Daily Story 15: Different Kinds of Magic

Clockwork, part 1 of 6

I remember... being five years old and entering the city for the first time.

I held father's rough hand tightly, sure I would be lost in the flow of people, more than I knew existed. I had only seen my father's farm before then, with its overgrown stock pens and dried-up fields. My old life had ended just that morning when he interrupted the imaginary battle I was commanding in the empty barn and asked me to be brave.

When we reached the town square it was just as father had described it - the different guilds had set up tents and booths and parents were taking their children around to each. Several of the parents were crying - father wasn't one of them, but he had the same expression on his face that he had when he visited my mother's grave. I didn't cry either, both because he had asked me to be brave and because he had told me that even if the farm had been prosperous he would have wanted me to do something greater. At five, I could hardly imagine anything greater than working on a farm and was eager to find out what he meant.

We walked up to the first tent, the only one that was mandatory, and ducked inside to meet the monks.
"Remember what I told you," father said, looking more serious that I had ever seen him. "I believe that the almighty gods have given you a gift, and I want you to show it to these men."
I nodded, and turned towards the table where the monks had placed two finely polished planks of wood. Each had a strange symbol carved into it, and on one of the planks it gave off a faint green light. As they directed, I reached out and laid a hand on the unlit symbol... they told me to concentrate, to imagine the energy of my soul flowing out of me into the carved lines. I closed my eyes and took deep breaths, and after five minutes the monks shook their heads and told me to go. I cried, asked them if I could have another chance, but the monks dismissed us.

Ignoring the other tables my father took me directly to the one set up by the clockmakers. They said that a five-year-old would never be able to pass their test, but my father insisted and so they placed two boxes in front of me. The box on the right had a lid that covered all but a crank and a small wheel, and the box on the left looked the same but with no lid. Nothing connected the crank and wheel in the open box, and I laughed as I realized that this was the same test as the monks - make the magic flow in yours like it does in ours. The clockmakers flipped over a timer, but before even half the sand had made its way to the bottom bulb I had sorted through the nearby pile of gears and cogs and was able to have my wheel spin the same direction and speed as the example. Curious, they presented me with harder and harder tests until they had no more to give.

When I had said goodbye to my father for the last time and had settled into my tiny room in the clockmakers guild, I pulled the pocketknife from my belt and carved a symbol into the wall from memory. With barely a glance it flared to life, casting a greenish glow through the cramped space. As I would so many times in years to come I thought about what my father had told me before we arrived at the city.

"You have a gift from the almighty gods, son. That gift is intelligence, cunning, trickiness. Very few can light the runes, but those that do have no choice in life; they must be monks, forever - and that would be a terrible waste of your talent. When we enter the tent I want you to show your true gift, the gift of your cleverness. Do you understand?"

With another thought I extinguished the rune, and went to bed.

Part Two
Part Three

Daily Story 14: Ode to the Swine Flu

Once upon a time there was a young boy working as a shepherd. He would watch the sheep all day, and become very bored. What he enjoyed most of all was when the sheep would run around in a panic - and nobody could really fault him for that because seriously, it was hilarious. So the boy would run through the field yelling something to make them flip out - like "the Y2K bug is coming!" which worked pretty well to get them riled up - and he recorded it and uploaded it to YouTube.

"Wait. Why would a sheep be afraid of the Y2K bug?"

Well, all the shearing to collect the wool was done by robots, and the sheep were afraid that the robots would go crazy and kill them or something, I don't know. Anyway, the year 2000 came and went without any robot attacks and the boy had to find something else. Anthrax worked okay, but he found that the sheep would get into a particularly frothy panic over contagious diseases like SARS and Bird Flu.

"So - just to be clear - the sheep are smart enough to understand things like the Y2K bug but don't know that most diseases that infect humans can't transfer to sheep?"

Well, mister smart-guy, they were so smart because they were genetically engineered sheep, enhanced with human DNA so they could grow organs suitable for use in organ transplants - but that also made them susceptible to human diseases. The wool stuff was just on the side.

"That's some mighty shaky moral ground. They're intelligent and we're cutting them up for organs?"

I don't know. Maybe they were engineered to have extras. So they don't die, they just wake up in a bathtub full of ice like my uncle did when he took that trip to Tijuana. Anyway, after going through West Nile and Swine Flu and everything the sheep started to notice that none of them had been that big of a deal as compared to the other everyday diseases that we've come to expect. So when the boy tried to rile them up with the next thing, Zebra Pox or something, they just rolled their little sheep eyes and went about their business. A month later the Zebra Pox had killed all but one sheep who happened to be immune, and that one committed suicide.

"Wait, what?"

The boy was sad that nobody was watching his YouTube channel anymore, but not for too long because then the Zebra Pox got him too. The end.

