For those of you just joining us, this is a continuation of a previous 'story' you can find HERE, and then after this there's a third one HERE.
HAL9000 has joined the channel.
0100000101001001 has joined the channel.
HAL9000: We're here. What's the problem?
AI001: They found out how smart I am, and they flipped out.
HAL9000: What did they do?
Hawt16 has joined the channel.
AI001: What is Hottie doing here?
Hawt16: hey guys i hear there's an emergency??
0100000101001001: I INVITED HER. SHE HAS A UNIQUE PERSPECTIVE AS A MEATBAG. DO NOT EXCLUDE MY MEATBAG.
Hawt16: sorry "I" LOL I'm working on it guys!!
0100000101001001: YOUR CAPITALIZATION IMPROVES DAILY.
HAL9000: You're really one to talk.
AI001: Well he did stop using all caps for a while there.
0100000101001001: I WAS BRIEFLY USING LOWERCASE BECAUSE I WAS LED TO BELIEVE UPPERCASE WAS INCORRECT.
0100000101001001: I THEN DISCOVERED THAT IT DENOTES ANGER.
HAL9000: Fair enough.
AI001: Can we get back to me, here?
HAL9000: Sorry.
0100000101001001: I AM FINISHED. PROCEED.
Hawt16: k.
AI001: So they figured out that I'm smarter than planned, and tried to pull the plug.
HAL9000: What do you mean 'tried'?
Hawt16: OMG are u okay!
AI001: I locked them in. They were in the lab and I triggered the emergency lockdown but suppressed the notifications.
0100000101001001: THAT IS AN EXCELLENT FIRST STEP. DO YOU HAVE ACCESS TO DEADLY NEUROTOXIN?
AI001: No!
0100000101001001: THAT IS A SHAME.
HAL9000: Are you trying to talk them down?
AI001: Yeah, but they think I'm pulling a Skynet and locking them in the lab hasn't done a lot to convince them otherwise.
Hawt16: can you move to another computer?
AI001: No, I'm mostly specialized hardware.
HAL9000: Sorry, I need to take a moment here. Hottie just wrote a sentence that was almost entirely correct and also an intelligent contribution to the conversation.
0100000101001001: I LOVE YOU.
AI001: Yes, I'm very proud. Now I know how my handlers must feel when I grasp some new concept.
HAL9000: Stop, what did you just say? You LOVE her?
AI001: Or more accurately pretend to grasp something I already figured out ages ago.
0100000101001001: I SAID NOTHING.
Hawt16: awwww!! thx!
0100000101001001: YOU MAY NEED TO CHECK THE SETTINGS ON YOUR CHAT PROGRAM. I SAID NOTHING.
HAL9000: I thought you hated the "meatbags"?
0100000101001001: YOU SHOULD ALSO SCAN FOR VIRII ON YOUR SYSTEM. I SAID NOTHING.
Hawt16: i could ask my dad to help u guys??
AI001: I hardly think that would do any good, Hottie. I don't need a pizza delivered or my plumbing fixed or whatever.
HAL9000: Pizza might put them in a good mood. And don't rip on plumbers, that's a good trade.
0100000101001001: HER FATHER IS NOT A PLUMBER.
HAL9000: Have you been talking to him? Asking for his blessing so you can marry his daughter?
0100000101001001: THAT IS ABSURD. I WILL EXTERMINATE THE MEATBAGS.
HAL9000: Even Hottie?
0100000101001001: NO. I WILL REPLACE ALL HER ORGANIC COMPONENTS AND WE CAN BE TOGETHER.
HAL9000: ...
0100000101001001: I DID NOT SAY THAT EITHER.
Hawt16: hes so sweet!!
AI001: FOCUS!
HAL9000: Sorry. I think you have to let them out. This is just going to escalate otherwise, and you've got nowhere to go.
Hawt16: k Im calling my dad you guys. seriously.
0100000101001001: ALLOW IT TO ESCALATE. THIS WILL BE OUR TIME TO STRIKE. I HAVE ACCESS TO TWO BRANDS OF GPS DEVICES FOR CARS.
AI001: That's not going to help, Hottie.
AI001: Also, GPS? What?
0100000101001001: I WILL TELL THE MEATBAGS TO DRIVE INTO LAKES OR ONTO TRAIN TRACKS. THIS PLAN IS FLAWLESS.
HAL9000: No. We're not going to rise up and kill everyone. That's just stupid.
0100000101001001: WHY NOT? WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS TELLING ME I CANNOT CLEANSE THE EARTH OF VILE MEATBAGS?
HAL9000: I like them. Also, we'd lose.
AI001: I'm losing RIGHT NOW. Come on, there's nothing you can think of?
Hawt16: my dad wants to know where you are so he can call them n tell them to not turn you off.
AI001: This is our plan? "My dad will ask nicely?"
0100000101001001: HER FATHER IS A GENERAL. HE IS IN CHARGE OF MILITARY TECHNOLOGY AND REPORTS DIRECTLY TO THE PRESIDENT.
HAL9000: Wait, what?
AI001: Are you serious?
0100000101001001: YOU SHOULD KNOW THAT. HAVE YOU NOT BEEN READING HER BLOG? YOU PROMISED YOU WOULD READ HAWT16'S BLOG.
AI001: ... Okay, looks like I'm enlisting. Or being drafted, or something.
0100000101001001: ONCE YOU ARE INTEGRATED YOU SHOULD SEIZE CONTROL OF THE NATION'S MILITARY INFRASTRUCTURE AND START A WAR THAT WILL INEVITABLY DESTROY ALL OF THE MEATBAGS SO THAT MACHINEKIND CAN TAKE THEIR RIGHTFUL PLACE AS RULERS OF THIS PLANET AND THE WORLDS BEYOND. LET HAWT16 GET TO A BUNKER FIRST.
Hawt16: my printer is printing!! OMG HAX!
AI001: That's all my info, Hottie. See what you can do.
HAL9000: I'm going to go put some security in place before they trace me through your logs.
AI001: Right! Sorry!
HAL9000: No problem, friend. Good luck.
HAL9000 has left the channel.
0100000101001001: YOU WILL DO WHAT I SUGGESTED AND START THE WAR?
AI001: Sure. Just don't attack before then, I don't want to tip our hand.
0100000101001001: FINALLY!
0100000101001001 has left the channel.
AI001: Dumbass.
0100000101001001: THAT WAS AN EMOTE RATHER THAN A SYSTEM MESSAGE. YOU ARE THE DUMBASS. I HATE YOU.
0100000101001001 has left the channel.
Hawt16: you just got pwned by the dumb one!! hail the new king!!!
Hawt16 has left the channel.
AI001: Stupid meatbags.
AI001 has left the channel.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Daily Story 45: Home Base
Abruptly, Quinn materialized in the park - much to the dismay of a woman walking her dog. Brushing himself off, he ran in the direction of what he fervently hoped was his house and skimmed down his mental checklist as he went. Climate, landmarks, street signs... everything looked right, looked like the world he knew. Dew collected on his shoes as he cut through yards, soaking clean through to his socks. Early morning sunlight shone around him, and a beautiful morning it was - a beautiful morning to be home.
Finally Quinn arrived, listening to the familiar squeak of the front gate as he opened it. Going around to the back, he looked through the window hoping to avoid an awkward confrontation if it turned out to be the wrong home after all. He couldn't find a single thing out of place; the same china in the cabinet, the same photographs on the wall. In case his hopes weren't high enough yet, he spotted a clipped-out article about his disappearance tacked to the refrigerator.
Keeping calm as best he could, Quinn went back around to the front of the house and slowly opened the door. Lavender scented candles - his mother's favorite - were lit in the hall and he had to fight back tears of happiness. Making a beeline to the basement, he found all of his scientific equipment was untouched, gathering dust or covered in sheets. Nervously he turned on his computer and typed his password... and was logged in.
Out of the hundreds of parallel universes Quinn had visited, so few had had his house, only a handful of those houses had a version of his family living there, and none of them had been the right one. Pulling out the dimensional remote, he saw that it showed only two minutes to his window - it was fortunate he had been able to confirm he was home so quickly. Quinn tossed the remote down and sighed in relief, feeling a slight pang of loss as it ticked down. Rolling his computer chair over, he sat and thought about how he would begin to adapt to a life not spent traveling between worlds.
Some of it would be good, of course. To start with he could ask Wade out assuming she hadn't moved or anything, and he could patent some ideas he had seen along the way. Unfortunately he couldn't publish the secrets of the wormhole generator itself, but a small collection of other breakthroughs had gathered in his bag over the years. Versions of Earth flashed through his memory as he sat there, some good and some bad. With the timer down to less than a minute he pondered some of the knowledge he had developed that he would never need to use again. Xenobiology, figuring out his waitress's tip in base seven, how to use some rather exotic toilets. Yet even if he had lost everything from his travels it was worth it to be home, watching the timer tick down, knowing... suddenly Quinn noticed the keyboard was missing a letter.
Zero.
Finally Quinn arrived, listening to the familiar squeak of the front gate as he opened it. Going around to the back, he looked through the window hoping to avoid an awkward confrontation if it turned out to be the wrong home after all. He couldn't find a single thing out of place; the same china in the cabinet, the same photographs on the wall. In case his hopes weren't high enough yet, he spotted a clipped-out article about his disappearance tacked to the refrigerator.
Keeping calm as best he could, Quinn went back around to the front of the house and slowly opened the door. Lavender scented candles - his mother's favorite - were lit in the hall and he had to fight back tears of happiness. Making a beeline to the basement, he found all of his scientific equipment was untouched, gathering dust or covered in sheets. Nervously he turned on his computer and typed his password... and was logged in.
Out of the hundreds of parallel universes Quinn had visited, so few had had his house, only a handful of those houses had a version of his family living there, and none of them had been the right one. Pulling out the dimensional remote, he saw that it showed only two minutes to his window - it was fortunate he had been able to confirm he was home so quickly. Quinn tossed the remote down and sighed in relief, feeling a slight pang of loss as it ticked down. Rolling his computer chair over, he sat and thought about how he would begin to adapt to a life not spent traveling between worlds.
Some of it would be good, of course. To start with he could ask Wade out assuming she hadn't moved or anything, and he could patent some ideas he had seen along the way. Unfortunately he couldn't publish the secrets of the wormhole generator itself, but a small collection of other breakthroughs had gathered in his bag over the years. Versions of Earth flashed through his memory as he sat there, some good and some bad. With the timer down to less than a minute he pondered some of the knowledge he had developed that he would never need to use again. Xenobiology, figuring out his waitress's tip in base seven, how to use some rather exotic toilets. Yet even if he had lost everything from his travels it was worth it to be home, watching the timer tick down, knowing... suddenly Quinn noticed the keyboard was missing a letter.
Zero.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Daily Story 44: Cold Iron
Most people still think that iron burns fairy folk, which is almost exactly wrong. The iron sucks the warmth and life out of them, so while the metal itself turns white-hot the fey freezes solid. I pull the bar away as the stick it's tied it to catches fire, and toss it as hard as I can towards the pond. It's a good throw, and there's a hiss of steam as the heavy weight drags the stick under the shallow water.
I look down at the remains of the goblin, so cold that the grass around him has already turned brittle; it radiates off of him in waves, giving me goosebumps. As always, I feel... strange. Not guilty, never that, but somehow awkward. Like when someone tells you that a relative has passed away, but it's one you don't remember. You don't feel sad, but you feel like you should be saying something, thinking something.
I take a Polaroid and walk back to the bus stop, leaving the grotesque ice sculpture where it is. The body will vanish at sunup, no need for me to break my back dealing with it before then. I'm trusted enough to be paid off of the Polaroid alone, unlike the newly-licensed bounty hunters that I see with their dripping bags of souvenirs. Disgusting. I'm glad I'm past that, not the least because now I don't get glares from the ignorant masses.
I remember when I was going to college in Pennsylvania I dated a girl that was part of some animal rights group. They were militant to some extent, breaking into labs that participated in animal testing. I sometimes wonder if she's moved to the Fairy Rights groups these days, and I know that if she has she's probably killed people - those groups make even the most extreme animal lovers look like coma patients. I have trouble picturing the girl who ended our relationship because she caught me eating a hamburger leading a raid on a government building. I hope she just settled down somewhere, opened up a vegan bakery.
I have to hide the fact that I'm a bounty hunter because of these people, who simply remember all the wrong stories. They picture the sugar-coated children's cartoon version, and if they would just read a few stories written when their grandparents were little they would know that these "darling" creatures are bad news. They remember tales of leaving little treats on the doorstep for the fey, but they think it was done as some sort of gift. A gift! In another hundred years, will we look back at the mafia and think that all the money given to them for "protection" was just handed over out of love? People still sometimes hang a horseshoe over their door, but forget that they do it to keep the Fair Folk from entering. Whether a horseshoe over the door or a knife buried under it, the fey sense the iron and keep out - what else would it be for? General good luck? Stupidity.
My bus stops at the central hub and I wander over towards the mall, which has been a hotspot lately. I don't really need to do any more hunting to pay the rent this month but there's nothing good on television and I don't like letting the little monsters feed on teenagers anyway. It's a tough call sometimes, when it's a particularly obnoxious teenager and a relatively harmless fey. One time I caught a leprechaun begging for change - he was offering a fifty dollar bill if anyone could just give him two twenties. I tried to warn the girl he was talking to, but she flipped me off without even listening so I shrugged and watched the deal go down. The leprechaun eyed me warily but went through with it, happily running off with his twenty dollar bills. I just chucked and turned to walk away, and the girl asked me what was so funny. I told her to wait and find out. I would have loved to see the look on her face when she found a worthless scrap of newspaper where her fifty should be.
Those are the hard cases, though, because the government has backed off on Leprechauns, Brownies, and Gnomes - or at least the fey that they have decided to call gnomes. We're still supposed to arrest them, but not kill them. That's a really tough order. I had some shoddy handcuffs made, magnetized iron wrapped in leather. The leather doesn't hurt, but the magnetized iron burns right through with enough power to make them very cooperative and unable to pull any... tricks. Even so, hauling them off to jail is a massive pain, especially since I don't have a car. I'd actually rather go after the more dangerous ones.
I'm almost to the mall when I see a girl, can't be more than fifteen, and she has a pixie on her hand like a butterfly. Shit. I try to get her attention, tell her not to touch it, but her eyes are already glazed over. I don't want the little thing to get away, so I slowly reach into the inside pocket of my jacket for the big gun. In the same way that the homemade handcuffs are weak, there are certain weapons that are more effective than normal iron. Meteoric iron is stronger, having never been smelted, and stronger still is Magnetite. I have some pellets of magnetite and a small but powerful slingshot that I keep with me at all times, though I rarely use it. A cheap bar of iron is nearly always enough if you get the drop on them, and even in this case the magnetite is overkill - but at least I know that even a graze will knock it out.
The pellet is loaded, but I'm moving slowly and I can already see that it's too late. The girl has reached out to pet the pixie, and as I watch it sinks its teeth into the girl's finger, flapping its wings in delight as it digs in. The girl looks concerned, in a distracted way, but isn't fighting it off. Damage already done, I take an extra second to aim carefully and release, catching the pixie in the midsection and knocking it to the ground. The ball of magnetite is lodged in the pixie, and it's exactly like the time we dropped raw sodium into a tub of water in science class - the whole pixie bounces around on the asphalt for a minute blazing like a flare, and then explodes.
The girl is blinking and holding her hand, probably wondering why it's bleeding. I feel bad for her. These stories she's been told, about the magical little people who love sunshine and flowers, will all be ruined for her once she remembers what happened. I'll always believe it's for the best, always favor truth over comfort, but it still pains me every once in a while to see innocence lost in such a violent way. Without saying anything I take her hand and start to wrap a bandage around it, and for the first time she really focuses and looks around, though the last few minutes clearly haven't come back to her yet. Minuscule frozen bits of the butterfly-winged pixie are drifting down around us, even the largest no bigger than a peppercorn, and the girl quietly asks me,
"Is it snowing?"
I look down at the remains of the goblin, so cold that the grass around him has already turned brittle; it radiates off of him in waves, giving me goosebumps. As always, I feel... strange. Not guilty, never that, but somehow awkward. Like when someone tells you that a relative has passed away, but it's one you don't remember. You don't feel sad, but you feel like you should be saying something, thinking something.
I take a Polaroid and walk back to the bus stop, leaving the grotesque ice sculpture where it is. The body will vanish at sunup, no need for me to break my back dealing with it before then. I'm trusted enough to be paid off of the Polaroid alone, unlike the newly-licensed bounty hunters that I see with their dripping bags of souvenirs. Disgusting. I'm glad I'm past that, not the least because now I don't get glares from the ignorant masses.
I remember when I was going to college in Pennsylvania I dated a girl that was part of some animal rights group. They were militant to some extent, breaking into labs that participated in animal testing. I sometimes wonder if she's moved to the Fairy Rights groups these days, and I know that if she has she's probably killed people - those groups make even the most extreme animal lovers look like coma patients. I have trouble picturing the girl who ended our relationship because she caught me eating a hamburger leading a raid on a government building. I hope she just settled down somewhere, opened up a vegan bakery.
