Bacon and eggs hit the spot that morning in a way words can’t even describe. Well… Dry. That's probably the word. I overcooked the bacon, but I would’ve fought a honey badger with my bare hands over that last speck of crunchy fat-salt. I licked my plate clean like an animal, and after that I wolfed around in the fridge to find more. I ate all my host’s bacon. Can you blame me?

Raspberries the note said. Raspberries were always my favorite, so I popped out into that cool lakefront air. Went barefoot, because there was no time for shoes. There was a veritable jungle of ripe berries growing in a long patch in front of the cabin. They were the wild black variety, smaller than a dime but incomparably delicious. I spent twenty minutes picking for perfection and slurping them down one at a time and sipping ice water from my plain blue mug.

By the time I was full, I was starting to feel really fatigued. It wasn’t a sugar crash, or the trace cryo chemicals that were probably still in my system. It was the apocalyptic visions in my mind. I kept thinking of photographs and statistics from the books, and it took a lot of energy to push those thoughts away. I found myself standing there with one berry halfway to my mouth, and I had no idea for how long.

This isn’t a recommendation, but stepping on a pricker has a way of bringing a person back to the present. It was one of those leafy jerks that look too much like dandelions when you’re not all there. I hopped on my other foot for a while and then sat in the grass to survey the damage. “Here I am on my ass again,” I grumbled to no one.

A few spines needed pulling, but once that was done I was mobile again, and my head was much clearer. The beach started calling to me as soon as I was up. I couldn’t see it through the trees, but there was a stone stairway winding down toward the sound of waves. I took my mug back to the kitchen, refilled it, grabbed the flannel off the couch, and decided to be smarter about my feet. Someone had left me a pair of fresh white socks and a pair of gray canvas high tops on the bench by the door, and this time I put them on. See? I can adapt. So I told myself.

The slope down to the lake was probably only thirty feet, but the owner had cut a winding path that made it feel like a journey down Everest. The first time I caught a glimpse of the lake through a break in the trees, I understood completely. Sometimes you need to slow down and enjoy a walk.

Lake Superior is still vast in the future. I was looking mostly at the southern shore, which was relatively close, but it wasn’t hard to guess that I was surrounded by the waters of a Great Lake when I was facing east or west. There were other islands nearby, but beyond them it was nothing but water all the way to the horizon. To be honest I had no idea the Apostle Islands existed, but if you have them in your mental map, that's where I was.

The beach was long, narrow, and fenced in by two huge fallen trees. A pier ran from the trail head out into the lake, and there was a boat tied off at the end. “Hello,” I called. “Anyone down there?”

No one called back.

The boat was a wooden 1960s vintage, about twenty seven feet and beautifully maintained. It had a navy blue keel, bright chestnut gunwales, matte red seats and carpet, and a little pirate ship steering wheel. A small, pristine American flag was flying on the back over the boat’s name, which was printed in bright bold white letters. Sir Floppy Ears.

“Sir Floppy Ears?” I asked no one. It seemed like a weird name for a boat, but there’s always a story. I searched Sir Floppy Ears for recent activity, hoping for a sign that someone would return soon. At first I tried not to be intrusive, but the note on the port side windshield proved that to be pointless.

Boat’s yours to drive whenever you’re ready, just follow the map. Lake should be calm all week. Holler if you need anything.

By holler I assumed they meant I should use the old cb radio. “What happened to all that future tech?”

Old stuff didn’t stop me, if anything it encouraged me. I even got a little emotional untying the lines. Why? Because two hundred years after World War Three, humans were still playing around with vintage motorboats. I wanted to drive Sir Floppy Ears more than anything I’d ever wanted to do in my life. I guess it was my way of saying goodbye and hello.

I turned the key and let the motor gargle for a while. Everything sounded great, so I pulled the last line in and shoved off. “Alright future...” I said. I didn’t really know how I wanted to finish that sentence, so I didn’t finish it.

The map had me run slightly southwest between the islands and the mainland. I steered clear of the islands, since I didn’t know the waters, but even from a careful distance they were scenic enough for me. They were covered in trees and seagulls, and that was more life than I expected to see after reading those books.

I cruised along for almost an hour, alternating between chasing birds and just trying to keep the wheel straight while I dealt with old memories and a few tears. The last time I’d driven a boat was during a neighborhood outing, back in the 90s when people still knew their neighbors. Karsten’s dad let me drive. That was then. Everybody was gone now, except for me.

Right when I was starting to actually enjoy driving, I saw something with two black eyes sticking up a few inches out of the water. The eyes were offset and moving independently from one another. Aww crap, don’t piss off the future mutants, I thought as I cranked the wheel to the right. Mouth agape, knuckles white, I whipped my head around to identify the mutants as I blew past them.

Deer. They were just a pair of deer swimming back to the mainland. Their mouths and eyes were open just as wide as mine, and I could see their legs pumping furiously as they swerved back and forth indecisively. The farther away I drove, the straighter they swam. I’ll never know which of us panicked more.

Yea okay, they probably panicked more, but they still gave me a jolt.