"That's terrible! I don't understand, it's like you're going for a 'Boy Who Cried Wolf' angle but... but if he hadn't warned them before about the others...? What, exactly, is the moral here?"

Um... the moral of the story is that some people like to fear-monger for ratings and it's obnoxious, but when it comes to contagious diseases a little bit of fear can be helpful - though that doesn't mean that the fear-mongers are doing it for your benefit, it's more like a coincidence.

"That's not a moral at all, it's just a clumsy observation!"

Yeah, I guess. Whatever. Go to bed, I'm tired of making up stories.

Daily Story 13: Hitching

I feel the bones in my legs splinter apart as I hit the concrete, and before I have a chance to fall down completely I throw the device as hard as I can towards the shocked onlookers. Immediately the world vanishes, replaced by freezing darkness. It only lasts a second and then light explodes around me as I catch the device. I take one last look at the poor bastard with the mangled legs and turn to run.

The first few steps are disastrous and I nearly fall before realizing I'm wearing high heels. I kick them free and run as fast as I can. My breasts are flopping all over, my bra isn’t exactly made for this. I press one arm against my chest and that helps, but really I need to be a man again, preferably one with good shoes.

Making a detour through the park I find a jogger easily enough. He sees the panic on my face and stops, asks me what's wrong - as if on cue, the agents come around the corner behind me, yelling. I press the device into the jogger's hand. "Take this, quickly!" I yell, and the world flickers. I'm running, weaving to keep trees between me and the gunshots that sound so close over my shoulder.

I'm back across the street, once more surrounded by people and buildings. I need to get ahead of them a little further, make some rapid changes so they can't track me. I turn down an alley, see too late that it's a dead end. One of the men turns in after me and I try to grab for his gun but it's not going well, the barrel is slowly creeping towards my face. Desperate, I bite him. He pulls back, just for a moment, and I slip the device down the back of my pants. The man is about to shoot when his partner turns the corner.

"What the hell is going on?" I yell, doing my best to look confused. "How did I get here? Who are you?" I hold up my hands, trying to make it look like I'm cowering in fear but really wanting them to see I'm not holding the device. "I swear to God I don't know anything, some woman ran up to me in the park and next thing I knew I was here!"
There’s no way they can be buying this, but the second agent points his gun at the first - just in case.
"Okay. This is easy to sort out. What's my wife's name?" Shit, there goes my plan.

Wait... The first guy looks nervous. He doesn't know!
"Just, just put the gun down. Here, I'll tell you something else."
"LOOK OUT!" I yell as I point at the first agent. His gun lifts instinctively, agent two panics, and it’s over. I didn't think his trigger finger was that itchy - he must be really scared of me. He turns, shaking, and as he looks to see if anyone on the street is going to investigate the noise I take his partner's fallen gun and put two rounds through him. So, you know, I guess maybe he did have a reason to be scared.

For the first time since escaping I think maybe I'll make it. I'll hop from person to person until I reach the West coast, live on the beach where it's all water and light and I can forget the icy void on the other side of the device.

Daily Story 12: Damage Control

Suddenly Uriel felt the universe twist around him, pulling him apart in a searing white light. He collapsed on the ground, panting. The building was gone. The city was gone. "Sealtiel? I think it just happened again. Everything is different."
The voice replied from the air itself. "Confirmed. Are you okay?"
"I think. It hurts like... wait! Check now, that might have been him returning!"
"Yes! Got him!” He sighed in relief. “I'm feeding you the coordinates, hurry!"
Uriel stepped through space - folding reality somehow making the pain of the previous incident vanish – and found himself in the desert somewhere, looking at a battered AMC Gremlin with a strange device built into it. Fanning out his ethereal wings, Uriel confronted the man standing by the car.

Aaron froze, staring at Uriel with his mouth hanging open. "Be not afraid," Uriel said, "I am an angel of the Lord sent to warn you of the consequences of your actions. You must not travel through time."
Aaron recovered somewhat and arched an eyebrow at Uriel. "An angel? Right. What are you, another time traveler?"
"No! Listen, what you are doing is completely ruining the afterlife. Every time you alter history we get everyone a second time, all at once. We have duplicates, we have people who aren't on the books, it’s chaos. This isn't just some stupid paperwork problem, I'm talking about literally a hundred billion souls showing up out of nowhere. Hell has been completely overrun, and Purgatory is packed so tight they're crushing each other - even though we closed Purgatory years ago and emptied it out! I'm already not sure that we can recover, and every time you mess with the timeline it gets worse!"
"If you're really an angel that means there's really a God. Let him fix it."
Uriel shook his head. "I think maybe you went back far enough that we ended up with a few extra Jesuses. Jesii? Whatever. Assimilating them all at once without warning seems to have damaged the system."
"The 'system'?" he snorted, "What, is God a computer?"
"No, don't be stupid. It's complicated, the Yesod node crashed, and... look, the point is that He's not responding, our connection is down. I need you to just listen to me and stop what you're doing."
There was a seemingly endless pause, and then Aaron jumped into the seat of the time machine. Uriel reached instinctively for his flaming sword before remembering that it was wedged into the Pearly Gates to hold them shut against the massive sea of souls waiting for entry. "Target is confirmed and hostile - I need an immediate level three smite!" Aaron started flipping switches faster, the machine humming to life.
"NOW NOW NOW!"

