I dream of Avalon each night; the apple trees and bamboo forests stretching out endlessly under twin moons. When I awaken I find myself back in my apartment, the open land replaced by two narrow rooms with ceilings so low they make me feel as if I've been entombed. Today, however, I know that this life is over and in just a few minutes I will be dead - shot by the security guards here in my lab or passed away from old age in Avalon. Either one will be an improvement. The hammering on the door is growing more urgent every second, and it's a matter of seconds before they break through. If there's anything I've learned here it's how much of a difference seconds can make.
I've watched Avalon grow from an inhospitable primordial world to the paradise it is now, witnessed our plants slowly take over the surface and carpet the black mud - one day the world was a lifeless swamp, the next it was the green of moss and grasses. The next trees had sprouted and died, forming little islands. Now Avalon is all rolling hills and crystal lakes, any crop taking hold eagerly and providing more fruit than could ever be eaten. I can't let them turn it into a mirror of this world.
The door flies open, and I know I've lost my ticket out. I could have been selfish, could have snuck into Avalon by myself and lived an entire lifetime before they caught me, but I thought about the contraband I had smuggled in - books, actual books that I had read and loved and then left there to break down into the soil. Did I want that to be my legacy, to vanish into a foreign world in another dimension and be forgotten? Far more noble to take something there that won't erode, won't be destroyed by the elements, will thrive and continue on across the brief ages. The guards are raising their weapons, and I hit the button.
Shots fire out as the Transport room flares to life. I had been setting up a delay so I could go too, but I can die happy knowing my contraband has been sent. Packed into the chamber so tight they could barely breathe, an eager batch of young colonists have just been sent to my previously unpeopled world. The bullet hits my shoulder, and I fall to the ground. Before the guards can pile into the room I pull the gun one of the colonists gave me, feeling the weight of the antique in my hand. I shoot blindly at the doorway, each shot buying them more time to live in peace. I count off the seconds - one year, two, three.
They're trying to talk me down; good. Talk is slow. I really should destroy the device entirely but we had more pressing concerns than explosives and there's nothing I can do with this gun. I can destroy this control panel, but there's another I won't be able to reach. Suddenly the guards run for it and they have me, pinning me to the floor and wrenching the gun from my grip. I had hoped they would just shoot me. Already someone is manning the control - it's Robert, we've worked together for years but he's a coward.
The guards are ready to storm Avalon and kill the colonists. How long did I give them? Two minutes? That's well over a hundred years, maybe it was worth it. The gate flares to life but before the guards can move arrows fill the air. A war cry erupts from the chamber as a hundred armed warriors pile into the room, wooden swords cutting the guards down in their tracks. They're moving quickly; they know that this mission is costing them years with their families. They carry me past Robert's body, and past some smoldering barrels they're placing around the device.
The gate flashes once more, and the empire of Avalon cheers my arrival.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
Daily Story 75: Tidal Forces
I breathe a sigh of relief as the countdown starts. I can feel the stress of the past few weeks just draining away to be replaced by excitement - finally, after all my training, I'm going to the Lunar base. Twice in as many months I nearly screwed it up; it's easy to get disqualified from these missions and I had made an impressive effort. Out of the three main ways to lose your spot on the mission I had managed to try sickness/injury and drugs. It's a good thing I didn't go for the hat-trick by punching my boss.
Most recently it was drugs, at a party a few weeks ago. I would never do anything to risk this job, but as far as I can tell someone spiked my drink. I felt strange and started to walk home... and next thing I knew I was waking up, naked, in a field somewhere. Whoever did it probably thought it was funny, but if it had shown up on my blood test my career could have been ruined.
Before that it was an injury while camping. Like with the drugs, I was careful to avoid anything dangerous... but you don't really expect a rabid animal to tear into your tent, right? I had to get shots and blood work and they were seriously talking about pulling me from the mission - but since I had a month and a half to go they gave me the benefit of the doubt and sure enough I healed up just fine. Still, it was a close call and I had started to believe fate was conspiring against me.
But now I'm here, and it's time. The specially designed seat helps to cushion me from the G-forces, and while it's still intense I've been prepared for that. I'm a little more worried about the motion sickness that comes with floating around weightless - but I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. I've dreamed of this moment for so long, becoming one of the few privileged mortals to escape the Earth. Life at the Lunar base will be rough, but I wouldn't trade this job for anything.
I can almost feel it, right there in my reach. I think if I closed my eyes I could still see that beautiful silver orb. You could spin me around and disorient me and I would be able to point right to it. The main thrusters are finished, and as the acceleration stops I can tell we're nearly weightless. Along with that lack of gravity comes a strange feeling, though - a slight confusion and discomfort I wasn't expecting.
It's a lot like how I felt when I left that party; a restless, anxious sensation coupled with a kind of mental fog. I can't think, can't concentrate, and with every second it's getting worse. The glare of the moon is almost painful, and without gravity I can feel it pulling at me, tugging, trying to tear me apart. Can't anyone else feel that? I itch, all over; my suit feels like it's full of bristly hair. Why isn't someone turning us around? How can they look so calm? I hear something tear, and I know I'm straining against the fabric of my suit. It's so constrictive. I try to call for help, but all that comes out is a howl.
Most recently it was drugs, at a party a few weeks ago. I would never do anything to risk this job, but as far as I can tell someone spiked my drink. I felt strange and started to walk home... and next thing I knew I was waking up, naked, in a field somewhere. Whoever did it probably thought it was funny, but if it had shown up on my blood test my career could have been ruined.
Before that it was an injury while camping. Like with the drugs, I was careful to avoid anything dangerous... but you don't really expect a rabid animal to tear into your tent, right? I had to get shots and blood work and they were seriously talking about pulling me from the mission - but since I had a month and a half to go they gave me the benefit of the doubt and sure enough I healed up just fine. Still, it was a close call and I had started to believe fate was conspiring against me.
But now I'm here, and it's time. The specially designed seat helps to cushion me from the G-forces, and while it's still intense I've been prepared for that. I'm a little more worried about the motion sickness that comes with floating around weightless - but I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. I've dreamed of this moment for so long, becoming one of the few privileged mortals to escape the Earth. Life at the Lunar base will be rough, but I wouldn't trade this job for anything.
I can almost feel it, right there in my reach. I think if I closed my eyes I could still see that beautiful silver orb. You could spin me around and disorient me and I would be able to point right to it. The main thrusters are finished, and as the acceleration stops I can tell we're nearly weightless. Along with that lack of gravity comes a strange feeling, though - a slight confusion and discomfort I wasn't expecting.
It's a lot like how I felt when I left that party; a restless, anxious sensation coupled with a kind of mental fog. I can't think, can't concentrate, and with every second it's getting worse. The glare of the moon is almost painful, and without gravity I can feel it pulling at me, tugging, trying to tear me apart. Can't anyone else feel that? I itch, all over; my suit feels like it's full of bristly hair. Why isn't someone turning us around? How can they look so calm? I hear something tear, and I know I'm straining against the fabric of my suit. It's so constrictive. I try to call for help, but all that comes out is a howl.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Daily Story 74: Missionary Work
The glow envelops me, and fills every cell with warmth and life. I'm aware of everything now; every molecule in my body, the electrical signals still flickering through my brain. Those molecules are breaking down, those flashes of activity in my brain are ceasing. I don't need either anymore. My self, my identity, is a unique and perfect phantom of pure light that yearns to be free from its earthly vessel. Like water draining from a sponge I slowly flow outward, departing the microscopic nooks and crevices in the porous tissue of the human body.
The process feels amazing but seems to take forever. I know this isn't true, know that everything I am experiencing is taking place in a single flash of what I used to think of as time. I can see my friends beside me, frozen in the moment, their faces distorted with fear. I had been afraid too, though I hardly remember what fear even feels like anymore. Hate, jealousy, uncertainty - all of these things are evaporating off of me like mist at dawn. Some part of me still remains, refuses to enter this holy light. It is only myself, it is all in my mind. I know what I must do, and I pull all of the warmth and power back inside - into the body I am abandoning. I fill every cell with the light and allow them to burn, to melt, to explode apart in funeral blaze.
Beyond the glow that triggered this glorious rebirth I can feel a cry of joy, a celebration. I can see them now; others like myself surrounding the alien device. They welcome me, embrace me, and I touch minds with the former humans and aliens alike. At long last I understand why they have come to us. Together we join in a psychic hymn of praise and thanksgiving as we pray that our friends and families might soon know the purifying flame of enlightenment as we have.
---
Jared stumbled backwards, violent purple afterimages floating across his vision. The ray had scored a direct hit on Tim, and all that remained was a pair of burning boots. Before the alien monstrosity could recharge, he grabbed Adam by the arm and pulled him along into an alley.
"Oh, God!" Adam moaned, "It just... fried him. He's dead! Oh, God, he's dead!"
Jared shook him, stared him in the eye.
"Shut up, Adam. There's nothing we can do for him, for any of them. We have to think about the ones who are still alive. We'll find a way to stop these monsters yet."
Thinking of survival and revenge, they stalked off through the ash-covered city.
The process feels amazing but seems to take forever. I know this isn't true, know that everything I am experiencing is taking place in a single flash of what I used to think of as time. I can see my friends beside me, frozen in the moment, their faces distorted with fear. I had been afraid too, though I hardly remember what fear even feels like anymore. Hate, jealousy, uncertainty - all of these things are evaporating off of me like mist at dawn. Some part of me still remains, refuses to enter this holy light. It is only myself, it is all in my mind. I know what I must do, and I pull all of the warmth and power back inside - into the body I am abandoning. I fill every cell with the light and allow them to burn, to melt, to explode apart in funeral blaze.
Beyond the glow that triggered this glorious rebirth I can feel a cry of joy, a celebration. I can see them now; others like myself surrounding the alien device. They welcome me, embrace me, and I touch minds with the former humans and aliens alike. At long last I understand why they have come to us. Together we join in a psychic hymn of praise and thanksgiving as we pray that our friends and families might soon know the purifying flame of enlightenment as we have.
---
Jared stumbled backwards, violent purple afterimages floating across his vision. The ray had scored a direct hit on Tim, and all that remained was a pair of burning boots. Before the alien monstrosity could recharge, he grabbed Adam by the arm and pulled him along into an alley.
"Oh, God!" Adam moaned, "It just... fried him. He's dead! Oh, God, he's dead!"
Jared shook him, stared him in the eye.
"Shut up, Adam. There's nothing we can do for him, for any of them. We have to think about the ones who are still alive. We'll find a way to stop these monsters yet."
Thinking of survival and revenge, they stalked off through the ash-covered city.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Daily Story 73: Disconsolate Exodus
My husband is watching the other passengers board from our pod's shared balcony. I wish he would turn and talk to our neighbors with me, but I suppose there'll be plenty of time for that - more than we could ever want. We've been together for ninety years, and I know if I wasn't trying to be social he would be nudging me and pointing to each one, telling me their model number and some obscure fact about them. Personally I like to watch the humans more.
My first husband was human, a lonely little man who had lost his wife in a car accident years before. He bought me just to have someone to talk to. I remember sitting up at night and reading while he slept so that I could ask him questions about the book in the morning. Usually it was old science fiction, set years in our past with technology that was alternately too advanced or hopelessly antiquated. I would ask about the context - or in his later years feign ignorance - and he would go on about the good old days for hours.
There's a human in our pod that reminds me a bit of him, old and kind. This one is more outgoing, a little more energetic in spirit if not in body. He won't be seeing our destination, and he must know that, but he's just thrilled to be here. His roommate is always fussing around him, making sure he's warm and fed and happy. Someone gave them trouble for that when they first arrived, yelling at the old man for keeping a slave. He just laughed, and it's because I love to watch the humans that I was able to laugh with him. I could tell as soon as I met them that they were friends, probably for at least half a century. Just because you've been emancipated doesn't mean you have to leave your human. I know I would have stayed with mine if he hadn't died.
There are others on board, robots with human companions. It's beautiful. The looks I got when I was declared to be my own legal owner were so hostile... but now emancipated robots are just part of the scenery. I look at my husband, dented and scuffed, and remember having to buy him rather than being able to just date like the newer generations can. We made such progress, and now it will all be over. No more progress, just fire and death.
I can see the soldiers milling around the port, humans and hulking military robots alike. They know that everyone is just waiting for us to leave; at thirty stations around the globe ships like this wait and stock supplies, conscientious objectors to the entire Earth. All three sides have agreed to let us go, to wait to kill each other until we're gone. I think they're just happy to be free of protestors.
A shiny new robot walks into the pod and my husband elbows me, telling me about the 342 model and how it can recognize the physiological responses to lying. Seems like a strange feature, but to each his own. It's too stiff, too formal, and I can tell it isn't a passenger.
"Is this Disconsolate Exodus, Pod 59220, the residence of one Alan Watts?" The human waves excitedly and takes the package. I'm watching the delivery robot and the old man and thinking - they're both going to die, the human before getting to our new planet and the robot before he ever gets to develop a real personality. It's not fair.
"Come with us." I know it's absurd, I know he's too new to understand, but I have to try. The delivery robot just looks at me for a moment, and then turns towards the door. Of course. I might as well ask everyone to lay down their arms and stop the war - or ask the Earth to stop spinning entirely. I watch him leave, and for now I feel my age. I lean against my husband, sigh at the comforting tingle as our metal skins glide against one another. The others are going into their rooms, leaving us alone on the pod's balcony.
As he starts to point out different models of robots on the docks below us I allow my processor to stray, drifting into a sort of sleep. Between being too young to understand and too old to see things through, I wonder if any of us are ever the right age.
My first husband was human, a lonely little man who had lost his wife in a car accident years before. He bought me just to have someone to talk to. I remember sitting up at night and reading while he slept so that I could ask him questions about the book in the morning. Usually it was old science fiction, set years in our past with technology that was alternately too advanced or hopelessly antiquated. I would ask about the context - or in his later years feign ignorance - and he would go on about the good old days for hours.
There's a human in our pod that reminds me a bit of him, old and kind. This one is more outgoing, a little more energetic in spirit if not in body. He won't be seeing our destination, and he must know that, but he's just thrilled to be here. His roommate is always fussing around him, making sure he's warm and fed and happy. Someone gave them trouble for that when they first arrived, yelling at the old man for keeping a slave. He just laughed, and it's because I love to watch the humans that I was able to laugh with him. I could tell as soon as I met them that they were friends, probably for at least half a century. Just because you've been emancipated doesn't mean you have to leave your human. I know I would have stayed with mine if he hadn't died.
There are others on board, robots with human companions. It's beautiful. The looks I got when I was declared to be my own legal owner were so hostile... but now emancipated robots are just part of the scenery. I look at my husband, dented and scuffed, and remember having to buy him rather than being able to just date like the newer generations can. We made such progress, and now it will all be over. No more progress, just fire and death.
I can see the soldiers milling around the port, humans and hulking military robots alike. They know that everyone is just waiting for us to leave; at thirty stations around the globe ships like this wait and stock supplies, conscientious objectors to the entire Earth. All three sides have agreed to let us go, to wait to kill each other until we're gone. I think they're just happy to be free of protestors.
A shiny new robot walks into the pod and my husband elbows me, telling me about the 342 model and how it can recognize the physiological responses to lying. Seems like a strange feature, but to each his own. It's too stiff, too formal, and I can tell it isn't a passenger.
"Is this Disconsolate Exodus, Pod 59220, the residence of one Alan Watts?" The human waves excitedly and takes the package. I'm watching the delivery robot and the old man and thinking - they're both going to die, the human before getting to our new planet and the robot before he ever gets to develop a real personality. It's not fair.
"Come with us." I know it's absurd, I know he's too new to understand, but I have to try. The delivery robot just looks at me for a moment, and then turns towards the door. Of course. I might as well ask everyone to lay down their arms and stop the war - or ask the Earth to stop spinning entirely. I watch him leave, and for now I feel my age. I lean against my husband, sigh at the comforting tingle as our metal skins glide against one another. The others are going into their rooms, leaving us alone on the pod's balcony.
As he starts to point out different models of robots on the docks below us I allow my processor to stray, drifting into a sort of sleep. Between being too young to understand and too old to see things through, I wonder if any of us are ever the right age.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Daily Story 72: Haberdashery
The neighbors are driving me insane.
I bang on the walls, scream at them to keep it down, and then I have to listen to them wonder what I'm yelling about. They don't sleep, so I don't sleep. All night I hear them laughing, yelling, having sex. If I do somehow manage to fall asleep it invades my dreams, I find myself inside their apartment with them talking all around me. Dreams like that are worse than not sleeping at all.
The walls here are a foot thick, there could be a freight train going past outside and I wouldn't know. That was one of the reasons I chose this place; without silence I can't work. I've started going into the office again, after fighting for years to be allowed to permanently telecommute. I fall asleep on my desk half the time and I know my boss is going to catch me one of these days.
I tried to talk to the landlord and he just quoted the equal rights housing act to me. I don't need to be told about that, I was one of the people signing petitions and writing my senator to allow those people to have rights. I was one of the ones carrying a banner at the big protest, yelling that it's not their fault and they should be allowed to stay, to live here like anyone else.
But that was before I lived next to them.
This has to end. I want to go over there and grab a handful of those wriggling tentacles they call a face and just yank. Not that it would make me feel better - hell, I'd probably feel the pain as much as they did. Stupid telepaths. I can't move, my lease isn't up for another six months, but there must be something... the roll of tin foil in the kitchen catches my eye... it's just crazy enough to work.
I bang on the walls, scream at them to keep it down, and then I have to listen to them wonder what I'm yelling about. They don't sleep, so I don't sleep. All night I hear them laughing, yelling, having sex. If I do somehow manage to fall asleep it invades my dreams, I find myself inside their apartment with them talking all around me. Dreams like that are worse than not sleeping at all.
