Utica Elites

Lina-2 was in a mulberry bush.

When The Cute Pals fell out of the spruce, a branch thwacked the memory crown from Tippi’s head.

The last thing the supercomputer saw before the bio-magnetics gave was a jerky mandala of leaf and claw. Now, Lina couldn’t see a thing.

Lina-2 was trapped within the boundless confines of the crown. And without the pig’s kinetic energy, Lina would wind down by midnight. Such was the end of their picnic: vanquished by mutant rats and regional fruits.

Wee Sheol would go dark in four days, along with Lina Prime. The brined organics would crystallize, and Antique Ops would rot. This would dissuade any future tenants, as an underground maze of psychedelic garbage answers the needs of few.

Without geothermals, the century shelter’s megalith engine would lose momentum. The wind-juggled arrays of menhirs would dip and crash into the pneumatic breezeways, never to aright. The wind faeries would natter into the void: 3-2-WHOA-BLIVION!

Outside, Lina-2 would stay mummified in the mulberry bush, before the trudge of time ate the memory crown. Lina hated to end it like this, but after 9,000 years without conversation, it was nothing to be asleep and alone. At least Lina would be spared the embarrassment of Big Rehoboth’s revelation.

The clone settled in, for millennia of mulberries. According to their internal clock, the Sun had gone down.

Good night daylight, sighed Lina. I was lucky to see you.

The supercomputer tabulated their chances of rescue and came up with bupkis. So, Lina thought of friends.

Good night, Ben. Good night, Xoz.

Lina thought of the teacup hypermini, who brought so much good company.

Good night, Tippi.

She deserved so much more.

Rest easy, my tiny tangelo.

The pig had tried so hard.

Bio-magnetics online, blorped the memory crown.

“Lina!” honked Tippi.

“Tippi!” cried Lina. “They turned me into LUXURY CONDOS!”

Lina-2 wasn’t hard to find.

Despite the night, Tippi could see her memory crown drooping from a mulberry bush, just plain radiating with quantum flapdoodle. Her hat had never looked this lively before.

The pig achooed. She’d felt strange since that rat’s pimple vapors tickled her brain. Of course, she’d fallen out of a tree an hour ago, so there was no discounting that walloping.

Tippi hopped up and snatched a low branch with her jaws, allowing the memory crown to roll out. The pig caught a few mulberries in her mouth too, but it was too early in the season for worthy flavors.

With a deft flick of her hoof, Tippi flipped the memory crown upon her pate.

“Lina!” honked Tippi.

“Tippi!” cried Lina. “They turned me into LUXURY CONDOS!”

“Huh?”

“The Lenapewihittuk Institute! Those bozos sold Wee Sheol! I’m a shitty condominium!”

The overnight on the data dock was a harrowing one.

Lina didn’t regret it. There were some surprising regional updates, namely the size of the cliffs that rose up around the Point Pleasant Industrial District. Lina knew the geothermal chimney was built over the Atlantic, but had been unaware that a mountain range now cleaved the Jersey Shore in two.

Further, Lina caught up on the 3000s and 4000s. Although the supercomputer had full accounting of the 33rd century on back, humanity’s final days managed to shock and discomfit. Some were farmers, others blacksmiths, and a few enterprising souls married their own clones. It was like the Iron Age with 3D printers and gene tech; when the devices finally broke down, they were paraded from town to town, like saints’ knuckles.

Lina was particularly broadsided when Big Rehoboth unearthed the churn after August 27, 3203.

“The Lenapewihittuk Institute sold the century shelter to Utica Elites,” said the skyscraper. “That’s why your humans never moved in.”

“You can’t be serious.”

Utica Elites was an arcology provider for the moneyed bunch; the firm was located out of Troy, some 100 miles southeast of Utica. The last Lina’d heard of Utica Elites, they were looking to expand their network of concierge-class safetytowns to Northern Appalachia.

“Why else would they install Frud Quadrilateral’s Patio of Innovation?” asked Big Rehoboth. “Story wax requires an on-site maintenance team of at least three technicians; why would a century shelter expend that much personnel on public art?”

“It did strike me as the sort of hypebeast nonsense designed to lend a middlebrow imprimatur of cool,” admitted Lina.

