MAGArians of Sector Nevada Who Disappeared in Ikere-Ekiti in Search of Olósùnta. Chapter 2 The Witch of Solomon's Mines

Nobody slept. Partly because they were in the middle of a desert. Honestly because the MAGArians had spent the night arguing about King Leopold of Belgium & Sons LTD.

By midnight, they had created four committees: For Leopold, Against Leopold, the Independent Leopold Review Panel, and the Emergency Committee to Investigate Why So Many Committees Had Been Created.

 By three, the fourth committee had declared the first three a threat to democracy. 

By four, the first three had accused the fourth of elitism. 

By five, someone had suggested King Leopold of Belgium & Sons LTD might simply be a stationery company, narrowly avoiding a civil war.

Tarzan Helsfrankenstein watched in despair. "You realise you may be the first expedition in history to be defeated by administrative self-harm?" Nobody listened. Committee meetings were very very important to the MAGArians.

The next day, Tarzan woke up to screaming. Years of exploration had taught him that screaming usually meant danger. Or paperwork. Often both.

He found the expedition gathered around Buck Constitution III, who was staring at his navigation tablet. "It spoke," Buck whispered.

"Tablets speak."

"Not like this."

The screen flashed:

TURN BACK.

Then:

I AM BEGGING YOU.

Tarzan frowned. Artificial intelligences weren't supposed to beg. Not since the Great Emotional Software Laws of 3014.

Earl seized the tablet. "Why should we turn back?" After a long pause, the screen displayed:

WARRANTY CONCERNS.

The expedition went silent. One orthodox MAGArian crossed himself. Another began drafting his will, leaving everything to a committee. Tarzan nodded. "Interesting."

"What does it mean?" Earl asked.

"It means we're going in the right direction."

3 hours later, they reached a canyon. The guides stopped. The camels stopped. The drones stopped. One cybernetic wristwatch detached itself from its owner's arm and attempted to flee.

Tarzan caught it. The watch immediately played dead.

"Nobody goes further?" Earl asked.

The guides shook their heads. "Beyond those mountains lies the Witch." They stepped backwards. "And Solomon's Mines." Further backwards. "And possibly Olósùnta." Five more steps. "And definitely trouble."

Then they abandoned the expedition with the efficiency of people who had read the contract.

The path wound through black rocks older than recorded history. Ancient solar ruins emerged from the sand, surrounded by broken machines, some of which appeared considerably newer than the civilisation that had supposedly built them.

Reverend Quantum Joe clasped his hands. "Signs!"

"Of what?" another asked.

"A miracle."

Tarzan examined a half-buried machine. "Engineering."

"What's the difference?"

"Maintenance costs."

Joe looked disappointed. Miracles, apparently, came with better warranties.

By noon, they found the camp. Its tattered flag still fluttered above a broken pole. Beneath it, the expedition's official title remained just legible:

THE OFFICIAL TOMMY ROBINSON XVII EXPEDITION FOR THE LOCATION, IDENTIFICATION, RECOVERY AND POSSIBLE INTERVIEW OF OLÓSÙNTA.

"Definitely Tommy's," Tarzan said.

"How can you tell?" Earl asked.

"The title is longer than the expedition."

Inside, they discovered Professor Nigel Farage IX's boots, a crate belonging to Honourable Dr. Elon Musk, three hundred unused business cards, a partially melted AI, and a diary. The business cards were pristine. The AI was not.

Tarzan opened the diary.

DAY 16

We are approaching Gacool's territory. Local escorts appear nervous. One tried to resign. Three others attempted to become fishermen, despite being hundreds of miles from the sea.

DAY 17

Mentioned King Leopold of Belgium & Sons LTD.

This appears to have been a mistake.

DAY 18

Major mistake.

DAY 19

Colossal mistake.

DAY 20

Met Gacool. She laughed for twelve uninterrupted minutes after hearing the words "King Leopold of Belgium & Sons LTD."

Our legal adviser has resigned. He has become a fisherman.

Several pages had been torn out. The final entry survived, its handwriting suggesting the author had been writing during an earthquake, a pursuit, or another committee meeting.

FINAL ENTRY

Olósùnta is real.

Not a god. Not a king. Not what anyone thinks.

Gacool says the hill is not a hill. The festival is not a festival. The mines are not mines.

We are going below.

If anyone finds this journal—

The rest had been burned away.

For the first time since leaving Nevada, nobody made a joke. Even Earl looked worried. Tarzan closed the diary.

"Well."

"What now?" Tammy asked.

A voice drifted across the canyon, old as dust and cracked by centuries, yet amused in the way only someone who had watched entire civilisations make the same stupid mistakes could be.

"Tommy talked too much."

The expedition turned. An ancient woman stood atop a black rock, wrapped in dark robes. Three hyenas sat beside her. Each wore spectacles. One carried a notebook. The oldest smoked a pipe.

The MAGArians immediately regretted several life choices.

"I assume," the woman said, "you idiots are looking for Olósùnta."

"Are you Gacool?" Earl asked.

"Maybe ?"

"Did you eat Tommy Robinson?"

She looked offended. "Certainly not."

The expedition exhaled.

"I gave him directions."

The relief evaporated.

"To where?"

Gacool smiled and pointed east, towards Ikere-Ekiti Prime, Olósùnta Hill, and whatever had awakened beneath it.

"To the place where aliens come to get lost."

One of the hyenas made a note.

"Is that in the tourist brochure?" Earl asked.

"There isn't a tourist brochure."

"Excellent. We should produce one."

Gacool stared at him. "That is precisely why Tommy failed."

Far beneath Olósùnta Hill, an ancient alarm activated. Then another. Then another. Something underground had finished waking up.

For the first time in centuries, it recognised a familiar signal: Sirius-7. A signal that should not have existed. A signal moving towards it.

Deep beneath the earth, a forgotten machine began counting down.

And somewhere above ground, Buck Constitution III's tablet illuminated once more.

YOUR WARRANTY HAS EXPIRED.

Nobody laughed.