The walls here are a foot thick, there could be a freight train going past outside and I wouldn't know. That was one of the reasons I chose this place; without silence I can't work. I've started going into the office again, after fighting for years to be allowed to permanently telecommute. I fall asleep on my desk half the time and I know my boss is going to catch me one of these days.
I tried to talk to the landlord and he just quoted the equal rights housing act to me. I don't need to be told about that, I was one of the people signing petitions and writing my senator to allow those people to have rights. I was one of the ones carrying a banner at the big protest, yelling that it's not their fault and they should be allowed to stay, to live here like anyone else.
But that was before I lived next to them.
This has to end. I want to go over there and grab a handful of those wriggling tentacles they call a face and just yank. Not that it would make me feel better - hell, I'd probably feel the pain as much as they did. Stupid telepaths. I can't move, my lease isn't up for another six months, but there must be something... the roll of tin foil in the kitchen catches my eye... it's just crazy enough to work.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Daily Story 71: Life Imitates... Something
Everyone wanted to be excited about first contact with aliens, but most of the true nerds were just disappointed. The flying saucer looked like a hubcap and wobbled slightly as it flew, surrounded by an energy field that looked distressingly like matte lines. As it drifted over the city a beam of green light would shoot out and levitate things into the air; a trash can, a hot dog cart, a stray dog. All of them just hung there for a minute before being lowered back down. The whole thing felt aimless, confused.
Don't get me wrong, it was still a big deal, it's just... we had spent so long dreaming of the stars, inventing and imagining ever-more refined aliens and adapting them as our knowledge of physics grew, that to see Ed Wood had it about right in 1956 was a bit distressing. We took bets on whether the aliens would be little grey guys with huge eyes or humans in gold lamé jumpsuits. We were joking, but somehow it wasn't funny.
It's landed now, resting on three long curved supports with no visible entrance. People are watching on television for the most part, the government having sealed off the area for crowd control. They're not turning away the camera crews though, or selected scientists and heads-of-state. I'm hanging at the back of the crowd, and even seeing it person so close up I'm just not feeling the way I should.
A door opens on the side of the craft, folding down into a ramp. Everyone is standing and craning to look over the crowd, and I'm thinking I might have had a better view watching at home on the television. There's nobody coming out, as far as I can see, and the inside of the ship is dark. Someone should have low-light optics trained on that entryway. Probably someone does. After what seems like forever, a curved shape leans out from the doorway before ducking back. I didn't get a good look, but it reminded me of a motorcycle helmet. Not a great start.
An arm - thin, but not 'otherworldly' thin - reaches out next and beckons, and the aliens speak their first words to us: "Pssst! C'mere!" Seriously? This is embarrassing. The President smiles awkwardly but then straightens up and marches down the red carpet, waving at the cameras.
"Greetings," he starts, but then looks confused and slows down. He's listening to something, and nodding, and then reaches down and turns off his microphone. Damn. He's reached the doorway and for the first time I feel excited, actually excited. There's a lot of nodding and smiling, some gestures I can't interpret, and then the president is coming back.
He's headed in my direction, but I know he's looking for his Chief of Staff. I duck under the long table with the audio equipment and army-crawl towards the other end, waiting for the Secret Service agents to grab me. At the far end I'm still not under arrest and I can hear the president, just barely.
"Can we get tanks here? Tanks, and military helicopters, and surround the ship? Can we do that?"
The Chief of Staff sounds worried, confused. "Yes, mister President, but I thought we agreed it was safest to show no aggression towards them?"
"John, I... it won't be a fight, I promise. This is a diplomatic move. They promise not to shoot back, but they want us to surround them and act paranoid, maybe fire off a few rounds. Oh, and they really want Patricia Neal's autograph."
This is bullshit! Too late I realize I've yelled that aloud, and feel the iron grips of the Secret Service agents on my legs.
Don't get me wrong, it was still a big deal, it's just... we had spent so long dreaming of the stars, inventing and imagining ever-more refined aliens and adapting them as our knowledge of physics grew, that to see Ed Wood had it about right in 1956 was a bit distressing. We took bets on whether the aliens would be little grey guys with huge eyes or humans in gold lamé jumpsuits. We were joking, but somehow it wasn't funny.
It's landed now, resting on three long curved supports with no visible entrance. People are watching on television for the most part, the government having sealed off the area for crowd control. They're not turning away the camera crews though, or selected scientists and heads-of-state. I'm hanging at the back of the crowd, and even seeing it person so close up I'm just not feeling the way I should.
A door opens on the side of the craft, folding down into a ramp. Everyone is standing and craning to look over the crowd, and I'm thinking I might have had a better view watching at home on the television. There's nobody coming out, as far as I can see, and the inside of the ship is dark. Someone should have low-light optics trained on that entryway. Probably someone does. After what seems like forever, a curved shape leans out from the doorway before ducking back. I didn't get a good look, but it reminded me of a motorcycle helmet. Not a great start.
An arm - thin, but not 'otherworldly' thin - reaches out next and beckons, and the aliens speak their first words to us: "Pssst! C'mere!" Seriously? This is embarrassing. The President smiles awkwardly but then straightens up and marches down the red carpet, waving at the cameras.
"Greetings," he starts, but then looks confused and slows down. He's listening to something, and nodding, and then reaches down and turns off his microphone. Damn. He's reached the doorway and for the first time I feel excited, actually excited. There's a lot of nodding and smiling, some gestures I can't interpret, and then the president is coming back.
He's headed in my direction, but I know he's looking for his Chief of Staff. I duck under the long table with the audio equipment and army-crawl towards the other end, waiting for the Secret Service agents to grab me. At the far end I'm still not under arrest and I can hear the president, just barely.
"Can we get tanks here? Tanks, and military helicopters, and surround the ship? Can we do that?"
The Chief of Staff sounds worried, confused. "Yes, mister President, but I thought we agreed it was safest to show no aggression towards them?"
"John, I... it won't be a fight, I promise. This is a diplomatic move. They promise not to shoot back, but they want us to surround them and act paranoid, maybe fire off a few rounds. Oh, and they really want Patricia Neal's autograph."
This is bullshit! Too late I realize I've yelled that aloud, and feel the iron grips of the Secret Service agents on my legs.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Daily Story 70: Infinite Monkeys
The sound is almost deafening, thousands of printers spitting ream after ream of paper into boxes on the floor. The entire warehouse echoes with it, off the concrete and up through the tangle of wires. Miles of spun metal, with microcomputers and receivers strung throughout like beads in a dreamcatcher.
Jack, My literary agent, is pacing up and down the aisles replacing ink cartridges as his wife samples random pages from the boxes. "Here, I've read this one before," she says, "It's a Stephen King novel. Different name for the main character, but that's it." That printer gets marked with a red sticker. There's already seven others near it tagged, we may have to adjust the frequency for that section.
I wander out and load up the dolly with more paper, then stand for a minute just looking up at the flickering storm clouds. This area is famous for these storms, but everyone focuses on the negative. They complain about the static on their televisions and the bad radio reception, but nobody stops to think there might be something to gain.
A novel every year from each of ten pen names, and Jack thinks he can get the radios hooked up next. I've always wanted to be a songwriter.
Jack, My literary agent, is pacing up and down the aisles replacing ink cartridges as his wife samples random pages from the boxes. "Here, I've read this one before," she says, "It's a Stephen King novel. Different name for the main character, but that's it." That printer gets marked with a red sticker. There's already seven others near it tagged, we may have to adjust the frequency for that section.
I wander out and load up the dolly with more paper, then stand for a minute just looking up at the flickering storm clouds. This area is famous for these storms, but everyone focuses on the negative. They complain about the static on their televisions and the bad radio reception, but nobody stops to think there might be something to gain.
A novel every year from each of ten pen names, and Jack thinks he can get the radios hooked up next. I've always wanted to be a songwriter.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Daily Story 69: Bulwer-Lytton Can Suck It
For a moment Edith was distracted as she noticed - in an offhand kind of way, like you might note a spelling error on a billboard even though the advertising company presumably has some sort of quality control or editors or whatever - that several of the ninjas were out of breath even though in movies they were notoriously relentless, although she was forced to admit to herself that almost none of the things she had seen in movies - or the sort of movies that involved ninjas, at any rate - could be thought of as particularly accurate; often cars would explode at the slightest provocation and the women were all in fantastic shape and never covered in sweat or grime unless it was artistically applied grime, a sort of camouflage makeup that could never happen in the real world, although Edith was aware that she did indeed look better and sweat less than your average girl assuming, of course, that you were speaking in terms of real-world girls rather than the aforementioned women in movies since in those circles she would be slightly below average despite her many qualities; in addition to her physique and lack of sweat she could cook, do minor electrical repairs, and design web pages that were almost professional in quality - thereby setting her apart from the unwashed masses that slapped together a mess of flashing text and animated 'under construction' images (for this story takes place in 1997 when those things were at epidemic levels and the mass use of templates had not yet cut down on this horrible and obnoxious trend) or even fonts that were downright unreadable - and she sometimes thought to herself that these diverse skills along with her general intelligence and beauty would have led to her being criticized as a 'Mary Jane' character - someone who was a bit too perfect - if a story was ever written about her life, though this was only because it seemed unlikely that a story about her would find a way to work in her obsessive and disturbing love for those creepy little 'Precious Moments' figurines - a love that had ruined her credit and caused several men to break up with her even though in at least one of those cases the relationship was going quite well on all other fronts and he had even survived meeting her mother, a terrible woman whose sole pleasure in life came from making others uncomfortable; she would sometimes greet her daughter's boyfriends at the door wearing nothing but a skimpy nightgown - bought for her by her late husband as an anniversary gift the June before he died of a mysterious and rare medical condition thought to be linked to the eating of human brains (although no evidence was ever uncovered to suggest he was a cannibal, much to the confusion and dismay of his doctors who had been hoping to write a paper on it) even though their actual anniversary was in May - just to watch them squirm and try to figure out where to look, but even though she had tried that tactic with the man in question he had simply smiled and looked her in the eyes and deprived her of any victory, making Edith extremely happy and subsequently that much more depressed when he left over the figurines, though she continued to think of that as more of a footnote that would go unread or more likely unwritten in any story about her, since there would be no relevant point to anchor the footnote to; after all, any story would likely spend all of its time talking about far more interesting events such as those that led the ninjas to be after her in the first place - if ninjas they even were, since Edith was uncertain about not only the lack of stamina she was noticing but also the previous clues she had picked up including a receipt from a local party and costume supply store for a dozen ninja costumes; though the costumes would have come with plastic swords if anything and while the ninjas facing her might not have authentic katanas (this being one of the areas Edith was less educated on she was unable to be certain on what made a katana authentic or not, let alone whether it was something you could determine at a glance) they were absolutely not plastic.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Daily Story 68: Rate of Exchange
The rock bounced off of thin air with a sound like a struck gong. Oblivious, Malich continued to clutch the massive flesh-bound tome and chant, blood from the sacrificed goats soaking the front of his shirt. Another rock struck nothing and rebounded, and James threw his slingshot down in frustration. "No good!" he yelled over the supernatural wind, digging through his Wilderness Scout backpack. Mary continued to push closer to Malich, crucifix trembling in her hand. She could feel a numb tingling in her toes as she slid her foot closer and closer. The tips of her sneakers began to smoke slightly, the smell of burnt rubber mixing with the blood and dust.
"I can't get closer!" Mary threw the crucifix - it passed the point where the rocks had stopped and hit Malich on the shoulder, but didn't interrupt his chant. "James! The crucifix went through!" She fell back and started checking her pockets for anything that had survived Malich's attack on the cathedral. Her retainer, her mother's cell phone, and a handful of change fell to the ground. She had given all of the relics back to Sister Agatha. James found a tiny cross at the bottom of his backpack, and launched it at Malich only to see it ricochet off into the trees. "I don't have anything holy!" His sternum was vibrating as if from a deep bass note. The air was rippling, warping, and his head felt like it was going to explode.
Mary was crying. They had tried so hard... in the stories the plucky kids won. They stopped the evil adults with the nefarious plots. She had nothing, no more ideas. Giving up on flanking Malich, she ran over to James. He shrugged sheepishly, apologetic. They really had done their best. She looked down to stop him from seeing her tears, and there, in the lip of his shoe, she saw a finger bone. The fight under the cathedral sprung into her mind, and she could see the tomb erupting just before Malich ran off with the book. She grabbed the bone, pressed it into James' hand. "I think it's from the saint's tomb! It's a relic!" His eyes went wide and immediately he loaded it into his slingshot. It was so lightweight, but...
The bone fragment hit Malich in the right eye, and there was a strange shattering noise. Malich dropped to the ground, hand to his face, and Mary ran forward as she reached for her stolen handcuffs. There was no resistance, no more shield. With only a few feet to go time seemed to slow down to a crawl and she saw Malich train his remaining eye on the book. One final syllable left his lips, and the world tore asunder; in an instant the entire universe dropped into an endless abyss of black flame, and then returned. The wind had stopped, the sun was shining, and the only difference was a striking man in a suit as dark as midnight.
"My lord Satan..." Malich said as he bowed, "I have summoned you away from your prison that you might once more walk the Earth."
Lucifer raised an eyebrow. "And what, exactly, were you hoping I would do while I'm here?"
Malich's jaw dropped. He stammered for a moment, and then pointed at Mary and James. "Crush the world, starting with them! They would have kept you imprisoned! I have freed you! I pledge my soul to you!"
The Prince of Darkness squeezed the bridge of his nose as if he had a sudden headache. "Are you seriously expecting me to try and dethrone the almighty himself? Are you that much of an idiot? I tried that, back when I was young and incredibly stupid. Here's a news flash for you: It didn't work. Never could have worked. God will always win, because he's God. The end. It was an arrogant, moronic, blindly selfish act and now I'm stuck running hell - which is a lot of work, let me tell you. Do you think pulling me away from that makes my day easier? I have a meeting with Jesus, he's helping me get things organized down there - and now I have to apologize to him and explain that I left him waiting because some jerk wanted me to vandalize the Earth for no particular reason. Seriously, think about things before you do them!"
Satan turned to Mary and James. "Are you two kids okay? Nothing broken or anything, right? Good," he said, not waiting for an answer, "I want you to call the authorities to deal with this douche and then go home and get some rest, I'm sure you've both had a really long day. And be good, I don't want to see you again. I have enough souls to worry about already."
Malich stood, throwing the magical tome at Lucifer's feet. "I have pledged my soul to you! You can't do this!"
"Pledged your soul to me? That's a hoot. Listen, kid, I'll tell you a secret. I've never, ever, purchased anyone's soul. Know why? First of all because I have no interest in making hell more crowded than it already is, but mainly because the kind of person that is willing to sell their soul is already headed there. Here's a deal for you. I've been working on reformation rather than torture, but if you so much as touch a hair on these kids' heads while you go peacefully to the police with them I will make you beg me to unmake your soul entirely which, by the way, I can't even do. Is that better? More like the kind of thing you thought I'd say? Good."
And just like that he was gone. The only sounds were a sparrow chirping in a nearby tree and Malich putting on his handcuffs.
"I can't get closer!" Mary threw the crucifix - it passed the point where the rocks had stopped and hit Malich on the shoulder, but didn't interrupt his chant. "James! The crucifix went through!" She fell back and started checking her pockets for anything that had survived Malich's attack on the cathedral. Her retainer, her mother's cell phone, and a handful of change fell to the ground. She had given all of the relics back to Sister Agatha. James found a tiny cross at the bottom of his backpack, and launched it at Malich only to see it ricochet off into the trees. "I don't have anything holy!" His sternum was vibrating as if from a deep bass note. The air was rippling, warping, and his head felt like it was going to explode.
Mary was crying. They had tried so hard... in the stories the plucky kids won. They stopped the evil adults with the nefarious plots. She had nothing, no more ideas. Giving up on flanking Malich, she ran over to James. He shrugged sheepishly, apologetic. They really had done their best. She looked down to stop him from seeing her tears, and there, in the lip of his shoe, she saw a finger bone. The fight under the cathedral sprung into her mind, and she could see the tomb erupting just before Malich ran off with the book. She grabbed the bone, pressed it into James' hand. "I think it's from the saint's tomb! It's a relic!" His eyes went wide and immediately he loaded it into his slingshot. It was so lightweight, but...
The bone fragment hit Malich in the right eye, and there was a strange shattering noise. Malich dropped to the ground, hand to his face, and Mary ran forward as she reached for her stolen handcuffs. There was no resistance, no more shield. With only a few feet to go time seemed to slow down to a crawl and she saw Malich train his remaining eye on the book. One final syllable left his lips, and the world tore asunder; in an instant the entire universe dropped into an endless abyss of black flame, and then returned. The wind had stopped, the sun was shining, and the only difference was a striking man in a suit as dark as midnight.
"My lord Satan..." Malich said as he bowed, "I have summoned you away from your prison that you might once more walk the Earth."
Lucifer raised an eyebrow. "And what, exactly, were you hoping I would do while I'm here?"
Malich's jaw dropped. He stammered for a moment, and then pointed at Mary and James. "Crush the world, starting with them! They would have kept you imprisoned! I have freed you! I pledge my soul to you!"
The Prince of Darkness squeezed the bridge of his nose as if he had a sudden headache. "Are you seriously expecting me to try and dethrone the almighty himself? Are you that much of an idiot? I tried that, back when I was young and incredibly stupid. Here's a news flash for you: It didn't work. Never could have worked. God will always win, because he's God. The end. It was an arrogant, moronic, blindly selfish act and now I'm stuck running hell - which is a lot of work, let me tell you. Do you think pulling me away from that makes my day easier? I have a meeting with Jesus, he's helping me get things organized down there - and now I have to apologize to him and explain that I left him waiting because some jerk wanted me to vandalize the Earth for no particular reason. Seriously, think about things before you do them!"
Satan turned to Mary and James. "Are you two kids okay? Nothing broken or anything, right? Good," he said, not waiting for an answer, "I want you to call the authorities to deal with this douche and then go home and get some rest, I'm sure you've both had a really long day. And be good, I don't want to see you again. I have enough souls to worry about already."