One more big island waited for me as I cut southwest around a big knuckle in the mainland. The map seemed adamant that I take the inside line instead of going around the island. When I passed through the identified channel, the pride of Analog peeked over the treeline and greeted me with its magnificence. “Ohhhh….myyyy…..god.…” I said.

It was the Archive I mentioned earlier, and this was my first time seeing it. The mirrored glass had that green iron oxide layer, making the pyramid look like a cut and polished emerald the size of a meteor. It was over ten miles away, but I already knew it dwarfed the ancient variety of world wonders.

I cut the throttle, opened the middle windshield, and walked out to the front seats. I knew I would never see it this way again. Like everything else in life, the magic would fade. Who wants that? No one, but it doesn’t matter what we want, so I needed to enjoy it while I could.

Nothing advertises a world wonder better than a flock of birds flitting circles around its zenith, but the Legion comes close. A pair of barges were loitering in slow circles while more taxied out with a couple squadrons of smaller escort vehicles. I definitely wanted a closer look at that. Who wouldn’t?

The bow lifted as I pressed the throttle forward, but then I chanced a look over my shoulder and found a scout vehicle ripping across the lake toward me, blue and red lights flashing. It pulled up next to me about three heartbeats later, and the rider made a cutting motion with his hand. He obviously wanted me to cut the throttle.

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Sir Floppy Ears settled back down into the water, and I turned the key back to the off position. My hands were already sweating as the legionary pulled in close. He had his helmet down, like most legionaries when they wanted to talk. His face had a nice beach boy tan going, but instead of a surfer smile he gave me a grim, scolding look. “License and registration please...” the guy said in a very serious tone.

You know how this part goes. I started looking around like I was sure my license was in there somewhere, knowing full well it wasn’t. “Uhhh, yea I don’t uh-” I blanked half way through the lie and gave it up. “Sorry...”

The guy burst out laughing. It was one of those distinct, choked up, muffled laughs that can kill your boss’s will to boss in seconds. Uh-hee-uh-heeheehee-uh-heeee... Eventually he told the truth, after taking a break to breath. “You shoulda seen yer face! Eighty Three’s gonna love this!” He let out another round of uh-hee-uh-heeheehees. “Yea… He makes us watch old movies all the time. You ever get pulled over like that, like in them copper movies?”

Between us, I got pulled over exactly nineteen times in fifteen years of driving. I didn’t want anyone thinking I was a trouble maker, though, so I lied again. “Never really had to worry about it.”

“Yea I put those lights on just fer you,” he told me. “We don’t even have coppers, unless you count us... Analog’s safe as safe gets. My name’s Thirty Seven, by the way.” He gave me a little nod and an informal two fingered salute.

I nodded back and waved awkwardly. “Kevin.”

“We kinda met,” he said. “You were in the way back sleepin’, though.”

“The barge pilot,” I said.

He lit up and nodded. “Yup!”

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

“You too,” Thirty Seven said. “But just so ya know, there’s some bots sharkin’ around up north. They tried hittin’ a couple trout boats.”

The mess of barges and legionaries over by the Archive was growing, I noticed. “Is that where everyone’s going?”

“Yea,” Thirty Seven said. “Rushmore’s already out there. But just in case, ya know?”

I had no idea. Remember, I wasn’t awake when Rushmore stopped Ten and Eighty Three in the docking bay. “Rushmore…” I said, brow scrunched under the strain of simple math. “You don’t mean the Rushmore from the book, do you? From like two hundred years ago?”

Thirty Seven scratched the back of his head and looked a little disappointed in himself. “Ahhh, yea. Me’en my mouth. I shoulda let the Council talk to ya first. You probably get it though, right? It’s his cape. He’s, uh… Look, Eighty Three’s on the way. I’ll let him tell ya.”

I was stress breathing through my nose through that entire non-explanation. “Hoookay…” I didn’t like the idea of people living forever. I had a theory, and it went like this… The only countervailing force effectively mitigating the final conquest of assholes over decent people was time. Am I wrong?

Thirty Seven misread the stress and tried to make me feel safe. “Well anyway… This close to Analog, you are always safe,” he said with great confidence. “Whatever’s up north is just makin’ sure Rushmore’s still around. And he is, so...”

I tried to sound comforted. “That’s good.”

All at once the legionaries by the Archive formed up to depart. I swear, every time anyone said anything...

“Headed north,” Thirty Seven said automatically. Then his face drooped. “Huh...”

The first thing I pictured when he said huh was a school of centipede sharks swimming up from the depths, and my bowels when mushy. I stared at Thirty Seven and waited for the terrible news.

“They’re headed east,” he told me. He stood up on his scout vehicle and tracked a dot in the sky that turned out to be Centurion racing ahead of the armada. They all whipped overhead and shrank into the other side of the sky. They went supersonic somewhere in the distance, and a series of booms made the boat keys rattle against the dash.

Another boom came from the southwest. “And Rushmore’s headed south now, southwest really,” Thirty Seven said with mild confusion.

