"Not here," Toa frowned sympathetically. His dark tattoos emphasised the lines of his face. "This town's architecture dates back to the 1950's, if that means anything to you. My people counted in seasons, not numbers, and I've been here long enough to learn this tongue. There is a slither of my time on the outer edge of the Wastelands. I can show you, if you like."

Yuri cradled his face in his hands. "Some other time. I need to sleep."

"You can rest in the cot at the infirmary, I'll send Elaine to check on you later."

Green faded into distant memory. Like the rice terraces: they were green before the Cybernetic Realisation plunged the world back into its grave. Acidic water seeped under the Dome, irreversibly damaging the irrigation stream. Crops drooped in limp shades of yellow and brown. His sister aged, her cheekbones tight against hollowed cheeks. Hope sparked in her eyes when he'd told her about the aerial islands that the satellites had picked up in the South. Their salvation.

A lady with fat cheeks opened the door, interrupting Yuri's dream. Long brown hair cascaded down her back, and a blue dress cradled her pregnant belly.

"I'm Elaine," she said, a strange accent twanging her speech. "Toa sent me to clean you up a bit. Are you well enough to shower?"

She clucked, noticing his confused expression. "Come now, you look as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs."

"What's a cat?" Yuri asked.

"I'll introduce you to Olaf later," she replied. "But let's get you showered up first. Everyone will be finished with dinner now, but I'll bet there a few leftovers to be had. You must be starving."

The infirmary was on upper level of the 'Titties and Beer' building, which Elaine referred to as the Homestead. They passed multiple doors on the way to the blue-doored bathroom. She left him with a warm towel and change of clothes. Yuri peeled off his body-armour, gasping at the red marks that had imprinted into his skin while he'd slept. Dark bruises marked his chest and shoulders, a carbon copy of the Beetle's harness.

The water felt luxuriously wasteful on his naked skin. Steam curled off of it. Initially, this had terrified him, but it was soothing to breathe rather than searingly acidic. He washed his hair one-handed, careful to keep his injured shoulder out of the water's flow.

The pants Elaine had left for him were a perfect fit, but trouble struck when he realised he couldn't lift his injured arm into the shirt. He walked back to the infirmary, the towel wrapped self-consciously around his chest.

Elaine gasped when she saw the wound. "Toa said you'd hit my lemon tree. You really rooted it, didn't you? Ah well, at least it didn't get you an inch further in; that would've shattered all the bones in your shoulder."

She pulled out a strangely familiar medical kit.

Yuri gasped. "That's mine!"

"This old thing?" she asked, surprised. "The salvage crew found it nearly three years ago now, out in the wastelands. It's probably just a similar one."

He stared at the navy metal box, wincing when Elaine coaxed splinters from his shoulder. It was an amazing coincidence, that the box had a similar red scratch from where he'd scraped his kit along the side of the Beetle's red paintwork. The loss of his car consumed him. Surely there were some parts that could be salvaged, some way of returning home.

He noticed an unusual addition to the box. An old gun was nestled amongst the supply of bandages. An ancient one that still used gun powder. Guns had been used when paper was still in print. Much before the Cybernetic Realisation, or even the Time-Bombings of the 2500s.

"What's that for?" he asked.

She looked up from his shoulder sadly, "That's if someone's too injured to fix."

The pile of blood stained splinters grew. "We ran out of skin sealant months ago," she said apologetically, as she re-bandaged it.

It was dark outside the window when Yuri made his way downstairs. His new clothes were a perfect fit, but he felt too exposed, too light, without his protective body armour.

Frank smirked when he saw him. "Evening ninety-six, you'll be wanting some food I suppose?"

"Why do you keep calling me that?"

Frank gestured to the rapidly filling tables. "That's how many of us live here. And you, you're lucky number ninety-six."

"And the man who died?"

"Well, he was ninety-six too, before his luck ran out." Frank gestured to Yuri's arm. "Elaine's fixed you up, then?"

Yuri nodded. "Yes, she's very kind."

"She's my wife," he said proudly. "You'd best remember that it's only 'cause of her that you're getting anything at all, bless her heart."

He slid Yuri a plate across the bar. A slither of meat, steaming greens, and small starchy circles. There was too much of it to be true. His mouth watered.

Even this late in the evening, the Homestead was loud. Laughter bounced around the high ceilings, and footsteps thundered along the floorboards. Yuri took a seat at an unoccupied table near the entrance. He mulled over his thoughts, counting the hall's inhabitants. Thirty-four people. Their pronged and serrated chopsticks clinked against one another. In the far corner, music played from an obscurely colourful machine, and a group of people sung along dissonantly. The sounds alienated him, almost as much as the variance in people's skin, hair colour, and clothing did.

A young boy, who couldn't have been more than six years old, ran down the hall, and sat across from him. Fiery hair framed his face.