Malich stood, throwing the magical tome at Lucifer's feet. "I have pledged my soul to you! You can't do this!"
"Pledged your soul to me? That's a hoot. Listen, kid, I'll tell you a secret. I've never, ever, purchased anyone's soul. Know why? First of all because I have no interest in making hell more crowded than it already is, but mainly because the kind of person that is willing to sell their soul is already headed there. Here's a deal for you. I've been working on reformation rather than torture, but if you so much as touch a hair on these kids' heads while you go peacefully to the police with them I will make you beg me to unmake your soul entirely which, by the way, I can't even do. Is that better? More like the kind of thing you thought I'd say? Good."
And just like that he was gone. The only sounds were a sparrow chirping in a nearby tree and Malich putting on his handcuffs.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Daily Story 67: The Scientific Method
Caroline is trying to explain her invention to me but she's giggling a little, so it's hard for her to get it all out. I hate when she gets excited like this. She forgets to break eye contact, and with the smile it's a little unnerving. I need to get used to being around socially awkward people, my days have been filled with geniuses and savants since I started working at the University.
She's putting my hand on a metal plate, turning dials and talking about some scientist named Pinero and measuring the length of world lines - it's all a bit over my head, to be honest. I ask for the layman's summary, and the smile vanishes. Caroline tilts her head to the side like a cat, and for a second she's just staring at me.
"It means... I can measure you not in height or weight but in duration. I can tell you when you'll die."
A month ago this would have sounded absurd - and to some extent it still does - but more and more I've seen inventions that shake my views on reality. I was just supposed to be reporting back to my company on projects of interest, but they had underestimated how much of a scientific background it required. I spend half my time picking my jaw up off of the floor and the other half falling asleep, and sometimes I suspect those reactions don't match up at all with how revolutionary any given process actually is.
"Caroline," I say gently, "I have to say this sounds like a practical joke. Are you saying you can predict the future?"
She rolls her eyes but at the last second she stops herself and takes a deep breath. "No. Or, yes, but only one aspect of it. The machine can calculate - with one hundred percent accuracy - the time of your death." Last week I saw a box that seemed to negate gravity inside it. Before that, it was a crackling ball of energy that floated around the room. How much stranger was this?
"You said 'with a hundred percent accuracy'... you've tested this?"
"Extensively." she says, still looking right into my eyes. "I have tested eighty-seven lab animals, and all have died at the time predicted. Three have dates that haven't arrived yet, of course, but that can't be helped. Nearly all have reached their expiration dates."
"And... you're measuring me now?" The metal under my hand is slightly tingly, and I find that I'm suddenly a little nervous.
"Yes, listening for the... the echo. Just as Heinlein described."
"I thought you said it was someone named Pinero?" I say, and get a blank stare in return. From previous conversations with Caroline I believe that is the look she gives when she suspects a joke has been made but can't locate it. I go ahead and press onwards. "I have to say, Caroline, I'm not sure I like the idea of this thing. It seems like it avoids the whole issue of free will, of choice." Caroline just shrugs.
"That part is hard to explain," she says, "But I can try. The future has always been predetermined, the machine just lets us see what that end will be. There was a choice, but it's already been made. Those rats that I tested were destined to die long before I did anything." She's smiling again, excited to be talking about her invention. "To the layperson it can seem like it's making predictions, but just think of it as a communications device. It's not telling us what to do, it's telling us what is destined to happen."
This all still sounds crazy to me, but I can already see some of the uses for it if it's real. "You must have been testing a while. Rats live for, what, two years? Three?"
"For most it was less than twenty-four hours." Of course, she would have found some way to speed up the test. Some sort of Schrödinger's cat type of thing, or something. Whatever it is scientists use.
"Okay. So... did you make them sick, or have some sort of random thing that would poison them, or...?"
She gives me that blank look again. "No. Mostly I just cut them with a scalpel until they stopped moving."
I feel a little uncomfortable now. "So, okay, but... I mean, you didn't kill them... you just waited until the time the machine said and they died, right?"
Caroline is talking to me like a child, trying to use small words. "It's just a communication device. It can't kill anything itself, just tell you when they are destined to die. If it tells me that the rats should live for a week, a month, whatever... then I let them live. I'm just the messenger. I'm a little concerned with how many were meant to die after only a few minutes - seems a little bloodthirsty, doesn't it? But we do as we're told, and the good news is it's never been wrong. I really do kill them right on time, give or take a few seconds. It's quite exciting."
There's a quiet ding, and the machine prints out my destiny.
She's putting my hand on a metal plate, turning dials and talking about some scientist named Pinero and measuring the length of world lines - it's all a bit over my head, to be honest. I ask for the layman's summary, and the smile vanishes. Caroline tilts her head to the side like a cat, and for a second she's just staring at me.
"It means... I can measure you not in height or weight but in duration. I can tell you when you'll die."
A month ago this would have sounded absurd - and to some extent it still does - but more and more I've seen inventions that shake my views on reality. I was just supposed to be reporting back to my company on projects of interest, but they had underestimated how much of a scientific background it required. I spend half my time picking my jaw up off of the floor and the other half falling asleep, and sometimes I suspect those reactions don't match up at all with how revolutionary any given process actually is.
"Caroline," I say gently, "I have to say this sounds like a practical joke. Are you saying you can predict the future?"
She rolls her eyes but at the last second she stops herself and takes a deep breath. "No. Or, yes, but only one aspect of it. The machine can calculate - with one hundred percent accuracy - the time of your death." Last week I saw a box that seemed to negate gravity inside it. Before that, it was a crackling ball of energy that floated around the room. How much stranger was this?
"You said 'with a hundred percent accuracy'... you've tested this?"
"Extensively." she says, still looking right into my eyes. "I have tested eighty-seven lab animals, and all have died at the time predicted. Three have dates that haven't arrived yet, of course, but that can't be helped. Nearly all have reached their expiration dates."
"And... you're measuring me now?" The metal under my hand is slightly tingly, and I find that I'm suddenly a little nervous.
"Yes, listening for the... the echo. Just as Heinlein described."
"I thought you said it was someone named Pinero?" I say, and get a blank stare in return. From previous conversations with Caroline I believe that is the look she gives when she suspects a joke has been made but can't locate it. I go ahead and press onwards. "I have to say, Caroline, I'm not sure I like the idea of this thing. It seems like it avoids the whole issue of free will, of choice." Caroline just shrugs.
"That part is hard to explain," she says, "But I can try. The future has always been predetermined, the machine just lets us see what that end will be. There was a choice, but it's already been made. Those rats that I tested were destined to die long before I did anything." She's smiling again, excited to be talking about her invention. "To the layperson it can seem like it's making predictions, but just think of it as a communications device. It's not telling us what to do, it's telling us what is destined to happen."
This all still sounds crazy to me, but I can already see some of the uses for it if it's real. "You must have been testing a while. Rats live for, what, two years? Three?"
"For most it was less than twenty-four hours." Of course, she would have found some way to speed up the test. Some sort of Schrödinger's cat type of thing, or something. Whatever it is scientists use.
"Okay. So... did you make them sick, or have some sort of random thing that would poison them, or...?"
She gives me that blank look again. "No. Mostly I just cut them with a scalpel until they stopped moving."
I feel a little uncomfortable now. "So, okay, but... I mean, you didn't kill them... you just waited until the time the machine said and they died, right?"
Caroline is talking to me like a child, trying to use small words. "It's just a communication device. It can't kill anything itself, just tell you when they are destined to die. If it tells me that the rats should live for a week, a month, whatever... then I let them live. I'm just the messenger. I'm a little concerned with how many were meant to die after only a few minutes - seems a little bloodthirsty, doesn't it? But we do as we're told, and the good news is it's never been wrong. I really do kill them right on time, give or take a few seconds. It's quite exciting."
There's a quiet ding, and the machine prints out my destiny.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Daily Story 66: The Perils of Poor Craftsmanship
The world is darkness, a dim colorless radiation casting shadows onto the deeper black. Something tells you that you can quit, be done with all this - or you can keep trying. You can go back to where it all went wrong, or even start this whole thing over again. You have the power. You chose, and white shapes race across the darkness towards you...
You're laying on the floor, and you can't remember your name, where you are, anything except how old and tired that whole 'amnesia' plot is. You appear to be in a one-room cabin, the log walls adorned with countless antlers. A tiny bed, a desk, and a chest of drawers are the only items of furniture. A knife is sitting on the desk, and an old lantern is on the floor. Grunting, you reach over and grab the lantern, then try to look out the window only to find that you can't locate one. This seems like an odd oversight for a cabin.
You attempt to open the door on the North wall of the cabin, only to find that you can't reach it from the floor. Had you forgotten to stand up somehow? The thought enters your head that quite possibly whatever has given you amnesia might have also done some damage in other ways. Gingerly, you stand up. Once standing, you take the knife just on principle and feel a slight pang of uncertainty, like there's something wrong about the knife that you can't put your finger on.
You examine it, but it seems like an ordinary knife. Hmm. Shrugging, you open the door... and something seems wrong there, too. You try to look outside, and are instantly overwhelmed by confusion. Look where? You try again, attempting to look at the world outside the cabin, but you can't even figure out what it is you're trying to do. Deciding to start small, you look around the room. The desk, the chest of drawers, the bed... everything seems normal. The antlers aren't important, so... wait. You look at the antlers again, and it's like your eyes just slide off of them. Something is terribly wrong with you.
Suddenly you realize what is wrong with the knife. You had been laying on the floor, flat on your back, and you could see the knife on top of the desk... an impossible angle. As an experiment, you face the door and then look at the bed without turning around. It seems like an ordinary bed. Impossible. A thought begins to form in your mind. A terrible, terrible thought. Only one way to be sure. You check your pockets, and find that you are carrying a lit torch, a glass eye, a hot dog, a bunch of bananas, a toothbrush, a wig - which you're wearing - a bejeweled skull, a lantern, a knife, and a grand piano.
Shit. Shit shit shit.
You decide it's best just to get on with it. "Go North," you mumble as you step through the doorway. You find yourself in a clearing in the woods, with a path leading East and another heading North. To the South, there is a small cabin. A robotic arm is on the ground here. There is also an enormous angry grizzly bear, which you think you maybe should have noticed first instead of taking in the scenery. You attempt to go back into the cabin, but you can't go that way for some reason. The bear slams you with a meaty paw, sending you stumbling across the clearing. You run down the path to the North, and end up back in the clearing. Something is very wrong.
You try the East path, and find that you can't go that way either - and even though the forest can't possibly be dense enough to prevent all passage you know it's not worth trying any other direction. The bear hits you again, and you know you can't stand up to another blow. There's only one thing left to try. "Zyz... xy... zizy..." you fumble, trying to form the tongue-twisting syllable... and the bear hits you again.
*** You have died. ***
(R)estart, (L)oad, or (Q)uit?
You're laying on the floor, and you can't remember your name, where you are, anything except how old and tired that whole 'amnesia' plot is. You appear to be in a one-room cabin, the log walls adorned with countless antlers. A tiny bed, a desk, and a chest of drawers are the only items of furniture. A knife is sitting on the desk, and an old lantern is on the floor. Grunting, you reach over and grab the lantern, then try to look out the window only to find that you can't locate one. This seems like an odd oversight for a cabin.
You attempt to open the door on the North wall of the cabin, only to find that you can't reach it from the floor. Had you forgotten to stand up somehow? The thought enters your head that quite possibly whatever has given you amnesia might have also done some damage in other ways. Gingerly, you stand up. Once standing, you take the knife just on principle and feel a slight pang of uncertainty, like there's something wrong about the knife that you can't put your finger on.
You examine it, but it seems like an ordinary knife. Hmm. Shrugging, you open the door... and something seems wrong there, too. You try to look outside, and are instantly overwhelmed by confusion. Look where? You try again, attempting to look at the world outside the cabin, but you can't even figure out what it is you're trying to do. Deciding to start small, you look around the room. The desk, the chest of drawers, the bed... everything seems normal. The antlers aren't important, so... wait. You look at the antlers again, and it's like your eyes just slide off of them. Something is terribly wrong with you.
Suddenly you realize what is wrong with the knife. You had been laying on the floor, flat on your back, and you could see the knife on top of the desk... an impossible angle. As an experiment, you face the door and then look at the bed without turning around. It seems like an ordinary bed. Impossible. A thought begins to form in your mind. A terrible, terrible thought. Only one way to be sure. You check your pockets, and find that you are carrying a lit torch, a glass eye, a hot dog, a bunch of bananas, a toothbrush, a wig - which you're wearing - a bejeweled skull, a lantern, a knife, and a grand piano.
Shit. Shit shit shit.
You decide it's best just to get on with it. "Go North," you mumble as you step through the doorway. You find yourself in a clearing in the woods, with a path leading East and another heading North. To the South, there is a small cabin. A robotic arm is on the ground here. There is also an enormous angry grizzly bear, which you think you maybe should have noticed first instead of taking in the scenery. You attempt to go back into the cabin, but you can't go that way for some reason. The bear slams you with a meaty paw, sending you stumbling across the clearing. You run down the path to the North, and end up back in the clearing. Something is very wrong.
You try the East path, and find that you can't go that way either - and even though the forest can't possibly be dense enough to prevent all passage you know it's not worth trying any other direction. The bear hits you again, and you know you can't stand up to another blow. There's only one thing left to try. "Zyz... xy... zizy..." you fumble, trying to form the tongue-twisting syllable... and the bear hits you again.
*** You have died. ***
(R)estart, (L)oad, or (Q)uit?
Friday, June 19, 2009
Daily Story 65: Carrying Blame
The creatures in the tank in front of me are equally guilty of mass-murder as myself, I'm told. The tornado, the smuggler, the revolution, our intelligence - none have been found to be at fault enough to lay blame. It's nobody's fault that the entire colony world is dead.
I understand the creatures are called Johnson's Bluetail Criers. They look to me like a cross between some sort of bat and a macaw - like a colorful feathered rodent. They reproduce only in the spring and have a low survival rate, but on Tunsin-4 they have no predators and it's always spring - which made the tornado a surprise.
Tunsin-4 has a circular orbit, no tilt, and no moon - giving it reliable and calm weather. The tornado was caused by some geothermal activity in the ocean or something, it's not my field - but at any rate it was not anticipated and destroyed the capital city entirely. The colonists had thought all the hardship was behind them, thought that with established cities and trade routes they could stop being settlers and just be citizens.
From what I can tell they had some legitimate complaints about the disaster relief - or lack thereof. That they allowed Martin Culvert to stir it up into a full-on revolution was unacceptable, however, and it needed to be stopped. Diplomacy went nowhere because Culvert wanted power more than he wanted to get the people what they were asking, and so someone decided he needed to die.
The guidelines they gave me were familiar - eliminate everyone in the building, keep the innocent bystanders outside from being affected, don't destroy any valuable equipment or papers. I engineered a varient on Zebra Pox that killed with incredible speed, but was terrible at surviving outside of a human host. Some agents delivered it into the air supply of the building during a meeting of all the top advisors and Martin Culvert himself, and within ten minutes they had dropped to the ground.
The agents died as well, even though they had done everything right. They had delivered the virus without being exposed. They had reported everything relevant, including the ongoing battle against the Bluetail Criers that were everywhere like pests. Someone read that report, deemed it irrelevant to the situation and moved on because there was no internal protocol for reporting unapproved species that had been smuggled on to a colony world. That was some other department.
They had been smuggled in and had been released into the wild when the tornado destroyed the capitol – so when I did my due diligence, pulled up the list of all flora and fauna on the planet to ensure that the virus would target humans and humans only, the Bluetail Criers weren’t checked. Had they been on that list I would have changed the virus, would have seen the problem. They wouldn't have been carriers, keeping the virus alive and delivering it to every city. Killing everyone.
They're innocent like everyone else, but we all pay a price. I have my nightmares, and soon the Bluetail Criers will have a new virus just for them so the old one can die out. The test subjects are looking at me through the glass of the tank, so intelligent. Sorry guys, it's nobody's fault.
I understand the creatures are called Johnson's Bluetail Criers. They look to me like a cross between some sort of bat and a macaw - like a colorful feathered rodent. They reproduce only in the spring and have a low survival rate, but on Tunsin-4 they have no predators and it's always spring - which made the tornado a surprise.
Tunsin-4 has a circular orbit, no tilt, and no moon - giving it reliable and calm weather. The tornado was caused by some geothermal activity in the ocean or something, it's not my field - but at any rate it was not anticipated and destroyed the capital city entirely. The colonists had thought all the hardship was behind them, thought that with established cities and trade routes they could stop being settlers and just be citizens.
From what I can tell they had some legitimate complaints about the disaster relief - or lack thereof. That they allowed Martin Culvert to stir it up into a full-on revolution was unacceptable, however, and it needed to be stopped. Diplomacy went nowhere because Culvert wanted power more than he wanted to get the people what they were asking, and so someone decided he needed to die.
The guidelines they gave me were familiar - eliminate everyone in the building, keep the innocent bystanders outside from being affected, don't destroy any valuable equipment or papers. I engineered a varient on Zebra Pox that killed with incredible speed, but was terrible at surviving outside of a human host. Some agents delivered it into the air supply of the building during a meeting of all the top advisors and Martin Culvert himself, and within ten minutes they had dropped to the ground.
The agents died as well, even though they had done everything right. They had delivered the virus without being exposed. They had reported everything relevant, including the ongoing battle against the Bluetail Criers that were everywhere like pests. Someone read that report, deemed it irrelevant to the situation and moved on because there was no internal protocol for reporting unapproved species that had been smuggled on to a colony world. That was some other department.
They had been smuggled in and had been released into the wild when the tornado destroyed the capitol – so when I did my due diligence, pulled up the list of all flora and fauna on the planet to ensure that the virus would target humans and humans only, the Bluetail Criers weren’t checked. Had they been on that list I would have changed the virus, would have seen the problem. They wouldn't have been carriers, keeping the virus alive and delivering it to every city. Killing everyone.