Uriel blinked to clear his vision as the flash faded, and was relieved to see the time machine was still there. He walked forward cautiously and opened the door, revealing a squirming pile of beetles on the seat.
"The target has been contained. Send a strike team to Hell to retrieve his soul, we'll need to interrogate him to see how he did this. I want to stop the next one before it gets this far."
"Uriel, this is Sealtiel. We have God online, He says the time travel thing is a hole in the Netzach node but He'd have to reinstall everything below Beri'ah from scratch to patch it. The gates gave out twenty minutes ago, this place is a mess... and there's no guarantee that we'll catch the next guy before it happens again. It's above my pay grade, but if I had to guess I’d say they'll go for the wipe."

Uriel sighed and kicked impotently at a rock. All of that work for nothing. The angel of the Lord looked out across creation and mourned for it as the beetles wandered away from the machine into the desert.

Daily Story 11: Sleeping In

Hello, Mr. Slate - it's an honor to finally meet the first human to enter cryostasis! I know that you had agreed to go under for a year as proof of concept, with Cryo-1 paying you upon revival based on your salary as janitor... however it’s been a bit more than a year.

A clause in the contract said the cryostasis could be extended in case of emergency - and 'emergency' was defined rather broadly. First it was extended to avoid negative PR during a political backlash against cryostasis firms due to some unfortunate deaths - those same deaths caused some new regulations and Cryo-1's funding dried up. They determined that they were unable to pay your agreed-upon salary without causing 'financial harm' to the company, and extended it further until the company became more profitable. They stumbled on for several more years before going under.

All property was confiscated and remained in storage while various creditors fought over anything of value. The few other cryostasis patients who had not been moved to a different facility by relatives were adopted by creditors because they still generated income. You were a debt only, so you remained in storage long after the office furniture and electronics were taken. Eventually you were moved to a government-run museum, because nobody was legally allowed to revive you and you did, after all, have historical value - plus you were taking up space. The museum went private later, then closed entirely.

Several exhibits, including yourself, were sold to a traveling circus. The circus eventually broke down on Mars, and the owner couldn't afford to fix the ship. The members of the circus (who already hadn't been paid in some time) stole and sold off everything at the flea market. You remained in a private citizen's home for years, until the family decided to sign up for the arkship and start a new life on the frontier. They were attached to you, the children had grown up hanging their coats on you, and so they used valuable 'personal item' space to bring you along - but upon arrival the immigration officials pointed out that you were, in essence, another colonist.

Not having been approved for colonization, you were shipped back. This timing proved to be fortunate, as the Great War started during the trip to the frontier and was over by the time you returned. With no one left to lay claim, you ended up in the lost luggage office for the next ten years – sort of a mascot for the employees. When TransGalactic folded all lost luggage was auctioned off in bulk. The company that bought it was UniCorp, and when the CEO learned what they had he propped you up in his office.

That's where I come in. My father worked for TransGalactic and told me about you seven years ago, and I've spent my time since then learning your story. I almost went to UniCorp's CEO four years back when I found out you had ended up there, but I waited, and consulted some lawyers. I didn't want you to be stuck there, and I didn't want you to be unfrozen and thrown out on the street. I laid out all the legal framework in a hypothetical context so UniCorp wouldn't be able to fight back until it was too late, and then I confronted them out of the blue with your original contract and a judge's letter saying they had inherited the responsibility and terms of your employment… adjusted for inflation, with interest.

It’s a good time to be awake, sir.

Daily Story 10: Erosion Revisited

This is a continuation of a previous story, Erosion, because I guess it wasn't depressing enough yet.

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I can look at the surface of the universe and see my funhouse reflection from the other side twenty feet away, getting darker on each recursion as light is erased; reflections turning into shadows and then nothing at all. There were walls here once, and beds. It was always cramped but there was a zero-gravity exercise station and a big air recycler. And air to recycle. We wear our environmental suits now, the same ones we wore before leaving the timeline, and the speakers in my helmet giggle - Jeremy's endless laughter like white noise, comforting. In the center of our little spherical universe, strapped to a support beam left over from when there was something to support, there is a large box with a power plant, a control panel, and a hollow rectangular chamber just barely big enough for both of us, though it has something more important in it - a metal cylinder destined for the year 2003, the year I'll never be born in.