"Hi Yuri," the boy said, grinning mischieviously.

"How do you know my name?" Yuri asked.

"Don't be silly Yuri, you told me yes-"

"-Wurlie!" The boy was cut off by a loud motherly voice.

"Your name's Wurlie?" Yuri asked the six-year old, as his mother stormed towards the table.

"It's Wurlitzer," he replied proudly, pointing to the sound-machine. "They named the jukebox after me."

The mother had arrived, her hair an equally violent shade of red. "What are you doing out of bed, Wurlie?"

The boy cowered. "Nothing Mama,"

She smiled apologetically at Yuri, before grabbing the young boy by his arm, and pulling him toward the stairs, growling at him under her breath.

Rations. Small, measly, poor excuses for rations that were delivered every Monday morning. Even if you shared your drinking water with leafy plants on the window sill, there was never enough. He counted his ribs in the mirror every morning. The house had always seemed empty after his parents were conscripted.

The next morning, a sharp knock sounded at the infirmary door. Yuri pulled on his pants and shirt that lay scattered on the ground, and opened it.

Toa stood in the doorway, "I'm going into the Wastelands now, if you'd like to see them. You can check on your car as well."

Yuri nodded. His body armour was folded in a neat pile by the door, and quickly donned it. The heaviness of the armoured plates was familiar, and reassured him.

Few people populated the Homestead this early in the morning. He couldn't finish the breakfast. The serving of porridge was as large as an entire days ration under the Dome. As they left, a furry creature rubbed itself against Yuri's legs. He fought the urge to kick it across the floor. The sleek thing let out out a meow, and butted its head playfully against Yuri's shin.

"What is it?" Yuri asked Toa.

The man frowned. "It's a cat. Elaine calls it Olaf. She says we can't eat it, 'cause it's her pet." He spat onto the ground. "Waste of meat, really."

Mist enveloped them as they passed through the gate. Yuri followed Toa up a sloping hill, unable to see more than five meters ahead of him. Strange forms loomed in the whiteness. Toa's leathered hunting boots stepped purposefully through the void as chirping noises filtered through the air. As they arrived at the crest of the hill, the mist fell away. Yuri gasped. Green flooded his world. It looked like the forests described in legends. Sunbeams filtered through rustling branches above.

"Where are we?" Yuri asked.

"The edge of the Wastelands," Toa replied. "All the land past Rotowā is lost like this. Do you know what a chessboard is?"

Yuri nodded.

"Imagine that this world is like a chess board. Rotowā is one square, and this is another. The mist forms the boundaries between them. As you move across the squares, it's not just where you are that changes, but when. There's no knowing how big each timezone is, or what you might find in the mist if you pass into an unexplored area."

"What's this one?"

Toa leant a hand against the trunk of a large tree. "This is where I'm from. This was my home."

He pointed down the other side of the hill, where mist coiled around the trunks of trees.

"That way leads to nothing but rubble and destruction. You go on past the rubble, and you'll pass into silver territory."

"What's a silver?"

Toa held out his necklace. A metallic eyeball dangled from the twine. "A man made out of metal. They shoot beams so hot it melts holes in you. The air stings there, like breathing hot coals."

Yuri shivered. Those robotic nightmares had sparked the first wars of Cybernetic Realization. His parents and grandparents had died fighting them in their acidic domains. Toa's axe wouldn't be much use against them. He wondered idly how the man had got the eyeball without being killed.

"The forest stretches long and thin along this ridge," Toa said. "I'm checking the snare line. You're welcome to join me."

Yuri agreed readily. Anything to spend more time in this exotic forest. Toa's steps were silent as they moved through the trees. Yuri cringed at his own clumsy movements. His feet snapped branches, startling birds in the trees. They stopped infrequently to check wires concealed in branches. More often than not, there would be an ensnared bird. The collection of birds around Toa's waist grew larger as they walked through the forest.

Mist rose up around them as they angled down a hill. Yuri was completely disorientated. He felt blind without the Beetle's radar and location tracker, but Toa seemed not to need one. They must have looped back around, because after the forest dissipated, his car materialised out of the greyness.

The brokenness of it shocked him. The Beetle's thrusters were warped and crusted with mud. His helmet bulged from the windscreen. Worst of all was his car's rear-left thruster. The metal was irreparably charred. It was a miracle that lightning hadn't engulfed the entire vehicle. Without replacement parts, she would never fly again.

Static crackled as he powered on the Comms. Hope shot through him. Maybe he could get a message out - that he'd found salvation; a place where the air was breathable; where war was a word instead of a reality.

Just as they were leaving, he noticed the lemon tree had been dragged back up the hill, and staked in place. The crash tracks too had been brushed over. That's weird. They must really love lemons around here. He hated to leave his car languishing in the lake. But he patted the Beetle's side, promising to return.

