Human essence accreted. The collective focused on the drive. Its appetite sated, the conduit to the other side opened. It its universe of origin, the collective’s complimentary half functioned once more. This side had become too fragmented. The passage flowed one way to provide cerebral nourishment. The battle ended with victory, wholeness and the start of a new expansion.

The collective memory elevated consciousness. The small mind units of the past were replaced by more developed aggregates. The collective’s influence accelerated.

Alcan Border, Alaska. May, 2032

Julia turned away from the view of the scrub forest. It was cold despite spring’s sun and she held her rag coat tight. From their knoll she could see the fire smoke from nearby walkers. Their presence warmed her soul if not her flesh.

Belief fortified the collective memory. Energy from the spreading tectonic plates enhanced its influence. It would take a generation or more of its hosts’ time but a brief moment in the memory’s reference. Minds converging on the rift foci would raise the collective to the next level of existence.

Luis slowed his car to better view the two walkers. From a distance one appeared to be an old woman but he wasn’t sure of the other. Neither could he be sure it was safe. If he stopped completely, a gang might rush from hiding and murder him for his car. He thought of the gold hidden within and realized how vulnerable he was.

He idled beside them. One was a woman, her face not as old as her gait, the other a young girl. He would offer help, he decided. Unconsciously, he’d been searching for such a situation.

Pierre brushed away unconsolidated silt then carefully blew the remainder clear of the skull fragment. He relaxed for a moment and sat up straight, back aching. Countless more fragments dotted the pit floor and sides.

Sharon’s head hung over the edge. “Are you sure I can’t help until Gerard arrives?”

The collective memory absorbed emotions from the new migrant group. In its dream state, it did not pause to focus on the emotional energy but let it flow into the gravity well housing its accreting strength. Despair, anger, frustration and most of all, wonder, were the tools the memory would use to prod, guide and eventually lead, all of them to its goal. 

Pierre reached the lake bed an hour before sundown. He would have two usable hours of light to examine the destruction. There was little evidence of tourists in the vicinity now, aside from the disturbed ground. Whatever their reasons for trampling through when Gerard was here had taken them beyond the survey site. The lake bed hadn’t been their destination, it had been in their path.

Mexico City outskirts.

Carlos Ramirez felt the insect crawling across his face and brushed it away without opening his eyes. Sleep was a relief and difficult to abandon. The truck in which they rode jostled over the uneven road and he was at last forced fully awake. A cabbage rolled onto his lap. He rubbed his eyes and sat up. He looked at the rest of his family riding in the back of the produce truck. Elena cradled the two youngest children in her arms with the older three nestled beside her. Julia was the only one with her eyes open. They had been open last night when he finally drifted off.

Sharon cursed and fought the steering wheel. “Lord a’mighty,” she cried, the ruts almost tearing the wheel from her hands. The path that passed for a road was much worse than the month before; the previous evening’s rains beginning the damage yet to come. The highways were not much better. The hard-topping of the pavement resisted total erosion only in the center of the road forcing drivers to make their own way in the ditches more often than not. She swerved off into the brush to avoid the remains of a broken-down motor coach. How had the driver found this road? she wondered.

Olduvai Gorge, Western Rift, Tanzania. September, 2028

Pierre Archambault stopped his hammering to wipe the sweat from his brow. The wind did not cool. During the day, it carried the heat from the rocks surrounding his site. During the night, it carried the songs from the tourist camps. 

He stared across the valley at the dark, broken rocks of the landscape and tried to remember what this valley, his valley, had been like before the tourists came. The vision shimmered, as uncertain of its own reality as he was of his memory. There was always the wind, not so long ago lifting the scents and sounds of the great Serengeti herds. The herds were gone, migrated to new pastures with the increase in visitors and tremor activity. Now, Pierre smelled the cooking from the camps and heard the mindless songs repeated endlessly through the dark, warm nights.