After an uncomfortable silence, I had to ask. “Are we in trouble?”

“Nah,” Thirty Seven said. “If you were in trouble, Centurion woulda come down here and scooped you right up.”

He still seemed distracted to me, though. “What’s going on then?”

“The Hive Mind’s just double checkin’ it’s math,” he said. “Been a while. Guess I’m not used to it anymore.”

For some reason I realized in that moment that Thirty Seven was young, maybe twenty or twenty one. In my experience younger people were more interested in answering questions than everyone else. “Why is it that only some of you wear capes?” I asked.

He seemed surprised, but at the same time I could tell he thought it was a reasonable thing to ask. “You can graduate from the Academy, but it ain’t over yet. There’s missions, trials, surviving said missions and trials…” His smile came back in full force. “I get mine next month.”

“Yea?” I asked. “How does that wor-”

Before I could finish asking, he held up his hand and snapped his helmet into place. “One sec,” he said in his Afleck Batman voice.

I didn’t like that very much. “Am I still sa-”

“Yer good,” he said, almost impatiently. “Even if somethin’s up, Blackbird’s still at the Archive, and she’d be here before you can blin- Well shit.”

Another tiny dot surrounded by effervescent white energy shot out of the Archive and followed Rushmore’s flight path. “Alright,” Thirty Seven said. “Don’t worry ‘bout that, Eighty Three and Ten are out here with me anyway. They’re tough enough, and the Archive has… Hold on. What is that?”

“What is what?” I was so annoyed. Every time he said something. Every… Single… Time… I was starting to think it was his fault, no matter how irrational that seemed.

Thirty Seven looked like he was trying to peer down to the lake bed under Sir Floppy Ears, and he wasn’t answering. I was about to abandon Sir Floppy Ears and jump onto his scout vehicle when a deep, soothing voice came from behind me.

“Hold up a sec, Kev,” Eighty Three said. I realized that I’d heard them coming, but I was so focused on the water and my own imagination that it never registered.

“What is that?” Thirty Seven asked again, as Ten pulled up next to him. They looked kind of like a gang of space bikers.

Ten shook his head. “It isn’t a cape, and I don’t see anything else.”

“You hear that, though, right?” Thirty Seven asked. He was practically begging for someone to acknowledge it.

Eighty Three hopped onto Sir Floppy Ears and posted up next to me. “Is it bubbles?”

I slammed myself down on the driver seat and got ready to gun it. “Am I getting the hell out of here or not?!”

“Whatever it is, it’s definitely comin’ up,” Thirty Seven said.

“You’re right, it is,” Ten said, giving Eighty Three a secret one handed signal.

Eighty Three nodded back and grabbed a handful of my flannel. “Coming your way, Thirty Seven.”

“Copy that,” Thirty Seven said.

“I could just…” Jump. I was going to say I could jump, but no one cared.

“Catch,” Eighty Three said, right before tossing me overboard. It was a good shot, and Thirty Seven helped me make a soft landing with two feet on the seat cushion. Once I was in a good riding position, a backrest popped up and sucked me in like a magnet. Nifty, I almost said, but it was an afterthought. We were all trying to see through the glare on the lake surface.

Ten was about to give his signal again, but Eighty Three beat him to it. “I know,” he said, and he engaged his shield in a full bubble around himself. Then he throttled up a little and moved the boat forward about twenty yards. His scout vehicle trailed alongside. “Think it moved?”

“Yup,” Thirty Seven said. “Oh yea. It followed you, whatever the hell it is.”

So it followed Sir Floppy Ears instead of me, I gathered.

“Getting on your scout runner?” Ten asked, finally giving me the correct lingo for those things. He started backing his own runner away, and Thirty Seven stayed with him.

Eighty Three leaped off the boat onto his runner and tore a half circle around to join us. A series of high pitched alarms rang out from Sir Floppy Ears’ dashboard, and a metallic shell popped up out of the gunwales and formed a dome over the boat’s interior.

Thirty Seven pointed at the waves lapping at the keel of Sir Floppy Ears. “There!”

The water looked like it was at a rolling boil, but it was just a huge blob of tiny bubbles escaping into the air. Sir Floppy Ears crackled to life and rose out of the water on the same red spiderweb lightning that carried the Legion's vehicles.

“Didn’t know it could do that...” Thirty Seven said.

“Great,” Ten complained, revving his engine. Guns sprouted out of the nose of his runner. “Do we shoot it down?” He wasn’t even pretending to have the answers this time. “What are those bubbles?!”

Eighty Three put the call in to whoever was in command at the Archive. Sir Floppy Ears was inbound with no one onboard.

“Whose boat is that, anyway?” I asked.

“That’d be Rushmore’s boat,” Thirty Seven said. “And I think you just about subbed in for ‘em on his own assassination.”

“Come on, don’t say that,” Eighty Three complained.

Ten was glowering helplessly, with his runner guns still tracking the boat. “He’s right. Rushmore likes to drive that boat without his cape on.”

“Oh…” I said, because even I knew what that meant. Someone who knew him wanted him dead. Someone who knew him well.