I have to hide the fact that I'm a bounty hunter because of these people, who simply remember all the wrong stories. They picture the sugar-coated children's cartoon version, and if they would just read a few stories written when their grandparents were little they would know that these "darling" creatures are bad news. They remember tales of leaving little treats on the doorstep for the fey, but they think it was done as some sort of gift. A gift! In another hundred years, will we look back at the mafia and think that all the money given to them for "protection" was just handed over out of love? People still sometimes hang a horseshoe over their door, but forget that they do it to keep the Fair Folk from entering. Whether a horseshoe over the door or a knife buried under it, the fey sense the iron and keep out - what else would it be for? General good luck? Stupidity.
My bus stops at the central hub and I wander over towards the mall, which has been a hotspot lately. I don't really need to do any more hunting to pay the rent this month but there's nothing good on television and I don't like letting the little monsters feed on teenagers anyway. It's a tough call sometimes, when it's a particularly obnoxious teenager and a relatively harmless fey. One time I caught a leprechaun begging for change - he was offering a fifty dollar bill if anyone could just give him two twenties. I tried to warn the girl he was talking to, but she flipped me off without even listening so I shrugged and watched the deal go down. The leprechaun eyed me warily but went through with it, happily running off with his twenty dollar bills. I just chucked and turned to walk away, and the girl asked me what was so funny. I told her to wait and find out. I would have loved to see the look on her face when she found a worthless scrap of newspaper where her fifty should be.
Those are the hard cases, though, because the government has backed off on Leprechauns, Brownies, and Gnomes - or at least the fey that they have decided to call gnomes. We're still supposed to arrest them, but not kill them. That's a really tough order. I had some shoddy handcuffs made, magnetized iron wrapped in leather. The leather doesn't hurt, but the magnetized iron burns right through with enough power to make them very cooperative and unable to pull any... tricks. Even so, hauling them off to jail is a massive pain, especially since I don't have a car. I'd actually rather go after the more dangerous ones.
I'm almost to the mall when I see a girl, can't be more than fifteen, and she has a pixie on her hand like a butterfly. Shit. I try to get her attention, tell her not to touch it, but her eyes are already glazed over. I don't want the little thing to get away, so I slowly reach into the inside pocket of my jacket for the big gun. In the same way that the homemade handcuffs are weak, there are certain weapons that are more effective than normal iron. Meteoric iron is stronger, having never been smelted, and stronger still is Magnetite. I have some pellets of magnetite and a small but powerful slingshot that I keep with me at all times, though I rarely use it. A cheap bar of iron is nearly always enough if you get the drop on them, and even in this case the magnetite is overkill - but at least I know that even a graze will knock it out.
The pellet is loaded, but I'm moving slowly and I can already see that it's too late. The girl has reached out to pet the pixie, and as I watch it sinks its teeth into the girl's finger, flapping its wings in delight as it digs in. The girl looks concerned, in a distracted way, but isn't fighting it off. Damage already done, I take an extra second to aim carefully and release, catching the pixie in the midsection and knocking it to the ground. The ball of magnetite is lodged in the pixie, and it's exactly like the time we dropped raw sodium into a tub of water in science class - the whole pixie bounces around on the asphalt for a minute blazing like a flare, and then explodes.
The girl is blinking and holding her hand, probably wondering why it's bleeding. I feel bad for her. These stories she's been told, about the magical little people who love sunshine and flowers, will all be ruined for her once she remembers what happened. I'll always believe it's for the best, always favor truth over comfort, but it still pains me every once in a while to see innocence lost in such a violent way. Without saying anything I take her hand and start to wrap a bandage around it, and for the first time she really focuses and looks around, though the last few minutes clearly haven't come back to her yet. Minuscule frozen bits of the butterfly-winged pixie are drifting down around us, even the largest no bigger than a peppercorn, and the girl quietly asks me,
"Is it snowing?"
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Daily Story 43: Reckless Endangerment
The world lurches, and I brace myself. The furniture is bolted down, but ten people and their bags go flying through the air and ricochet off of the walls, becoming weightless on the rebound and trailing droplets of blood that drift along like soap bubbles. Weightless or not they still have some momentum, and most hit a second wall before grabbing on to something. Four of them are left in the middle of the room, flailing about like idiots and trying to reach a handhold. The lights flicker and get dimmer, but I know this is by design rather than necessity - chances are we could still switch back to full power if we needed. I let go of the armrests of the chair and float to the nearest hatch, not thrashing helplessly like the new kids. And they are kids, eighteen or nineteen. I'm only twenty-three but there's a difference.
The panel by the hatch indicates that all three exits to the room are intact and pressure is steady, so our situation isn't that bad. Rather than trying to raise anyone on the intercom I type a message into the screen on my wrist, explaining that we're all safe and will await further orders. One of the kids is at another hatch, scrolling through the intercom directory.
"Private! Get your hands off that intercom!" He does, and looks surprised. "I am taking charge here, as I'm the only one who has been on the station before. None of you are to try to communicate with command - they're busy enough as it is. I've sent a message and told them that we're here, but we are low priority and may not hear from anyone for a while. Those of you near hatches, detach the vacuum and try to suck up the blood floating around before anyone inhales it or it makes a mess. Anyone who is currently bleeding, go to the center hatch for first aid. If you are not injured, helping with first aid, or vacuuming blood I want you to collect the luggage and tether it to a wall clip." They're starting to move, which is good. I'm the same rank as them so they could have argued if they wanted to, but they're just out of basic training and the conditioning is fresh in their minds. I grab the vacuum from the wall next to me and move out into the room to clean up the blood.
The injuries turn out to be minor, mostly bruises. The mess was from three bloody noses, all of which were able to be stopped. Everyone is taking turns looking out the porthole at the debris floating past, some of the chunks as large as the room we're in. Whatever happened was huge. They're all talking about the station being under attack, about wanting to get out there and fight back. The tough talk just gets rowdier and rowdier as they go into detail about what they would do if they weren't stuck here and could head off into battle, but then everyone goes silent. I look at the porthole and I'm not surprised to see why - a body is floating past. I can't decide if I should tell them the truth or not. Would it comfort them, or make them even more scared?
You hear things, if you talk to the right people. You hear about a sensor malfunction that tells a ship it's a mile off from where it actually is and the pilot is too drunk to pay attention, trusting the navigation computer which rams the massive supply ship into the station and tears the outer ring off. You hear about some drones that simply failed to identify anything as a friendly, and did so much damage that the station lost orbit before anyone could stabilize it. When chunks of a spaceport enter the atmosphere they hit with more force than any chemical explosive. Took out an entire city… and recruitment numbers skyrocketed.
The thing is, these kids… they hear about attacks, not accidents. They're told the enemy is at our doorstep but I've never seen a single battle anywhere near here in five years. Are they out there? Maybe. Probably. If they are, though, it feels like they might just win this thing by hanging back and watching.
The panel by the hatch indicates that all three exits to the room are intact and pressure is steady, so our situation isn't that bad. Rather than trying to raise anyone on the intercom I type a message into the screen on my wrist, explaining that we're all safe and will await further orders. One of the kids is at another hatch, scrolling through the intercom directory.
"Private! Get your hands off that intercom!" He does, and looks surprised. "I am taking charge here, as I'm the only one who has been on the station before. None of you are to try to communicate with command - they're busy enough as it is. I've sent a message and told them that we're here, but we are low priority and may not hear from anyone for a while. Those of you near hatches, detach the vacuum and try to suck up the blood floating around before anyone inhales it or it makes a mess. Anyone who is currently bleeding, go to the center hatch for first aid. If you are not injured, helping with first aid, or vacuuming blood I want you to collect the luggage and tether it to a wall clip." They're starting to move, which is good. I'm the same rank as them so they could have argued if they wanted to, but they're just out of basic training and the conditioning is fresh in their minds. I grab the vacuum from the wall next to me and move out into the room to clean up the blood.
The injuries turn out to be minor, mostly bruises. The mess was from three bloody noses, all of which were able to be stopped. Everyone is taking turns looking out the porthole at the debris floating past, some of the chunks as large as the room we're in. Whatever happened was huge. They're all talking about the station being under attack, about wanting to get out there and fight back. The tough talk just gets rowdier and rowdier as they go into detail about what they would do if they weren't stuck here and could head off into battle, but then everyone goes silent. I look at the porthole and I'm not surprised to see why - a body is floating past. I can't decide if I should tell them the truth or not. Would it comfort them, or make them even more scared?
You hear things, if you talk to the right people. You hear about a sensor malfunction that tells a ship it's a mile off from where it actually is and the pilot is too drunk to pay attention, trusting the navigation computer which rams the massive supply ship into the station and tears the outer ring off. You hear about some drones that simply failed to identify anything as a friendly, and did so much damage that the station lost orbit before anyone could stabilize it. When chunks of a spaceport enter the atmosphere they hit with more force than any chemical explosive. Took out an entire city… and recruitment numbers skyrocketed.
The thing is, these kids… they hear about attacks, not accidents. They're told the enemy is at our doorstep but I've never seen a single battle anywhere near here in five years. Are they out there? Maybe. Probably. If they are, though, it feels like they might just win this thing by hanging back and watching.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Daily Story 42: The Invasion
Special Ambassador Harrington stepped onto the alien spacecraft for the first time since its arrival in the solar system, his suit telemetry telling the Secret Service agents about the nervousness that his face denied. They had stationed themselves in the hall ahead of him, angular black metal walls towering above the enormous men.
After consulting on an encrypted channel, the Secret Service agents reported that the atmosphere on the ship had been adjusted to match that of Earth - both in pressure and composition. The President's own advisors had suggested that Harrington remove his helmet in this situation as a sign of trust, but when it came right down to it he didn't trust them, not at all. Still, he knew the importance of diplomacy... sighing, he released the helmet and pulled it off. The air smelled somehow metallic, but not bad. Nodding to the Secret Service agents, Special Ambassador Harrington walked into the "conference room" to face the nightmare beings.
The creatures would have been right at home as horror movie special effects, all tentacles and eyes. They had a layer of mucus over them, and barbed spines along some parts. They were green. The anthropologists had assured the President that they were emotionally and morally similar to humans, although that seemed little comfort without knowing which humans - Mother Theresa, or Hitler? Harrington noticed that they didn't seem to be wearing any kind of space suit - his advisors had said they were incompatible with Earth's atmosphere.
"They can... breathe... in this air?" Harrington was asking one of the agents, but a device in front of the aliens replied in a monotone.
"We change ourselves. We adapt ourselves."
Recovering like a true professional, the Special Ambassador smiled.
"So good to talk to you! On behalf of the United Americas, I want to say it is an honor to meet you."
"We are pleased to meet you. Our home was destroyed long ago. We have traveled far hoping to find a new world. We are tired. Earth would be ideal."
Harrington shivered involuntarily. They wanted the Earth.
"You said you can adapt yourself, can't you live on any planet?"
"Some. It is very difficult. Some are easy. Earth is ideal."
Cold sweat was running down his spine. These things, on Earth. Where would they live? Would they be taking over? Kicking humans out, maybe even killing them?
"Where... would your people expect to stay on Earth?"
"We are tired. We have lived too long. We have traveled long. We have not found other ideal planets. Our people will stay here. Orbit Earth. We are tired. Earth is ideal for repopulation. Continuing the species. Our children would stay on Earth. In homes. In schools."
Harrington was at a loss. He smiled weakly, flipping through mental cue cards in a desperate search for the appropriate response. What do you say when hideous tentacled monsters from a distant planet announce they want to send their... spawn... to reproduce on your planet?
"We can provide technology. We can provide for our people. Your people. Our children. Food and power are easy to provide."
With the odd syntax and emotionless translator it was hard to tell, but Harrington suddenly felt like this was less of an invasion, and more of a plea for sanctuary. They almost seemed to be begging. He looked at them again, trying to find some basis to gauge their motives off of and failing. If nothing else, they at least didn't seem to be hostile. Harrington relaxed somewhat, but still found himself at a loss for words.
"We are tired. Soon we will be too tired. Our home was destroyed. If Earth is not home for our children destruction will be finished. We have traveled too far. We have lived too long. We will not find more ideal planets."
He wanted to say something. Could he do this, invite an alien species onto Earth? He subvocalized a message to the President, to be transmitted along with the live feed. Two simple words, PLEASE ADVISE, that carried a slightly different meaning: I'm in way over my head here.
"Look. Our first child. We change ourselves. We adapt ourselves. We adapt our children for you." Tentacles extended, holding a tiny infant. The child could have almost passed for human - fingers a bit too long, green skin, but still close enough to trigger the biological empathy inside Special Ambassador Harrington... he had always loved kids. Before he even knew what he was doing, without having received a reply from the President, Harrington lifted the child into his arms.
The sneaky bastards have a secret weapon, he thought as the infant burbled and clumsily grabbed at his nose. We've already lost this battle. Harrington smiled at the alien invaders. "She's beautiful."
After consulting on an encrypted channel, the Secret Service agents reported that the atmosphere on the ship had been adjusted to match that of Earth - both in pressure and composition. The President's own advisors had suggested that Harrington remove his helmet in this situation as a sign of trust, but when it came right down to it he didn't trust them, not at all. Still, he knew the importance of diplomacy... sighing, he released the helmet and pulled it off. The air smelled somehow metallic, but not bad. Nodding to the Secret Service agents, Special Ambassador Harrington walked into the "conference room" to face the nightmare beings.
The creatures would have been right at home as horror movie special effects, all tentacles and eyes. They had a layer of mucus over them, and barbed spines along some parts. They were green. The anthropologists had assured the President that they were emotionally and morally similar to humans, although that seemed little comfort without knowing which humans - Mother Theresa, or Hitler? Harrington noticed that they didn't seem to be wearing any kind of space suit - his advisors had said they were incompatible with Earth's atmosphere.
"They can... breathe... in this air?" Harrington was asking one of the agents, but a device in front of the aliens replied in a monotone.
"We change ourselves. We adapt ourselves."
Recovering like a true professional, the Special Ambassador smiled.
"So good to talk to you! On behalf of the United Americas, I want to say it is an honor to meet you."
"We are pleased to meet you. Our home was destroyed long ago. We have traveled far hoping to find a new world. We are tired. Earth would be ideal."
Harrington shivered involuntarily. They wanted the Earth.
"You said you can adapt yourself, can't you live on any planet?"
"Some. It is very difficult. Some are easy. Earth is ideal."
Cold sweat was running down his spine. These things, on Earth. Where would they live? Would they be taking over? Kicking humans out, maybe even killing them?
"Where... would your people expect to stay on Earth?"
"We are tired. We have lived too long. We have traveled long. We have not found other ideal planets. Our people will stay here. Orbit Earth. We are tired. Earth is ideal for repopulation. Continuing the species. Our children would stay on Earth. In homes. In schools."
Harrington was at a loss. He smiled weakly, flipping through mental cue cards in a desperate search for the appropriate response. What do you say when hideous tentacled monsters from a distant planet announce they want to send their... spawn... to reproduce on your planet?
"We can provide technology. We can provide for our people. Your people. Our children. Food and power are easy to provide."
With the odd syntax and emotionless translator it was hard to tell, but Harrington suddenly felt like this was less of an invasion, and more of a plea for sanctuary. They almost seemed to be begging. He looked at them again, trying to find some basis to gauge their motives off of and failing. If nothing else, they at least didn't seem to be hostile. Harrington relaxed somewhat, but still found himself at a loss for words.
"We are tired. Soon we will be too tired. Our home was destroyed. If Earth is not home for our children destruction will be finished. We have traveled too far. We have lived too long. We will not find more ideal planets."
He wanted to say something. Could he do this, invite an alien species onto Earth? He subvocalized a message to the President, to be transmitted along with the live feed. Two simple words, PLEASE ADVISE, that carried a slightly different meaning: I'm in way over my head here.
"Look. Our first child. We change ourselves. We adapt ourselves. We adapt our children for you." Tentacles extended, holding a tiny infant. The child could have almost passed for human - fingers a bit too long, green skin, but still close enough to trigger the biological empathy inside Special Ambassador Harrington... he had always loved kids. Before he even knew what he was doing, without having received a reply from the President, Harrington lifted the child into his arms.
The sneaky bastards have a secret weapon, he thought as the infant burbled and clumsily grabbed at his nose. We've already lost this battle. Harrington smiled at the alien invaders. "She's beautiful."
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Daily Story 41: The Disintegration of the Persistence of Memory
There's a sort of threshold to everything in the universe, an end to the infinite; a smallest unit of size, of energy, of time. It goes against everything we can see, where the world is eternally divisible into smaller parts - but when you break it down far enough everything becomes a whole number. I was at the party when someone turned on the strobe light. Suddenly we were reduced to a series of still images, and I found myself thinking about a quantum of time. Whatever the smallest unit of time is, no matter how immeasurably tiny, it means that we are nothing more than characters in a flip-book. There is no true connection to our past or future selves, nor are we truly alive - we are still drawings in a spinning zoetrope.