They're innocent like everyone else, but we all pay a price. I have my nightmares, and soon the Bluetail Criers will have a new virus just for them so the old one can die out. The test subjects are looking at me through the glass of the tank, so intelligent. Sorry guys, it's nobody's fault.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Daily Story 64: F.J. DuPont Gets Briefed
"At ease, kid. I'm going to answer your question as best I can, not that it'll help. My superiors seem to think this story starts with Operation Anthropoid, the joint effort to take down Reinhard Heydrich during World War two. I'm not sure if I agree, but I'll start there just in case...
"Heydrich was, in many ways, more powerful and terrible than Hitler. We made his assassination a priority, but the intelligence we were getting from our spies said he had experts in black magic ward him against any attack. Everyone was skeptical, but they pretty much considered it confirmed when three soldiers simultaneously opened fire on him and all three of their guns jammed. One of the men even lunged at Heydrich and tried to stab him, only to have the knife blade snap off when it caught on a metal part of the bastard's uniform. This wasn't just bad luck.
"Fortunately for the Allies, Heydrich had worn the Czech royal crown - once on May 26th, 1941 and once on June 3rd of the same year - so we had two opportunities to strike against him. See, the exiled government of Czechoslovakia had informed us that if one who is not a true Czech King puts the royal crown on his head, he will die in one year and a day. The attack on May 27th went badly, with a gun once again jamming and the grenade the man threw failing to land in the car with Heydrich - he rode in an open-top car, because he knew he was protected by the forces of darkness. The grenade came close, though, and shrapnel from the car did a number on Heydrich… which must have come as quite a shock, him thinking he was invincible. Anyway, we were pretty frustrated since we knew he would lay low and there was no way we would get another shot at him on June 4th, the only other day he would be vulnerable.
"As it turned out we didn't need it - he died on the 4th under the direct care of Heinrich Himmler, supposedly due to blood poisoning. Either the damage from the shrapnel really did lead to complications or Himmler killed him, but we didn't care. Only thing is, about a year later we hear reports of this metal man running around, the rumor mill saying he's Reinhard Heydrich's brain in a new body - though nobody can decide if he's still on the same side as the Nazis. Some say he was with Hitler when he supposedly committed suicide. And after that, whether he was with or against the Nazis, he takes over their outpost in Antarctica complete with the advanced propulsion lab - the only way at the time to get to the Nazi Lunar Base.
"We tried every method available to us, and couldn't locate the base itself - the most we could do was try to shoot down the Nazi hover-ships, and of course as you know one of only three that we managed to shoot turned out to be an actual alien craft. After that ungodly mess, with them escaping and setting up that Roswell thing to throw us off their trail, the Majestic twelve shut down the whole thing and so far as I know the Nazi bases under Antarctica and the Sea of Tranquility are still operating.
"At this point, I don't care if this robot was made by Himmler or aliens. I don't care if it's a Nazi or a Democrat. I just want it, safely disassembled, on my desk by Monday. The Nazi base has to be near the Southern Oculus, but any craft that approaches that area disappears. We could go in the Northern Oculus and travel through the hollow inner area of the Earth, but we've been told to avoid that if at all possible - the natives are still angry at us because of all the Eldriges that have appeared there. Pollution is one thing, but having hundreds of Cannon-class destroyer escorts cluttering up the landscape can ruin anyone's day - there's so many it's starting to actually block the sunlight from the inner sun, which means a small harvest, which means... well, it all gets political from there but let's just say it isn't worth having the White House drop down a five hundred mile deep sinkhole.
"The Nazi moon base is similarly unreachable - hell, if we could get up there safely we wouldn't have had to fake the moon landings. That brings us to you. This robot seems to show up everywhere you go, so since we can't get to him we need him to come to us. In other words, you're bait - and you had better be damn good at it because we doubt he'll show up while we're watching and once you make a move he'll probably crush the life out of you with those cold, soulless hands of his if you don't land the mother of all sucker-punches. That's it. You want a cigar? No? Then get out."
"Heydrich was, in many ways, more powerful and terrible than Hitler. We made his assassination a priority, but the intelligence we were getting from our spies said he had experts in black magic ward him against any attack. Everyone was skeptical, but they pretty much considered it confirmed when three soldiers simultaneously opened fire on him and all three of their guns jammed. One of the men even lunged at Heydrich and tried to stab him, only to have the knife blade snap off when it caught on a metal part of the bastard's uniform. This wasn't just bad luck.
"Fortunately for the Allies, Heydrich had worn the Czech royal crown - once on May 26th, 1941 and once on June 3rd of the same year - so we had two opportunities to strike against him. See, the exiled government of Czechoslovakia had informed us that if one who is not a true Czech King puts the royal crown on his head, he will die in one year and a day. The attack on May 27th went badly, with a gun once again jamming and the grenade the man threw failing to land in the car with Heydrich - he rode in an open-top car, because he knew he was protected by the forces of darkness. The grenade came close, though, and shrapnel from the car did a number on Heydrich… which must have come as quite a shock, him thinking he was invincible. Anyway, we were pretty frustrated since we knew he would lay low and there was no way we would get another shot at him on June 4th, the only other day he would be vulnerable.
"As it turned out we didn't need it - he died on the 4th under the direct care of Heinrich Himmler, supposedly due to blood poisoning. Either the damage from the shrapnel really did lead to complications or Himmler killed him, but we didn't care. Only thing is, about a year later we hear reports of this metal man running around, the rumor mill saying he's Reinhard Heydrich's brain in a new body - though nobody can decide if he's still on the same side as the Nazis. Some say he was with Hitler when he supposedly committed suicide. And after that, whether he was with or against the Nazis, he takes over their outpost in Antarctica complete with the advanced propulsion lab - the only way at the time to get to the Nazi Lunar Base.
"We tried every method available to us, and couldn't locate the base itself - the most we could do was try to shoot down the Nazi hover-ships, and of course as you know one of only three that we managed to shoot turned out to be an actual alien craft. After that ungodly mess, with them escaping and setting up that Roswell thing to throw us off their trail, the Majestic twelve shut down the whole thing and so far as I know the Nazi bases under Antarctica and the Sea of Tranquility are still operating.
"At this point, I don't care if this robot was made by Himmler or aliens. I don't care if it's a Nazi or a Democrat. I just want it, safely disassembled, on my desk by Monday. The Nazi base has to be near the Southern Oculus, but any craft that approaches that area disappears. We could go in the Northern Oculus and travel through the hollow inner area of the Earth, but we've been told to avoid that if at all possible - the natives are still angry at us because of all the Eldriges that have appeared there. Pollution is one thing, but having hundreds of Cannon-class destroyer escorts cluttering up the landscape can ruin anyone's day - there's so many it's starting to actually block the sunlight from the inner sun, which means a small harvest, which means... well, it all gets political from there but let's just say it isn't worth having the White House drop down a five hundred mile deep sinkhole.
"The Nazi moon base is similarly unreachable - hell, if we could get up there safely we wouldn't have had to fake the moon landings. That brings us to you. This robot seems to show up everywhere you go, so since we can't get to him we need him to come to us. In other words, you're bait - and you had better be damn good at it because we doubt he'll show up while we're watching and once you make a move he'll probably crush the life out of you with those cold, soulless hands of his if you don't land the mother of all sucker-punches. That's it. You want a cigar? No? Then get out."
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Daily Story 63: The Middle Finger of Science
Miles rubbed his lucky troll doll, crossed his fingers, and said a prayer. The television hummed to life and he held his breath, watching the scrolling headlines as... no. Miles turned the news off and threw his remote across the room in frustration. Earth-crust displacement? Son of a bitch. That was a good one, too - it would have caused earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, violent changes in the weather. The Canadians had stopped it, which didn't help Miles either - apart from saving his life, of course. "Screw you, Nuuk'ta!" he yelled at nothing in particular. With a sigh of frustration, he made the call.
"Hey, it's me. No, no, I bet on a supernova. No, I didn't get the scientists right either, I said it would be the Germans since they're the ones that stopped that huge solar flare back in November. Right. So... can I borrow a few bucks?"
On the other end of the call, Harlan Wight rolled his eyes. He shouldn't have bragged about winning all that cash the previous month. The odds on the moon trying to fall out of the sky had been excellent, and he had bet on the correct group of scientists as well. Even with all that, the winnings had only bought him one thing.
"No, Miles. I blew everything last night. Spent it all on a condo in the Kansas Vault. I was going to tell you today, I'm headed there now. I'm on the bus as we speak." He could hear Miles moaning in wordless despair. "Look, I'm sorry. The Vaults are filling up fast, and the Kansas one is really nice." It was the only one, in fact, that looked like somewhere Harlan would want to live even if the world didn't come to an end. He hung up with Miles, who was still panicking, and turned to the woman next to him.
"So... why are you headed to Kansas?" The man asked, and Sasha lowered her book. How did people not understand the international sign of 'I'm reading a book, leave me alone'? Still, it was a long bus ride and they would have to talk at some point.
"I'm going to stay with family. Everyone is converging on my uncle's farm and we're going to ride out the apocalypse there, psycho cult style." It wasn't a great idea, all things considered. There was an old bomb shelter left over from the cold war, but nothing that would save anyone from the end of the world. And, Sasha reminded herself, if they somehow did survive they would have to inbreed to repopulate which quite simply wasn't going to happen. The guy next to her was talking about the Vault he had bought a place in, and he sounded like a commercial. She smiled, made some 'mmm-hmm' noises, and subtly texted her friend Kelly.
The sound of her phone vibrating made Kelly start, and she nearly fell out of her chair. A terrible piercing headache slammed into her and she swore in a dead language. On her second try she managed to open the phone and read the words "knzs 2 far. bus suks". Kelly smiled despite her ruthless hangover, then remembered why she had the hangover in the first place and smiled even wider. They had translated the final tablet of Nuuk'ta. The party had raged on all night, like it did every thirty-six days, but this time even the most uptight of the linguists and archaeologists got wasted. The meteor that would have impacted the Earth and obliterated all life on the 17th of September had seemed like a random event, and when Kelly's teacher had insisted it had been prophesized by an extinct culture he was laughed out of a job. When a virus swept the globe thirty-six days later and a solar flare nearly killed everyone thirty-six days after that, they finally got some attention. Kelly checked her watch, wondering if the press release had gone out yet.
Dr. Tetradactyla looked down at the press release and smiled. The tablet had already been confirmed to have the end of the world predicted for exactly the date that the meteor would have hit, but this new information was far better. It said that the cycle was repeating, and a new world would start a year after the old one died. That left time for five more disasters. They would run the clock out yet. Leaning out the window, Dr. Tetradactyla raised a middle finger to the sky. "You hear that, asshole?" he yelled, "We're not leaving!" He pulled himself back inside and faced his confused employees. "Don't just stand there, boys. We have thirty-five days until the end of the world!"
"Hey, it's me. No, no, I bet on a supernova. No, I didn't get the scientists right either, I said it would be the Germans since they're the ones that stopped that huge solar flare back in November. Right. So... can I borrow a few bucks?"
On the other end of the call, Harlan Wight rolled his eyes. He shouldn't have bragged about winning all that cash the previous month. The odds on the moon trying to fall out of the sky had been excellent, and he had bet on the correct group of scientists as well. Even with all that, the winnings had only bought him one thing.
"No, Miles. I blew everything last night. Spent it all on a condo in the Kansas Vault. I was going to tell you today, I'm headed there now. I'm on the bus as we speak." He could hear Miles moaning in wordless despair. "Look, I'm sorry. The Vaults are filling up fast, and the Kansas one is really nice." It was the only one, in fact, that looked like somewhere Harlan would want to live even if the world didn't come to an end. He hung up with Miles, who was still panicking, and turned to the woman next to him.
"So... why are you headed to Kansas?" The man asked, and Sasha lowered her book. How did people not understand the international sign of 'I'm reading a book, leave me alone'? Still, it was a long bus ride and they would have to talk at some point.
"I'm going to stay with family. Everyone is converging on my uncle's farm and we're going to ride out the apocalypse there, psycho cult style." It wasn't a great idea, all things considered. There was an old bomb shelter left over from the cold war, but nothing that would save anyone from the end of the world. And, Sasha reminded herself, if they somehow did survive they would have to inbreed to repopulate which quite simply wasn't going to happen. The guy next to her was talking about the Vault he had bought a place in, and he sounded like a commercial. She smiled, made some 'mmm-hmm' noises, and subtly texted her friend Kelly.
The sound of her phone vibrating made Kelly start, and she nearly fell out of her chair. A terrible piercing headache slammed into her and she swore in a dead language. On her second try she managed to open the phone and read the words "knzs 2 far. bus suks". Kelly smiled despite her ruthless hangover, then remembered why she had the hangover in the first place and smiled even wider. They had translated the final tablet of Nuuk'ta. The party had raged on all night, like it did every thirty-six days, but this time even the most uptight of the linguists and archaeologists got wasted. The meteor that would have impacted the Earth and obliterated all life on the 17th of September had seemed like a random event, and when Kelly's teacher had insisted it had been prophesized by an extinct culture he was laughed out of a job. When a virus swept the globe thirty-six days later and a solar flare nearly killed everyone thirty-six days after that, they finally got some attention. Kelly checked her watch, wondering if the press release had gone out yet.
Dr. Tetradactyla looked down at the press release and smiled. The tablet had already been confirmed to have the end of the world predicted for exactly the date that the meteor would have hit, but this new information was far better. It said that the cycle was repeating, and a new world would start a year after the old one died. That left time for five more disasters. They would run the clock out yet. Leaning out the window, Dr. Tetradactyla raised a middle finger to the sky. "You hear that, asshole?" he yelled, "We're not leaving!" He pulled himself back inside and faced his confused employees. "Don't just stand there, boys. We have thirty-five days until the end of the world!"
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Daily Story 62: Like The Good Old Days
"You're a terrible, terrible scientist," squawks my headset, "and you should be ashamed of yourself. We're doing lab work, Mike!"
I shrug, not that Brent can see it, and continue gazing out across my perfect lawn. It's early yet and the light hasn't lost that golden quality - and near the edge of my property the mist is still burning off. Perfect.
"Listen, I have all the equipment I need right here. It'll be just like I'm in the lab, except I don't have to smell you. Did you really think I saved up all these years and bought a house in the country just so I could spend half my day in traffic? It's not good for me, Brent. My people need to be close to nature."
"Your people? You can't be more than a quarter elf, Mike, and you would die in a week if I took away your television." This is true. As soon as the sun is a little higher in the sky I plan on sitting in front of that television, sipping some very expensive coffee, and watching some steroid-pumped ogres beat each other into a bloody pulp on cable. Not exactly a smiling little forest elf.
"I need you to take this seriously, Mike. Please." He sounds desperate, nervous. Brent is never nervous. I can picture his beard bristling, him pacing back and forth as he curses me in Dwarvish, and I wonder again what has him so agitated. I don't wonder enough to actually drive to the lab, of course - moderation in all things, right?
"I'm pulling up the video now, keep your beard on." I turn away from my magnificent lawn and key my password into the computer, pulling up a live feed of the lab where Brent has, for some reason, placed a costume sword on the table.
"Explain, please." This ought to be good. I tighten my bathrobe around me and walk outside for the mail as I listen to him assure me once more that what he's about to tell me is not a joke. As if Brent ever joked.
"It's... it's a magic sword, Mike. An actual magic sword."
I pause at the end of the driveway, looking at my neighbor's patchy grass. They've got obnoxious plastic animals staked into their lawn, not to mention the hideously ugly real animals. One hisses at me - hisses! - as I close the mailbox. I've seen a lot of rare breeds of chickens, some with big white tufts of feathers and some with enormous blue feet, but never have I seen a breed that looked as ill as these. Long necks, sparse feathers over grey-green scaly skin. Disgusting. I hiss back and turn towards the house.
"Brent, have I mentioned how ugly the neighbor's birds are?"
"Mike... stop obsessing about how great your house is and how much better you are than the neighbors. I need you to focus." It would be easier to focus if the neighbors weren't so much worse than me, but I know that one of these days I'm going to push things too far and Brent will have a heart attack while yelling at me, so I let it go.
"Sorry. Okay, so you have some sword that you say is magic. Hooray. We all have something our grandparents swear was magic, Brent. I've got that obnoxious shield over the fireplace, my ex-wife had... well, no, she had the shield, I stole that. Anyway, it doesn't really change the fact that there's no such thing as magic. Never was, never will be. Fairy tales don't count as scientific evidence." There's a heavy silence, and I know I've pissed him off. He finally says something, and his voice sounds strange.
"Humor me, Mike."
I sit down at the computer and take control of the robotic arms, swinging them down with the laser cutter to take a bit off of the sword. It looks brand new, so this it probably going to be the fastest way to shut Brent up. The handle is wrapped in leather of some sort, and the new dating machine can tell us the age of something in just half an hour with an organic sample. The lasers are positioned, and I activate. I just need a little slice, and... huh.
"Something is wrong with the laser scalpel, Brent." He doesn't say anything, just reaches on-camera with my nameplate off my desk and runs it under the beam. The laser flares around it and the nameplate falls in half. I should be upset about that, it was teak, but I can't stop staring at the leather. It seems to be completely undamaged.
"Brent... I need you to put that sword into the Chamber." The Chamber is my personal baby, one of the most expensive devices on the continent and the reason Brent puts up with my shit. He places the sword inside, and I start scanning.
"Okay... we have... huh. We have zero background radiation. None. This thing is completely inert." This isn't happening. Brent is playing a trick on me... except he isn't. Probably wouldn't know how. The Chamber continues to sweep and Brent is silent, he knows this is going to take some time to sink in. Finally, a message flashes up on my screen.