"Barry Morian owns a pair of clydesdales," Toa said, as they returned to the town. "Your ship looks light. They could drag it under cover."

I wonder what they are, Clydesdales. Maybe they were small, high-octane vehicles, or clunky antigrav-belts. A mournful bell chimed from Southern end of the town, as they returned to Rotowā.

"It's the funeral service," Toa said. "We should pay our respects."

A hunchback led the service. When they joined the back of the small crowd. The decrepit man wore an aged top-hat and a thick black coat. He quoted excerpts out of a book titled 'Moving Pictures.' It didn't sound particularly religious, Yuri thought, but perhaps it was the dead man's favourite book. Several passages made him snort with laughter: a journey to collect 1,000 elephants? How ridiculous!

His mind drifted. To his surprise, there was a progression of increasingly fresh graves. Grass had not fully-sprouted over the raised piles, reminding him morbidly of the vegetable beds his sister tended within the Dome. Misshapen white crosses thrust out of the ground above them. He counted twelve. The crowd sang a haunting song as the body was lowered into the Earth. "Manaakitia mai, Aotearoa."

The song faded into the air, and all in attendance moved to fill the grave. There was a strange lack of emotion on their faces, almost as if dying had become a routine for them. Elaine gave him a small smile as she shovelled a heap of dirt into the hole. Yuri had noticed the others glaring at her enlarged belly throughout the service. They seemed more angry at her than mournful.

As the small procession of people trickled away, the hunchback slip the book into the pocket of his coat, and retrieved a shovel from behind a rickety shed. To Yuri's shock, he forced it into the ground beside the fresh grave. The shovel squealed in protestation as it moved through the stony ground.

The man caught him staring. "It takes me two days to dig a grave," he said. "You never know when you might need another." He chuckled, his face concealed by his top-hat.

"You seem fairly certain," Yuri said.

The crippled man pointed a finger at Elaine. "There's ninety-six of us. Only ever ninety-six. That's the rule of this place. Look at her belly; even after that squalling infant is born, they'll still be ninety-six of us." His gaze trailed back to the hole he was digging.

"Ninety-seven," Yuri corrected.

"Mark my words boy, there'll only be ninety-six. You'll see." The hunchback chuckled darkly as he added: "then again, maybe you won't."

Shaken, Yuri walked over to Toa, who stood at the far end of the graveyard. A heavily engraved piece of wood stood out of the earth in front of him. Compared to the nondescript crosses of the other graves, this was a labour of love.