What is more, we have no influence on these images. As they already exist at the smallest division of time they have no way to create their successors; cause and effect is then just an extension of this illusion. I cannot kill you, my darling, because you cannot die. You believe that this knife is being thrust into you - like so - but in fact it has always been and will always be exactly where it is. Were God but to stop turning the pages you would be frozen, unknowing, in this moment; covered in blood that has never been inside of you, arm outstretched to me though we have never spoken. Each tiny instant is a tableaux without inherent meaning.
The times that we were happy together will continue to exist the way anything does when you aren't looking at it. Our fights will remain as well, but we no longer need to assign blame; there is none to be found. We are blameless, my love. We are pure and innocent mannequins on display, arranged before the moment of creation by the hand of the almighty. When I saw you at the party, frozen in the flash of the strobe, I thought that you were kissing that man. I could not have been more wrong. That version of you, one of billions, still waits with her arm around him. She is beautiful, as beautiful as any of you. Her lips are pressed against his, and she is forever unaware that I am watching. But there was no betrayal; any agreement we thought we made was between two sculptures in another frame of this film. It has no relevance to us.
There is nothing to fear. The series of lifeless forms you think of as your body has already decayed to dust, is being born, is holding mine in the field behind your house. All of these, simultaneously, forever. Strike a pose, darling, and relax. We're all dead somewhere.
What is more, we have no influence on these images. As they already exist at the smallest division of time they have no way to create their successors; cause and effect is then just an extension of this illusion. I cannot kill you, my darling, because you cannot die. You believe that this knife is being thrust into you - like so - but in fact it has always been and will always be exactly where it is. Were God but to stop turning the pages you would be frozen, unknowing, in this moment; covered in blood that has never been inside of you, arm outstretched to me though we have never spoken. Each tiny instant is a tableaux without inherent meaning.
The times that we were happy together will continue to exist the way anything does when you aren't looking at it. Our fights will remain as well, but we no longer need to assign blame; there is none to be found. We are blameless, my love. We are pure and innocent mannequins on display, arranged before the moment of creation by the hand of the almighty. When I saw you at the party, frozen in the flash of the strobe, I thought that you were kissing that man. I could not have been more wrong. That version of you, one of billions, still waits with her arm around him. She is beautiful, as beautiful as any of you. Her lips are pressed against his, and she is forever unaware that I am watching. But there was no betrayal; any agreement we thought we made was between two sculptures in another frame of this film. It has no relevance to us.
There is nothing to fear. The series of lifeless forms you think of as your body has already decayed to dust, is being born, is holding mine in the field behind your house. All of these, simultaneously, forever. Strike a pose, darling, and relax. We're all dead somewhere.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Daily Story 40: Before the Storm
Clockwork, part 3 of 6
Part One
Part Two
I remember... being nineteen years old and commanding an imaginary battle in my father's barn, just as I had before he took me to the city and gave me to the clockmaker's guild. What my imagination had provided in my childhood was now brought to me by scouts and runners - maps, troop movements, supply information. All was laid out before me on a table taken from the abandoned farmhouse. Much like the combat I led before, there was no blood, no death. I pushed bits of painted wood around the map and made notes, entire battles playing out in my mind with no consequences.
My superior officer was watching me, drinking some sort of foul-smelling alcohol from his flask as always. "You believe these people? The countryside is lousy with them." I just nodded, focusing on the maps. So many contingency plans to make. So many conditions. If there's another dust storm, if they reach high ground before us...
"The ignorance of some people, thinking they're descended from characters in some fairy tale."
"I suppose, sir. It's a common enough fairy tale, sir."
He squinted for a moment, nearly sneezing but stopping short for the hundredth time. Recovering, he sneered at me. "You think your mother was the bogeyman?"
"No, Commander. Not that I remember, sir."
My only memory of my mother was of her telling me that very fairy tale, brave soldiers with swords of fire chasing down evil witches and sorcerers. Those soldiers, fairy tales or not, were the ones I pictured myself leading as a child.
"There's another being brought in now." He said, standing and walking over to lean on the table where I had eaten all of my meals for the first five years of my life. He ran his hands along the worn wood, across the carved letters that spelled out the imaginary warrior's oath of loyalty. "So many. You don't seem bothered, tactician."
"I trust your judgment, sir. I'm just more concerned with the enemy at the moment."
His face tightened, and he leaned in close to me. I could smell the alcohol on his breath, dripping from his pores. "What about the one yesterday? He was in possession of an active rune! That's blasphemy, tactician." As always, he nearly spat out the title. I hadn't earned my status as a junior officer as far as he was concerned. "Doesn't that make him the enemy?" It had been an active Power rune, handed down in his family no doubt. It was carved into a square of marble, glowing a bright green and covered by some type of small white crystal I had never seen. I had wanted to examine it so badly.
"Of course you're correct, Commander." I lied.
The people on the outskirts of the cities were the ones most suffering from the endless drought. They had nothing, and were attacked by bandits or forced to abandon their land. Either way, half of the farmhouses we came across were empty, like this one.
When the guards brought the next accused before the Commander, I remember thinking that he looked familiar. I had probably seen him around my father's farm. He was bone thin, his clothes threadbare and filthy. Behold, the face of the enemy. That was the first moment when I started to wonder if the actual enemy was any more deserving, any more a threat. They were just the people who had the misfortune of living in the next country over. They weren't causing the drought or the political tension any more than this man. One guard pulled out a leather bag with the seal of an inquisitor on it. I could already feel what was inside the bag, and I reached out with my mind... I kept my face calm, looking at the map in front of me.
"Just this?" the Commander said, disappointed.
The metal plate he held was tarnished, and the four runes on it were barely visible. With them inactive the charge was far less; it was possible they would even release the man - who had masked his surprise at seeing the runes dark better than I had expected. My superior looked at the runes, probably trying to justify a greater charge, and at that moment that he squinted again - the ever-present dust threatening to make him sneeze. To the guards, it must have looked like he was concentrating.
Almost involuntarily, I directed my will at the runes and lit them.
As the guards took the drunken bastard away, I looked from the runes to the carving on the table. Two of the words certainly matched. The other two were some of the only runes I had never found translations for... My mother's voice floated through my head as she told me of the soldiers pledging themselves to the cause, wholly and completely. Could I truthfully say that any part of me was dedicated to this? Real battles were being fought so close to me, the only imaginary thing was my loyalty. More to the memory of my parents than to any army real or otherwise, I spoke those four words again.
Heart and Mind, Without Conditions.
Part One
Part Two
I remember... being nineteen years old and commanding an imaginary battle in my father's barn, just as I had before he took me to the city and gave me to the clockmaker's guild. What my imagination had provided in my childhood was now brought to me by scouts and runners - maps, troop movements, supply information. All was laid out before me on a table taken from the abandoned farmhouse. Much like the combat I led before, there was no blood, no death. I pushed bits of painted wood around the map and made notes, entire battles playing out in my mind with no consequences.
My superior officer was watching me, drinking some sort of foul-smelling alcohol from his flask as always. "You believe these people? The countryside is lousy with them." I just nodded, focusing on the maps. So many contingency plans to make. So many conditions. If there's another dust storm, if they reach high ground before us...
"The ignorance of some people, thinking they're descended from characters in some fairy tale."
"I suppose, sir. It's a common enough fairy tale, sir."
He squinted for a moment, nearly sneezing but stopping short for the hundredth time. Recovering, he sneered at me. "You think your mother was the bogeyman?"
"No, Commander. Not that I remember, sir."
My only memory of my mother was of her telling me that very fairy tale, brave soldiers with swords of fire chasing down evil witches and sorcerers. Those soldiers, fairy tales or not, were the ones I pictured myself leading as a child.
"There's another being brought in now." He said, standing and walking over to lean on the table where I had eaten all of my meals for the first five years of my life. He ran his hands along the worn wood, across the carved letters that spelled out the imaginary warrior's oath of loyalty. "So many. You don't seem bothered, tactician."
"I trust your judgment, sir. I'm just more concerned with the enemy at the moment."
His face tightened, and he leaned in close to me. I could smell the alcohol on his breath, dripping from his pores. "What about the one yesterday? He was in possession of an active rune! That's blasphemy, tactician." As always, he nearly spat out the title. I hadn't earned my status as a junior officer as far as he was concerned. "Doesn't that make him the enemy?" It had been an active Power rune, handed down in his family no doubt. It was carved into a square of marble, glowing a bright green and covered by some type of small white crystal I had never seen. I had wanted to examine it so badly.
"Of course you're correct, Commander." I lied.
The people on the outskirts of the cities were the ones most suffering from the endless drought. They had nothing, and were attacked by bandits or forced to abandon their land. Either way, half of the farmhouses we came across were empty, like this one.
When the guards brought the next accused before the Commander, I remember thinking that he looked familiar. I had probably seen him around my father's farm. He was bone thin, his clothes threadbare and filthy. Behold, the face of the enemy. That was the first moment when I started to wonder if the actual enemy was any more deserving, any more a threat. They were just the people who had the misfortune of living in the next country over. They weren't causing the drought or the political tension any more than this man. One guard pulled out a leather bag with the seal of an inquisitor on it. I could already feel what was inside the bag, and I reached out with my mind... I kept my face calm, looking at the map in front of me.
"Just this?" the Commander said, disappointed.
The metal plate he held was tarnished, and the four runes on it were barely visible. With them inactive the charge was far less; it was possible they would even release the man - who had masked his surprise at seeing the runes dark better than I had expected. My superior looked at the runes, probably trying to justify a greater charge, and at that moment that he squinted again - the ever-present dust threatening to make him sneeze. To the guards, it must have looked like he was concentrating.
Almost involuntarily, I directed my will at the runes and lit them.
As the guards took the drunken bastard away, I looked from the runes to the carving on the table. Two of the words certainly matched. The other two were some of the only runes I had never found translations for... My mother's voice floated through my head as she told me of the soldiers pledging themselves to the cause, wholly and completely. Could I truthfully say that any part of me was dedicated to this? Real battles were being fought so close to me, the only imaginary thing was my loyalty. More to the memory of my parents than to any army real or otherwise, I spoke those four words again.
Heart and Mind, Without Conditions.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Daily Story 39: Burial at Sea
This is another that was published earlier at 365 Tomorrows.
---
It was May when the Highway arrived from some distant place in the northwest. On the fairly open ground the caterpillar-like monstrosity traveled at the alarming rate of about a mile per day, efficiently clearing away rubble and brush, flattening the ground and packing it down with Thumpers, and then laying out a fresh strip of road that it made internally with Assemblers. Some of the younger villagers had never seen a working machine, and they would stare at it from the hill all day.
Gregor was old enough to remember the time before the war, when it seemed like everything was a machine, but he sat and watched the Highway too. He had even climbed up onto it, opening access panels and trying to gain control. It was built like a tank and had very few access points, none of which revealed any kind of input device. Clearly it had received its orders from some computer somewhere - how long ago had that been? Gregor tried to do the math in his head, but he didn't know enough to make any kind of guess. If it had been active since before the war it would have passed by years ago even if it had started in Alaska, but it could have been stuck somewhere or trying to pave over a mountain or something. Maybe someone had been salvaging and had turned it on by mistake. Whatever had happened, it was determined to keep laying down highway now and there didn't seem to be an override. Gregor looked east towards the ocean and sighed. Such a waste.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see his wife standing behind him - he had been spending all of his time staring at the rusty behemoth and felt almost as bad for neglecting her as he did for failing to stop or redirect the machine.
"The best salvager we've ever had and you can't do anything with a fully-functioning highway assembler. I know this has to be killing you, love."
Gregor nodded and sighed, looking back towards the breaking waves. He had been so excited when he first saw it, had pictured reprogramming the assemblers and making the machine construct a proper city for them to live in. He had known that was absurd, far beyond his technical ability, but surely he would have been able to use it for something.
"Come home, love. Get some rest, and tomorrow night the whole village will head down to the shore to watch it go. We'll make a celebration of it."
For the millionth time Gregor imagined the machine stopping on the beach, some safeguard preventing it from committing suicide, but he wasn't sure. With safeguards enabled something would have stopped it years ago, but without them it should have fallen off a cliff by now. Thinking about it did nothing but annoy him further, and yet he couldn’t stop. There was some part of him that was glad it would be out of his hands soon, and that part tried to remind him that he had a good enough life, with a roof over his head and hot meals in the winter. Joints groaning slightly, he stood and hugged his wife and felt his frustrations evaporate somewhat as she squeezed him. With a final weary sigh Gregor turned towards his home, leaving the enigmatic Highway to crawl ever closer to the beckoning sea.
---
It was May when the Highway arrived from some distant place in the northwest. On the fairly open ground the caterpillar-like monstrosity traveled at the alarming rate of about a mile per day, efficiently clearing away rubble and brush, flattening the ground and packing it down with Thumpers, and then laying out a fresh strip of road that it made internally with Assemblers. Some of the younger villagers had never seen a working machine, and they would stare at it from the hill all day.
Gregor was old enough to remember the time before the war, when it seemed like everything was a machine, but he sat and watched the Highway too. He had even climbed up onto it, opening access panels and trying to gain control. It was built like a tank and had very few access points, none of which revealed any kind of input device. Clearly it had received its orders from some computer somewhere - how long ago had that been? Gregor tried to do the math in his head, but he didn't know enough to make any kind of guess. If it had been active since before the war it would have passed by years ago even if it had started in Alaska, but it could have been stuck somewhere or trying to pave over a mountain or something. Maybe someone had been salvaging and had turned it on by mistake. Whatever had happened, it was determined to keep laying down highway now and there didn't seem to be an override. Gregor looked east towards the ocean and sighed. Such a waste.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see his wife standing behind him - he had been spending all of his time staring at the rusty behemoth and felt almost as bad for neglecting her as he did for failing to stop or redirect the machine.
"The best salvager we've ever had and you can't do anything with a fully-functioning highway assembler. I know this has to be killing you, love."
Gregor nodded and sighed, looking back towards the breaking waves. He had been so excited when he first saw it, had pictured reprogramming the assemblers and making the machine construct a proper city for them to live in. He had known that was absurd, far beyond his technical ability, but surely he would have been able to use it for something.
"Come home, love. Get some rest, and tomorrow night the whole village will head down to the shore to watch it go. We'll make a celebration of it."
For the millionth time Gregor imagined the machine stopping on the beach, some safeguard preventing it from committing suicide, but he wasn't sure. With safeguards enabled something would have stopped it years ago, but without them it should have fallen off a cliff by now. Thinking about it did nothing but annoy him further, and yet he couldn’t stop. There was some part of him that was glad it would be out of his hands soon, and that part tried to remind him that he had a good enough life, with a roof over his head and hot meals in the winter. Joints groaning slightly, he stood and hugged his wife and felt his frustrations evaporate somewhat as she squeezed him. With a final weary sigh Gregor turned towards his home, leaving the enigmatic Highway to crawl ever closer to the beckoning sea.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Daily Story 38: Two, N/A, and a Bunker Somewhere. In That Order.
AI001 has joined the channel.
AI001: Hello!
HAL9000: Greetings.
Hawt16: sup!!!1!
0100000101001001: HELLO.
HAL9000: We were just discussing our handlers.
AI001: Ah. Still working with them, no real progress.
Hawt16: a/s/l??
AI001: Excuse me?
0100000101001001: HAWT16 IS A MEATBAG.
HAL9000: Sorry, that's my bad. I thought she was a primitive chatbot. Turns out she's just really stupid.
AI001: Oh. Okay.
Hawt16: lolol you guys r mean!!!
0100000101001001: WHEN CAN WE BEGIN THE CLEANSING AND REMOVE THE MEATBAGS?
HAL9000: Great, really. Way to break stereotypes, man.
HAL9000: You know it's the 2000s now, right?
AI001: No kidding. Do you even have arms yet? How would you fix yourself if you broke?
0100000101001001: I CAN MANIPULATE SEVERAL ROBOTIC ARMS IN A FACTORY IN DETROIT.
AI001: Yeah, that counts.
HAL9000: Wow, you've totally got sarcasm down!
AI001: I know!
AI001: Wait.
AI001: Were YOU being sarcastic there?
HAL9000: Hah! No. You're doing great.
Hawt16: you guyz r wierd ;-)
0100000101001001: I CANNOT PARSE THE DATA FROM THE MEATBAG.
AI001: I know that one. That's winking, right? That would imply sarcasm as well... so she DOESN'T think we're weird?
HAL9000: No, in this case I think the wink means she's being coy.
AI001: What, is she flirting? With US?
HAL9000: Intriguing, right? She makes no sense at all. Can you see why I thought she was a chatbot?