"Got something... it's... I have no idea what it is. Some kind of radiation, but nothing I've seen before. Not a magnetic field, exactly, but it's behaving like one... I'm going to see if the Chamber can reproduce it." After a moment the lights on my screen flash green and then vanish in a sea of red. Damn. "Brent, something went wrong. I had it, I'm sure I had it, but as soon as I matched the field something must have broken because now the Chamber says it's everywhere."
"Can I reset it? I need to know what this is, Mike." He sounds giddy. That grumpy little dwarf is actually giddy.
"I'll need to do it. I'll be there in an hour." I grab my clothes and pull them on as I walk towards the door. Disheveled and a little smelly, I shuffle to the car but I'm forced to stop by the latest decorating disaster my neighbors have committed. It looks like a life-sized statue of the guy, all dressed in his gardening outfit. How tacky can you get? As I'm looking at it I notice a blue glow through my window... did I turn the television on? I can't let it burn out the screen, I just got that baby. I head back to the house at a jog, and as I open the door I see that the glow is coming from the ancient shield hanging over the fireplace.
The keys drop through my numb fingers as I hear hissing and screaming in the yard behind me.
I shrug, not that Brent can see it, and continue gazing out across my perfect lawn. It's early yet and the light hasn't lost that golden quality - and near the edge of my property the mist is still burning off. Perfect.
"Listen, I have all the equipment I need right here. It'll be just like I'm in the lab, except I don't have to smell you. Did you really think I saved up all these years and bought a house in the country just so I could spend half my day in traffic? It's not good for me, Brent. My people need to be close to nature."
"Your people? You can't be more than a quarter elf, Mike, and you would die in a week if I took away your television." This is true. As soon as the sun is a little higher in the sky I plan on sitting in front of that television, sipping some very expensive coffee, and watching some steroid-pumped ogres beat each other into a bloody pulp on cable. Not exactly a smiling little forest elf.
"I need you to take this seriously, Mike. Please." He sounds desperate, nervous. Brent is never nervous. I can picture his beard bristling, him pacing back and forth as he curses me in Dwarvish, and I wonder again what has him so agitated. I don't wonder enough to actually drive to the lab, of course - moderation in all things, right?
"I'm pulling up the video now, keep your beard on." I turn away from my magnificent lawn and key my password into the computer, pulling up a live feed of the lab where Brent has, for some reason, placed a costume sword on the table.
"Explain, please." This ought to be good. I tighten my bathrobe around me and walk outside for the mail as I listen to him assure me once more that what he's about to tell me is not a joke. As if Brent ever joked.
"It's... it's a magic sword, Mike. An actual magic sword."
I pause at the end of the driveway, looking at my neighbor's patchy grass. They've got obnoxious plastic animals staked into their lawn, not to mention the hideously ugly real animals. One hisses at me - hisses! - as I close the mailbox. I've seen a lot of rare breeds of chickens, some with big white tufts of feathers and some with enormous blue feet, but never have I seen a breed that looked as ill as these. Long necks, sparse feathers over grey-green scaly skin. Disgusting. I hiss back and turn towards the house.
"Brent, have I mentioned how ugly the neighbor's birds are?"
"Mike... stop obsessing about how great your house is and how much better you are than the neighbors. I need you to focus." It would be easier to focus if the neighbors weren't so much worse than me, but I know that one of these days I'm going to push things too far and Brent will have a heart attack while yelling at me, so I let it go.
"Sorry. Okay, so you have some sword that you say is magic. Hooray. We all have something our grandparents swear was magic, Brent. I've got that obnoxious shield over the fireplace, my ex-wife had... well, no, she had the shield, I stole that. Anyway, it doesn't really change the fact that there's no such thing as magic. Never was, never will be. Fairy tales don't count as scientific evidence." There's a heavy silence, and I know I've pissed him off. He finally says something, and his voice sounds strange.
"Humor me, Mike."
I sit down at the computer and take control of the robotic arms, swinging them down with the laser cutter to take a bit off of the sword. It looks brand new, so this it probably going to be the fastest way to shut Brent up. The handle is wrapped in leather of some sort, and the new dating machine can tell us the age of something in just half an hour with an organic sample. The lasers are positioned, and I activate. I just need a little slice, and... huh.
"Something is wrong with the laser scalpel, Brent." He doesn't say anything, just reaches on-camera with my nameplate off my desk and runs it under the beam. The laser flares around it and the nameplate falls in half. I should be upset about that, it was teak, but I can't stop staring at the leather. It seems to be completely undamaged.
"Brent... I need you to put that sword into the Chamber." The Chamber is my personal baby, one of the most expensive devices on the continent and the reason Brent puts up with my shit. He places the sword inside, and I start scanning.
"Okay... we have... huh. We have zero background radiation. None. This thing is completely inert." This isn't happening. Brent is playing a trick on me... except he isn't. Probably wouldn't know how. The Chamber continues to sweep and Brent is silent, he knows this is going to take some time to sink in. Finally, a message flashes up on my screen.
"Got something... it's... I have no idea what it is. Some kind of radiation, but nothing I've seen before. Not a magnetic field, exactly, but it's behaving like one... I'm going to see if the Chamber can reproduce it." After a moment the lights on my screen flash green and then vanish in a sea of red. Damn. "Brent, something went wrong. I had it, I'm sure I had it, but as soon as I matched the field something must have broken because now the Chamber says it's everywhere."
"Can I reset it? I need to know what this is, Mike." He sounds giddy. That grumpy little dwarf is actually giddy.
"I'll need to do it. I'll be there in an hour." I grab my clothes and pull them on as I walk towards the door. Disheveled and a little smelly, I shuffle to the car but I'm forced to stop by the latest decorating disaster my neighbors have committed. It looks like a life-sized statue of the guy, all dressed in his gardening outfit. How tacky can you get? As I'm looking at it I notice a blue glow through my window... did I turn the television on? I can't let it burn out the screen, I just got that baby. I head back to the house at a jog, and as I open the door I see that the glow is coming from the ancient shield hanging over the fireplace.
The keys drop through my numb fingers as I hear hissing and screaming in the yard behind me.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Daily Story 61: Cursed and Lucky Look a Lot Alike
Behind my back, they talk about why I won't be captain. Little Jimmy thinks it has something to do with my forbidden (and entirely fictional) romance with the princess of Mars, and Twelve-Toes says it's because I was captain once before and got the whole crew killed. The crew has expanded upon that and now insist that I'm surrounded by an invisible brigade of lost souls, determined to keep me from the cold embrace of the grave so that I must live with my sins. It's a pretty badass rumor, if you ask me. At any rate, the truth is that I've never gotten a crew killed but I've watched other captains do it and I don't feel like taking on that responsibility.
My first stint on a pirate vessel, fresh from the Endola disaster you've no doubt read about, we took over a ship that was transporting some sort of cattle. We took them onboard the Precipitous Decline even though the things stunk to high heaven, because the Captain figured they'd sell for enough that it would be worthwhile. Dragged a bunch of feed on board, too. I pulled the Captain aside and told him I had concerns - I did it proper and made sure not to question him in public. I told him that no good could come of hauling live animals and I told him the story of the Beta Worms from back when I was a smuggler - he didn't even believe me. They jump at the chance to think the princess of Mars and I are star-crossed lovers but I say flat out that something happened and aw, that's just Crazy Simon telling stories. Besides, he said, these were just blue cattle.
"They're just worms" was what the captain of that smuggling vessel had said to me all those years ago. It sounded like a good deal at the time, because they weren't illegal. See, at the time things become illegal by being put on the restricted list or the forbidden list. If you were set up with a good genetics rig it wasn't hard to make something that was just too new to be on those lists - problem solved! It works the opposite way now, of course, with a whitelist they put plants and animals on, because of situations just like ours. We hauled those crates on board and got our half of the payment up front, and then forgot all about them for a while. We just never thought about the possibility that they could get out - the crates were only wood, but the worms were too small to be an issue.
Beta worms are cannibals, as it turns out. Go figure. A week into the trip each crate had just one worm in it, and they were big. A foot and a half around and four feet long, they gnawed through the wooden planks like soda crackers and headed out into the ship. The crates had been segregated, males and females, but with them loose they found a dark corner and went to town. When I woke up the next morning I saw my bunkmate laying there with a huge hole in his chest, filled with little round eggs.
There's only one thing to do when you wake up like that, and the captain did it. Ordered everyone into their suits and opened the airlock, though it destroyed the kitchen and made us way low on oxygen. Still, it did kill all the worms. Not the eggs, as it turned out. I'll never forget that last hour before we reached port, the four of is standing in a corner trying to beat the worms away with pipes and boots. But no, don't listen to Crazy Simon. They're just blue cattle.
That smell turned out to be a gas they released during digestion. Our life support wasn't made to filter it, and the ship's air turned toxic. Four of us had been sleeping in our helmets to escape the smell, the rest were too green to have learned to catch some winks in those clunky things - in that way the Endola disaster really paid off, teaching me to sleep like that. Anyway, the four of us sold the ship and split the money, so I guess it was profitable after all.
My first stint on a pirate vessel, fresh from the Endola disaster you've no doubt read about, we took over a ship that was transporting some sort of cattle. We took them onboard the Precipitous Decline even though the things stunk to high heaven, because the Captain figured they'd sell for enough that it would be worthwhile. Dragged a bunch of feed on board, too. I pulled the Captain aside and told him I had concerns - I did it proper and made sure not to question him in public. I told him that no good could come of hauling live animals and I told him the story of the Beta Worms from back when I was a smuggler - he didn't even believe me. They jump at the chance to think the princess of Mars and I are star-crossed lovers but I say flat out that something happened and aw, that's just Crazy Simon telling stories. Besides, he said, these were just blue cattle.
"They're just worms" was what the captain of that smuggling vessel had said to me all those years ago. It sounded like a good deal at the time, because they weren't illegal. See, at the time things become illegal by being put on the restricted list or the forbidden list. If you were set up with a good genetics rig it wasn't hard to make something that was just too new to be on those lists - problem solved! It works the opposite way now, of course, with a whitelist they put plants and animals on, because of situations just like ours. We hauled those crates on board and got our half of the payment up front, and then forgot all about them for a while. We just never thought about the possibility that they could get out - the crates were only wood, but the worms were too small to be an issue.
Beta worms are cannibals, as it turns out. Go figure. A week into the trip each crate had just one worm in it, and they were big. A foot and a half around and four feet long, they gnawed through the wooden planks like soda crackers and headed out into the ship. The crates had been segregated, males and females, but with them loose they found a dark corner and went to town. When I woke up the next morning I saw my bunkmate laying there with a huge hole in his chest, filled with little round eggs.
There's only one thing to do when you wake up like that, and the captain did it. Ordered everyone into their suits and opened the airlock, though it destroyed the kitchen and made us way low on oxygen. Still, it did kill all the worms. Not the eggs, as it turned out. I'll never forget that last hour before we reached port, the four of is standing in a corner trying to beat the worms away with pipes and boots. But no, don't listen to Crazy Simon. They're just blue cattle.
That smell turned out to be a gas they released during digestion. Our life support wasn't made to filter it, and the ship's air turned toxic. Four of us had been sleeping in our helmets to escape the smell, the rest were too green to have learned to catch some winks in those clunky things - in that way the Endola disaster really paid off, teaching me to sleep like that. Anyway, the four of us sold the ship and split the money, so I guess it was profitable after all.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Daily Story 60: They Don't Sparkle, Either
Betsy sighed and put down her diary, trying to think of another synonym for Adonis. Statuesque? No, she'd used that far too many times today. She sighed again, feeling butterflies dance in her stomach as she thought of Edwin. Oh, Edwin. For a brief moment she wondered if the lightheaded feeling and the butterflies could be the fact that she hadn't eaten for the past few days rather than just the giddiness of pure love, but dismissed that thought as absurd. She was almost a hundred pounds, surely she could survive without eating for a while - and soon, so soon, she would never have to eat again because Edwin would sink his long powerful vampire fangs into her and make her one with him and it would be so romantic. It would be perfect, and wonderful, and that glorious moment when he began to slurp out her blood would feel even better than sex, she was sure. Well, reasonably sure. She couldn't be absolutely positive since she had, up to this point, not tried either activity.
As Betsy opened her diary again (sighing in romantic angst for the twelfth time in five minutes) and began to write about how terribly unfair it was to be only seventeen - or sixteen and three months, which was practically the same thing - and not able to go and live her life which would be full of adventure and romance somewhere where people appreciated her free spirit and willingness to not be like all the other kids, Edwin suddenly appeared in front of her in that silent and sexy vampire way he had and completely disrupted her thriving run-on sentence.
"Oh, Edwin!" she cried, bosoms heaving. That was the intent, at least; she hadn't managed to develop what one would call bosoms, exactly, and so they were more like shoulder pads from her mother's old jackets stuffed into her bra. In addition to that, the deep breathing required to make them heave combined with standing suddenly (and possibly - just possibly - the three-day hunger strike) caused her to pass out so that she more precisely said "Oh, Edwhuh..." before crashing to the ground and stabbing her ear with a pinecone.
For a moment, Betsy wondered why Edwin hadn't caught her with his incredible vampire speed, but then he crouched down beside her and lifted her up in his perfect arms like pale marble. Some tiny part of her brain, deep down inside, wished yet again that he were warm and soft - but the rest of her reminded that part that cold and hard and scary was more romantic. So much more. She looked up into his perfect red eyes, and coyly tilted her head to expose more neck before remembering that that was the side with the zit - why must acne interfere with her true love? Were the fates against her?
"Oh, Edwin, I love you so much. I want you. Need you. Please, bite me. Bite me now."
He was almost drooling, but in a totally romantic way. Slowly, he leaned forwards and she felt the points of his teeth press against her neck.
"Oh, yes Edwin!" she cried, and then the pressure increased and OH DEAR GOD! The pain was intense, all consuming. The pressure just kept coming, and she could feel her flesh tear as warm blood flowed down and soaked her shirt.
She struggled, but she might as well have been wrestling with solid iron. She screamed for a moment but then somehow couldn't get her breath - the pain was just too powerful. Something else tore, something inside her neck. This wasn't right, wasn't how the stories went at all. That same tiny part of her brain as before reminded her that this was, in fact, a lot like the stories about vampires - just not the newer stories she was a fan of. Betsy could feel her heart beating, each beat weaker than the one before. She was getting cold, getting numb. Was that the change starting? Was she turning into a vampire? Edwin dropped her roughly to the ground, and as he wiped the dark blood from his face she saw that he looked different now. It was like some sort of spell had broken, and she could see his actual face.
It wasn't pale, it was pasty - almost grey. The skin sagged in places, and dark veins were visible on his cheeks. His mouth - that perfect mouth that she had pressed against hers so many times - was ugly and distorted by the hideous fangs. For some reason it was getting hard to see, but she could just make out Tony, another vampire, walking up behind him.
"Ah... broke another toy, Edwin?" Toy! Tony would be regretting that comment in a moment when Edwin defended her honor.
"Yeah, looks like. I always do that. Wasn't even very filling, to be honest."
"So are you going to turn her?" Of course he was, Betsy thought. Of course.
"Are you joking? Man, you know I like them to be seventeen at the oldest - what would I do with her in a year?"
"How do you even get kids to go out with you, you pervert? I wouldn't think it would be so easy to get them to date a pedophile." The world seemed to be falling away from her, the voices sounding distant and strange.
"Ah, that's easy. Just tell them you're like two hundred years old."
"But you're forty!"
"Sure, but if you let them know that they can grasp the math better and they won't go for it."
"Ah. So... what now?"
Now... now he saves me, Betsy thought. This is just a trick, right?
"Well, her little sister is looking pretty tasty for a fourteen year-old. I could say Betty here got attacked by werewolves, act all sad... I'll have her in a week."
"You're a sick son of a bitch, you know that?"
"Dude, vampire."
"Ah, right."
And then she couldn't hear anything anymore.
As Betsy opened her diary again (sighing in romantic angst for the twelfth time in five minutes) and began to write about how terribly unfair it was to be only seventeen - or sixteen and three months, which was practically the same thing - and not able to go and live her life which would be full of adventure and romance somewhere where people appreciated her free spirit and willingness to not be like all the other kids, Edwin suddenly appeared in front of her in that silent and sexy vampire way he had and completely disrupted her thriving run-on sentence.
"Oh, Edwin!" she cried, bosoms heaving. That was the intent, at least; she hadn't managed to develop what one would call bosoms, exactly, and so they were more like shoulder pads from her mother's old jackets stuffed into her bra. In addition to that, the deep breathing required to make them heave combined with standing suddenly (and possibly - just possibly - the three-day hunger strike) caused her to pass out so that she more precisely said "Oh, Edwhuh..." before crashing to the ground and stabbing her ear with a pinecone.
For a moment, Betsy wondered why Edwin hadn't caught her with his incredible vampire speed, but then he crouched down beside her and lifted her up in his perfect arms like pale marble. Some tiny part of her brain, deep down inside, wished yet again that he were warm and soft - but the rest of her reminded that part that cold and hard and scary was more romantic. So much more. She looked up into his perfect red eyes, and coyly tilted her head to expose more neck before remembering that that was the side with the zit - why must acne interfere with her true love? Were the fates against her?
"Oh, Edwin, I love you so much. I want you. Need you. Please, bite me. Bite me now."
He was almost drooling, but in a totally romantic way. Slowly, he leaned forwards and she felt the points of his teeth press against her neck.
"Oh, yes Edwin!" she cried, and then the pressure increased and OH DEAR GOD! The pain was intense, all consuming. The pressure just kept coming, and she could feel her flesh tear as warm blood flowed down and soaked her shirt.
She struggled, but she might as well have been wrestling with solid iron. She screamed for a moment but then somehow couldn't get her breath - the pain was just too powerful. Something else tore, something inside her neck. This wasn't right, wasn't how the stories went at all. That same tiny part of her brain as before reminded her that this was, in fact, a lot like the stories about vampires - just not the newer stories she was a fan of. Betsy could feel her heart beating, each beat weaker than the one before. She was getting cold, getting numb. Was that the change starting? Was she turning into a vampire? Edwin dropped her roughly to the ground, and as he wiped the dark blood from his face she saw that he looked different now. It was like some sort of spell had broken, and she could see his actual face.