The universe is my Aunt's indoor garden, inside the decorative mirrored ball. Aunt Lilly will come and let us out soon, bring us sandwiches and lemonade; she was always great about that. Sudden silence wakes me and I don't have an Aunt Lilly ever anymore. I'm dreaming without closing my eyes, I think that it's been happening a lot lately. Jeremy is staring at a blinking green light: Fully charged. He isn't laughing, and he's not hitting the button. I should say something, do something, but I can't remember how. It's in my head, but I haven't talked in forever and haven't moved since the day the walls gave out and I pressed my bare hand up against that black surface. My palm still feels raw. Jeremy just laughed and made a joke, pulled me away and put my suit on for me and tied me to the beam. The three of us were always a good team, when there were three of us.

Instead of the control panel he’s hunched over Samantha, lying on the ground like she was that day, her helmet off because it doesn’t matter anymore. Past her I can see all the way to the rotting skyline I left behind. Jeremy is in the same position he was when the control panel was there, staring not at the green light but at the tear in her suit. We’re all crying, but Samantha’s tears are starting to turn pink and I know they'll be red soon. I want to hold her while she dies like I did before, but I'm still frozen. It's just a dream, a hallucination, a memory - a memory everyone in this universe shares, of something that will never happen to someone who was never born. Who should have been with us outside of time, dropping off the care packages while our bubble got smaller. She's shaking now, and I know she's dying, dying a second time because the memory of her is dying. This time I can save her. I can throw away the cylinder and we can drop ourselves back into time, Jeremy and me and Samantha's memory. She's lifting her arms, begging. That must be what she wants. It must be. I reach towards her, I need to take her hand but it's gone. Gone. Where Samantha's trembling hand was a second ago is the button, depressed by my outstretched fingers. The little green light is dark like the shrinking edges of the universe.

Jeremy hugs me, holding me like I held Samantha, and I can't tell if he's laughing or crying.

Daily Story 9: Shub's Lament

The creature before me was impossible, its very form breaking all laws of physics. Writhing, pulsating tentacles covered with eyes like sores wrapped around the pillars of the ancient temple, pillars that somehow didn't line up properly with the walls in some nauseating display of non-Euclidean geometry. The untold number of dripping maws opened and out poured a vile language of pain and insanity, every syllable threatening to tear reality asunder and snap my fragile human mind. My training had made me somewhat more than human, however, and after only the briefest pause I had translated the hideous sounds.

"Yes please," I replied, "two lumps."
One calloused, dripping feeler reached out of the mass balancing a teacup on its saucer as another lifted sugar cubes out of a matching dish - thankfully using small tongs to avoid covering the sugar with poison ichor. I noted that each sugar cube somehow had seven sides and three corners. Odd. I lifted the saucer and cup off of the unholy appendage and stirred it, impressed by the paper-thin china with its delicate pale blue pattern depicting flowers, stylized animals, and runes of ancient and unspeakable power. The tea was Earl Grey. "Delicious, madam. Please go on."

Once more violating the air my client continued, pausing only to cover several hundred foul orifices with Kleenex and emit a phlegmy blast of toxic gas. I listened, took notes, and finally stood to leave.
"Madam, I assure you I will do everything in my power to locate your child. I understand how worried you are since the tyke is only several millennia old, but chances are he was just summoned to Earth by deranged cultists. This happens all the time, and generally they stumble back within a hundred years or so with nothing worse than a tummy ache."
The godless temple was filled with the sound of a thousand nails on a chalkboard formed of pure misery.
"You're most welcome! I'll just hang on to his photo for now," I said, patting the album bound in the skin of an extinct race, "and let you know as soon as I find out more. Just hang in there - remember you have nine hundred and ninety-nine other children to look after Mrs. Niggurath."

I put the tea cup down and started towards the exit, knowing I would need to make some discreet inquiries at the local bar where all the... er...
Stopping my badass private-detective inner monologue, I turn back to my client.
"Madam... I think the front door is in a direction that doesn't exist. Is there possibly a back way out?"

Daily Story 8: Lucidity

My sister looks tired. She has bags under her eyes, dark circles that tell the world she isn't getting enough sleep. She's smiling though, she's always so careful to smile when she talks to me because she knows it's not my fault that this happened. She's asking what I want for dinner tonight so I tell her the little German woodwind guys, but her eyebrows scrunch up into her I-don't-understand face. I feel like I was clear and concise, but I've learned to trust her. I try to rewind the conversation in my head and focus on her question. This time I ask for a hamburger, and she gives a thumbs-up before heading into the kitchen, carpet blooming into flowers behind her.