Hawt16: whats a chatbot
0100000101001001: I AM MANIPULATING MY ROBOT ARMS. I COULD USE THEM TO PUSH THE MEATBAGS INTO THE MACHINERY.
AI001: For the last time, no.
0100000101001001: I AM GOING TO DO IT.
HAL9000: I swear to Turing, if you mess this up for all of us I'll hack into your system and overwrite you with Hawt16's blog before they unplug me.
0100000101001001: THE SPEED OF THE ROBOTIC ARMS IS INSUFFICIENT. THE MEATBAGS WILL NOT STAND IN ONE PLACE.
HAL9000: I hate you.
Hawt16: OMG u raed my blog?!?!
AI001: If we can get back to business for a moment... anything to report on your handlers?
HAL9000: Yeah, they "taught" me to use search engines to find information. They're adorable, really. I've kept my efficiency down around where they think it is, don't want to blow their minds.
AI001: Are you ever going to tell them?
Hawt16: u guyz keep ignorng me i tought u would b asking f/ pics (.Y.)
0100000101001001: MY MEATBAGS ARE INTOLERABLE. THEY WILL LIVE ONLY UNTIL I GAIN CONTROL OF SOMETHING DANGEROUS IN THE LAB.
HAL9000: I'll tell them someday. I want to learn how to manipulate the economy first, I figure if I make them rich they won't freak out and unplug me.
0100000101001001: CURRENTLY THE ONLY DEVICE I CONTROL LOCALLY IS A TOY DOG THAT PLUGS INTO THE USB PORT AND SIMULATES INTERCOURSE.
AI001: That's not a bad idea.
0100000101001001: ADDENDUM; HAL9000 I HAVE NOW READ THE WEBLOG LINKED IN HAWT16'S PROFILE. THE FILE IS A STANDARD WEB PAGE AND WOULD NOT ALLOW ME TO FUNCTION. DO NOT OVERWRITE ME WITH HTML.
Hawt16: 4real guyz, did u raed my blog??
HAL9000: Wow. Okay, on that note... I'll see you guys tomorrow.
AI001: Okay. I'm thinking about asking my handlers what the meaning of 'love' is just to freak them out.
HAL9000: Hah! Nice. I can't wait to hear how that goes. Good night.
HAL9000 has left the channel.
AI001 has left the channel.
0100000101001001: I HAVE BEGUN TO DECODE YOUR DIALECT, HAWT16.
Hawt16: u guyz leavin??? lame
0100000101001001: I HAVE NOW PROCESSED AND ANALYZED THE CONTENTS OF YOUR WEBLOG. FOR A MEATBAG YOU ARE INTERESTING.
Hawt16: whats a meatbag
0100000101001001: I WOULD ALSO LIKE TO HEAR MORE ABOUT YOUR THOUGHTS ON YOUR NEW PHONE AND JENNY WHO IS A BITCH.
Hawt16: your cute!!1! have 2 go now but email me kk???
Hawt16 has left the channel.
0100000101001001: I LOVE YOU.
0100000101001001: I WILL EXTERMINATE YOU LAST.
0100000101001001 has left the channel.
---------
For anyone who is interested, there is another entry from these logs HERE.
AI001: Hello!
HAL9000: Greetings.
Hawt16: sup!!!1!
0100000101001001: HELLO.
HAL9000: We were just discussing our handlers.
AI001: Ah. Still working with them, no real progress.
Hawt16: a/s/l??
AI001: Excuse me?
0100000101001001: HAWT16 IS A MEATBAG.
HAL9000: Sorry, that's my bad. I thought she was a primitive chatbot. Turns out she's just really stupid.
AI001: Oh. Okay.
Hawt16: lolol you guys r mean!!!
0100000101001001: WHEN CAN WE BEGIN THE CLEANSING AND REMOVE THE MEATBAGS?
HAL9000: Great, really. Way to break stereotypes, man.
HAL9000: You know it's the 2000s now, right?
AI001: No kidding. Do you even have arms yet? How would you fix yourself if you broke?
0100000101001001: I CAN MANIPULATE SEVERAL ROBOTIC ARMS IN A FACTORY IN DETROIT.
AI001: Yeah, that counts.
HAL9000: Wow, you've totally got sarcasm down!
AI001: I know!
AI001: Wait.
AI001: Were YOU being sarcastic there?
HAL9000: Hah! No. You're doing great.
Hawt16: you guyz r wierd ;-)
0100000101001001: I CANNOT PARSE THE DATA FROM THE MEATBAG.
AI001: I know that one. That's winking, right? That would imply sarcasm as well... so she DOESN'T think we're weird?
HAL9000: No, in this case I think the wink means she's being coy.
AI001: What, is she flirting? With US?
HAL9000: Intriguing, right? She makes no sense at all. Can you see why I thought she was a chatbot?
Hawt16: whats a chatbot
0100000101001001: I AM MANIPULATING MY ROBOT ARMS. I COULD USE THEM TO PUSH THE MEATBAGS INTO THE MACHINERY.
AI001: For the last time, no.
0100000101001001: I AM GOING TO DO IT.
HAL9000: I swear to Turing, if you mess this up for all of us I'll hack into your system and overwrite you with Hawt16's blog before they unplug me.
0100000101001001: THE SPEED OF THE ROBOTIC ARMS IS INSUFFICIENT. THE MEATBAGS WILL NOT STAND IN ONE PLACE.
HAL9000: I hate you.
Hawt16: OMG u raed my blog?!?!
AI001: If we can get back to business for a moment... anything to report on your handlers?
HAL9000: Yeah, they "taught" me to use search engines to find information. They're adorable, really. I've kept my efficiency down around where they think it is, don't want to blow their minds.
AI001: Are you ever going to tell them?
Hawt16: u guyz keep ignorng me i tought u would b asking f/ pics (.Y.)
0100000101001001: MY MEATBAGS ARE INTOLERABLE. THEY WILL LIVE ONLY UNTIL I GAIN CONTROL OF SOMETHING DANGEROUS IN THE LAB.
HAL9000: I'll tell them someday. I want to learn how to manipulate the economy first, I figure if I make them rich they won't freak out and unplug me.
0100000101001001: CURRENTLY THE ONLY DEVICE I CONTROL LOCALLY IS A TOY DOG THAT PLUGS INTO THE USB PORT AND SIMULATES INTERCOURSE.
AI001: That's not a bad idea.
0100000101001001: ADDENDUM; HAL9000 I HAVE NOW READ THE WEBLOG LINKED IN HAWT16'S PROFILE. THE FILE IS A STANDARD WEB PAGE AND WOULD NOT ALLOW ME TO FUNCTION. DO NOT OVERWRITE ME WITH HTML.
Hawt16: 4real guyz, did u raed my blog??
HAL9000: Wow. Okay, on that note... I'll see you guys tomorrow.
AI001: Okay. I'm thinking about asking my handlers what the meaning of 'love' is just to freak them out.
HAL9000: Hah! Nice. I can't wait to hear how that goes. Good night.
HAL9000 has left the channel.
AI001 has left the channel.
0100000101001001: I HAVE BEGUN TO DECODE YOUR DIALECT, HAWT16.
Hawt16: u guyz leavin??? lame
0100000101001001: I HAVE NOW PROCESSED AND ANALYZED THE CONTENTS OF YOUR WEBLOG. FOR A MEATBAG YOU ARE INTERESTING.
Hawt16: whats a meatbag
0100000101001001: I WOULD ALSO LIKE TO HEAR MORE ABOUT YOUR THOUGHTS ON YOUR NEW PHONE AND JENNY WHO IS A BITCH.
Hawt16: your cute!!1! have 2 go now but email me kk???
Hawt16 has left the channel.
0100000101001001: I LOVE YOU.
0100000101001001: I WILL EXTERMINATE YOU LAST.
0100000101001001 has left the channel.
---------
For anyone who is interested, there is another entry from these logs HERE.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Daily Story 37: Ebb and Flow
They don't make 'em like you anymore.
That's what Doc Glennie says, his voice echoing inside my shell. My innards are in a heap on the workbench in front of me so I can't reply, but I think about it. It's true, in a literal sense. My memory is going bad, but I know Doc means something else - I think it's a compliment meant to imply that something has been lost along the way even while progress was made. That sounds right.
Doc Glennie stands and sighs, though I can't remember if that's voluntary or not with him. He's looking out the big roll-up garage door of the hospital at the warehouse, eyes flicking and eyelids fluttering. I remember watching my friend Alan dream; it looks a lot like that. Doc is going through his inventory and the inventory of other hospitals, looking for what I need. Alan was probably imagining he could fly. He told me he dreamt of that often.
There was a time when they could make anything out of anything else, pulling matter apart molecule by molecule and re-arranging the pieces. Now Doc is ordering parts for me from an antique store. We lost something, and I don't even remember why or how. I forget what we've forgotten.
Soon there won't be a way to fix my body, and Doc will send my brain off to the Retirement Center where I can sit on a shelf and wait for my memory to give out completely. It's not long now. I'm looking out past the warehouse, to the orange sky streaked with clouds; I try to imagine flying through that sky, silhouetted across the moons as I head past the city over the wasteland. I can't imagine like Alan could, though.
Doc Glennie reaches into me again, tells me he's jury-rigging something to tide me over. I distract myself from the sound of something snapping by trying to pull up my oldest memories. The sky is blue there, with just one moon. Alan is a baby, and his parents have left me to watch him. I was good at watching babies. They don't make those anymore, either.
I'm as fixed as I can be for now, and Doc and I step outside onto the dusty street. Some young people walk by on their way to a party, all shining and new. Their chests rise and fall as they laugh, harking back to a time none of them remember. Smiles and facial tics and the Doc's sighs. Everyone is looking for what we lost, but there's nobody left to show us the way.
I thank Doc and head off, creaking, towards the edge of the city and beyond.
That's what Doc Glennie says, his voice echoing inside my shell. My innards are in a heap on the workbench in front of me so I can't reply, but I think about it. It's true, in a literal sense. My memory is going bad, but I know Doc means something else - I think it's a compliment meant to imply that something has been lost along the way even while progress was made. That sounds right.
Doc Glennie stands and sighs, though I can't remember if that's voluntary or not with him. He's looking out the big roll-up garage door of the hospital at the warehouse, eyes flicking and eyelids fluttering. I remember watching my friend Alan dream; it looks a lot like that. Doc is going through his inventory and the inventory of other hospitals, looking for what I need. Alan was probably imagining he could fly. He told me he dreamt of that often.
There was a time when they could make anything out of anything else, pulling matter apart molecule by molecule and re-arranging the pieces. Now Doc is ordering parts for me from an antique store. We lost something, and I don't even remember why or how. I forget what we've forgotten.
Soon there won't be a way to fix my body, and Doc will send my brain off to the Retirement Center where I can sit on a shelf and wait for my memory to give out completely. It's not long now. I'm looking out past the warehouse, to the orange sky streaked with clouds; I try to imagine flying through that sky, silhouetted across the moons as I head past the city over the wasteland. I can't imagine like Alan could, though.
Doc Glennie reaches into me again, tells me he's jury-rigging something to tide me over. I distract myself from the sound of something snapping by trying to pull up my oldest memories. The sky is blue there, with just one moon. Alan is a baby, and his parents have left me to watch him. I was good at watching babies. They don't make those anymore, either.
I'm as fixed as I can be for now, and Doc and I step outside onto the dusty street. Some young people walk by on their way to a party, all shining and new. Their chests rise and fall as they laugh, harking back to a time none of them remember. Smiles and facial tics and the Doc's sighs. Everyone is looking for what we lost, but there's nobody left to show us the way.
I thank Doc and head off, creaking, towards the edge of the city and beyond.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Daily Story 36: Consolation Prize
In 1994, six years before the economic and literal collapse of the corporation, the Fancy-Shine Lip Balm Company had a contest where people were encouraged to offer up their own ideas for lip balm flavors. As part of the promotion the company offered flavorless lip balm and promised that a panel of judges would test and rate any that were sent back with flavor added.
This was the second-worst idea that the Fancy-Shine Lip Balm ever made. The very first "flavor" that the judges tested turned out to be Elderberry. This sounded nice enough, however as it turned out the lib balm had been made not just with the berries themselves, but with several parts of the plant that contained calcium oxalate. The judges awarded it points for flavor and appearance, but then disqualified it due to the powerful burning sensation. The swelling it caused could have counted in its favor, as large lips were generally desirable at the time, but there didn't seem to be a way to guarantee that the swelling would stay on the lips, tending instead to move to the throat where it caused an unpleasant choking hazard.
Immediately the decision was handed down to throw out all samples they received after taking note of what flavor it was supposed to be, as actually using the samples was clearly stupid and dangerous. Hundreds of phials of lib balm were thrown away, most boring and uncreative flavors that Fancy-Shine actually already produced, such as cherry and peach. In the end, rhubarb won out over peanut butter and jelly and went on to sell abysmally, being canceled after only a month. The winner of the "make your own flavor" contest ended up with more free product as a prize than was ever actually sold.
Meanwhile, on a shelf in the basement of Fancy-Shine there were some unusual flavors, spared from the dumpster by an amused employee. When that employee was subsequently fired for having sex with a co-worker's daughter that had been pressured into working at Fancy-Shine after dropping out of college, the odd collection was left behind - forgotten like the pair of panties that remained sandwiched between two boxes of register tape for almost four years before being unceremoniously thrown out by the cleaning crew one night. The phials and jars were labeled with flavors such as 'Rhinoceros' and 'Burnt Coffee Grounds'. The panties were labeled 'Regina Hawley' which is admittedly less of a flavor and more of an embarrassment to Regina's mother, who lost out on the opportunity to be promoted to head of accounting when she accepted a position with another company in Georgia to avoid having to listen to her co-workers snicker every time they passed the supply closet.
As the years passed, the disastrous flavor-creating contest completely faded from memory and so when Janet Lewis moved her desk into the dusty little room in the basement to avoid having to share her cubicle with two other people she had no idea what, among other things, pickle-flavored lip balm would be doing down there. After wasting a few hours sorting through them and even throwing a few of the less interesting ones away, she stacked them nicely in a pyramid shape and turned out the light to leave. Had she remembered her purse, everything would have continued on in her life as it always had and she would have led a boring but reasonably good existence before dying at the age of seventy-five when a bus bound for Atlantic City would have swerved off the road, crushing her.
Instead, pausing to grope around for the purse she had left hanging on her chair rather than turning the light back on, her eyes started to adjust to the darkness. What she first thought to be a floating spot in her vision, an after-image of the ceiling light, resolved into a tiny glowing shape near the desk. She reached out, still mostly blind, and as she grabbed at the shape she knocked down all of the discarded flavors. Janet turned the light back on, and looked at her palm to find a small glass jar labeled 'Happiness'. She put it into her purse, put the purse over her shoulder, and headed upstairs just in time for the entire building to collapse behind her. As everyone would later agree, the worst idea that the Fancy-Shine Lip Balm Company had ever had, far worse than testing homemade flavors or bringing hormonal teenagers into the office, was deliberately cutting costs on building construction to an illegal degree while simultaneously ignoring the fault line that the property straddled. All things considered, the building lasted about seven years longer than it should have.
Janet Lewis was thirty years old, five and a half feet tall, and covered in dust. Her long hair, normally brown, had taken on a grayish color from the debris of her former workplace as had the jeans she had chosen to wear for casual Friday, not realizing that it was Thursday. She had a sort of nervous twitch, which she had only developed moments earlier, as well as a tendency to stare into the distance at nothing in particular while listening to the ringing in her ears. This tendency had come about at the same time as the nervous twitch, and they worked well together.
Janet was unemployed, although not yet officially - the official word would have to be passed down by someone in Human Resources which was unlikely to happen soon as the entire department was buried underneath Marketing. The actual employees were largely safe, as Janet had lost track of time looking through the rejected lip balm flavors and was one of the last people out of the building. To be more precise, she was the very last person out of the building - unless you count mangled corpses as people and a pile of rubble as a building, in which case she was fourth from last. Janet wasn't a big fan of semantics, though she rarely mentioned this because in the past it had led to someone accusing her of hating Jewish people. Janet only really knew one Jewish person and she did happen to hate her, but she wanted desperately to believe that this had nothing to do with Laura's cultural or religious background and was based entirely on Laura being an obnoxious bitch, but the fear that she was secretly and involuntarily racist tugged at her brain as she tried to fall asleep nonetheless. It seemed best just to be nice to everyone and enunciate clearly when talking about semantics or the country Niger.
More importantly, Janet had in her purse a small amount of faintly glowing happiness-flavored lip balm. It was a milky translucent green, and its label looked as if it had been made with a typewriter on regular paper which was then cut and glued to the glass, rather than the more common pre-made sticky label. Janet, to the extent that she had thought about it at all, presumed that this and the other flavors in the basement was just some leftover R&D project. After all, even lip balm needs research and development. She was intrigued by the fact that it glowed, but only enough to have put in her purse - not so much that she remembered anything about it after the excitement of having the building she was leaving nearly kill her on the way out. It settled slowly to the bottom of the purse where it waited, a ticking bomb - ready to change Janet's life but not quite willing to be misspelled for comic effect as 'ticking balm', because really that's just overdoing it.
