I was resting. Why?”

Ten tried to pick up my litter and back away. “We don’-” Rushmore trapped the litter under a heavy stone finger and leaned over to get a good look at me.

Ten tried in vain to pull the litter loose. “We don’t know anything about him yet!”

Rushmore’s shoulders straightened, and his smile was made of marble. Blue energy sparked across his brown colonial jacket. “Turing was a levitator too ya know. I’d like ta meet this one.”

“He could be a weapon, Rushmore,” Ten warned, frantically looking around for Centurion or Blackbird. The docking bay was already empty, and even the distant jeers and catcalls directed at Shades were silenced when the internal blast doors closed. “He could be a bomb sent to destroy you!”

Rushmore’s smile turned upside down, but after he thought it over he brightened right back up. “I’ve been around a long time. Wouldn’t it be sorta surprising if they finally figured out how to kill me now?” Ten was about to answer, but Rushmore talked over him. “Besides, it took Turing years to harness all that power, and she didn’t do any training in her sleep.”

Eighty Three chimed in, much to Ten’s dismay. “I like him,” he said. “He’s kind of funny. There were centipedes all over the place, and this cycborg tried to assassinate him, but he just kept barking back at them. He even called Shades a, uh, Ten wh-”

“Dollar Store Neo,” Ten grumbled hopelessly.

Rushmore nodded politely, but when it finally hit him he chuckled. “Clever.”

“You’ve seen that movie?” Eighty Three asked. He sounded like a little kid trying to bond with his big brother.

“No, I don’t think I ever did, but I remember what it was about,” Rushmore answered. “Human batteries, red pill blue pill, that Keanu Reeves fella in a trench coat and sunglasses doing this…” He over sold the bullet dodge dance, probably on purpose if I know him at all. He looked like a pelican trying to fly backwards through a tornado, only someone sped up the footage. When he stopped that nonsense, he smiled and nodded his approval. “Yup. Clever. And he said it right to Shades’ face, huh?”

Eighty Three was busy belly laughing quietly at the bullet dodge dance, leaving Ten to answer. “Well Blackbird and Centurion had him, but...” Ten was so deflated at this point that he wasn’t even finishing sentences anymore. “Could be a bomb sent here to…” He pointed a thumb half heartedly at Rushmore.

Rushmore rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a few seconds. “You said a cyborg tried to assassinate him?”

Ten took a deep breath and vented his frustration. “Yes. It knew his name.”

“That is a little strange,” Rushmore admitted.

Ten sighed and tried to pick the litter up again. “We were taking him to medical for a couple scans, then off to the islands.”

Rushmore brushed Ten’s hands away gently. “Well he’s inside the Archive now, isn’t he? Right near the Vault and all our capes?”

Ten backed up a step respectfully. “Yea, but-.”

“So we should get him outta here then, don’t ya think?” Rushmore asked, raising his eyebrows knowingly.

“Yea… I think he’s right, bud,” Eighty Three said, finally recovering from his case of the chuckles.

Ten didn’t know what to say, and he certainly couldn’t stop Analog’s juggernaut. Rushmore smiled at him and picked me up himself. “Meet me at my cabin if ya want. We’ll watch over him tonight.” And off he went. The bay doors barely opened in time.

“Let’s go,” Ten said, again venting his frustration. He sprinted back to the barges with Eighty Three close behind. They each mounted a scout vehicle and peeled away from the platform, with red spider lightning crackling chaotically under and around them to handle their high g force, low laws of physics maneuvering. Double sonic booms echoed throughout the bay before the doors closed again.