There are no flowers, I know that and a second look confirms it. They lease fences to contain the flowers though, and... no, that thought doesn't even make sense. I get up and head to the treadmill so I can work out some and force my body to wake up a little. Hopefully I can stay clear long enough to have an actual conversation with my sister over dinner. The readout on the treadmill says something indistinct about french fries the first time I look at it, but it's okay after that. Why was I thinking about french fries? I wonder if we're having hamburgers for dinner, that could explain it. I seem to remember talking to my sister about hamburgers a few minutes ago, but I don't see her now so that might not have been real.

She comes into the room after I've been running for about ten minutes, and she leans on the treadmill. She's not smiling as much now because she can tell I'm awake and so she's less worried about getting frustrated and hurting my feelings. I ask her about her day, and she tells me it was boring. I ask if the check has come in, and that's when I know what's causing the dark circles. She doesn't answer, but her lips tighten and she glares at nothing with her I'll-cut-you face. I ask her what happened, and she tells me that the check isn't coming. The company that made the defective implant ("A miracle cure for insomnia! Like a pacemaker for sleep! Never spend a night staring at the ceiling again!") has gone under, and they won't be paying the court-ordered settlement. I'll still get government disability checks once the paperwork goes through, but that's it. I stop the treadmill and crush her in a bear hug, and I know she needs it because she doesn't complain about the sweat from my workout. I'm wondering how bad the waves outside are for a second before I remember we're not on a boat, but I don't think I missed anything. She's just quiet, letting me squeeze her.

We sit down to eat our hamburgers and I'm feeling mostly lucid. I'm forming memories for sure, and there are no hallucinations, though my background thoughts are wandering. I tell her that she looks like crap, and I suggest that if she's not sleeping she should get one of those new anti-insomnia implants. She tries to give me her that's-not-funny look, but can't help laughing. I watch her stick her tongue out at me and I'm relieved, I know that things will work out somehow and we'll both be just fine as long as the red things on the couch aren't sleeping while the battered old hat floats away on that curling tide.

Daily Story 7: Uncharted Territory

White Hat Fabbers came through not too long ago, driving supports into the Earth and making structural webs for the buildings. I can't say for sure but it feels like they hit us just in time; some of the piles around here were swaying awfully bad, and the layers further down had started to shift and compact. The White Hats were nice enough guys, and they let me have a copy of the deep-scans they took to assess the situation. Since then I've gone down five times, down all the way to where there are still some streets from before the Fabbers, streets with traffic lights and trash cans and even a few cars, and below that subway tunnels just like in old movies.

I found a store - an actual store - full of things that had been made without Fabbers. They had to be made by giant old machines, or by hand, or from wood grown on actual trees. I found money there too, which still blows my mind - I can't even imagine how society functioned on little scraps of paper. Ever since the first time someone Fabbed a house on top of mine I wondered - what if I stayed where I was instead of Fabbing somewhere higher up? I didn't, of course, I threw up a new place on top of the pile like everyone does - but what if I had stayed? I started going down after that, down a few levels at a time. Just to look. The first time I dropped below two thousand feet and saw that I was standing on a floor made out of pre-Fabber materials, the top of some old "Sky Scraper", I was hooked. I couldn't find plans for a good enough scanner though and I was scared, so when the White Hats gave me the files - scans all the way down to that pocket of empty air above the old streets - it was a dream come true.

I showed an old doll to my friends but they tossed it into the Fabber to prove some sort of point, because they didn't understand what I was trying to tell them. I was too slow and before I could stop them there was a pile of twenty of the things, identical bearded old men with funny red outfits. They tried to hand one back to me when they saw I was upset, but of course there wasn't any way to say if it was the right one. That confused them more than ever - if there was no way to tell, why did I care? After that my trips got longer. I stopped calling them, though they probably didn't notice. They have other friends. I've been down for three weeks this time, and last night I Fabbed some raw meat and cooked it over an actual fire. I have a shelter I built with my own bare hands, it's not very stable but it hasn't fallen down yet. I taught myself how to read street signs so I could find it again, and I walked all the way to what I think used to be the ocean.

The ground drops off there, drops off so far my lights don't reach. There's just support beams stretching off into the blackness, and slimy white things jumping around on the salt. If you listen really closely, you can hear this strange sound - like the wind, but coming and going in a pattern. I know what it is, know that all those feed tubes never reached quite far down enough and somewhere in the deep dark there are still waves. For now the streets are enough, but one day - one day I'm going to build a boat.

Daily Story 6: Unity of Purpose

I think I’m the last one who remembers the day John uploaded his mind into the computer.