It wasn't pale, it was pasty - almost grey. The skin sagged in places, and dark veins were visible on his cheeks. His mouth - that perfect mouth that she had pressed against hers so many times - was ugly and distorted by the hideous fangs. For some reason it was getting hard to see, but she could just make out Tony, another vampire, walking up behind him.
"Ah... broke another toy, Edwin?" Toy! Tony would be regretting that comment in a moment when Edwin defended her honor.
"Yeah, looks like. I always do that. Wasn't even very filling, to be honest."
"So are you going to turn her?" Of course he was, Betsy thought. Of course.
"Are you joking? Man, you know I like them to be seventeen at the oldest - what would I do with her in a year?"
"How do you even get kids to go out with you, you pervert? I wouldn't think it would be so easy to get them to date a pedophile." The world seemed to be falling away from her, the voices sounding distant and strange.
"Ah, that's easy. Just tell them you're like two hundred years old."
"But you're forty!"
"Sure, but if you let them know that they can grasp the math better and they won't go for it."
"Ah. So... what now?"
Now... now he saves me, Betsy thought. This is just a trick, right?
"Well, her little sister is looking pretty tasty for a fourteen year-old. I could say Betty here got attacked by werewolves, act all sad... I'll have her in a week."
"You're a sick son of a bitch, you know that?"
"Dude, vampire."
"Ah, right."
And then she couldn't hear anything anymore.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Daily Story 59: The Real McCoy
Meghan's Journal
December 9th
5:30pm
I don't know what's wrong with me, but I can't stand the sight of myself. Every time I see a clone of the same model on the street I want to grab her by the hair and slam her head into something. That's not like me. It's not like any of us. Could I be developing a mental illness? I can't think of a way that it could be just me. I have the same genes as all my clone sisters, I eat the same food, drink water from the same source. I checked my hormone levels and they're within the normal range, but any further tests would have to be conducted by a doctor and I don't want to be tagged as mentally unsound. Not if I can figure this out myself.
Meghan's Journal
December 10th
5:30pm
It's getting worse. I've called out from work for tomorrow, there are too many of my clones that sit near me. I typed that without thinking... my clones. That's what it feels like, like they're all impostors - copying me - and I'm the only one that's real. It's absurd, we were all gestated in the same facility at the same time, but that doesn't change the way I feel. Janice asked me for my stapler today and I almost threw it at her. How long before I snap? I'm just glad the maintenance worker that came to fix the climate control wasn't one of them, I don't know that I could trust myself alone in the house with one. I should go to a doctor. It could be a virus or something, maybe just needs some pills.
Meghan's Journal
December 11th
2:00pm
I got to the doctor's office, and there were three of those things in the waiting room, wearing my face. How did I grow up around them my whole life and never see how repulsive they are? I couldn't stay in the room with them, I had to go somewhere. I stared at my feet as I walked so I wouldn't have to look at that face, but I could feel it every time one of them passed. Finally I went into a theater, watched that documentary about the Gene War. It wasn't any warmer than outside, but it was wonderful to see all those people in the old films - all of them different. None wearing my face. At the end they talked about the repopulation program, of course, so they showed the ones selected to base the clones off of. I recognized all thirty of them obviously, but I couldn't stop staring at Lindsey. She looked perfect. That's what's wrong - it's not me, I don't need to see a doctor. I'm the one they got right. I look just like her. The others, everyone says we look the same because they can't see it, but I can. I can see it now in all of them, all of them making a mockery of Lindsey, of me.
Meghan's Journal
December 12th
1:15am
Just had a dream. I was in the theater, watching the documentary again, and when Lindsey came on screen she stared at me with so much hate. One second she was sneering at me and the next I was the one in the screen. I couldn't get out of the movie, and she left me there. I woke up and I was in the hallway on the fifth floor, at the apartment above mine. My hand was wrapped around the doorknob so tight it hurt, and I could see my breath - I guess the climate control is broken for the whole building or something, that might be what gave me the nightmare in the first place.
Going back to bed. I'll write more later.
6:00pm
Janice came by today to check on me, see why I haven't been at work. Can you believe the nerve? It's not bad enough that they watch me all the time, but to come to my home with that face and smile her fake smile and act like nothing is wrong? Like it belongs to her? I took it back. I half expected to find her real face underneath, but I should have known she doesn't have one. There was nothing real about her, nothing under the mask. Just a soulless clone trying to steal my face. The police won't understand, they let those things on the force all the time. I have to handle this myself. It's the only way.
Lilly's Journal
December 13th
5:00pm
Well, today is exciting for all the wrong reasons. I saw on the news earlier that a clone of the same model as me went crazy and killed some people. Why would that even happen to just one of us? The whole thing creeps me out. To make things worse, she lived right here in the building, on the fourth floor. Then - as if things weren't morbid enough - one of the reporters caught a whiff of something and had the landlord bust into the apartment below mine on the fifth floor and they found that old shut-in had died almost a week ago. Disgusting. They say she was one of the original thirty that the clone lines came from, not sure which though. Anyway, hopefully my boyfriend is wrong and these things don't come in threes - I don't want anyone else in the building to die (though I might kill the maintenance guy if he can't fix my climate control - this apartment has been freezing all afternoon).
December 9th
5:30pm
I don't know what's wrong with me, but I can't stand the sight of myself. Every time I see a clone of the same model on the street I want to grab her by the hair and slam her head into something. That's not like me. It's not like any of us. Could I be developing a mental illness? I can't think of a way that it could be just me. I have the same genes as all my clone sisters, I eat the same food, drink water from the same source. I checked my hormone levels and they're within the normal range, but any further tests would have to be conducted by a doctor and I don't want to be tagged as mentally unsound. Not if I can figure this out myself.
Meghan's Journal
December 10th
5:30pm
It's getting worse. I've called out from work for tomorrow, there are too many of my clones that sit near me. I typed that without thinking... my clones. That's what it feels like, like they're all impostors - copying me - and I'm the only one that's real. It's absurd, we were all gestated in the same facility at the same time, but that doesn't change the way I feel. Janice asked me for my stapler today and I almost threw it at her. How long before I snap? I'm just glad the maintenance worker that came to fix the climate control wasn't one of them, I don't know that I could trust myself alone in the house with one. I should go to a doctor. It could be a virus or something, maybe just needs some pills.
Meghan's Journal
December 11th
2:00pm
I got to the doctor's office, and there were three of those things in the waiting room, wearing my face. How did I grow up around them my whole life and never see how repulsive they are? I couldn't stay in the room with them, I had to go somewhere. I stared at my feet as I walked so I wouldn't have to look at that face, but I could feel it every time one of them passed. Finally I went into a theater, watched that documentary about the Gene War. It wasn't any warmer than outside, but it was wonderful to see all those people in the old films - all of them different. None wearing my face. At the end they talked about the repopulation program, of course, so they showed the ones selected to base the clones off of. I recognized all thirty of them obviously, but I couldn't stop staring at Lindsey. She looked perfect. That's what's wrong - it's not me, I don't need to see a doctor. I'm the one they got right. I look just like her. The others, everyone says we look the same because they can't see it, but I can. I can see it now in all of them, all of them making a mockery of Lindsey, of me.
Meghan's Journal
December 12th
1:15am
Just had a dream. I was in the theater, watching the documentary again, and when Lindsey came on screen she stared at me with so much hate. One second she was sneering at me and the next I was the one in the screen. I couldn't get out of the movie, and she left me there. I woke up and I was in the hallway on the fifth floor, at the apartment above mine. My hand was wrapped around the doorknob so tight it hurt, and I could see my breath - I guess the climate control is broken for the whole building or something, that might be what gave me the nightmare in the first place.
Going back to bed. I'll write more later.
6:00pm
Janice came by today to check on me, see why I haven't been at work. Can you believe the nerve? It's not bad enough that they watch me all the time, but to come to my home with that face and smile her fake smile and act like nothing is wrong? Like it belongs to her? I took it back. I half expected to find her real face underneath, but I should have known she doesn't have one. There was nothing real about her, nothing under the mask. Just a soulless clone trying to steal my face. The police won't understand, they let those things on the force all the time. I have to handle this myself. It's the only way.
Lilly's Journal
December 13th
5:00pm
Well, today is exciting for all the wrong reasons. I saw on the news earlier that a clone of the same model as me went crazy and killed some people. Why would that even happen to just one of us? The whole thing creeps me out. To make things worse, she lived right here in the building, on the fourth floor. Then - as if things weren't morbid enough - one of the reporters caught a whiff of something and had the landlord bust into the apartment below mine on the fifth floor and they found that old shut-in had died almost a week ago. Disgusting. They say she was one of the original thirty that the clone lines came from, not sure which though. Anyway, hopefully my boyfriend is wrong and these things don't come in threes - I don't want anyone else in the building to die (though I might kill the maintenance guy if he can't fix my climate control - this apartment has been freezing all afternoon).
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Daily Story 57: Out of the Frying Pan
Logic clearly doesn't factor into whatever is going on, as there's no way the hot dog cart I'm looking at could ever actually be covered in thick fur, or float up into the sky in a beam of green light, or get crushed under a chunk of building that's been warped like a handful of clay. None of these things can happen, but I see them all at the same time.
I take the hot dog and head back towards the office. The street is locked up with stand-still traffic, cars or horses or vacant rusting tanks. Some of those I've seen before, and once I could have sworn that the horses had looked right at me. When I reach the lobby it's filled with corpses again which I know will give me nightmares, so I hurry to the elevator - legs swishing through the rotting flesh like it isn't there.
Because it isn't. Can't be.
I'm distracted all day, trying to concentrate on the work in front of me on my desk - this is made difficult by the fact that my desk is simultaneously not there and covered in someone else's papers. For half an hour the building itself is also a few floors shorter, giving me a fantastic view but making me quite dizzy. It will all be over soon, though. I feel confident that the doctor will figure out what's wrong and fix it. Even if it's a malignant tumor, at this point I just want to know.
The trip to the doctor's office goes surprisingly well, and I only try to get on an imaginary bus once. I wish I could still drive. The building the doctor is in is a plain office building, an aquarium, a twisted burnt wreck. Oddly, the hideous modern art out front remains the same. I keep my eyes closed while I wait, and then finally I'm led back to see the doctor. He's kind, and old, and looks just a little like Santa Claus - the real him, that is. He runs tests and lowers a huge device over my head, and I'm waiting for him to say there's nothing wrong, that I'm crazy.
"You're not crazy."
Oh thank God.
"There's a strange sort of activity going on in the visual region of your brain. I believe that, like hiccoughs, if we interrupt the signal it will reset, and you'll be back to normal. That's not to say it couldn't happen again, but I think for now we need to be concerned with your ability to function in daily life."
I thank him, repeatedly, and he positions me in a chair. Attaching electrodes to my head, he pauses frequently to consult something on the computer screen.
"Okay. This should reach the correct area. I want you to just relax, look at the wall. This won't hurt a bit."
The wall is white, red, glass, steel. It's...
Suddenly, the wall snaps into focus and is white plaster. Just white. I jump up and turn to tell the doctor it worked, and... he's gone. The only person in the room is some old woman, cowering in the corner. The charts are gone, the equipment is gone. It looks like I'm in some sort of file room. Slowly, the old lady raises an arm and points at me.
"Where... where did you come from?"
Well, shit.
I take the hot dog and head back towards the office. The street is locked up with stand-still traffic, cars or horses or vacant rusting tanks. Some of those I've seen before, and once I could have sworn that the horses had looked right at me. When I reach the lobby it's filled with corpses again which I know will give me nightmares, so I hurry to the elevator - legs swishing through the rotting flesh like it isn't there.
Because it isn't. Can't be.
I'm distracted all day, trying to concentrate on the work in front of me on my desk - this is made difficult by the fact that my desk is simultaneously not there and covered in someone else's papers. For half an hour the building itself is also a few floors shorter, giving me a fantastic view but making me quite dizzy. It will all be over soon, though. I feel confident that the doctor will figure out what's wrong and fix it. Even if it's a malignant tumor, at this point I just want to know.
The trip to the doctor's office goes surprisingly well, and I only try to get on an imaginary bus once. I wish I could still drive. The building the doctor is in is a plain office building, an aquarium, a twisted burnt wreck. Oddly, the hideous modern art out front remains the same. I keep my eyes closed while I wait, and then finally I'm led back to see the doctor. He's kind, and old, and looks just a little like Santa Claus - the real him, that is. He runs tests and lowers a huge device over my head, and I'm waiting for him to say there's nothing wrong, that I'm crazy.
"You're not crazy."
Oh thank God.
"There's a strange sort of activity going on in the visual region of your brain. I believe that, like hiccoughs, if we interrupt the signal it will reset, and you'll be back to normal. That's not to say it couldn't happen again, but I think for now we need to be concerned with your ability to function in daily life."
I thank him, repeatedly, and he positions me in a chair. Attaching electrodes to my head, he pauses frequently to consult something on the computer screen.
"Okay. This should reach the correct area. I want you to just relax, look at the wall. This won't hurt a bit."
The wall is white, red, glass, steel. It's...
Suddenly, the wall snaps into focus and is white plaster. Just white. I jump up and turn to tell the doctor it worked, and... he's gone. The only person in the room is some old woman, cowering in the corner. The charts are gone, the equipment is gone. It looks like I'm in some sort of file room. Slowly, the old lady raises an arm and points at me.
"Where... where did you come from?"
Well, shit.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Daily Story 56: Spring
He doesn't believe me, but he's thinking it over. He should be, it's a good deal. "What about my stuff?" he asks, looking at the overloaded shopping cart. I glance it over, looks to be mostly blankets and trash.
"I can promise that you'll have more stuff, better stuff, when I'm finished. If there's anything that has sentimental value, let me know and I'll keep that safe." He nods, then just stands there thinking.
"A year?"
"A year." Less isn't enough time to be worth it, and more feels like too much to take from one person. This guy will go for it, I'm certain. He's not crazy, but he's desperate enough to believe me. Plus there's nobody to miss him, nobody I have to fool. The perfect candidate for reform. Finally he grumbles agreement, and while he's writing down his personal information an enormous pickup parks beside us.
"Carl! Perfect timing, our new friend here has just agreed to my business proposition. Are you ready to take the old one to his apartment?" Carl, still climbing out of the truck, looks distracted.
"Sure, boss. No problem. I need to talk to you, though. I've been keeping an eye on the news like you asked, and that lab you said you used to work for got raided by the feds. Not sure why - but a bunch of scientists are under arrest now."
I don't know if this is good news or bad. Did they arrest me - or rather, whatever stole my body? I might have to arrange to bump into a prison guard... but that's for later. If I do that I have to plan, have to be careful. No point in laying low for four years only to hand myself to them.
"Okay, Carl. Thanks for telling me. For now we'll just do business as usual. You ready for me to make the switch?"
Carl says everything is ready, so I turn back to my smelly new friend. I take the paper with his information and glance it over, then hand it and a broken pocketwatch that he wants kept safe to Carl. I pass my keys and cell phone to the homeless man - Justin, the paper said, who shoves them in his grimy pockets and looks at me nervously. Now for the part I hate. I carefully slide the elastic band off of my bicep, making sure that the Device doesn't fall out. I place them in the man's hand without letting go, and look him in the eye.
"Okay, Justin. You're going to black out for a second, and then it will be a year later and you'll be looking at someone else instead of me. Are you ready?" He nods, and I let go.
With only the briefest flicker of darkness I'm Justin - looking at what I've thought of as myself for the last year but is actually Herman Jones. I slide the elastic band on and tuck the Device in, then try to address the body I've vacated. He's turning to Carl, of course, because what seems like a second ago to him Carl was handing him the Device.
"Over here, Herman." The man turns, still in shock. "As agreed, it's a year later. Carl here will pay you - he'll also be your boss unless you want to quit and get a new job. Your system is clean; I don't want you doing drugs anymore, let me tell you withdrawal was hell and you should be glad you missed it. We have an apartment set up for you, and a summary of the last year for you to look at. Once you've done that if you still have questions you can talk to Carl about it. He's been through the same thing, okay?" Herman is just staring at me, but that's fine. He'll figure it out.
"Carl, I'm going to get washed up and grab some clothes. I'll take the day off to get comfortable in my skin and I'll see you at the office tomorrow." I'm itchy, and dirty, and already I can feel some sort of ache from an old injury, but somehow this is still my favorite time of year.
"I can promise that you'll have more stuff, better stuff, when I'm finished. If there's anything that has sentimental value, let me know and I'll keep that safe." He nods, then just stands there thinking.
"A year?"
"A year." Less isn't enough time to be worth it, and more feels like too much to take from one person. This guy will go for it, I'm certain. He's not crazy, but he's desperate enough to believe me. Plus there's nobody to miss him, nobody I have to fool. The perfect candidate for reform. Finally he grumbles agreement, and while he's writing down his personal information an enormous pickup parks beside us.
"Carl! Perfect timing, our new friend here has just agreed to my business proposition. Are you ready to take the old one to his apartment?" Carl, still climbing out of the truck, looks distracted.
"Sure, boss. No problem. I need to talk to you, though. I've been keeping an eye on the news like you asked, and that lab you said you used to work for got raided by the feds. Not sure why - but a bunch of scientists are under arrest now."
I don't know if this is good news or bad. Did they arrest me - or rather, whatever stole my body? I might have to arrange to bump into a prison guard... but that's for later. If I do that I have to plan, have to be careful. No point in laying low for four years only to hand myself to them.
"Okay, Carl. Thanks for telling me. For now we'll just do business as usual. You ready for me to make the switch?"