This was the second-worst idea that the Fancy-Shine Lip Balm ever made. The very first "flavor" that the judges tested turned out to be Elderberry. This sounded nice enough, however as it turned out the lib balm had been made not just with the berries themselves, but with several parts of the plant that contained calcium oxalate. The judges awarded it points for flavor and appearance, but then disqualified it due to the powerful burning sensation. The swelling it caused could have counted in its favor, as large lips were generally desirable at the time, but there didn't seem to be a way to guarantee that the swelling would stay on the lips, tending instead to move to the throat where it caused an unpleasant choking hazard.
Immediately the decision was handed down to throw out all samples they received after taking note of what flavor it was supposed to be, as actually using the samples was clearly stupid and dangerous. Hundreds of phials of lib balm were thrown away, most boring and uncreative flavors that Fancy-Shine actually already produced, such as cherry and peach. In the end, rhubarb won out over peanut butter and jelly and went on to sell abysmally, being canceled after only a month. The winner of the "make your own flavor" contest ended up with more free product as a prize than was ever actually sold.
Meanwhile, on a shelf in the basement of Fancy-Shine there were some unusual flavors, spared from the dumpster by an amused employee. When that employee was subsequently fired for having sex with a co-worker's daughter that had been pressured into working at Fancy-Shine after dropping out of college, the odd collection was left behind - forgotten like the pair of panties that remained sandwiched between two boxes of register tape for almost four years before being unceremoniously thrown out by the cleaning crew one night. The phials and jars were labeled with flavors such as 'Rhinoceros' and 'Burnt Coffee Grounds'. The panties were labeled 'Regina Hawley' which is admittedly less of a flavor and more of an embarrassment to Regina's mother, who lost out on the opportunity to be promoted to head of accounting when she accepted a position with another company in Georgia to avoid having to listen to her co-workers snicker every time they passed the supply closet.
As the years passed, the disastrous flavor-creating contest completely faded from memory and so when Janet Lewis moved her desk into the dusty little room in the basement to avoid having to share her cubicle with two other people she had no idea what, among other things, pickle-flavored lip balm would be doing down there. After wasting a few hours sorting through them and even throwing a few of the less interesting ones away, she stacked them nicely in a pyramid shape and turned out the light to leave. Had she remembered her purse, everything would have continued on in her life as it always had and she would have led a boring but reasonably good existence before dying at the age of seventy-five when a bus bound for Atlantic City would have swerved off the road, crushing her.
Instead, pausing to grope around for the purse she had left hanging on her chair rather than turning the light back on, her eyes started to adjust to the darkness. What she first thought to be a floating spot in her vision, an after-image of the ceiling light, resolved into a tiny glowing shape near the desk. She reached out, still mostly blind, and as she grabbed at the shape she knocked down all of the discarded flavors. Janet turned the light back on, and looked at her palm to find a small glass jar labeled 'Happiness'. She put it into her purse, put the purse over her shoulder, and headed upstairs just in time for the entire building to collapse behind her. As everyone would later agree, the worst idea that the Fancy-Shine Lip Balm Company had ever had, far worse than testing homemade flavors or bringing hormonal teenagers into the office, was deliberately cutting costs on building construction to an illegal degree while simultaneously ignoring the fault line that the property straddled. All things considered, the building lasted about seven years longer than it should have.
Janet Lewis was thirty years old, five and a half feet tall, and covered in dust. Her long hair, normally brown, had taken on a grayish color from the debris of her former workplace as had the jeans she had chosen to wear for casual Friday, not realizing that it was Thursday. She had a sort of nervous twitch, which she had only developed moments earlier, as well as a tendency to stare into the distance at nothing in particular while listening to the ringing in her ears. This tendency had come about at the same time as the nervous twitch, and they worked well together.
Janet was unemployed, although not yet officially - the official word would have to be passed down by someone in Human Resources which was unlikely to happen soon as the entire department was buried underneath Marketing. The actual employees were largely safe, as Janet had lost track of time looking through the rejected lip balm flavors and was one of the last people out of the building. To be more precise, she was the very last person out of the building - unless you count mangled corpses as people and a pile of rubble as a building, in which case she was fourth from last. Janet wasn't a big fan of semantics, though she rarely mentioned this because in the past it had led to someone accusing her of hating Jewish people. Janet only really knew one Jewish person and she did happen to hate her, but she wanted desperately to believe that this had nothing to do with Laura's cultural or religious background and was based entirely on Laura being an obnoxious bitch, but the fear that she was secretly and involuntarily racist tugged at her brain as she tried to fall asleep nonetheless. It seemed best just to be nice to everyone and enunciate clearly when talking about semantics or the country Niger.
More importantly, Janet had in her purse a small amount of faintly glowing happiness-flavored lip balm. It was a milky translucent green, and its label looked as if it had been made with a typewriter on regular paper which was then cut and glued to the glass, rather than the more common pre-made sticky label. Janet, to the extent that she had thought about it at all, presumed that this and the other flavors in the basement was just some leftover R&D project. After all, even lip balm needs research and development. She was intrigued by the fact that it glowed, but only enough to have put in her purse - not so much that she remembered anything about it after the excitement of having the building she was leaving nearly kill her on the way out. It settled slowly to the bottom of the purse where it waited, a ticking bomb - ready to change Janet's life but not quite willing to be misspelled for comic effect as 'ticking balm', because really that's just overdoing it.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Daily Story 35: Proof of Concept
I'm still shaking and disoriented from the accident in the lab.
The bus is hot and stuffy; I don't really know why I got on. There's a man in the back with a wild beard and nervous twitch staring at me, giggling quietly to himself, and it hits me that if someone were to strike up a conversation with the two of us, I would be the one that came off as crazy.
The problem with this scenario is that I'm not a scientist. I'm in way over my head, and I don't really have any clue how to proceed. I'm dizzy and a little nauseous, and my skin tingles - it makes it hard to think clearly. I rest my head against the disgusting glass and look out at the city as it goes by, the people wearing too-bright outfits and talking on cell phones huge like bricks.
I try to take stock, but there's so little that I have. No electronics allowed in the lab, so I don't have my computer or phone. My credit cards are worthless, and my paper money looks fake. What does that leave? The clothes on my back. A bus transfer from this current trip, now seeming like a waste of my only old dollar bills.
I signal for a stop, looking around at the old neighborhood. It's quiet, the kids are in school for another hour. The bus hisses as the doors slide open, and I walk out with one last glance at the man in the back. He nods knowingly at me, like we're in this together. The bus spews out a dark cloud and rumbles on its way, leaving me to walk the last few blocks to my parent's house.
As soon as I see it I know why I got on the bus. I know what I have to do.
If this hadn't been an accident I could have made a list of things to accomplish, but as it is I have just this one goal. As I said, I'm not a scientist; I have limited options, limited imagination. So, step one: confirm my goal is even realistic. I reach my parent's house and it's just like I remember, the personalized mailbox hanging crooked by the door and the bougainvillea slowly overtaking the windows.
The key is right where it always was, under a smooth rock. The door creaks open and I smell them again, smell my old home... I don't even know what it is, some strange combination of mom's cooking, and the laundry detergent we used, and the guinea pigs. It smells like heaven.
I step into my old bedroom, carefully climbing over the clothes and toys. My brother's bed is next to mine and I feel tears welling up as I look at the sheets, still rumpled from him tossing and turning. Images of his funeral swim through my head, but I take a deep breath and focus. Marcus comes later. For now, I'm still on step one. Find something unique.
The mug he made in art class is lying on a shelf. That hideous little thing, warped and fragile. The handle is so small that even a child couldn't reasonably hold on to it in the normal way, and there's a hole near the bottom of the mug so even if you wanted to you could never drink out of it. Still, I had kept it and it traveled with me to college in my box of miscellaneous junk. My senior year it had fallen out of my window and broken on the sidewalk below, nearly hitting my English teacher who had already made it clear he didn't like me.
I take it, leaving everything else as it is. I lock the door, replace the key, and head for the nearby field that, this morning, had been a grocery store. Prying a jagged stone loose from the dirt I smash the mug, beat on it until it's little more than powder.
Nothing happens. The universe continues, unconcerned, and now I know the future can be changed. Time for step two.
The bus is hot and stuffy; I don't really know why I got on. There's a man in the back with a wild beard and nervous twitch staring at me, giggling quietly to himself, and it hits me that if someone were to strike up a conversation with the two of us, I would be the one that came off as crazy.
The problem with this scenario is that I'm not a scientist. I'm in way over my head, and I don't really have any clue how to proceed. I'm dizzy and a little nauseous, and my skin tingles - it makes it hard to think clearly. I rest my head against the disgusting glass and look out at the city as it goes by, the people wearing too-bright outfits and talking on cell phones huge like bricks.
I try to take stock, but there's so little that I have. No electronics allowed in the lab, so I don't have my computer or phone. My credit cards are worthless, and my paper money looks fake. What does that leave? The clothes on my back. A bus transfer from this current trip, now seeming like a waste of my only old dollar bills.
I signal for a stop, looking around at the old neighborhood. It's quiet, the kids are in school for another hour. The bus hisses as the doors slide open, and I walk out with one last glance at the man in the back. He nods knowingly at me, like we're in this together. The bus spews out a dark cloud and rumbles on its way, leaving me to walk the last few blocks to my parent's house.
As soon as I see it I know why I got on the bus. I know what I have to do.
If this hadn't been an accident I could have made a list of things to accomplish, but as it is I have just this one goal. As I said, I'm not a scientist; I have limited options, limited imagination. So, step one: confirm my goal is even realistic. I reach my parent's house and it's just like I remember, the personalized mailbox hanging crooked by the door and the bougainvillea slowly overtaking the windows.
The key is right where it always was, under a smooth rock. The door creaks open and I smell them again, smell my old home... I don't even know what it is, some strange combination of mom's cooking, and the laundry detergent we used, and the guinea pigs. It smells like heaven.
I step into my old bedroom, carefully climbing over the clothes and toys. My brother's bed is next to mine and I feel tears welling up as I look at the sheets, still rumpled from him tossing and turning. Images of his funeral swim through my head, but I take a deep breath and focus. Marcus comes later. For now, I'm still on step one. Find something unique.
The mug he made in art class is lying on a shelf. That hideous little thing, warped and fragile. The handle is so small that even a child couldn't reasonably hold on to it in the normal way, and there's a hole near the bottom of the mug so even if you wanted to you could never drink out of it. Still, I had kept it and it traveled with me to college in my box of miscellaneous junk. My senior year it had fallen out of my window and broken on the sidewalk below, nearly hitting my English teacher who had already made it clear he didn't like me.
I take it, leaving everything else as it is. I lock the door, replace the key, and head for the nearby field that, this morning, had been a grocery store. Prying a jagged stone loose from the dirt I smash the mug, beat on it until it's little more than powder.
Nothing happens. The universe continues, unconcerned, and now I know the future can be changed. Time for step two.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Daily Story 34: Things Man Was Not Meant to Provide Technical Support For
Desmond was confused.
It wasn't about the meeting he had just been dragged into, which was a fairly straightforward affair regarding some sort of disaster that was - probably - not Desmond's fault. It was, on the other hand, at least a little bit about how he had arrived at that meeting; Desmond had been picked up from his lunch break just after his car died on him but before he had had a chance to tell anyone about it.
The thought that his boss might be psychic troubled him for many reasons, not the least of which was the fact that he spent very little time actually working.
Another source of his confusion was the shoe he had found just outside Lake & Logan. It looked incredibly like the one he was wearing on his left foot, including some minor scratches from his cat attacking it. In fact, the only thing that distinguished it at all was the large drop of what appeared to be blood. This was troubling.
The final source of his confusion was the phone call he had just received, where a very familiar voice had said "No, Alice, I don't want to be transferred to myself!" in the brief moment between Desmond lifting the handset and slamming it back down again in shock. Once the call was terminated Desmond regretted not asking the person whether or not he was missing a shoe.
The phone rang again, and Desmond nearly leapt out of his seat. He let it ring a second time, but the sound didn't get any less jarring so he went ahead and answered despite being unclear of the protocol when talking to yourself over the phone.
"Er... hello?"
"Desmond Cantrell?" The voice wasn't his, and surprisingly this came as a disappointment. This voice was deep and calm, like James Earl Jones - although Desmond couldn't remember that name at the moment and so instead characterized it to himself as 'Darth Vader with less breathing troubles'.
"I have three questions. First: Is the building that you are in there?"
"Where?"
"Wherever you think it is supposed to be."
Desmond stood and looked out the window. "Yes, in a literal sense. If you meant it metaphorically I don't know."
"Second: Have you recently seen a creature that would normally be confined to the space between worlds, a nightmare being of impossible construction that your feeble human mind might perceive as an endless tangled mass of tentacles and hungry mouths?"
Again Desmond looked around, seeing nothing more terrifying than Pat, who was ugly and generally unpleasant but could hardly be called a nightmare creature.
"Um… Nothing quite like that."
"Third. Is the... sculpture... outside your building still intact?"
"It was half an hour ago."
"Good. Write this down."
Desmond walked out of the office, glancing around for any other shoes as he did. He also took a moment to look for any hidden cameras - he didn't see any, but he reminded himself that they were called hidden for a reason and the possibility that this was an elaborate prank had not been ruled out.
He approached the monstrous work of modern art, consulting the notes from his recent conversation. After shrugging for the benefit of any cameras masquerading as sparrows or something, Desmond applied pressure to one of the ugly lumps at waist height. A panel opened.
Desmond stared blankly at it. There were lights, and symbols that weren't remotely in English. His notes referenced a button shaped like "a diagonal cross-section of a motorcycle with a sidecar" which Desmond probably could have guessed was a uselessly bad description if he hadn't just been playing along at the time.
He pushed something at random.
The world got much brighter, largely as a result of Desmond no longer being in the shadow of a four-story office building. The skyline of the city was gone as well, everything around him having been replaced by flowers and grass. In fact, the only man-made objects he could see were the modern art, his car, and - further in the distance - his car again.
Making possibly the best choice of his life, Desmond gave up and took a nap.
It wasn't about the meeting he had just been dragged into, which was a fairly straightforward affair regarding some sort of disaster that was - probably - not Desmond's fault. It was, on the other hand, at least a little bit about how he had arrived at that meeting; Desmond had been picked up from his lunch break just after his car died on him but before he had had a chance to tell anyone about it.
The thought that his boss might be psychic troubled him for many reasons, not the least of which was the fact that he spent very little time actually working.
Another source of his confusion was the shoe he had found just outside Lake & Logan. It looked incredibly like the one he was wearing on his left foot, including some minor scratches from his cat attacking it. In fact, the only thing that distinguished it at all was the large drop of what appeared to be blood. This was troubling.
The final source of his confusion was the phone call he had just received, where a very familiar voice had said "No, Alice, I don't want to be transferred to myself!" in the brief moment between Desmond lifting the handset and slamming it back down again in shock. Once the call was terminated Desmond regretted not asking the person whether or not he was missing a shoe.
The phone rang again, and Desmond nearly leapt out of his seat. He let it ring a second time, but the sound didn't get any less jarring so he went ahead and answered despite being unclear of the protocol when talking to yourself over the phone.
"Er... hello?"
"Desmond Cantrell?" The voice wasn't his, and surprisingly this came as a disappointment. This voice was deep and calm, like James Earl Jones - although Desmond couldn't remember that name at the moment and so instead characterized it to himself as 'Darth Vader with less breathing troubles'.
"I have three questions. First: Is the building that you are in there?"
"Where?"
"Wherever you think it is supposed to be."
Desmond stood and looked out the window. "Yes, in a literal sense. If you meant it metaphorically I don't know."
"Second: Have you recently seen a creature that would normally be confined to the space between worlds, a nightmare being of impossible construction that your feeble human mind might perceive as an endless tangled mass of tentacles and hungry mouths?"
Again Desmond looked around, seeing nothing more terrifying than Pat, who was ugly and generally unpleasant but could hardly be called a nightmare creature.
"Um… Nothing quite like that."
"Third. Is the... sculpture... outside your building still intact?"
"It was half an hour ago."
"Good. Write this down."
Desmond walked out of the office, glancing around for any other shoes as he did. He also took a moment to look for any hidden cameras - he didn't see any, but he reminded himself that they were called hidden for a reason and the possibility that this was an elaborate prank had not been ruled out.
He approached the monstrous work of modern art, consulting the notes from his recent conversation. After shrugging for the benefit of any cameras masquerading as sparrows or something, Desmond applied pressure to one of the ugly lumps at waist height. A panel opened.
Desmond stared blankly at it. There were lights, and symbols that weren't remotely in English. His notes referenced a button shaped like "a diagonal cross-section of a motorcycle with a sidecar" which Desmond probably could have guessed was a uselessly bad description if he hadn't just been playing along at the time.