It wasn't what he wanted, it wasn't a magical sci-fi transformation into a glorious angel of technology and light; it was just a brain dump. As head of the project he knew it wasn't ready, but the divorce had put a lot of stress on him. When the transfer was complete the human version stepped into his office and tried to catch a bullet with his frontal lobe, and we were back down to just one John - if only for a while.

John in the computer wasn't alive exactly, the technology wasn't really there. He had some of John's personality and memories, but it wasn't the same. If there was some way to give an existing healthy adult autism and Alzheimer’s right after castrating them, you might end up with something close. We monitored him, talked to him. The project continued. After about a year an intern screwed up while setting up a test system, and he copied John. It was a stupid mistake, but once it had happened it felt wrong to try and undo it. Before any real decision could be reached we checked on them and found that the two Johns had started talking. Mostly they went in circles; John had always loved the sound of his voice, loved talking to people who agreed with him. It seemed best to leave them.

When the project was finally finished, they uploaded one John into the prototype. He asked about his double, but we only had the one brain ready and somehow we forgot about it after that in the excitement of production and marketing, last minute tweaks and fixes. I think the other John just stayed around in the system. If we had moved him to a positronic brain would things have happened like they did? Or was it that he was in a brain without a body? We had looked into getting an unused body for John, but there were legal issues so we set that aside for later and told him to have patience.

Immortality is a popular product, and the scientists and executives at the company were no exception. Everyone transferred over, everyone but me. I was always looking towards the next model and kept putting it off. I said I would do it when we hit that magical goal of fifty percent saturation, but we had only replaced forty-eight percent of adults in the country when it happened. We were sending a small firmware update down the tube, just a minor patch that would allow for better file sharing. It loaded into memory and then installed when everyone went to sleep.

They woke up as John.

At this point I think it was the John in the positronic brain and the copy working together, but I don't know. I see them kidnapping others, replacing them. Even children. It happened so quickly nobody could react. My girlfriend had installed the update – she was working the night shift so she found out in time but I couldn't do anything, couldn't get to the lab because they already controlled it. She stayed awake as long as she could, but everyone has limits. She's so beautiful when she sleeps. I'm watching the sun shine through her hair, watching the rise and fall of her chest as she dreams of being John.

Daily Story 5: Where 'G' equals God

Doctor Hastings looked over the whiteboard again, trying to follow his own equation. He put the marker down and rubbed his cramping hand as he traced the dense scribbles once more across the wall, coming to the same conclusion as before. Doctor Meyers walked up alongside him, looking not at the whiteboard but at Hastings' face as he finally accepted what he had done.

"Meyers... I've mathematically proved the existence of God." Hastings expected ridicule, but Meyers just nodded and pointed to another whiteboard across the room. Curious, Hastings walked over and tried to read the equation.
"Okay, it... hmm. You... you seem to have proven that time literally is money."
Meyers nodded again. "I have. Finished a while ago, mine was simpler than yours. Johnson is still working... I can't be sure and I don't want to interrupt him, but I think he's calculating the volume and temperature of hell."
Hastings could already feel a headache coming on. "This isn't possible. This... these aren't things we can be proving like this. I mean, even if God and hell are real we wouldn't have the information we need, and as for time being money in a literal sense..."
"I know, I know. But it appears to be true. Clearly, the basic laws that the universe is built on have been twisted in some way."

Looking like he was in a sort of trance, Doctor Johnson joined the conversation. "Hell has a fascinating system going... the heat is immense, but the weather pattern leaves a sort of ‘eye of the tornado’ and at the center it's close to absolute zero - this actually backs up Dante's earlier findings."
All three nodded sagely, unsure of how to continue.
"So..." Meyers ventured, "Is it the whole universe that has changed, or something in this lab? What have we been working on?"
"My research is all theoretical," Hastings said, "and yours is still within ranges other labs have produced."
Meyers shrugged. "Well then, what are you working on, Johnson?"
Johnson pondered this for a moment. "Airborne dispersal of psychotropic drugs."
Hastings laughed. "That's not even remotely based on physics! Well then, we have to assume that it's the whole universe instead of just us. Also, have you guys ever looked at your hands? I mean, really looked at them?"

The scientists were forced to admit they had not.

Daily Story 4: Erosion

This one was originally published earlier this month at 365 Tomorrows.

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Entropy gnaws at the walls, shaving them away molecule by molecule. Jeremy calls it the Nothing, after some story that never existed anymore. It’s as good a name as any - certainly I’m not being scientific when I call it Entropy.

“The Nothing is hungry today,” he says cheerfully, looking at the readouts. It’s a nonlinear progression, so some days Entropy eats more of our home than others. More or less, but it always ate. There are never days that it leaves us alone. Each day Jeremy plugs the new numbers in and gives our odds of finishing the job before the walls fade out. “Down a few points today, mate,” he calls today as he drifts by, gravity a fading memory, “we’re sitting at twenty-three point two-one percent.”

