Description: ARC OF A COMPLEX SPIKE by Brent HaywardCertain that clouds would soon appear, and taking advantage of an unusually profound sense of self-satisfaction, Leon decided to fly a mere cursory reconnaissance of his area before settling down to bask in the northwest quadrant-- fully-exposed Glade-C-- with collectors outstretched and other functions virtually dormant. The morning sun was hot and direct. At times, as he shifted lazily to better catch the rays, his black solar panels clicked softly and reflected scales of light about the glade like brilliant semaphores.He stored energy for a rainy day.Sure, Leon''s jurisdiction had its share of problems. What part of the forest didn''t? Overall, though, the picture was healthy. Minor indications of blight on some elms, and the discovery of an as-yet-unidentified species of voracious larvae gnawing at the leaves of new growth in the oleander garden, but no grave, stressful concerns.This morning offered a golden opportunity to bask, to shut down, to reboot refreshed, with all cells--There had been a fire.Startling graphic files downloaded suddenly into his memory; he staggered as they opened.Burnt remains. Today! Within his jurisdiction. The sudden arrival of this information had stunned Leon, collectors frozen, half-collapsed. How could he have encountered such a calamity without alarms being triggered? And how could he be here, oblivious, in Glade-C, attempting to relax?Shuddering to let his collectors settle fanlike onto his back, Leon rose to his full height. Of course he knew the ordinances of his job: prune, excise, mulch diseased specimens. Water, fertilize, fly recon. And only you can prevent forest fires. That was number one. The rogue folder, without parents or children, was an orphaned series whose origins grew more mysterious the harder Leon tried to trace them. Where had the information come from? How had it materialized, suddenly, in his temp? And how had it been hidden?Reviewing his back-ups, he understood this much:Moments before dawn. Coming in low over Ridge-D, mists curling up from the pine-needle floor, Leon spraying firs with a light 20/10/20 mix as he went. All logged and documented in a well-organized, parented chain of files. As data should be. Banking around a stand of blue conifer and there it was: filaments of smoke coiling against a sky almost the same color--His alarms had ramped up, reaching the first stage of readiness. He had been on full alert.Broken, charred wood-- twigs, bark, punk-- all taken illicitly from his trees. Unnaturally arranged. Still smoldering. Scent of smoke. Crushed grass, all around.Circling lower, in disbelief, input rushing to his processors, being stored, sequenced, his adrenaline spiking, hoses sliding into position--Then he was landing. Certain that clouds would soon appear. Feeling a profound sense of self-satisfaction. But not among the blue conifers. Not near the fire. Coming down, instead, here, in Glade-C, smug, eager to rest, to charge his cells, all data about the fire vanished, all data about what had happened after he had seen it somehow still misfiled or erased altogether.Was the fire still burning?Where had his memories gone?Not only were things terribly awry in his jurisdiction but also, it would seem, within the parameters of his own operating system.Gauging the light breeze that had sprung up, Leon took a bit of a run across the glade and spread his wings. By the time he reached the crowns of the maples, his legs were gathered in, held tight against his chest, and he had attained maximum airspeed.I: SightFlames had only partially consumed the matter. Lengths of branches, hacked and broken from living trees, leaned against each other to form a rough cone. Moss and kindling packed the base. Thankfully, the fire itself was out now; water had been used to douse the flames before consumption of the wood was complete, before much damage could be done to the surrounding area. Leon had not put the fire out. The trajectory of the water used to extinguish the conflagration had been random, uneven. Cause of initial ignition was neither lightning strike nor meteor impact. Certainly, Leon had not lit it: no burns were scheduled in this part of the forest and no burns were ever scheduled in the spring.Smoke could no longer be detected.Perched on a branch, Leon studied the remains for some time before swooping, soundlessly, down.He landed in underbrush, a good ten meters from the firepit--And hesitated.Firepit. His lexicon had supplied him with that word-- a new one-- but before he had a chance to understand its etymology, a second cascade of files downloaded, en masse, so many this time they seized his memory capacity and he crashed:When the sheet fell he saw that the canvas was huge, almost as big as the entire studio wall, taking up greater space than his field of vision. He stepped back and still could not take in the whole painting. Indigo tints floated against similar, darker blues. Tinged, in one corner, with russet, like far-off embers burning, at night. Shapes still darker than the background seemed to shift at an impossible, remote distance.