Carl says everything is ready, so I turn back to my smelly new friend. I take the paper with his information and glance it over, then hand it and a broken pocketwatch that he wants kept safe to Carl. I pass my keys and cell phone to the homeless man - Justin, the paper said, who shoves them in his grimy pockets and looks at me nervously. Now for the part I hate. I carefully slide the elastic band off of my bicep, making sure that the Device doesn't fall out. I place them in the man's hand without letting go, and look him in the eye.
"Okay, Justin. You're going to black out for a second, and then it will be a year later and you'll be looking at someone else instead of me. Are you ready?" He nods, and I let go.
With only the briefest flicker of darkness I'm Justin - looking at what I've thought of as myself for the last year but is actually Herman Jones. I slide the elastic band on and tuck the Device in, then try to address the body I've vacated. He's turning to Carl, of course, because what seems like a second ago to him Carl was handing him the Device.
"Over here, Herman." The man turns, still in shock. "As agreed, it's a year later. Carl here will pay you - he'll also be your boss unless you want to quit and get a new job. Your system is clean; I don't want you doing drugs anymore, let me tell you withdrawal was hell and you should be glad you missed it. We have an apartment set up for you, and a summary of the last year for you to look at. Once you've done that if you still have questions you can talk to Carl about it. He's been through the same thing, okay?" Herman is just staring at me, but that's fine. He'll figure it out.
"Carl, I'm going to get washed up and grab some clothes. I'll take the day off to get comfortable in my skin and I'll see you at the office tomorrow." I'm itchy, and dirty, and already I can feel some sort of ache from an old injury, but somehow this is still my favorite time of year.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Daily Story 55: This Prophesy Brought To You By...
Taran dropped down from the roof already running, which turned out to be a terrible way to land; nearly stabbing himself with his sword, he rolled down the hill in a storm of curses. Arthur tried to gingerly lower himself to the ground, and succeeded only in dangling by his belt which was somehow caught on the edge of the clay shingles. Finally one slid loose and dumped Arthur unceremoniously into the bushes below, after which several more shingles dove after him and landed with amazing accuracy on the back of his head even while he swayed side to side.
"Arthur!" Taran shouted, regaining his footing. "Stop messing around and get down here!"
Arthur tried to shoot Taran an indignant look, but he was mildly concussed and it was dark out so he settled for glaring at a nearby tree. From somewhere terribly nearby came the sound of hunting dogs braying. Arthur and Taran ran.
The caravan was smaller than it had been when they left, the merchants and entertainers slowly packing up the enormous wooden carts and heading back to the capitol. Flyers advertizing the path of the Chosen One were posted in every town from Southgate to the Mountain of Flame, but word would travel ahead with the disappointed peasants that had departed after Arthur met with the legendary blacksmith Sardon and the flyers would be torn down by the time the procession arrived - not that it would be much of a procession by morning anyway.
"Where did they go?" Arthur mumbled, carefully stepping over one of the posters with his smiling face on it.
"Home, I'm sure," Taran replied, "because they came to watch the Chosen One, the blacksmith Sardon, and the White Mage all trek to the Mountain of Flame to kill the Dark One. Clearly that won't be happening."
Arthur shrugged. "I'm still the chosen one, you know."
"Shut up, Arthur."
As they climbed up into the back of the garish red cart Arthur had been riding in, a terrible smell assaulted them.
"'Ello, boys! 'Ow did yer midnight rondy-voo with Sardon go, eh?" Willis was perched on Arthur's bed with his feet on the desk, gnawing at a turkey bone that had long since stopped providing any sustenance.
Taran collapsed on the floor, dropping the heavy sack he had dragged down the hill. "About like the rest of this has gone, Willis."
The turkey bone ricocheted off of Taran as Willis snorted. "'Ey, there! Show some respect!"
Ignoring this, Arthur rubbed his forehead as he stared at Willis.
"Willis, as my agent I trust that you have a plan. I was impressed with the way you took a stodgy religious prophesy and turned it into a national event. Really, I was. But I'm wondering now if it was such a good idea. You have to admit, it did involve... going off script a bit, yes?"
Willis smiled, displaying the growing collection of food scraps caught between his teeth. "Arthur, buddy, yer the chosen one. You've got the birthmark, the magic sword, the whole whatsis. If we didn't stick to the exact letter of the prophesy at the beginning there it doesn't matter - yer still the chosen one and it's still destiny. Ey, you still upset about the big meet-up with Sardon this morning? Yeah, fine, 'im blowing you off lost us some followers but the prophesy says 'e decks the two of you out in magic armor, so he will."
Taran sat up. "You want to put money on that, Willis?"
"Why? Did you get 'im to meet with you again? Did you get the armor?"
Taran and Arthur exchanged glances. "Well... we got one set of armor," Arthur said.
"One is all we need, though," Taran said as he lay back down on the floor. "Sardon is dead."
Willis seemed to glaze over. They were well and truly off the map now. The prophesy hadn't had any wiggle room at all on this point. Suddenly he smiled again, but his eyes had a crazy gleam.
"No worries! This 'appens all the time. Let's... let's get the 'ell out of town before the local watch comes knocking..." Willis climbed out to get the horses ready, wondering how much he could get for a suit of magic armor.
"Arthur!" Taran shouted, regaining his footing. "Stop messing around and get down here!"
Arthur tried to shoot Taran an indignant look, but he was mildly concussed and it was dark out so he settled for glaring at a nearby tree. From somewhere terribly nearby came the sound of hunting dogs braying. Arthur and Taran ran.
The caravan was smaller than it had been when they left, the merchants and entertainers slowly packing up the enormous wooden carts and heading back to the capitol. Flyers advertizing the path of the Chosen One were posted in every town from Southgate to the Mountain of Flame, but word would travel ahead with the disappointed peasants that had departed after Arthur met with the legendary blacksmith Sardon and the flyers would be torn down by the time the procession arrived - not that it would be much of a procession by morning anyway.
"Where did they go?" Arthur mumbled, carefully stepping over one of the posters with his smiling face on it.
"Home, I'm sure," Taran replied, "because they came to watch the Chosen One, the blacksmith Sardon, and the White Mage all trek to the Mountain of Flame to kill the Dark One. Clearly that won't be happening."
Arthur shrugged. "I'm still the chosen one, you know."
"Shut up, Arthur."
As they climbed up into the back of the garish red cart Arthur had been riding in, a terrible smell assaulted them.
"'Ello, boys! 'Ow did yer midnight rondy-voo with Sardon go, eh?" Willis was perched on Arthur's bed with his feet on the desk, gnawing at a turkey bone that had long since stopped providing any sustenance.
Taran collapsed on the floor, dropping the heavy sack he had dragged down the hill. "About like the rest of this has gone, Willis."
The turkey bone ricocheted off of Taran as Willis snorted. "'Ey, there! Show some respect!"
Ignoring this, Arthur rubbed his forehead as he stared at Willis.
"Willis, as my agent I trust that you have a plan. I was impressed with the way you took a stodgy religious prophesy and turned it into a national event. Really, I was. But I'm wondering now if it was such a good idea. You have to admit, it did involve... going off script a bit, yes?"
Willis smiled, displaying the growing collection of food scraps caught between his teeth. "Arthur, buddy, yer the chosen one. You've got the birthmark, the magic sword, the whole whatsis. If we didn't stick to the exact letter of the prophesy at the beginning there it doesn't matter - yer still the chosen one and it's still destiny. Ey, you still upset about the big meet-up with Sardon this morning? Yeah, fine, 'im blowing you off lost us some followers but the prophesy says 'e decks the two of you out in magic armor, so he will."
Taran sat up. "You want to put money on that, Willis?"
"Why? Did you get 'im to meet with you again? Did you get the armor?"
Taran and Arthur exchanged glances. "Well... we got one set of armor," Arthur said.
"One is all we need, though," Taran said as he lay back down on the floor. "Sardon is dead."
Willis seemed to glaze over. They were well and truly off the map now. The prophesy hadn't had any wiggle room at all on this point. Suddenly he smiled again, but his eyes had a crazy gleam.
"No worries! This 'appens all the time. Let's... let's get the 'ell out of town before the local watch comes knocking..." Willis climbed out to get the horses ready, wondering how much he could get for a suit of magic armor.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Daily Story 54: Discerning Taste
I can see Tommy is having trouble. He's new, and young, and while he's a fantastic salesman he hasn't yet learned to adapt to unusual situations. He wears his fancy suit and swaggers across the polished showroom with a big fake grin on for most of the day, but now he looks completely lost. As always, I could tell him what to do - I've been on the sales floor longer than anyone - but he won't ask me.
His problem is five and a half feet tall, and wearing a sundress. Her skin is a beautiful reflective gold color - I think she's a DE73 model but she's been altered. She's rolling her eyes at Tommy and he should be thinking about that, realizing that factory-standard bots don't roll their eyes and so this is one that has either been around for a long time or has been upgraded - or both. Instead, he's just thinking about his commission as he watches millionaires go to some other salesman.
As if on cue, a couple walks over to me and starts asking questions about the various options. Most people would just wander aimlessly until a salesman found them; I get a kick out of the ones that just start talking to me. Nothing kinky today - they just want a nanny for their kid. There are nanny-bots here, of course, but these customers are smart and they want to look into something more versatile. I'm just pointing them to the new EF37 when Frank snags them.
"Hey there, folks! Let me show you around!" He winks at me and puts his arm around the man's shoulders. I guess it's his turn.
"This is Frank," I say, "and he'll help you find the perfect bot for little Alan." Before I'm even finished Frank has dragged them away.
I turn to look back at Tommy's drama, and see that the manager has joined them.
"I'm not sure I understand." He looks annoyed, and confused. The customer rolls her eyes again, and talks to him like a child.
"What is there to be confused about? You sell artificial mates, and I want one."
"Yes, but you're... you're artificial as well." He's sweating now.
"Obviously. Look, I was made right here at your facility so I know you do quality work" she smiles and pauses as if expecting to get a laugh, though of course she doesn't get any. "...and I'd like to see what you have in a male companion."
Tommy finds his voice and tries to take control in exactly the wrong way: "Where is your owner?"
"You're looking at her. I was widowed, unfortunately, and he left me to myself in the will. Wouldn't have held up here I suspect, but he had moved us to Amsterdam and they let me be declared an autonomous citizen. Those rights come with me when I'm here on vacation, and I want to use them to buy a new husband."
You could hear a pin drop. I've seen a lot and learned a lot over the years, but this is the first time I've seen the manager completely at a loss for words. Something I don't fully understand makes me wink at the customer, and she smiles.
"I'll make it easy," she says, "I want that one." She points right at me.
Tommy reluctantly switches back into sales mode, shoulders straightening and big fake smile dawning on his face.
"Oh, you want a DT54? They're getting to be a little obsolete, if you want to see -"
"No." She cuts him off, just like that. He has to hate having a robot talk to him like that. "No, I want that one. Specifically."
"Ma'am," the manager starts before pausing to wonder if that's even the correct way to address product, "That's an old display model. It's been heavily used."
"I don't care if the warranty has run, boys. I like a man who's been around the block." And she winks back at me. Oh, my.
His problem is five and a half feet tall, and wearing a sundress. Her skin is a beautiful reflective gold color - I think she's a DE73 model but she's been altered. She's rolling her eyes at Tommy and he should be thinking about that, realizing that factory-standard bots don't roll their eyes and so this is one that has either been around for a long time or has been upgraded - or both. Instead, he's just thinking about his commission as he watches millionaires go to some other salesman.
As if on cue, a couple walks over to me and starts asking questions about the various options. Most people would just wander aimlessly until a salesman found them; I get a kick out of the ones that just start talking to me. Nothing kinky today - they just want a nanny for their kid. There are nanny-bots here, of course, but these customers are smart and they want to look into something more versatile. I'm just pointing them to the new EF37 when Frank snags them.
"Hey there, folks! Let me show you around!" He winks at me and puts his arm around the man's shoulders. I guess it's his turn.
"This is Frank," I say, "and he'll help you find the perfect bot for little Alan." Before I'm even finished Frank has dragged them away.
I turn to look back at Tommy's drama, and see that the manager has joined them.
"I'm not sure I understand." He looks annoyed, and confused. The customer rolls her eyes again, and talks to him like a child.
"What is there to be confused about? You sell artificial mates, and I want one."
"Yes, but you're... you're artificial as well." He's sweating now.
"Obviously. Look, I was made right here at your facility so I know you do quality work" she smiles and pauses as if expecting to get a laugh, though of course she doesn't get any. "...and I'd like to see what you have in a male companion."
Tommy finds his voice and tries to take control in exactly the wrong way: "Where is your owner?"
"You're looking at her. I was widowed, unfortunately, and he left me to myself in the will. Wouldn't have held up here I suspect, but he had moved us to Amsterdam and they let me be declared an autonomous citizen. Those rights come with me when I'm here on vacation, and I want to use them to buy a new husband."
You could hear a pin drop. I've seen a lot and learned a lot over the years, but this is the first time I've seen the manager completely at a loss for words. Something I don't fully understand makes me wink at the customer, and she smiles.
"I'll make it easy," she says, "I want that one." She points right at me.
Tommy reluctantly switches back into sales mode, shoulders straightening and big fake smile dawning on his face.
"Oh, you want a DT54? They're getting to be a little obsolete, if you want to see -"
"No." She cuts him off, just like that. He has to hate having a robot talk to him like that. "No, I want that one. Specifically."
"Ma'am," the manager starts before pausing to wonder if that's even the correct way to address product, "That's an old display model. It's been heavily used."
"I don't care if the warranty has run, boys. I like a man who's been around the block." And she winks back at me. Oh, my.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Daily Story 53: Kids These Days
An arm reaches through the bars, groping madly and causing the black-clad man to step backwards. It continues to flail, grey skin splitting in one spot and dripping lumps of congealed blood.
"Muuuuhn!" the owner of the arm hollers. The man in black sighs, rubs his goatee with a gloved hand. I can already tell I don't like him, but that's true of most people that I meet these days. He moves on to the next cell, and behind him the arm stops pawing at the air. It hangs there, bobbing up and down uncertainly as if trying to remember why it was reaching out at all. A fingernail drops off.
"Is this all you have?" The man asks.
"Muuuhn! Hhn!" the owner of the arm yells in response.
I can already tell how this conversation is going to go, and I don't feel like having it - but times are tough. This guy is looking around with total disdain, and I caught him eyeballing me too, probably wants me to be wearing a bloody apron and an eyepatch. My flannel shirt and jeans offend him.
"No, not all. These are just samples. Is there something specific you're looking for?"
He's rubbing his goatee again. I want to pin him down and shave it off.
"Well," the pretentious moron says, "these are so... old fashioned." He says it with a sneer, of course, because clearly the concept of wearing all black is a revolutionary concept.
"Hoooon," the owner of the arm keens.
"They're so slow, so stupid. I want modern zombies, the kind that can chase someone down and open doors." Just like I thought. Classless. I beckon, and he follows me behind the counter into the back room where I point him at another cell. The man in black steps closer, and in an instant the occupant slams into the bars, straining to grab that goatee'd face and pull it in. Rather than grey rotting skin it's pale and yellowish, with red sores where it looks like skin has been picked off. The body is twitchy, never stopping, face contorting in mindless pain and confusion. The dark eyes that peer out of its sunken face are beady and sinister, darting back and forth with unfocused malice.
"Yes... more like that." He's smiling now, the stupid bastard, and I take him back out front to charge him. I want to explain it to him, want him to understand that what he sees in movies these days aren't real zombies because real zombies are an art. They shamble onwards, relentlessly, a symbol of mortality. That's why they're scary; they represent death itself. If you make them fast, make them smart, you take away their true horror. He would complain that they aren't effective but if you're looking for maximum damage zombies aren't what you want anyway. You want a suitcase nuke.
The power of the zombie is that the survivors - because yes, there will be survivors - have had their illusions of safety stolen, their town destroyed, and have most likely had to kill a former loved one in self-defense. That's evil. Real evil, not this pathetic corporate-sponsored half-assed villainy you get nowadays. I want to tell him all this, but instead I ask for his credit card number. He pays, with an American Express Business card belonging to "Worldwide Domination, LLC", and I have Igor crate up his purchase.
He follows Igor out, stroking his chin growth, and I find myself wondering yet again if it isn't time to retire to a nice volcanic island somewhere. Carve out a lair shaped like a skull, maybe set up a tourist trap.
"Muuuungh!" the display zombie yells, waving an arm out at the sound of the door shutting.
"Calm down, friend," I say, "just wait until he gets home and realizes I sold him that meth addict that's been hanging around behind the store."
"Muuuuhn!" the owner of the arm hollers. The man in black sighs, rubs his goatee with a gloved hand. I can already tell I don't like him, but that's true of most people that I meet these days. He moves on to the next cell, and behind him the arm stops pawing at the air. It hangs there, bobbing up and down uncertainly as if trying to remember why it was reaching out at all. A fingernail drops off.
"Is this all you have?" The man asks.
"Muuuhn! Hhn!" the owner of the arm yells in response.
I can already tell how this conversation is going to go, and I don't feel like having it - but times are tough. This guy is looking around with total disdain, and I caught him eyeballing me too, probably wants me to be wearing a bloody apron and an eyepatch. My flannel shirt and jeans offend him.
"No, not all. These are just samples. Is there something specific you're looking for?"
He's rubbing his goatee again. I want to pin him down and shave it off.
"Well," the pretentious moron says, "these are so... old fashioned." He says it with a sneer, of course, because clearly the concept of wearing all black is a revolutionary concept.
"Hoooon," the owner of the arm keens.
"They're so slow, so stupid. I want modern zombies, the kind that can chase someone down and open doors." Just like I thought. Classless. I beckon, and he follows me behind the counter into the back room where I point him at another cell. The man in black steps closer, and in an instant the occupant slams into the bars, straining to grab that goatee'd face and pull it in. Rather than grey rotting skin it's pale and yellowish, with red sores where it looks like skin has been picked off. The body is twitchy, never stopping, face contorting in mindless pain and confusion. The dark eyes that peer out of its sunken face are beady and sinister, darting back and forth with unfocused malice.