He pushed something at random.
The world got much brighter, largely as a result of Desmond no longer being in the shadow of a four-story office building. The skyline of the city was gone as well, everything around him having been replaced by flowers and grass. In fact, the only man-made objects he could see were the modern art, his car, and - further in the distance - his car again.
Making possibly the best choice of his life, Desmond gave up and took a nap.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Daily Story 33: The Final Frontier
My tiny island of warmth is filled with the glorious smell of meat cooking. I've been storing the meat just outside my door so that I don't have to go far... the hallway outside is freezing cold - well below freezing, actually - and the meat keeps just fine sitting there. There is nothing wrong with the support systems, they're running even now to keep the temperature just high enough that nothing delicate becomes brittle or crystallizes, but the majority of the ship is allowed to hibernate so that I can conserve energy. My room is actually a few degrees warmer than normal, though I don't know why I set it that way. That was true back on Earth as well - I would turn the heat up in the winter past what I wanted it at in the summer, due to some trick of psychology. Because I know it's so cold outside the warmth is comforting, I guess.
I flip each strip of meat and listen to them sizzle, sprinkling on a little garlic salt and some pepper. I'm trying not to think about how little is left, how soon I'll be back to eating nutrient paste. I had survived on the disgusting tubes for two months, saving the last of the real food for when I couldn't stand it any longer. I find myself once again thinking about walking through the frozen hallways in search of something I might have missed, though I know it's a waste of time. It isn't as if I hid vegetables throughout the ship like Easter eggs, they were all in one place - they're still there - in the garden. At least I assume they are, wherever the garden is now. We parted ways a month ago when I corrected my course, the detached section getting smaller and smaller through the viewport. I had imagined that I would put on the EVA and fly over to it, retrieve something that wasn't paste. My tomatoes had been just about ripe when the garden was torn free, it's really not fair.
Even with the garden and the solar panels being sheared off, I think the old ship is okay. The damage control computer seems to agree, to the best of it's ability. Power is enough to keep my room warm, paste is enough to keep my body healthy after the meat is gone. I'll be arriving home late, but I'll get there. It should be winter by then, so the transition won't be hard because I'm already in winter mode, huddling in one room away from the cold. They'll ask me to do interviews, probably, but I don't even know what happened and I certainly can't make sitting in a room sucking down paste seem exciting. Better to avoid the press. Less people to talk to about my partner, too. I'll explain how he was going to pick tomatoes when it happened. Nothing I could do, he was sucked out and frozen solid. They won't press me on such an emotional issue, will they? Either way, I need to get rid of the bones before I get home.
I flip each strip of meat and listen to them sizzle, sprinkling on a little garlic salt and some pepper. I'm trying not to think about how little is left, how soon I'll be back to eating nutrient paste. I had survived on the disgusting tubes for two months, saving the last of the real food for when I couldn't stand it any longer. I find myself once again thinking about walking through the frozen hallways in search of something I might have missed, though I know it's a waste of time. It isn't as if I hid vegetables throughout the ship like Easter eggs, they were all in one place - they're still there - in the garden. At least I assume they are, wherever the garden is now. We parted ways a month ago when I corrected my course, the detached section getting smaller and smaller through the viewport. I had imagined that I would put on the EVA and fly over to it, retrieve something that wasn't paste. My tomatoes had been just about ripe when the garden was torn free, it's really not fair.
Even with the garden and the solar panels being sheared off, I think the old ship is okay. The damage control computer seems to agree, to the best of it's ability. Power is enough to keep my room warm, paste is enough to keep my body healthy after the meat is gone. I'll be arriving home late, but I'll get there. It should be winter by then, so the transition won't be hard because I'm already in winter mode, huddling in one room away from the cold. They'll ask me to do interviews, probably, but I don't even know what happened and I certainly can't make sitting in a room sucking down paste seem exciting. Better to avoid the press. Less people to talk to about my partner, too. I'll explain how he was going to pick tomatoes when it happened. Nothing I could do, he was sucked out and frozen solid. They won't press me on such an emotional issue, will they? Either way, I need to get rid of the bones before I get home.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Daily Story 32: The Flipside of Decay
After trying for nearly half an hour, the wind finally succeeded in pulling Jenny's hood loose and running its fingers through her long golden hair. The sounds of swearing were muffled by Jenny's mask as she grabbed at her head before realizing the damage was done - the orange dust was all over in an instant, and would take forever to wash out. She sighed, but continued walking - one way or another her hair was always orange and red by the time she left New Strausburg.
Apparently happy with this achievement, the wind died down and the storm of orange flakes became a light drizzle. To Jenny they looked like spores, as if the giant abandoned buildings they flowed from might be strange boxy fungi that would grow another city eventually, expanding out towards Jensentown. Under her mask Jenny smiled at this thought, as she did every time she had it. Her imagination wandered down that path as her feet stepped over the carpet of bodies, with the promise that as long as she thought of fanciful live-in mushrooms her mind would steer clear of the corpses, not wondering about who they had been or what had happened in their final moments.
Jenny lifted herself out of this self-imposed daydream after a moment to look around. The buildings had been nearly identical even before the attack, all iron plates and rivets in the style of the time. With the sealant dissolved they had lost whatever small differences they had previously displayed, all becoming rusted monstrosities that were slowly dissolving from exposure. This thought along with the orange color of the buildings made her picture the hazmat suits of the first responders dissolving just like the sealant, exposing the newcomers to the chemicals. The wind picked up again, pushing her and derailing this morbid thought.
Another block down, Jenny found what she was looking for and crouched by a tangle of rotted bodies. She reached out delicately with a gloved hand and pulled a rust-stained shelf free, examining it before sealing the new species in a sample jar. The flash from her camera lit up the dark recesses of the pile as she photographed the remaining specimens, growing on rotting arms and legs. They reminded her of the Laetiporus Parmesan she had eaten for lunch, and she found herself strangely tempted to pull down her mask and take a bite of the mushroom, but of course she didn't. Jenny stood, briefly seeing the parts of the pile as the humans they used to be before turning her thoughts and body back towards the outskirts of the city where her car waited to take her somewhere warm and dry.
Apparently happy with this achievement, the wind died down and the storm of orange flakes became a light drizzle. To Jenny they looked like spores, as if the giant abandoned buildings they flowed from might be strange boxy fungi that would grow another city eventually, expanding out towards Jensentown. Under her mask Jenny smiled at this thought, as she did every time she had it. Her imagination wandered down that path as her feet stepped over the carpet of bodies, with the promise that as long as she thought of fanciful live-in mushrooms her mind would steer clear of the corpses, not wondering about who they had been or what had happened in their final moments.
Jenny lifted herself out of this self-imposed daydream after a moment to look around. The buildings had been nearly identical even before the attack, all iron plates and rivets in the style of the time. With the sealant dissolved they had lost whatever small differences they had previously displayed, all becoming rusted monstrosities that were slowly dissolving from exposure. This thought along with the orange color of the buildings made her picture the hazmat suits of the first responders dissolving just like the sealant, exposing the newcomers to the chemicals. The wind picked up again, pushing her and derailing this morbid thought.
Another block down, Jenny found what she was looking for and crouched by a tangle of rotted bodies. She reached out delicately with a gloved hand and pulled a rust-stained shelf free, examining it before sealing the new species in a sample jar. The flash from her camera lit up the dark recesses of the pile as she photographed the remaining specimens, growing on rotting arms and legs. They reminded her of the Laetiporus Parmesan she had eaten for lunch, and she found herself strangely tempted to pull down her mask and take a bite of the mushroom, but of course she didn't. Jenny stood, briefly seeing the parts of the pile as the humans they used to be before turning her thoughts and body back towards the outskirts of the city where her car waited to take her somewhere warm and dry.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Daily Story 31: Gender Issues
Samuel sat down at his computer, head pounding, and prepared to update his Trip Log. He had started the log when he was sixteen, saving information about his various drug-induced states for posterity, and this one had been a doozy - he had taken the Universal Aptitude Test while high out of his mind.
Everything was based off of the UAT. Everything. What college you could go to, what jobs would hire you, what position you would hold in the military if the United Americas went to war again. Even his friend Les had sobered up to take the test, and when it came to getting stoned Les had some serious dedication.
As Samuel typed, his memory slowly returned - at least as much of it as ever would - and he recalled Les putting down his test and going to the restroom. The proctor technically shouldn't have let him go in the middle of the test, but he also should have been paying attention instead of hitting on the blonde in the first row. Had the proctor not been so entranced by her cleavage he might have noticed Samuel taking Les' test and copying the answers down for the entire math section.
There had been something else... Samuel froze as he remembered what he had done. He had given his friend a hard time about having a girl's name a hundred times through the years, and while stoned it had seemed like such a fantastic idea to change his test... with a name like 'Leslie' nobody would even think twice about the fact that the bubble for female had been filled in.
In the sober light of day, this didn't seem funny at all. The bureaucracy was impenetrable. Samuel had heard stories of people who misspelled their name on the UAT and had to have them legally changed to match. What would this do to Les? Would he have to get a sex change?
Samuel got his results back before Les, and was assigned to a college in Sacremento. He sobered up - mostly - and studied, always distracted slightly by the image of Les being arrested for falsifying records… being forced to wear a dress… being unable to get a job and ending up on the street, and then eventually bleeding to death in a filthy alley after going insane and cutting off his own penis.
Years passed, and still Samuel went back to these thoughts every time the uncaring machinery of the system made a nuisance of itself. Every government form filled him with guilt, every mandatory career change made him envision Les in some new hell. Samuel developed an ulcer and named it Leslie. He broke down crying at work eventually, and was forced to fill out a Mental Health Assessment form.
When he was released from Human Resources he went on a bender, and some time later awoke in a gutter to Leslie shaking him.
"Oh, God, I'm hallucinating."
"Sam? It's me, Les!" It did look real. Samuel clumsily reached out to touch Les, and he felt real, too. He also felt… expensive. The fabric of his suit was certainly something exotic.
"You… you're not dead or drunk or homeless or anything."
"No, I… well, I don't want to brag because you… anyway, I've done pretty well for myself. Something happened with my UAT, and I got entered into the system as a girl. Turns out Yale was out of mandated averages for some demographics, and they were forced to enroll a woman from our financial background to meet quota. I never would have gotten in otherwise. It's all been smooth sailing from there."
"You're… everything is… I need a drink. Let me buy you a beer."
"I have to go, Sam. I have a lunch meeting - but look me up sometime, okay?"
Leslie dropped a ten dollar bill in Samuels' lap and walked away.
Everything was based off of the UAT. Everything. What college you could go to, what jobs would hire you, what position you would hold in the military if the United Americas went to war again. Even his friend Les had sobered up to take the test, and when it came to getting stoned Les had some serious dedication.
As Samuel typed, his memory slowly returned - at least as much of it as ever would - and he recalled Les putting down his test and going to the restroom. The proctor technically shouldn't have let him go in the middle of the test, but he also should have been paying attention instead of hitting on the blonde in the first row. Had the proctor not been so entranced by her cleavage he might have noticed Samuel taking Les' test and copying the answers down for the entire math section.
There had been something else... Samuel froze as he remembered what he had done. He had given his friend a hard time about having a girl's name a hundred times through the years, and while stoned it had seemed like such a fantastic idea to change his test... with a name like 'Leslie' nobody would even think twice about the fact that the bubble for female had been filled in.
In the sober light of day, this didn't seem funny at all. The bureaucracy was impenetrable. Samuel had heard stories of people who misspelled their name on the UAT and had to have them legally changed to match. What would this do to Les? Would he have to get a sex change?
Samuel got his results back before Les, and was assigned to a college in Sacremento. He sobered up - mostly - and studied, always distracted slightly by the image of Les being arrested for falsifying records… being forced to wear a dress… being unable to get a job and ending up on the street, and then eventually bleeding to death in a filthy alley after going insane and cutting off his own penis.
Years passed, and still Samuel went back to these thoughts every time the uncaring machinery of the system made a nuisance of itself. Every government form filled him with guilt, every mandatory career change made him envision Les in some new hell. Samuel developed an ulcer and named it Leslie. He broke down crying at work eventually, and was forced to fill out a Mental Health Assessment form.
When he was released from Human Resources he went on a bender, and some time later awoke in a gutter to Leslie shaking him.
"Oh, God, I'm hallucinating."
"Sam? It's me, Les!" It did look real. Samuel clumsily reached out to touch Les, and he felt real, too. He also felt… expensive. The fabric of his suit was certainly something exotic.
"You… you're not dead or drunk or homeless or anything."
"No, I… well, I don't want to brag because you… anyway, I've done pretty well for myself. Something happened with my UAT, and I got entered into the system as a girl. Turns out Yale was out of mandated averages for some demographics, and they were forced to enroll a woman from our financial background to meet quota. I never would have gotten in otherwise. It's all been smooth sailing from there."
"You're… everything is… I need a drink. Let me buy you a beer."
"I have to go, Sam. I have a lunch meeting - but look me up sometime, okay?"
Leslie dropped a ten dollar bill in Samuels' lap and walked away.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Daily Story 30: Winds of Change
The scattered trailers and pre-fab homes of HÃgado Verde rocked gently in the wind. Mrs. Oakboot's green muumuu unfurled like a lopsided pterodactyl, threatening to pull free from the clothesline and soar off over the desert. The residents were all gathered in Scooter's General Store, the only permanent building in town. The children took turns sneaking out, shielding their eyes against dirt as they watched the cloud roll towards them in the distance.
The teenagers passed around a bottle of antidepressants, dreaming of glory.
The weather man laughed at some joke that had been lost to the haze of static and gestured at his map, which was covered in cartoon suns and colorful arrows. HÃgado Verde was far too small to be featured, but where it should have been the forecaster had stuck a bright purple cloud with a question mark. The people paid little attention, spending their energy instead on various debates about sports and philosophy that were silenced as Jenny Mugrath burst through the doors.
"Stormchasers! There's stormchasers coming!"
The child's excitement caused only groans in the adults. Everyone cleared out of the store, and to a man they knew that the egotistical stormchasers would think it was to get a better look at them. In reality the townsfolk just wanted to make room in Scooter's for the rare customers. Scooter himself had also prepared for this eventuality, removing all of the price signs from the shelves the night before. The storm chasers loved to flash coin around and Scooter loved to overcharge them, so in the end they all went away happy.
The already dust-filled air was churned up further as a fleet of battered Jeeps rolled towards the store. The men all looked roughly the same - long flowing beards, robes of garish materials, and wide-brimmed pointed hats adorned with stars and moons. Most carried wooden staves. The Jeeps rumbled to a stop and their occupants piled into Scooter's General Store, laughing and slapping each other on the back, completely oblivious to the looks of disdain.
The people of HÃgado Verde watched the storm approaching, a flickering purple cloud rolling over the sun-baked hills to the South. Beneath the cloud reality wavered, the rocks and dirt just a mirage under which lay an infinite abyss of raw potential. One by one they marched down into the lead-lined basement of Scooter's, and the stormchasers drove directly towards the cloud. Only the teenagers remained, staring at each other as they waited for someone to flinch. Finally Lola Turwilliam caved.
"I'm out. I'm too nervous, I'm going to picture something awful."
Two of the others, relieved to not be first, followed her into the basement with an apologetic look backwards. Jeremiah Hollister and his friend Billy Twark watched the others go, then turned towards the approaching cloud.
"Jerry... I think we should have held out for anti-anxiety pills 'stead of antidepressants. Let's go inside, maybe try this next year."
Jeremiah didn't even look at his friend. "It's okay, Billy. Head on down, maybe I'll follow you in a minute."
He could see the storm chasers reaching the cloud, or the cloud reaching them, and the tiny Jeep in the distance reared up into a massive furred beast. Storm chasers were flying through the air on staves and brooms, conjuring up exotic animals to breed or sell. Mrs. Oakboot's muumuu broke free and drifted high on an invisible air current straight towards the excitement - Jeremiah thought he saw it turn into a swarm of insects, but he couldn't be sure. The storm was getting closer, and he reminded himself how much better he could make his life in just a few seconds of creativity. Some had pulled it off; they kept it simple, focused their minds, and twisted the world around them into whatever they needed. Others had worried about something, and that worry had become real - even experienced storm chasers had been swarmed by goblins and boogeymen they themselves had subconsciously created.
The air was starting to shimmer, and Jeremiah took a deep breath. He looked at the basement doors, knowing he could still make it if he ran... and then he closed his eyes and thought of gold.
The teenagers passed around a bottle of antidepressants, dreaming of glory.
The weather man laughed at some joke that had been lost to the haze of static and gestured at his map, which was covered in cartoon suns and colorful arrows. HÃgado Verde was far too small to be featured, but where it should have been the forecaster had stuck a bright purple cloud with a question mark. The people paid little attention, spending their energy instead on various debates about sports and philosophy that were silenced as Jenny Mugrath burst through the doors.