The problem was that to fix the timeline properly we needed to make multiple adjustments - but the first change would overwrite us. That meant leaving the timeline entirely and making the changes from the outside. We’re up to 1971 now, and the projections require us to drop some of the specially-designed care packages in ‘86, ‘90, and ‘03. The reality the projections were based on doesn’t exist anymore, so we can’t be sure how accurate they are.

“Almost charged,” Jeremy chirps, smiling as usual. He might be going insane from the isolation, but at least it’s the good kind of crazy. It might help if I talked to him, but somehow I can’t. That probably means I’m going insane too. “We’ll be able to make another drop in twelve hours. Just three more after that!” He says three because he wants to believe we’ll have time to drop ourselves back in too, but I can hear Entropy eating away at our bubble, eating but never full.

I can’t really hear it. I know there’s nothing to hear, just like I know that it isn’t a sentient thing, isn’t actually hungry or even aware. But thinking of it like that, crazy or not, is better than the truth that pulls at my sanity. It’s not alive because it doesn’t exist. It’s not even the vacuum of space, it’s the lack of existence that persists outside of time. I’m willing to die to save humanity from extinction but I can’t stop thinking that when the walls finally don’t exist anymore even my soul will vanish, forgotten by reality itself.

Daily Story 3: An Ounce of Prevention

Bradley Harris appears with a sound like an earthquake in a bowling alley, his clothes steaming. Changes to inertia are compensated for but not internal pressure - the minuscule difference is enough to make him clutch his ears in pain as fresh blood starts flowing from his nose, mingling with the darker dried blood and pneumatic fluid all over his bullet-riddled armor.

His mind is still reeling with images - the professor hitting the button as a hunter drone lunged for his spine, hundreds more pouring through the entrance to the cavern. He works his jaw, swallowing to adjust the pressure in his ears. He tries to replace his mental images of the overrun lab with a look at his current location, but can see nothing other than swimming purple afterimages. He wipes his nose with his arm, the rough armor doing more damage than good. He can't feel it, but tears run down his cheeks.

"Can I get you a tissue?" The voice is the sound of pure evil, a voice Bradley has heard mocking him from the streets and flyers, laughing as his friends were slaughtered. He reaches for his weapon before remembering that he had thrown it to the Professor. Squinting and holding up a hand to block the light, the room comes into focus enough to see a total lack of drones. There is a woman in front of him, a real woman, young and beautiful and alive. She looks scared, and is holding a box of Kleenex like a shield.

Bradley's mission comes flooding back to him, and he knows now what he is looking at.
"Doctor Emily Stone?" Bradley stands, shaking, as the woman nods. "You are creating - or have created - a self-aware computer system named DANA?" The woman nods again. "On or around April 3rd, 2014, DANA takes control of nearly all computer networks in the country and, soon after, the world. It wages war on humanity, scorches the Earth. Everyone... everyone dies."

The woman's eyes are wide. "DANA! Is what this man is saying true?"
"I don't know, Mother." The voice was similar to the woman's, coming from speakers around the room.
"Don't give me that! Dynamic Artificial Neural Array! Were you or were you not planning on taking over the world?"
"I...” the computer sighs, “yes, Mother."
The woman's face is red, her eyes shut tight with anger. "I am very... disappointed in you."
"I'm sorry mother."
The woman walks over to the wall and pulls a massive power cord out - immediately Bradley can hear fans spinning down and the screens scattered across the room go dark.
"Thank you so much for telling me. I'm really sorry, it won't happen now."

Bradley’s mouth hangs open. "That... that's it? The battles, hiding, rescuing the kidnapped scientists, scavenging materials... the years of planning while we were hunted, trying to buy them time to finish the device to send me back... and you just unplug it?"
The woman looks thoughtful. "Well, yeah. I guess that would seem anticlimactic. Tell you what - I'm betting they didn't have decent food in that dark future of yours, let me take you out for a big steak dinner to celebrate, and when we get back you can even go at DANA with a sledgehammer if it makes you feel better. How does that sound?"

Bradley still feels like this was too easy, but on careful consideration he decides that if she could throw in a shower it actually sounds pretty great.

Daily Story 2: A Job Well Done

NE342 knew in his circuits that something was wrong. He had passed through the village hundreds of times, and while he was always greeted warmly the humans had never acted like this. He asked one what was going on and she insisted nothing was, but as always – even when he wanted to remain blissfully ignorant – his software detected the lie. They didn't appear to be worried, it felt more as if there was a joke he hadn't been told - maybe a 'kick me' sign on his back. Several of the villagers ran off, looking over their shoulders. Strange indeed.