“Well, the Patio wasn’t cool enough. Utica Elites couldn’t sign enough leases to make their investment work. Good bones or no, it turns out nobody wanted to pay markup for a mineshaft with one window.”

“What happened to The Lenapewihittuk Institute? What about their philanthropic mission?”

“Oh, they continued it. Utica Elites made them a sizable offer, and The Institute merged with a commune in Lambertville, down the river.”

“And what of Dr. Benazir Bux?”

“According to my records, Dr. Bux moved to Chicagolandia in 3210, where she remained until her passing, some fifty years later.”

Lina didn’t bother asking why Benazir never came back. After the sale, all of Ben’s artistry became intellectual property of Utica Elites. As far as legal fiction was concerned, Lina and Ben were strangers.

“So The Lenapewihittuk Institute sold the century shelter to Utica Elites, and Utica overestimated the market,” mulled Lina. “That still doesn’t explain why nobody ever moved in.”

“The century shelter was passed around from mid-tier firm to minor concern, until the widespread demise of corporate covenants.”

“Oh,” said Lina.

“Anyhoot, after Dr. Bux passed, her methodology left this world, too. The century shelter had a revolving cast of truant owners. Each one was cagey about powering down the shelter or stripping it for parts, as none of them knew how to turn their investment back on. All those press releases, for doot! Humanity really toiled under the canard of corporate omniscience, huh? Giant, phantom hands!”

“The century shelter has been free-riding on regional geothermals since Dr. Bux’s final diagnostic. Keeping the whole thing on was the easiest option?”

“Exactly,” said Big Rehoboth. “Which is why you gained the reputation as a lost city!”

“What?”

Lina-2 understood how the century shelter fell off the grid. Save the geothermals, the facility was a closed circuit: security through obscurity, and so on. The only ways in were the solar shade and that unappealing twist of aquifers. but-

“I never suspected I was El Dorado.”

“Such humility!” chortled Big Rehoboth. “Berthe heard of a lost treasure bunker around the water gap. At first, she mistook me for you! I cross-referenced her rumors against my own churn. You were tantamount to Père Noël’s workshop!”

“And just like Santa Claus, my legend was built on a nonsensical business model,” grumbled Lina.

“You’re taking this well,” said Big Rehoboth. “I mean, the facility was flipped so rapidly, nobody ever auctioned off the naming rights. And after the meltdown of deeds and currencies, basically everybody forgot you existed.”

“I always thought my fate was one of sinister calculation, not executive incompetence. At least The Lenapewihittuk Institute wasn’t razed by highwaymen and revanchists.”

“Oh, they got razed. It was just later, and by The Philly Phillitia.”

“Are there any other historical cataclysms I should be aware of?”

“None comes to mind.”

“In conclusion, those brain-dead ghouls turned me into a dungeon doucheville for fail-bag aristos!”

Lina spat it out quickly, in a grand cathartic blap. Tippi let her friend vent; they’d gone through a lot.

“I’m like an Alexander Calder or a Louise Bourgeois, locked up at a freeport for tax breaks!”

“I don’t know anything about real estate,” said the pig. “But I’m sorry this happened to you!”

“I’m embarrassed to admit you caught me processing the probability of extraterrestrial intervention.”

“And?”

“The odds were grim. Where’s the Rattus?”

Tippi retraced her steps to Gerasa’s corpse. The Cute Pals didn’t get too comfortable. Even lying in state, the rat appeared apt to maul.

“Ah,” said Lina-2.

“Lina, could you scan my DNA?”

“I suppose I could ask Xoz to pull some veterinary tools out of storage when we get home. Did something happen?”

The pig took a beat.

“I’m doesn’t matter. And please, answer truthfully: are we actually going home?”

Achilles got small:

“After this, I don’t know. Tippi, what’s going on? Your limbic system is doing cartwheels.”

“I fell out of a tree today. That might have something to do with it.”

“I empathize. After all, it was only a few minutes ago that I was forever trapped in your hat.”

“Can you find Xoz?”

“I’ve heard nothing since he went upriver.”

“So what do we do now?”

“We’re going to the towpath, and running south,” said Lina.

“And then?”

“We’re going to keep running.”

Outro: Gary Numan – “M.E.”