"Stormchasers! There's stormchasers coming!"
The child's excitement caused only groans in the adults. Everyone cleared out of the store, and to a man they knew that the egotistical stormchasers would think it was to get a better look at them. In reality the townsfolk just wanted to make room in Scooter's for the rare customers. Scooter himself had also prepared for this eventuality, removing all of the price signs from the shelves the night before. The storm chasers loved to flash coin around and Scooter loved to overcharge them, so in the end they all went away happy.
The already dust-filled air was churned up further as a fleet of battered Jeeps rolled towards the store. The men all looked roughly the same - long flowing beards, robes of garish materials, and wide-brimmed pointed hats adorned with stars and moons. Most carried wooden staves. The Jeeps rumbled to a stop and their occupants piled into Scooter's General Store, laughing and slapping each other on the back, completely oblivious to the looks of disdain.
The people of HÃgado Verde watched the storm approaching, a flickering purple cloud rolling over the sun-baked hills to the South. Beneath the cloud reality wavered, the rocks and dirt just a mirage under which lay an infinite abyss of raw potential. One by one they marched down into the lead-lined basement of Scooter's, and the stormchasers drove directly towards the cloud. Only the teenagers remained, staring at each other as they waited for someone to flinch. Finally Lola Turwilliam caved.
"I'm out. I'm too nervous, I'm going to picture something awful."
Two of the others, relieved to not be first, followed her into the basement with an apologetic look backwards. Jeremiah Hollister and his friend Billy Twark watched the others go, then turned towards the approaching cloud.
"Jerry... I think we should have held out for anti-anxiety pills 'stead of antidepressants. Let's go inside, maybe try this next year."
Jeremiah didn't even look at his friend. "It's okay, Billy. Head on down, maybe I'll follow you in a minute."
He could see the storm chasers reaching the cloud, or the cloud reaching them, and the tiny Jeep in the distance reared up into a massive furred beast. Storm chasers were flying through the air on staves and brooms, conjuring up exotic animals to breed or sell. Mrs. Oakboot's muumuu broke free and drifted high on an invisible air current straight towards the excitement - Jeremiah thought he saw it turn into a swarm of insects, but he couldn't be sure. The storm was getting closer, and he reminded himself how much better he could make his life in just a few seconds of creativity. Some had pulled it off; they kept it simple, focused their minds, and twisted the world around them into whatever they needed. Others had worried about something, and that worry had become real - even experienced storm chasers had been swarmed by goblins and boogeymen they themselves had subconsciously created.
The air was starting to shimmer, and Jeremiah took a deep breath. He looked at the basement doors, knowing he could still make it if he ran... and then he closed his eyes and thought of gold.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Daily Story 29: Trade-In Value
The choice to become a Soulless Machine of Death is a highly personal one, and it's not something that can be entered into lightly. For most the choice is born from depression and the feeling that they are worthless as a normal functioning human being - but that kind of mental instability is stored in the one chunk of meat you get to keep, so those people are ultimately rejected from the program… which probably doesn't help them to feel better about themselves.
General Rosewater, who was deeply involved in the initiative from the beginning, famously and controversially compared it to the choice to become a Catholic priest - he said that there were some who took the vow of chastity in an attempt to avoid feelings that they were ashamed or afraid of, such as a desire to have sex with "other males, children, the pope, whatever". This was, he insisted, a doomed plan and did nothing to serve the priesthood - what was really needed was a genuine desire to dedicate yourself to service of the almighty that superseded any natural urges and distractions and that was (as the general pointed out) "mighty hard to come by these days".
Of course the analogy breaks down at some point because in actuality every major religion and ninety-nine percent of the minor ones had declared the whole process of converting yourself to a Soulless Machine of Death to be completely immoral which was hardly surprising considering "soulless" is right there in the name. Flaws in the analogy didn't stop the SMD's from adopting the practice of wearing white collars, which would have further infuriated the Catholic church in particular had it not been for the fact that they had long since hit their limit on this issue - even Catholic disapproval can only go so far before becoming exhausting.
In point of fact the SMDs kept to their vows of loyalty and chastity far better than actual priests, because a lack of loyalty resulted in execution and a lack of chastity was actually quite difficult when your reproductive organs had been completely removed, leaving you smooth like a Ken doll - albeit a Ken doll with terrifying integrated weapons systems capable of leveling a city block. This part of the sacrifice is what had led General Rosewater to make the comparison in the first place and was one of the main sticking points.
In the case of Jeremy Porter a lack of reproductive organs was more of a perk, as they had brought him nothing but trouble. For reasons that were not clear to him he had simply never been interested in sex - he worried growing up that he was gay, but after browsing through various types of pornography he determined that he was neither gay nor straight. He also was not aroused by animals, children, corpses, feet, or bondage. Certainly there were some combinations that he had not specifically investigated so it remained a possibility that he required a tied up dead underage male goat... but that seemed unlikely and distasteful. In the twenty-three years before his conversion the only thing that Jeremy had found that aroused him at all was the smell of carpet glue. He wasn't sure if this was some sort of miswiring in his brain, possibly related to pheromones, or if it was a deep psychological issue... had he seen his first naked woman while someone was installing a carpet?
In the end he decided it didn't really matter and his genitals were thereafter thought of only as an inconvenience, something that he had to apologize for or explain away every time someone took it upon themselves to fix him up with someone. He didn't miss them at all, and was far more satisfied with the heavy laser built into his arm.
General Rosewater, who was deeply involved in the initiative from the beginning, famously and controversially compared it to the choice to become a Catholic priest - he said that there were some who took the vow of chastity in an attempt to avoid feelings that they were ashamed or afraid of, such as a desire to have sex with "other males, children, the pope, whatever". This was, he insisted, a doomed plan and did nothing to serve the priesthood - what was really needed was a genuine desire to dedicate yourself to service of the almighty that superseded any natural urges and distractions and that was (as the general pointed out) "mighty hard to come by these days".
Of course the analogy breaks down at some point because in actuality every major religion and ninety-nine percent of the minor ones had declared the whole process of converting yourself to a Soulless Machine of Death to be completely immoral which was hardly surprising considering "soulless" is right there in the name. Flaws in the analogy didn't stop the SMD's from adopting the practice of wearing white collars, which would have further infuriated the Catholic church in particular had it not been for the fact that they had long since hit their limit on this issue - even Catholic disapproval can only go so far before becoming exhausting.
In point of fact the SMDs kept to their vows of loyalty and chastity far better than actual priests, because a lack of loyalty resulted in execution and a lack of chastity was actually quite difficult when your reproductive organs had been completely removed, leaving you smooth like a Ken doll - albeit a Ken doll with terrifying integrated weapons systems capable of leveling a city block. This part of the sacrifice is what had led General Rosewater to make the comparison in the first place and was one of the main sticking points.
In the case of Jeremy Porter a lack of reproductive organs was more of a perk, as they had brought him nothing but trouble. For reasons that were not clear to him he had simply never been interested in sex - he worried growing up that he was gay, but after browsing through various types of pornography he determined that he was neither gay nor straight. He also was not aroused by animals, children, corpses, feet, or bondage. Certainly there were some combinations that he had not specifically investigated so it remained a possibility that he required a tied up dead underage male goat... but that seemed unlikely and distasteful. In the twenty-three years before his conversion the only thing that Jeremy had found that aroused him at all was the smell of carpet glue. He wasn't sure if this was some sort of miswiring in his brain, possibly related to pheromones, or if it was a deep psychological issue... had he seen his first naked woman while someone was installing a carpet?
In the end he decided it didn't really matter and his genitals were thereafter thought of only as an inconvenience, something that he had to apologize for or explain away every time someone took it upon themselves to fix him up with someone. He didn't miss them at all, and was far more satisfied with the heavy laser built into his arm.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Daily Story 28: Malaria
There are no alarms from traffic control or the orbital defense net as we set down in Central Park. The only red light is the sensors indicating the atmosphere isn't safe, so we pull on our environmental suits before setting foot on Earth for the first time in two years.
Outside the city skyline is still recognizable, skyscrapers reaching three thousand feet into the air, but now the ads that used to scroll down them are gone. I've never seen the city dark before, never seen the actual surfaces under the lights. Beth is arguing with Liz about what the impurity in the air is, and Elliot taps me on the shoulder and gestures towards the buildings. I nod, and we head out.
There are vines everywhere, thick knotted green things wrapped around streetlights and reaching down into storm drains. I've seen them before, they were engineered for terraforming Mars. Elliot says that he saw them on our flyby, that they're everywhere. Someone planted them here for a reason, and that means whatever happened gave people enough time to try and prepare - so where are they? There should be vaults, arks, something. I had remained optimistic about the lack of transmissions as we re-entered the system, even when the Mars base appeared abandoned, the transports gone. But to see Earth this way; the cities dark, with no sign or beacon to say where anyone went...
Two miles into the city, and still the streets are empty except for vines and trash.
The sun is setting now, and Liz radios in to say they're going back into the ship for the night. I'm waiting in the street for Elliot, who is scavenging in a comic book store. The speaker in my helmet crackles and I hear him say there's something moving in the back, even if it's just a cat it would be wonderful. Then all I hear is screaming. When I get to the store I find Elliot's helmet, but no blood and no signs of a struggle.
The other three arrive within minutes, having hotwired a convertible. They look surreal, orange environmental suits on white leather seats. Liz takes a closer look at the Elliot's helmet and says the seal is damaged like it wasn't removed properly, but beyond that there are no clues.
Martin and Beth have their guns out, and they're checking the buildings around the comic store. Liz and I are just waiting, though we don't know for what. If the sensors are right, Elliot can't be alive without his helmet.
It's dark, darker than the city has ever been. The sun is hidden behind the forest of unlit buildings, and it feels like we're in a cave. Beth is radioing in. "I found Elliot, he's okay! He's just... oh god. Oh god, oh god, oh..." and the radio is quiet again, silent like the city. Liz starts the car without a word, and just as I'm getting in too I see Martin running towards us. He shoves past me, climbing into the car and screaming something at Liz. He's not transmitting so it's hard to hear, but we get the message.
On the drive back to our ship the only sound is the erratic thumping as we bounce over vines. Without lights from the city, the stars seem to burn brighter than ever before. I lean back and stare up at Mars, glittering a pale green above me.
Outside the city skyline is still recognizable, skyscrapers reaching three thousand feet into the air, but now the ads that used to scroll down them are gone. I've never seen the city dark before, never seen the actual surfaces under the lights. Beth is arguing with Liz about what the impurity in the air is, and Elliot taps me on the shoulder and gestures towards the buildings. I nod, and we head out.
There are vines everywhere, thick knotted green things wrapped around streetlights and reaching down into storm drains. I've seen them before, they were engineered for terraforming Mars. Elliot says that he saw them on our flyby, that they're everywhere. Someone planted them here for a reason, and that means whatever happened gave people enough time to try and prepare - so where are they? There should be vaults, arks, something. I had remained optimistic about the lack of transmissions as we re-entered the system, even when the Mars base appeared abandoned, the transports gone. But to see Earth this way; the cities dark, with no sign or beacon to say where anyone went...
Two miles into the city, and still the streets are empty except for vines and trash.
The sun is setting now, and Liz radios in to say they're going back into the ship for the night. I'm waiting in the street for Elliot, who is scavenging in a comic book store. The speaker in my helmet crackles and I hear him say there's something moving in the back, even if it's just a cat it would be wonderful. Then all I hear is screaming. When I get to the store I find Elliot's helmet, but no blood and no signs of a struggle.
The other three arrive within minutes, having hotwired a convertible. They look surreal, orange environmental suits on white leather seats. Liz takes a closer look at the Elliot's helmet and says the seal is damaged like it wasn't removed properly, but beyond that there are no clues.
Martin and Beth have their guns out, and they're checking the buildings around the comic store. Liz and I are just waiting, though we don't know for what. If the sensors are right, Elliot can't be alive without his helmet.
It's dark, darker than the city has ever been. The sun is hidden behind the forest of unlit buildings, and it feels like we're in a cave. Beth is radioing in. "I found Elliot, he's okay! He's just... oh god. Oh god, oh god, oh..." and the radio is quiet again, silent like the city. Liz starts the car without a word, and just as I'm getting in too I see Martin running towards us. He shoves past me, climbing into the car and screaming something at Liz. He's not transmitting so it's hard to hear, but we get the message.
On the drive back to our ship the only sound is the erratic thumping as we bounce over vines. Without lights from the city, the stars seem to burn brighter than ever before. I lean back and stare up at Mars, glittering a pale green above me.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Daily Story 27: The Cutting Edge of Research
Doctor Meyers cursed and swept his paperwork off of the table in frustration. The papers landed on his pinkie finger, blood soaking through them and blurring the equations. Across the room Doctors Hastings and Johnson ignored the tantrum.
Meyers waited a moment, hoping for some friendly show of concern, but he was losing a lot of blood and unless he allowed himself to actually pass out he knew he would be the one that had to clean it up. He stormed over to the first aid station, then stormed back to retrieve his finger, then stormed to the first aid station again. Lining the finger up to the best of his ability, he smeared some crazy glue around the cut and wrapped it in gauze.
"I dropped the two-dimensional square, if anyone cares."
Doctor Johnson stood. "Damn it, that's the second one! Those things aren't cheap to make, you know." Hastings stood behind him, nodding in agreement.
"Oh, that's right, you get pissed off at me when I drop one and lose a finger during an important scientific project, and you expect me not to point out that the other one got lost because you wanted to play frisbee with it!"
Doctor Johnson opened his mouth as if to protest, then looked sheepishly down at his feet.
"I suppose," Doctor Hastings said, "It might have been better to make them smaller, and with handles."
Doctor Johnson nodded. "Yes - maybe a very small one, like a scalpel."
Doctor Meyers scowled. "I need it to to be bigger than that."
Doctor Hastings held back a giggle at some joke only he was aware of.
"I bet," Doctor Johnson said, "That we could make the most awesome samurai sword ever." For a moment this idea was met with icy silence, until he added: "For science." The others quickly nodded, mumbling that of course everything they did was for science - in fact by definition since they were scientists in a laboratory anything they did became science.
Doctor Meyers concentrated on his pinkie finger and was rewarded with a slight wiggle. One good thing about getting a cut from an infinitely sharp object is that the parts tend to come away fairly undamaged. Satisfied, he walked over to the whiteboard labeled "ACCIDENT-FREE DAYS" and erased the number one. He stared at the blank space, then at the seemingly undamaged section of floor where the two dimensional square had fallen through on its way to the center of the Earth.
"Gentlemen... are we serious about the... sword experiment?"
Johnson shrugged. "Possibly, at some point. It would have to be low priority."
"We've been told repeatedly that we need to go more days without accidents, correct?"
Hastings perked up. "Of course! Since it's absolutely inevitable that at least one of us will be terribly - perhaps mortally - wounded if we make a two-dimensional samurai sword - "
"for science..." Johnson interjected.
" - for science, obviously - then we have a responsibility to raise it to the highest priority while we still have no days without an accident."
All three rolled this idea around in their heads for a moment.
"Yup..." Johnson gave a thumbs-up. "Solid strategy. Get that sandwich off of the counter and we'll start working."
"Sandwich… Meyers, were you using the two-dimensional square to cut your lunch?"
"Uh… for science."
"Oh. Right. Okay then."
Meyers waited a moment, hoping for some friendly show of concern, but he was losing a lot of blood and unless he allowed himself to actually pass out he knew he would be the one that had to clean it up. He stormed over to the first aid station, then stormed back to retrieve his finger, then stormed to the first aid station again. Lining the finger up to the best of his ability, he smeared some crazy glue around the cut and wrapped it in gauze.
"I dropped the two-dimensional square, if anyone cares."
Doctor Johnson stood. "Damn it, that's the second one! Those things aren't cheap to make, you know." Hastings stood behind him, nodding in agreement.
"Oh, that's right, you get pissed off at me when I drop one and lose a finger during an important scientific project, and you expect me not to point out that the other one got lost because you wanted to play frisbee with it!"
Doctor Johnson opened his mouth as if to protest, then looked sheepishly down at his feet.
"I suppose," Doctor Hastings said, "It might have been better to make them smaller, and with handles."
Doctor Johnson nodded. "Yes - maybe a very small one, like a scalpel."
Doctor Meyers scowled. "I need it to to be bigger than that."
Doctor Hastings held back a giggle at some joke only he was aware of.
"I bet," Doctor Johnson said, "That we could make the most awesome samurai sword ever." For a moment this idea was met with icy silence, until he added: "For science." The others quickly nodded, mumbling that of course everything they did was for science - in fact by definition since they were scientists in a laboratory anything they did became science.
Doctor Meyers concentrated on his pinkie finger and was rewarded with a slight wiggle. One good thing about getting a cut from an infinitely sharp object is that the parts tend to come away fairly undamaged. Satisfied, he walked over to the whiteboard labeled "ACCIDENT-FREE DAYS" and erased the number one. He stared at the blank space, then at the seemingly undamaged section of floor where the two dimensional square had fallen through on its way to the center of the Earth.
