“ORKLE!”

“Okay! Okay.”

Outside, in the welcoming sunshine, were two objects that resembled over-muscled push lawn mowers. Rehab stepped between the wheels of one and guided it nonchalantly through a couple quick circles and pivots while David watched. He pointed at the other. David studied it cautiously – Segway i2 – and boarded. Gripping the steering column, he squatted a little, tensed, and leaned forward. The machine bolted, forcing him off its perch, and stopped. He glanced at Rehab and saw the hint of a smile. Another brief demonstration ensued, with Rehab emphasizing relaxed, deliberate body movements. Soon, David was scooting about like a gleeful schoolboy, which Rehab tolerated momentarily.

“Moo Forr’d – pleez.”

David came abreast. “Why, Rehab – I didn’t know you cared.”

His guardian took off and David fell in behind. Signs put them on M Street. They whirred southeast down cracked asphalt, passing between structures that were best characterized as suburban military. M became Graeber Street. David saw hangars and tarmac and glimpsed gray, four-engined airframes, disabled and bleaching in formation like beached whales. They pulled up at the Baucum Avenue Northwest intersection, parked in front of a dull silver building, and entered. The faces of three generations of some two hundred souls, overwhelmingly female and dressed from thrift stores like he was now, turned to meet them. They reflected the California Diaspora he knew: a plurality of Anglos, including assimilated ethnic Europeans; Latinos; Asians; and African-Americans. They huddled, sitting or squatting, in Socratic groups with earnest instructors, mostly older, standing among them. Lining the walls were makeshift industrial shelves, groaning with books, periodicals, charts, and illuminations of every description. A half-dozen laptops were open and several refugees were plugged into tiny Walkmen. Frozen by uncertainty at first, they began to stir; some approached.

A white-haired man in a long serape, dirty chinos, and sandals loped up to them from the other end of the room. His face was tanned, leathery, and expectant as he grew closer.

Rehab nudged David. “Orkle.”

Oracle?

Their leader spread his arms and embraced David.

“Welcome, friend.” He pulled back, engaged David’s eyes, and offered his hand. “Noam. Noam Haywood.”

David took his hand. “I’m – I’m Dav–.” He burst into tears and convulsed into sobs.

Noam held him until his racking subsided, then enfolded David’ arm in his. He turned into the room and gestured. “Continue, everyone. Please.” He focused on David again. “Come; let’s walk.”

They left and strolled by a barracks whose trees still lived. Still wiping his face, David barely noticed. Noam tugged him along, gently. “I thought you should see this right away.”

They stopped. Before them lay a three-acre field, all under cultivation. David gasped, then smiled. Noam patted his arm and released it.

“There. That help?”

“Some. What’s with ‘Oracle?’”

Noam waved his hand. “One of the youngsters came up with that a while back, in a fit of new vocabulary. Embarrassing, really.”

He led David to a corner bench with grass and shade. “So, again; you are…?”

David sniffled and cleared his throat. “David – David Heller.” Without thinking, he stuck his hand out. They laughed.

Noam waited.

“Oh – Jewish, Biblical. Son of Jesse, ancient king. You?”

“Parents were lefties – ‘liberal’ unionists. After their favorite contemporary anarchist.” Noam folded his hands. “Now, then; what are your questions?”

David leapt to his feet, his crimson face inches from Noam’s. “What the FUCK happened? Where – How – ?”

“Please sit.” Noam remained kindly but was firm. David relented. “Let’s keep it simple, for now; we’ll fill in some blanks and give you the night to absorb it.”

David gnawed at a fingernail. “What’s today?”

“Tuesday, November 5, 2034.”

“Election Day?”

“Used to be. How old are you?”

“Um. I was born in 1970.”

“Ten years after me. And, when were you, uh…?”

“’Frozen?’ They picked me up December 3, 1998. Nice Hanukkah gift, right? Mama thought so.”

“And you chose that course because…?”

“Late-stage, unresponsive testicular cancer.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, how did you afford neuro-vitrification at that age?”

“Not at all. I did really well in software.”

“What type?”

“Gaming – video games, mostly.”

A cackle caught in Noam’s throat. “Care for a pomegranate? We have a tree.”

David brightened. “Real, honest-to-God food? Of course!”

Noam brought back two, produced a blade and sliced each in half. “You’ll have to dig the seeds out yourself.”

David tore through the pith and pasted the kernels into his mouth hungrily, painting his face with his juice-soaked hands. When finished, his quandary delighted Noam.

“Use the grass – you can wash up later.”

David licked at his beet-colored fingers, making matters worse. “What is this place?”

“Used to be March Air Reserve Center; before that, March Air Force Base.”

“Why here?”

“Shelter. Water supply and sanitation. Fuel bunkers. Motor pool. Communications, to some degree. Well-stocked commissary, once upon a time. Little bit of arable land – and room to grow.”