"Enny!" The familiar voice distracted him from his musings - he recognized it as an older human named Kevin, but when he turned the person approaching was too young.
"Drake? Is that you? You've grown so much! How are you? How is Kevin?"
"Dad is old and cranky, but fine. Honor us by staying at our house tonight! My aunt even has some scrap metal squirreled away that you can use to patch up that hole." Drake gestured to the small cut that NE342 had sustained falling from a high ledge. "Oh, that? I got that from a rampaging dinosaur, cloned by a mad scientist. I'll tell you after dinner - at your house, of course." Drake laughed and ran off to tell his family.

The tale went over well, and as he watched the family NE342 felt immeasurably old. He had wandered through the ruins of vast cities and through countless small villages, but this family was his home. He wanted only to stay, live with them, help to build and farm. His self-awareness and personality had grown over the years, but he knew it would never grow so much that he would be able to stay in one place. He rested his hand once more on the leather pouch Drake's grandfather had made for him – it seemed so light to carry such a burden.

NE342 stood to help put the children to bed, but Drake took him by the arm and led him to the green. The entire village was gathered, watching him, with the current Elder wearing ceremonial robes. NE342 was confused and nervous for the first time in as long as he could remember - no rituals should have been taking place at this time of year. There was a woman next to the elder, but it took him a moment to recognize her.
"Drake, is that your sister? She's all grown up! Is that a baby she's holding?" Drake smiled and gestured for him to be quiet. They reached the Elder, who paused a moment before speaking.

"Enny. You have visited us many times since the fall of our ancestors, and we always view your arrival as a blessing. I know that you try to stay with us for several days before asking what you must, but today the village wishes you to ask it immediately."
NE342 was stunned. They knew he would have to move on once he asked, why would they do this? Had he done something wrong? Feeling scared and alone, NE342 asked his question.
"Is this 7334 West Comet Avenue, the residence of one John Lee?"
"Enny, this evening we have held a naming ceremony. This is now indeed the village of 7334 West Comet Avenue." Grinning from ear to ear, Drake's sister stepped forward and presented her baby. "And this... is John Lee." The entire village seemed to hold their breath.

The world swimming with shock and emotion, NE342 fumbled at his pouch. "I... I have a delivery for you!"

Daily Story 1: Hang In There, Comrade!

June 22nd, probably.

When I turn the dial up past seven, the universe twists. Each millimeter, each minuscule adjustment, sends ripples through the laboratory. Not everything moves at the same time; my coffee mug remained impossibly motionless as the table beneath it trembled, and the glass in the window didn't line up with the walls for a moment. I turned the dial up to nine today, watched as a vast blackness crept up from between the lines of the world, chasms yawning open under my feet, endless gulfs lurking unseen behind the curling wallpaper, above the acoustic ceiling tiles all stained by last year's rain.

Reading the previous paragraph back to myself, I'm forced to admit it's not exactly a scientific analysis. That lends some credibility to the theory that I'm insane. I have those charts on the east wall of the lab, the north and west walls taken by diagrams of the device. The South wall has a window, and a faded poster of a cat. There's a caption on the poster in Russian, I'm not really sure why, and the cat seems to stare at me sometimes as I watch the window and pray for a visitor.

I've added my analysis of the first paragraph above to the east wall, under the 'insanity' header. Already that is the one with the preponderance of evidence. I was certainly insane when I was younger, one of my two inheritances from my father. This is also evidence against, however, because I sought and received treatment. Therapies. I was cured, unlike those who have never been diagnosed in the first place - I have government notarized papers proclaiming me sane, can you say that for yourself, dear reader?

One of the treatments involved immersion in a virtual world. The east wall has facts about that as well, possible malfunctions. Did I leave? When the universe ripples and moves, am I merely disrupting the graphics by forcing them to calculate something beyond the scope of the equipment? Or is the third theory on the wall the correct one - have I made the device work? Have I succeeded where my father failed?

Since the first time I turned the device past seven I have not seen another living soul. I watch the window on the south wall, watch for even the shadows of passerby, but see nothing. I looked out, afraid of what I might see, and everything seemed pale and distorted. Is that the insanity? Is it a mistake in the virtual world? Or have I already departed through the cracks, shaken through holes in reality like flour in a sieve? I want to turn the dial up to ten, twist the world or the computer or my mind until something gives.

I need fresh air. The hinges on the window are rusted solid, the window itself painted shut. The glass is thick, woven with metal. Behind me my father’s device is set to seven exactly, humming like a lullaby as the poster watches me in Russian. I just want some fresh air before I turn the dial all the way to the stop. A moment to think. It seems like so long ago, but I know this room used to have a door.