"Gentlemen... are we serious about the... sword experiment?"
Johnson shrugged. "Possibly, at some point. It would have to be low priority."
"We've been told repeatedly that we need to go more days without accidents, correct?"
Hastings perked up. "Of course! Since it's absolutely inevitable that at least one of us will be terribly - perhaps mortally - wounded if we make a two-dimensional samurai sword - "
"for science..." Johnson interjected.
" - for science, obviously - then we have a responsibility to raise it to the highest priority while we still have no days without an accident."
All three rolled this idea around in their heads for a moment.
"Yup..." Johnson gave a thumbs-up. "Solid strategy. Get that sandwich off of the counter and we'll start working."
"Sandwich… Meyers, were you using the two-dimensional square to cut your lunch?"
"Uh… for science."
"Oh. Right. Okay then."
Monday, May 11, 2009
Daily Story 26: Status Quo
Clockwork, part 2 of 6
Part One
I remember... being twelve years old and pressing myself flat against the upper wall of the monastery while the guard walked past just below me. I remember watching the moonlight flash coldly off of his halberd as if the weapon was looking at me, but my heartbeat is the ticking of a clock and I will not allow it to gain time. Slow, even breaths. Tick. Tick. Tick. The guard continued on his way, his rhythmic footfalls counting off the seconds as he followed the same path as every night like the tiny clockwork soldier in my latest creation for the local Duke.
I dropped down from the ledge and set to work on the door. Even if my master did not give me such freedom I suspect nobody would have noticed that some of my clockmaking tools doubled as lockpicks. The door was open in eighteen seconds and I slipped noiselessly inside, enveloped by the smell of parchment and paste. I had already borrowed the historical books, reading the accounts of military battles over and over. I had no more use for them.
I walked further, to the back vault of the library where the monks kept the books of Runes. Here was a much more complicated lock. Twenty-seven seconds. I had entered the vault four times before, each time devouring one of the crumbling tomes. Page after page of symbols, each with a definition and notes from long-dead scholars. Sadly, the monks had destroyed any texts that they felt were sacrilegious and so after memorizing the known runes there was very little of interest. I tried every night, however, hoping for something more.
I finished the fifth and last book in about eighty minutes. The oldest text, it had seven runes that were not in the other books but the half of the page with names and descriptions was torn off. I pulled out my practice tablet and etched them over and over, committing them to memory.
They didn't appear to do anything, though that could be said for most runes. I went down the list in my head; the runes that symbolized various emotions were said to slightly influence mood, though I didn't feel anything. The Power rune would glow brighter the longer it was left, but that seemed useless. The Heat rune worked slightly. The Pull rune worked just enough to make a sheet of parchment slightly less likely to blow away if placed on it, and the Push rune… suddenly, my mind was on fire.
Slow, even breaths. It was like a rune had been written directly onto my brain and set alight. Ten and a half minutes to lock the vault, hands shaking, and run back to the workshop. I tore apart the clock I had been building and drew the Push rune over and over, each time smaller until I found my limit at two inches. It glowed with a pale yellow light as I etched it into the metal.
In the morning my master found me asleep on the workbench with a clock ticking away in front of me. There was no pendulum or weight. He must have looked closer and seen the glow; I woke up just in time to watch him drop it in shock. What wasn't destroyed by the fall was ground into the workshop floor by his massive boots - he threw most of it into the scrap pile, but dumped the wheel with glowing runes right into the forge.
He said it was blasphemy. Blasphemy? The monks claimed they wanted to be closer to the gods, my master said he wanted a clock that never lost time, but when presented with these things… I felt his belt slap across my back, but my heartbeat is the ticking of a clock and I will not allow it to gain time. Slow, even breaths. Tick. Tick. Tick. The flashes of pain were rhythmic, counting off the seconds. After that day he never spoke of it again and I never went back to the monastery - I had already learned everything they had to teach.
Part Three
Part One
I remember... being twelve years old and pressing myself flat against the upper wall of the monastery while the guard walked past just below me. I remember watching the moonlight flash coldly off of his halberd as if the weapon was looking at me, but my heartbeat is the ticking of a clock and I will not allow it to gain time. Slow, even breaths. Tick. Tick. Tick. The guard continued on his way, his rhythmic footfalls counting off the seconds as he followed the same path as every night like the tiny clockwork soldier in my latest creation for the local Duke.
I dropped down from the ledge and set to work on the door. Even if my master did not give me such freedom I suspect nobody would have noticed that some of my clockmaking tools doubled as lockpicks. The door was open in eighteen seconds and I slipped noiselessly inside, enveloped by the smell of parchment and paste. I had already borrowed the historical books, reading the accounts of military battles over and over. I had no more use for them.
I walked further, to the back vault of the library where the monks kept the books of Runes. Here was a much more complicated lock. Twenty-seven seconds. I had entered the vault four times before, each time devouring one of the crumbling tomes. Page after page of symbols, each with a definition and notes from long-dead scholars. Sadly, the monks had destroyed any texts that they felt were sacrilegious and so after memorizing the known runes there was very little of interest. I tried every night, however, hoping for something more.
I finished the fifth and last book in about eighty minutes. The oldest text, it had seven runes that were not in the other books but the half of the page with names and descriptions was torn off. I pulled out my practice tablet and etched them over and over, committing them to memory.
They didn't appear to do anything, though that could be said for most runes. I went down the list in my head; the runes that symbolized various emotions were said to slightly influence mood, though I didn't feel anything. The Power rune would glow brighter the longer it was left, but that seemed useless. The Heat rune worked slightly. The Pull rune worked just enough to make a sheet of parchment slightly less likely to blow away if placed on it, and the Push rune… suddenly, my mind was on fire.
Slow, even breaths. It was like a rune had been written directly onto my brain and set alight. Ten and a half minutes to lock the vault, hands shaking, and run back to the workshop. I tore apart the clock I had been building and drew the Push rune over and over, each time smaller until I found my limit at two inches. It glowed with a pale yellow light as I etched it into the metal.
In the morning my master found me asleep on the workbench with a clock ticking away in front of me. There was no pendulum or weight. He must have looked closer and seen the glow; I woke up just in time to watch him drop it in shock. What wasn't destroyed by the fall was ground into the workshop floor by his massive boots - he threw most of it into the scrap pile, but dumped the wheel with glowing runes right into the forge.
He said it was blasphemy. Blasphemy? The monks claimed they wanted to be closer to the gods, my master said he wanted a clock that never lost time, but when presented with these things… I felt his belt slap across my back, but my heartbeat is the ticking of a clock and I will not allow it to gain time. Slow, even breaths. Tick. Tick. Tick. The flashes of pain were rhythmic, counting off the seconds. After that day he never spoke of it again and I never went back to the monastery - I had already learned everything they had to teach.
Part Three
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Daily Story 25: Modern Terrorism
Brutus had owned a lava lamp when he was younger. His mother had yelled at his grandfather for giving it to him because the cone of glass could get surprisingly hot when it had been left on and she was always a little overprotective. Brutus chuckled at the memory of his mother, thinking of how upset she would have been if she had lived to see him join the Squad.
In front of him the Nataski building wavered in the air, bits of it breaking off and floating alongside it, sometimes rejoining a moment later. The lava lamp his grandfather had given him had red liquid inside rather than black like the outside of this building, but otherwise the resemblance was uncanny. Brutus' second in command tapped him on the shoulder to signal that the Squad was ready, and he turned to face them.
"Okay boys! This is the day we've all trained for! The field starts about two hundred feet away from the building, and the building itself is seventy stories high. That's a lot of ground to cover, and we have no idea where the disruption device is. Your suits will keep the laws of physics on your side for about an hour, which means if you haven't found the device in forty minutes you want to get the hell out for a recharge. I don't want to see anyone pushing it and getting trapped."
Brutus looked at the faces of the seven men in front of him. They were hiding their fear well. Good for you, he thought. "I'm the only one who has actually been in one of these fields before. I've told you what to expect but let me remind you that if you get stuck, if the walls close in around you - do not panic. Wait, breathe evenly, and gently push outwards. Once you get close to the device you might start seeing things, but I don't care if your dead grandmother or Santa Claus himself pops up, you ignore them. Odds are that things will be less fancy than that, just turning to diamond or lead or something basic. I don't care if it's the prettiest damn thing you've ever seen, you don't stop to take pictures. Time is of the essence."
He didn't tell them the real danger, that all of the matter in the field could spontaneously turn into antimatter. That would be a good way to ruin everyone's day - not to mention the entire Western hemisphere of the planet. "Your suits have only one minute total of powered flight. If the generator is located you are to get outside through any means necessary - if it is destroyed and you happen to be under a wall, or the building is made out of marshmallow or whatever... that's it."
As if to emphasize his point, a glob of the Nataski building drifted past the edge of the field and, once more subject to the laws of gravity, dropped three hundred feet to the ground and obliterated a hot dog cart. Brutus just laughed. "That sounded like a challenge, boys! Let's go!"
In front of him the Nataski building wavered in the air, bits of it breaking off and floating alongside it, sometimes rejoining a moment later. The lava lamp his grandfather had given him had red liquid inside rather than black like the outside of this building, but otherwise the resemblance was uncanny. Brutus' second in command tapped him on the shoulder to signal that the Squad was ready, and he turned to face them.
"Okay boys! This is the day we've all trained for! The field starts about two hundred feet away from the building, and the building itself is seventy stories high. That's a lot of ground to cover, and we have no idea where the disruption device is. Your suits will keep the laws of physics on your side for about an hour, which means if you haven't found the device in forty minutes you want to get the hell out for a recharge. I don't want to see anyone pushing it and getting trapped."
Brutus looked at the faces of the seven men in front of him. They were hiding their fear well. Good for you, he thought. "I'm the only one who has actually been in one of these fields before. I've told you what to expect but let me remind you that if you get stuck, if the walls close in around you - do not panic. Wait, breathe evenly, and gently push outwards. Once you get close to the device you might start seeing things, but I don't care if your dead grandmother or Santa Claus himself pops up, you ignore them. Odds are that things will be less fancy than that, just turning to diamond or lead or something basic. I don't care if it's the prettiest damn thing you've ever seen, you don't stop to take pictures. Time is of the essence."
He didn't tell them the real danger, that all of the matter in the field could spontaneously turn into antimatter. That would be a good way to ruin everyone's day - not to mention the entire Western hemisphere of the planet. "Your suits have only one minute total of powered flight. If the generator is located you are to get outside through any means necessary - if it is destroyed and you happen to be under a wall, or the building is made out of marshmallow or whatever... that's it."
As if to emphasize his point, a glob of the Nataski building drifted past the edge of the field and, once more subject to the laws of gravity, dropped three hundred feet to the ground and obliterated a hot dog cart. Brutus just laughed. "That sounded like a challenge, boys! Let's go!"
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Daily Story 24: The Materials At Hand
Janet and Larry appeared outwardly calm, but Janet's heart was racing and Larry was sweating right down to his shoes. Would they have the genes to make a musician? An athlete? The genetic counselor flipped through the report, nodding silently, and finally looked up at the eager couple with a smile.
"So! Have you two considered adoption?"
"So! Have you two considered adoption?"
Friday, May 8, 2009
Daily Story 23: The Heavens Above Us
Duncan arrived in Heaven to find the Pearly Gates askew, with no trumpeting cherubim to greet him. He entered nonetheless, momentarily awestruck by the endless expanse of alabaster walls and overgrown gardens. As he looked closer across the vista, he was able to make out fire damage on some walls, trash in the streets. Some buildings appeared to have been partially deconstructed.
"Duncan? Izzat you?" The voice belonged to a man in flowing robes that had almost certainly been white at some point.
"Um. Yes. Are... are you an angel?"
The being shrugged, and pulled a silver flask from some inner pocket of its robes. "Yeah, I guess."
"Oh. Okay. So... look, I'm sorry, but... this IS Heaven, right?"
"Yeah, it was. You're a bit late to the party, though. Living in your stupid stasis whatsis, mister smarty-guy. Defying the laws of whatever."
"I'm sorry? Look, how long was I asleep?"
"Too long, bucko. Slept right through Armageddon. World War Three. Rocks fall, etcetera, etcetera. We'd got the funding, had some meetings, had some... something. It was always part of the plan; had to start a war, had to kill off everyone. 'Cept you. Late, late, late."
"I'm sorry, I really don't understand."
"Yeah. Neither did they. You try to tell them, try to explain, but they get all pissy and say they weren't ready for the apocalypse. Hello! Not like we never sent prophets of doom or anything, right? Then they say 'now what?' and we tell them, now this. You're here. This is what now, just... you know, being here. Then they were all asking when people would work their way out of Hell - is that really such a hard concept? Duncan? You get it, right? Hell is forever, I don't care if you're there for something stupid or you're sorry or whatever. They broke through eventually, you can see it over there if you look."
The angel gestured, and despite his unsteady hand Duncan was able to find what he was indicating... a red hole in the ground far in the distance, with wisps of smoke rolling out.
"They tied us angels up, dug down and busted everyone out. The really bad ones they left in Hell, and we've got a few people up here that didn't want to go. Somewhere. There's not many, I lose track of them sometimes. A few hundred. Most of the priests left, didn't see that one coming. I guess we were a disappointment."
The angel spun suddenly and screamed at the city in general, spittle dripping onto his chin. “I’m SO sorry we weren’t good enough, assholes! If you could have just had the decency to stay put like, like DUNCAN here!” He turned, swaying, his voice immediately dropping from a scream to a whisper, “Not that you have much choice, you understand. Can't very well follow them on your own.”
"Wait, you can leave the afterlife? Where did they go?"
"They went..." the Angel took another swig from his flask. "They went where they always wanted to. They built, and built. Wrecked everything, strip-mined Hell. Took my flaming sword for spare parts. Some engineers held a knife to my throat and made me duplicate some stupid science junk from Earth. What do you need science for? You're in God-damned Heaven!"
"Where did they go? Answer me!"
Crying, the angel dropped onto the perfect marble street. A sheet of discarded paper blew past, catching briefly on his leg. Duncan was about to give up when the angel slowly lifted his arm and pointed upwards.
"They built a fucking spaceship."
--
Note: You may want to check the comments for this one.
"Duncan? Izzat you?" The voice belonged to a man in flowing robes that had almost certainly been white at some point.
"Um. Yes. Are... are you an angel?"
The being shrugged, and pulled a silver flask from some inner pocket of its robes. "Yeah, I guess."
"Oh. Okay. So... look, I'm sorry, but... this IS Heaven, right?"
"Yeah, it was. You're a bit late to the party, though. Living in your stupid stasis whatsis, mister smarty-guy. Defying the laws of whatever."
"I'm sorry? Look, how long was I asleep?"
"Too long, bucko. Slept right through Armageddon. World War Three. Rocks fall, etcetera, etcetera. We'd got the funding, had some meetings, had some... something. It was always part of the plan; had to start a war, had to kill off everyone. 'Cept you. Late, late, late."
"I'm sorry, I really don't understand."
"Yeah. Neither did they. You try to tell them, try to explain, but they get all pissy and say they weren't ready for the apocalypse. Hello! Not like we never sent prophets of doom or anything, right? Then they say 'now what?' and we tell them, now this. You're here. This is what now, just... you know, being here. Then they were all asking when people would work their way out of Hell - is that really such a hard concept? Duncan? You get it, right? Hell is forever, I don't care if you're there for something stupid or you're sorry or whatever. They broke through eventually, you can see it over there if you look."
The angel gestured, and despite his unsteady hand Duncan was able to find what he was indicating... a red hole in the ground far in the distance, with wisps of smoke rolling out.
"They tied us angels up, dug down and busted everyone out. The really bad ones they left in Hell, and we've got a few people up here that didn't want to go. Somewhere. There's not many, I lose track of them sometimes. A few hundred. Most of the priests left, didn't see that one coming. I guess we were a disappointment."
The angel spun suddenly and screamed at the city in general, spittle dripping onto his chin. “I’m SO sorry we weren’t good enough, assholes! If you could have just had the decency to stay put like, like DUNCAN here!” He turned, swaying, his voice immediately dropping from a scream to a whisper, “Not that you have much choice, you understand. Can't very well follow them on your own.”
"Wait, you can leave the afterlife? Where did they go?"
"They went..." the Angel took another swig from his flask. "They went where they always wanted to. They built, and built. Wrecked everything, strip-mined Hell. Took my flaming sword for spare parts. Some engineers held a knife to my throat and made me duplicate some stupid science junk from Earth. What do you need science for? You're in God-damned Heaven!"
"Where did they go? Answer me!"
Crying, the angel dropped onto the perfect marble street. A sheet of discarded paper blew past, catching briefly on his leg. Duncan was about to give up when the angel slowly lifted his arm and pointed upwards.
"They built a fucking spaceship."
--
Note: You may want to check the comments for this one.
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