"My wife, Ariana," he explained, not looking away from the wooden carving. "She passed away. Almost six years ago to the day now."

~~~~~

At the Homestead, the fireplace glowed with hot embers. Yuri warmed himself it, and glazed at the curious collection of objects on the mantelpiece; there was a cross, some musty old books, and a statue of a blue man with six arms.

"'Ello ninety-six," Frank said, walking over from the bar. "Don't think we got your religion here, whatever it is."

"I'm not religious," Yuri replied, disliking the man more and more. Even if he was, what were the chances of this place having incense, and pictures of his ancestors?.

"What's happened in your spaceman future that's stopped you believing in a God, then?"

"The Earth started dying," Yuri said. "They say only a God has the power to resurrect. My whole life I've watched people pray, light incense, and offer sacrifices; but the Earth's still dying. I don't believe in deaf Gods."

"Well, aren't you a charmer?" Frank said, lighting a cigar.

Yuri noticed a strange, plastic casing on the mantel. "Who worships the Almighty Johnsons?"

"Oh, that." Frank snorted. "Old Derek put it there as a joke, the night before he got trampled down by a moa; that's an oversized chicken the size of two men, if your spaceman brain isn't too smart. He said it was his favourite show, so we left it there for him."

"Oh."

"-And don't think you're getting any sympathy for being another misfortunate shipwrecked soul. You've got to start earning your keep 'round here, starting after lunch."

"I'm an engineer and a pilot," Yuri said. "I could-"

"-we've already got ourselves one of those," Frank cut in. "What we need is another set of hands bringing in the food."

Toa had described Barry as wearing a black singlet, and strange rubber boots that stopped at his knees. He had unkempt brown beard that often caught food in it. Yuri found a man of that description finishing his lunch in the Homestead.

"You're Yuri," he said, not unkindly.

"I am." Yuri replied, wondering how everyone knew his name. Now that he thought about it, he didn't actually recall introducing himself to anyone, not even Toa. "You're Barry."

Barry grunted, and took another swig of his drink. "I suppose you want to use Stella and Merl, then."

"Stella and Merl?"

"My horses. It's not like we've got a tow truck 'round these parts. Clydesdales are a close second. That, and grass is a hell of a lot easier to find than petrol. The truck we found ran all of four hours before running dry. Horses tend not to do that."

"How did you know what I'd ask?" Yuri asked, amazed at the man's foresight.

Barry dragged a hand across his mouth. "No one crashes a piece of engineering like that into the lake without my knowing about it. You'll be helping me out with the sheep this afternoon, that'll be more than enough in payment. I'll bring the horses tomorrow morning. Sound fair?"

"Yes," Yuri replied.

They left the town, trundling wheelbarrows. Wurlie ran out after them. "Can I come?"

Barry laughed. "Your mother would skin me and stitch me up into a blanket if I took you out into the Wastelands."

"She is real good at skinning stuff," Wurlie said. "But I've never seen a live sheep before."

The man ruffled his red hair. "When you're older - you're only five. Now, run along back to your mother, she'll be worrying already."

"I'll be six in two days," Wurlie protested. He ran behind the Homestead.

Barry shrunk as they passed Rotowā's border. A ruined metropolis stood between them and the farm. His eyes flitted to the dark hollows under collapsed buildings and shattered windows. He stuck to the path worn into the rough landscape, their wheelbarrows clunked along it smoothly.

"What year is it here?" Yuri asked him.

"It's not any year anymore," Barry said, looking around the crumbling landscape. "The most we know is that it happened sometime after 2470."

"What makes you say that?"

"There's a hot chick with a freaky metal arm on the salvage crew. Name's Gledria. She's from the year 2470, and reckons it wasn't busted then."

"There must be some record, somewhere," Yuri said. "Hasn't anyone ever tried looking?"

"For what? A calendar? A helpful 'This is how the world ended' newspaper clipping? Don't insult us. There's an entire house filled with that junk." He kicked at the rubble underfoot. "Paper doesn't put food on the table."

They left the wheelbarrows behind one of the few, still upright buildings, before continuing on. The mist rose and fell around them, to reveal a vast, green field. Yuri gasped at the white, cloud creatures on the other side of the wire fence. They walked through the herd of animals, who parted nonchalantly.

"Are they drugged?" Yuri asked.

The goats under the Dome were wild creatures, with devilishly sharp horns. He had a scar from ankle to knee, from when one had escaped the containment pen and invaded the Engineering sector. Why aren't they fleeing? He prodded of the animals as he walked past. It felt spongy.

"They're not drugged," Barry said."Shoot, if I had drugs, I sure as hell wouldn't waste them on sheep. They're bred very selectively, is all. Dumb as doornails. Maybe dumber."

He smiled at Yuri's unconvinced expression. "You ever seen a doornail get caught in a fence?"

One of the animals had a rectangular playing card fastened around its neck.

"Four of spades, you little hussy," Barry said gently, stroking its neck. "What're you doing out here with all the boys?" Excusing himself, he slipped a rope around its neck and guided it towards the next paddock over. Four of spades let out a strange, "M-e-e-e-h," as he released it.

"She's a little bit of a slut, that one," Barry said, as he returned to the flock. Without any resistance, they captured two card-less sheep and led the animals back towards Rotowā.

"What's with the cards?" Yuri asked.

"We're a little bit short on supplies 'round here. All these years and we still haven't found a supermarket. The scavenger crew found a packet of cards when we first arrived. I use them to track bloodlines," Barry paused to scratch his beard. "There are four rams that we use for breeding, they're the aces. Missing from this field, you'll notice; I can't have my prime stock getting eaten accidentally. All of their respective female offspring get tagged with a card of the same suit. The males aren't so lucky."

He patted the sheep's head, leading it to the building where the'd left the wheelbarrows. They made several trips back at the village. They'd drained the sheep's blood into a metal catchment pan, carried that back, and then returned for the fleshy, fluffy carcasses. At the back of the Homestead, they transferred them into Wurlie's mother's care.

Just before bed that night, Yuri walked to bathroom. He turned the corner, colliding with Frank. He dropped the object he was carrying.

Frank scowled. "You're the typical Asian ninety-six! First you crash your car into the lake, and now you're running into me? What next? Are you going to bowl Elaine over too?"

Yuri muttered his apologies. He picked up the device that Frank had dropped. It was some sort of image-capturer. The glowing screen shocked him. A half-dressed woman grinned at him from the picture. It was a simple device, Yuri saw three equally scandalous images of men and women in various stages of undress before Frank snatched it back.

The fat man scowled, and changed the subject: "Do you really think you can fix that rust bucket of yours?"

"I think I'll be able to repair the Comms." he said, ignoring the jibe. "That's the communication bit, if your primitive brain can't keep up."

"It just seems like you might have ordered a thousand elephants. So much to do, so little time." Frank sneered knowingly. "And please, don't send out a homing signal. I can't deal with any more of you than there already are."