"Yes... more like that." He's smiling now, the stupid bastard, and I take him back out front to charge him. I want to explain it to him, want him to understand that what he sees in movies these days aren't real zombies because real zombies are an art. They shamble onwards, relentlessly, a symbol of mortality. That's why they're scary; they represent death itself. If you make them fast, make them smart, you take away their true horror. He would complain that they aren't effective but if you're looking for maximum damage zombies aren't what you want anyway. You want a suitcase nuke.
The power of the zombie is that the survivors - because yes, there will be survivors - have had their illusions of safety stolen, their town destroyed, and have most likely had to kill a former loved one in self-defense. That's evil. Real evil, not this pathetic corporate-sponsored half-assed villainy you get nowadays. I want to tell him all this, but instead I ask for his credit card number. He pays, with an American Express Business card belonging to "Worldwide Domination, LLC", and I have Igor crate up his purchase.
He follows Igor out, stroking his chin growth, and I find myself wondering yet again if it isn't time to retire to a nice volcanic island somewhere. Carve out a lair shaped like a skull, maybe set up a tourist trap.
"Muuuungh!" the display zombie yells, waving an arm out at the sound of the door shutting.
"Calm down, friend," I say, "just wait until he gets home and realizes I sold him that meth addict that's been hanging around behind the store."
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Daily Story 52: What A Waste
There's a magic trick - a disappearing act - that people try not to think too much about. It's a marvel of engineering, but much like the Vanishing Cabinet trick the audience doesn't really want to hear about the engineering aspects. They want the box they're familiar with, and they want the assistant to step inside and disappear... and then they want to stop thinking about it. Of course, the metaphor falls apart a bit here because the thing disappearing is certainly not a lovely assistant and you absolutely don't want it to ever reappear. But I digress.
On my first flight to Mars, I was stopped by Customs in orbit. This didn't bother me. I had followed all the rules and if some of my passengers had illegal fruits or vegetables that wasn't my problem, it was theirs. They had all signed waivers. What I failed to realize is that several passengers were carrying things far worse than strawberries - though in my case strawberries are pretty terrible since I'm deathly allergic... there I go again. Sorry, back to the story. Where was I... oh, right, one passenger was also wanted by the law and felt certain that this was not a routine customs search but a roadblock set up to capture him.
I was oblivious, cheerfully setting up the docking protocol with customs and not once wondering why there had been a rush on the bathroom. I didn't think for a second that three separate passengers were dumping things into the toilet that didn't belong there. A zero-g toilet is a bit daunting at first, but once you're used to it going to the head really isn't that bad. There's an arm that comes down like a tray table to help you stay seated, and a lot of extra buttons, but in essence it's still a toilet. That first time, though? Having never prepared for this? Terrifying. That feeling of air rushing past your exposed undercarriage is totally foreign - on Earth we have gravity to take care of our waste disposal. You get used to the air flow, like you get used to anything, and you don't stop to wonder about the mechanics of it. And I've digressed again.
Three people went in, dumped items, and ran out. A fourth grabbed some nice young woman by the hair and dragged her into the head with a knife to her throat, screaming that they would never take him alive. This turned out to be correct, but I guess I'll get to that in a second. Sorry. Anyway, I learned about this at the same time as the customs agents and we were all just as shocked as each other because they hadn't been looking for anyone, they really were just checking for fruits and vegetables.
They weren't expecting illegal drugs, which had been dumped. They certainly weren't expecting banned chemicals (being smuggled in to keep outdated machinery running even though it had been declared environmentally unfriendly) which had similarly been dumped. They absolutely were expecting some illegal booze, but wouldn't find it because that, too, had headed down the drain. For myself, I wasn't expecting those items to all end up in the toilet at the same time and have some sort of reaction.
What people don't want to think about is where bodily waste goes. It disappears, like magic, and they're happy about that. Those who have some idea will tell you that the liquid is spewed out into space and the solids are compacted, exposed to the vacuum to sterilize them, and then stored. They're forgetting some things, because like I said nobody wants to think about how that particular trick works. One thing they forget is that the process of separating solid and liquid isn't instant, and so if a few people use the head in rapid succession it all gets to mix. The second is that there's air - it's that gentle flow of air that directs the waste in that zero-gravity environment and it needs to go somewhere too.
We don't throw out air in space, so it gets filtered which is fine if it just contains some ammonia and bacteria but if it's a cloud of corrosive gas from a freak chemical reaction it could do something strange like melt through into a fuel line and dump that into the mix as well. I'm not sure why they put that fuel line there, I tried to ask an engineer once but it turned out he had only designed... there I go. Back to it, I apologize.
So, as the customs officials ran over to negotiate or shoot the guy or whatever, the system that heated and separated the waste kicked on. The toilet seat headed off towards Mars and knocked out a satellite, doing millions of dollars of damages. It was spectacular. It also left a hole in the ceiling, out of which rushed some air. Just some, though, because that poor bastard managed to plug the hole nicely with his body. The air pressure wasn't enough to crumple him and suck him out right away, and the girl got out of the bathroom and slammed the door. The guy lived through this part, at least long enough to see the system back up and vomit compressed blocks of human waste at him. Fast. Not a great way to go.
The real problem for me, of course, was that the filter had melted and for the rest of the flight the whole ship smelled like a giant fart. That's why they... oh, I'm sorry, you just wanted to know my lunch order.
Chili, please.
On my first flight to Mars, I was stopped by Customs in orbit. This didn't bother me. I had followed all the rules and if some of my passengers had illegal fruits or vegetables that wasn't my problem, it was theirs. They had all signed waivers. What I failed to realize is that several passengers were carrying things far worse than strawberries - though in my case strawberries are pretty terrible since I'm deathly allergic... there I go again. Sorry, back to the story. Where was I... oh, right, one passenger was also wanted by the law and felt certain that this was not a routine customs search but a roadblock set up to capture him.
I was oblivious, cheerfully setting up the docking protocol with customs and not once wondering why there had been a rush on the bathroom. I didn't think for a second that three separate passengers were dumping things into the toilet that didn't belong there. A zero-g toilet is a bit daunting at first, but once you're used to it going to the head really isn't that bad. There's an arm that comes down like a tray table to help you stay seated, and a lot of extra buttons, but in essence it's still a toilet. That first time, though? Having never prepared for this? Terrifying. That feeling of air rushing past your exposed undercarriage is totally foreign - on Earth we have gravity to take care of our waste disposal. You get used to the air flow, like you get used to anything, and you don't stop to wonder about the mechanics of it. And I've digressed again.
Three people went in, dumped items, and ran out. A fourth grabbed some nice young woman by the hair and dragged her into the head with a knife to her throat, screaming that they would never take him alive. This turned out to be correct, but I guess I'll get to that in a second. Sorry. Anyway, I learned about this at the same time as the customs agents and we were all just as shocked as each other because they hadn't been looking for anyone, they really were just checking for fruits and vegetables.
They weren't expecting illegal drugs, which had been dumped. They certainly weren't expecting banned chemicals (being smuggled in to keep outdated machinery running even though it had been declared environmentally unfriendly) which had similarly been dumped. They absolutely were expecting some illegal booze, but wouldn't find it because that, too, had headed down the drain. For myself, I wasn't expecting those items to all end up in the toilet at the same time and have some sort of reaction.
What people don't want to think about is where bodily waste goes. It disappears, like magic, and they're happy about that. Those who have some idea will tell you that the liquid is spewed out into space and the solids are compacted, exposed to the vacuum to sterilize them, and then stored. They're forgetting some things, because like I said nobody wants to think about how that particular trick works. One thing they forget is that the process of separating solid and liquid isn't instant, and so if a few people use the head in rapid succession it all gets to mix. The second is that there's air - it's that gentle flow of air that directs the waste in that zero-gravity environment and it needs to go somewhere too.
We don't throw out air in space, so it gets filtered which is fine if it just contains some ammonia and bacteria but if it's a cloud of corrosive gas from a freak chemical reaction it could do something strange like melt through into a fuel line and dump that into the mix as well. I'm not sure why they put that fuel line there, I tried to ask an engineer once but it turned out he had only designed... there I go. Back to it, I apologize.
So, as the customs officials ran over to negotiate or shoot the guy or whatever, the system that heated and separated the waste kicked on. The toilet seat headed off towards Mars and knocked out a satellite, doing millions of dollars of damages. It was spectacular. It also left a hole in the ceiling, out of which rushed some air. Just some, though, because that poor bastard managed to plug the hole nicely with his body. The air pressure wasn't enough to crumple him and suck him out right away, and the girl got out of the bathroom and slammed the door. The guy lived through this part, at least long enough to see the system back up and vomit compressed blocks of human waste at him. Fast. Not a great way to go.
The real problem for me, of course, was that the filter had melted and for the rest of the flight the whole ship smelled like a giant fart. That's why they... oh, I'm sorry, you just wanted to know my lunch order.
Chili, please.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Daily Story 51: Suzanne's Cover
It's morning again, and I feel cold and damp and adrift somehow. For the first time in what feels like forever I'm at the counter of Tom's Restaurant on the corner of Broadway and 112th, and while I tell myself it was just a convenient place to get my morning caffeine some part of me feels like I should be meeting someone here. Instead I can't even seem to get the attention of the guy behind the counter, though he eventually sloshes some lukewarm coffee into my cup.
It's barely halfway full, and I want to say something but he's already distracted by the sight of some woman walking towards the door. She marches in, a gust of November air following her and scattering drops of rain across the floor, and the man puts the coffee pot down so that he can lean over the counter to greet her, telling her how it's always so nice to see her and kissing both of her cheeks while she shakes off her umbrella and gets even more water on the floor.
I feel awkward, like I've walked in on this somehow, and rather than be caught staring or interrupt to point out that my coffee mug isn't nearly filled I reach for the milk and pour some in, trying not to pour enough for a full cup out of habit.
Someone left a section of newspaper on the counter, and I flip through idly. There's a story of some actor named William Holden, who apparently died from falling down in a drunken stupor. Should I know who William Holden was? It doesn't feel right somehow that the only thing I know of this guy is that he drank too much. That he fell down and died alone in his apartment. I try to distract myself from this by flipping through and scanning for any comics. I don't find any.
I'm just starting to read the horoscopes, not bothering to begin with mine, when I look up and see a lady out in the rain facing into Tom's, watching me. For just an instant I think she's you but then I realize that she's not even really watching me. It's nobody I know, just some woman checking herself in her reflection. Completely oblivious to me. For the second time this morning I find myself feeling like a voyeur as I watch her hitching up her skirt to adjust her stockings. I try not to stare, I feel certain that any moment now her eyes will refocus and she'll see me beyond the window. Instead she just gives her stockings another yank; umbrella tilting as she does and allowing the rain to drizzle down into her hair and soak it.
Down the street at the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine the bells are ringing. I can almost hear your voice, whispering to me at midnight on the steps, the two of us eating and laughing and looking up at the cathedral looming above. I force myself back to the present, and I see that the woman outside has walked away, heading somewhere. I should be going too - I have a train to catch. I finish my coffee and drop some change on the counter almost telling the man to have a nice day but changing my mind at the last minute.
At the door I hesitate, waiting for something to stop me, to make me stay. My hand is just resting on the door, cold and wet, and somehow I know this rain is going to keep coming all day.
It's barely halfway full, and I want to say something but he's already distracted by the sight of some woman walking towards the door. She marches in, a gust of November air following her and scattering drops of rain across the floor, and the man puts the coffee pot down so that he can lean over the counter to greet her, telling her how it's always so nice to see her and kissing both of her cheeks while she shakes off her umbrella and gets even more water on the floor.
I feel awkward, like I've walked in on this somehow, and rather than be caught staring or interrupt to point out that my coffee mug isn't nearly filled I reach for the milk and pour some in, trying not to pour enough for a full cup out of habit.
Someone left a section of newspaper on the counter, and I flip through idly. There's a story of some actor named William Holden, who apparently died from falling down in a drunken stupor. Should I know who William Holden was? It doesn't feel right somehow that the only thing I know of this guy is that he drank too much. That he fell down and died alone in his apartment. I try to distract myself from this by flipping through and scanning for any comics. I don't find any.
I'm just starting to read the horoscopes, not bothering to begin with mine, when I look up and see a lady out in the rain facing into Tom's, watching me. For just an instant I think she's you but then I realize that she's not even really watching me. It's nobody I know, just some woman checking herself in her reflection. Completely oblivious to me. For the second time this morning I find myself feeling like a voyeur as I watch her hitching up her skirt to adjust her stockings. I try not to stare, I feel certain that any moment now her eyes will refocus and she'll see me beyond the window. Instead she just gives her stockings another yank; umbrella tilting as she does and allowing the rain to drizzle down into her hair and soak it.
Down the street at the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine the bells are ringing. I can almost hear your voice, whispering to me at midnight on the steps, the two of us eating and laughing and looking up at the cathedral looming above. I force myself back to the present, and I see that the woman outside has walked away, heading somewhere. I should be going too - I have a train to catch. I finish my coffee and drop some change on the counter almost telling the man to have a nice day but changing my mind at the last minute.
At the door I hesitate, waiting for something to stop me, to make me stay. My hand is just resting on the door, cold and wet, and somehow I know this rain is going to keep coming all day.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Daily Story 50: Subversive Submission
"I presume you've come to assassinate me?" Dran (aka Doctor Dran Millnus, aka The Overlord, aka The Enlightened One) smiled as he asked, offering me a flute of wine that would certainly be swimming with the virus. I took it and placed it on the table next to me.
"Yes. Though that's not how my superiors would word it."
He laughed, sitting down on an overstuffed chair and sighing.
"No, of course not. You're the savior of mankind, here to preserve free will and prevent the enslavement of humanity."
I nodded. That was about right. Dran took a long sip from his wine, his smile fading somewhat.
"There's nothing I can say to talk you out of it, is there? I'm not a monster, you know."
I didn't answer, instead walking over to the balcony and looking at the countryside below. It was quiet, beautiful. In the distance I could see villagers raising a barn up together.
"I have concerns about the arts and sciences."
Dran stood and looked out at the town alongside me, now serious and businesslike.
"It's not a result of my virus, not directly. Everyone is as creative as they were before. With so much less conflict, though... well, war was always a driving force for technology and depression was a driving force for art."
I believed him. He was careful, thorough, and while my superiors had told me it was all lies I knew he didn't want mindless drones.
"I've been monitoring things very closely," he continued. "The virus is already dying out everywhere, with no signs of mutation. The only holdouts are the two of us and your masters. My commandos are all dead or infected, and they breached all of the other vaults beside the Americans. I came so close to my perfect world, until you found me."
He clutched the locket around his neck. My training causes me to tense, worried that it’s some sort of compact weapon or trigger for a bomb - but from my research I think it's more likely that it just contains pictures of his late wife.
"You're wrong, on a few counts. Your men failed to compromise Great Britton or China - that was my team, under orders from the President."
His face fell. "So they look to do what they accuse me of. I suppose that means you aren't here looking for an antidote."
"Not even if you had made one - and we both know you didn't."
He nodded, and sat back down. His eyes were rimmed with red. "So close, and yet so far. Now your masters will rule over the people with fear and hate... the people that I made submissive and kind. They'll be bullies, taking what they want."
"No, they won't. The other way you were wrong is to think my superiors are uninfected. I contaminated the water myself, and made sure it went undetected long enough to reach every leader and soldier. I believe you, Dran. I believe you have good intentions."
His eyes went wide as he felt the bullet tear through him. Poor bastard.
"I believe you, but I don't trust you. I have to be sure. Before you die, let me show you one last thing, my friend."
Pulling off my helmet, I take the wine glass from the table.
"Cheers."
"Yes. Though that's not how my superiors would word it."
He laughed, sitting down on an overstuffed chair and sighing.
"No, of course not. You're the savior of mankind, here to preserve free will and prevent the enslavement of humanity."
I nodded. That was about right. Dran took a long sip from his wine, his smile fading somewhat.
"There's nothing I can say to talk you out of it, is there? I'm not a monster, you know."
I didn't answer, instead walking over to the balcony and looking at the countryside below. It was quiet, beautiful. In the distance I could see villagers raising a barn up together.
"I have concerns about the arts and sciences."
Dran stood and looked out at the town alongside me, now serious and businesslike.
"It's not a result of my virus, not directly. Everyone is as creative as they were before. With so much less conflict, though... well, war was always a driving force for technology and depression was a driving force for art."
I believed him. He was careful, thorough, and while my superiors had told me it was all lies I knew he didn't want mindless drones.
"I've been monitoring things very closely," he continued. "The virus is already dying out everywhere, with no signs of mutation. The only holdouts are the two of us and your masters. My commandos are all dead or infected, and they breached all of the other vaults beside the Americans. I came so close to my perfect world, until you found me."
He clutched the locket around his neck. My training causes me to tense, worried that it’s some sort of compact weapon or trigger for a bomb - but from my research I think it's more likely that it just contains pictures of his late wife.
"You're wrong, on a few counts. Your men failed to compromise Great Britton or China - that was my team, under orders from the President."
His face fell. "So they look to do what they accuse me of. I suppose that means you aren't here looking for an antidote."
"Not even if you had made one - and we both know you didn't."
He nodded, and sat back down. His eyes were rimmed with red. "So close, and yet so far. Now your masters will rule over the people with fear and hate... the people that I made submissive and kind. They'll be bullies, taking what they want."
"No, they won't. The other way you were wrong is to think my superiors are uninfected. I contaminated the water myself, and made sure it went undetected long enough to reach every leader and soldier. I believe you, Dran. I believe you have good intentions."
His eyes went wide as he felt the bullet tear through him. Poor bastard.
"I believe you, but I don't trust you. I have to be sure. Before you die, let me show you one last thing, my friend."
Pulling off my helmet, I take the wine glass from the table.
"Cheers."
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