-Would you even tell me if you liked it? You''re not reacting. I can see it in your face. You don''t like it?Her hand at his back, fingers poised, tense, as if ready to propel him forward, perhaps into the painting itself should he not answer appropriately. But what could he tell her? That looking at her work brought emotions he could not contend with into his throat? That he was reminded of a similar, malignant shape, in an x-ray, and that looking at her picture tore his heart out and flayed him alive?He turned to her, utterly at a loss.-It''s called Pendulum and Firepit, she said. I know that''s a dumb title.To which he agreed, though he could still say nothing.II: TasteLeon lay flat on his starboard side. Right legs folded under his chassis, right wing outstretched. He checked the membranes for any tears and then folded the wing. Beyond professional embarrassment and a growing concern for his programming and interface integrity, he felt a lingering sense of malaise he could not identify.Above him, the sky remained blue, but now those clouds were coming in.He stood, and saw that he straddled the firepit. Idiotically, he had flattened evidence with his body. This realization was catalyst for a surge of something very close to panic, which he fought, trying to remain calm, to detect reasons for his malfunctioning in a logical manner. He filled his lungs. Emptied them. Felt marginally better.Electrostatically, he cleansed himself, and organized, piecemeal, as best he could, all remaining data from his unusual morning. The most recent series of files were already fragmenting; too foreign for him to assimilate and back-up properly, for they had not concerned trees or anything about the forest. He had no context in which to process or store them. All he knew was that, when his ram had seized, he had gone somewhere else. Had ceased being Leon, forest caretaker, jurisdiction 742.And, when awareness returned, he lay, like an oaf, on top of a valuable source of clues.His lexicon supplied more new words: Gorgeous; Chiaroscuro; Lustrous. Threw them up into his vision, glowing red letters that rose and reached the top of their parabola and dropped back through him like fertilizer falling through the air. No meanings attached, no context. Just words.Diagnostics found that his body and operating systems-- despite the throbbing sensation in his head (which spread, in surges, now, down through his neck)-- to be functional: wiring; hydraulics, intact; ditto his armature; solar collectors; wings. Tools of his trade were lubed, efficient, and sharpened. Theta activity normal, energy at full, fertilizer reservoirs brimming.With an anterior manipulator Leon gently picked up a half-charred fragment from the remains of the firepit. He turned it over, scrutinized it, took enough graphics to reconstitute a virtual replica, and then popped the charcoal into his mouth. Carbon, mostly. Carbon, but also a few cells. Tiny scraps of a mammalian biology, singed, clinging to the rough surface of burnt bark. Crunching with his strong jaws, Leon injected mild acids into the pulp.As he waited for the analysis-- as the coal and other fibers broke down in the enzymes of his saliva-- he walked around the firepit, examining broken blades of grass and crushed moss. Indentations, where some creature or creatures had paused to rest. Here, low branches formed an arbor. Delicate twigs had been snapped. A considerable bulk had passed this way--The results downloaded, erratic, hard to read. Leon was trying to scrutinize the corrupt data when, for the third time that morning, vast amounts of hidden files surged onto his main drive, instantly shutting down his already compromised systems:The sip of green tea reacted with the spices in his mouth. He swished the tea around with his tongue and swallowed. Against his hands, the glazed, ornate bowl was warm. Tiny blue and white figures poled gondolas past bonsais and weed-choked shores: timeless figures; immortal. There was only vermicelli left, growing cold in the fish sauce. Beef gone, broccoli gone, snow peas gone. All goodness gone.-You''ve been staring out the goddamn window for ten minutes now. You wanted to tell me something and all you do is stare. Yet emotion cracked her voice. In a perverse way, he appreciated it, even liked it, because deep inside he thought everybody should stop what they were doing and shed tears for him, even people unknown to him. Kids, sitting at the restaurant; women at other tables with whom he might have, in other circumstances, fallen in love.Putting his hand inside his coat he felt the pamphlet there, its paper soft with reading and re-reading and from the sweat of his own hands.-Jesus Christ, she said, I''m trying to be patient. I already know you''re dying and I''m sitting here waiting. I''m sitting here with you. What else c

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