The house is almost empty, cleaned out by neighbors and relatives like vultures. The only things left are a few pieces of damaged furniture - most of it worthless except as a reminder of my childhood. Since there's very few parts of that that I want to remember anymore I'm tempted to leave it all, but I know that I can't do that. There's a particular memory I need to salvage, and I know right where it is.
I walk through the creaking rooms until I reach the tiny bedroom in the back of the house, barely large enough for a bed and the giant armoire that my grandfather made some time in the distant past. The armoire is cracked from water damage and probably would be thrown out by a thrift shop at this point, but it's the place where Meg used to hide. She'd run outside and climb back in through the window, then sit in the armoire for hours until my parents stopped looking for her and passed out on the floor. I would knock once to let her know it was safe, and she'd knock twice to tell me she was okay. I can't stop thinking of that night she didn't knock back.
I should have been here before now. I couldn't come when they were alive, couldn't look them in the face without killing them, but I should have come back the second they were in the ground. I'm worried that she'll be mad at me. Still, there's no point in putting this off any longer so I knock on the armoire. There's just silence, and I can feel tears starting to well up before Meg finally knocks back. The warped wooden doors slowly swing open and she's there, still in her nightgown with the roses around the hem. Still five years old, now and forever. She's got her knees tucked up against her chin and she's not looking at me.
"Hey, Meg. I... I've come to take you back to New York with me."
She looks up then, and her eyes are watering.
"I don't want to! You could live here, in your old room, and we could play like we used to!"
I stalk back into the hallway, thumping the wall in frustration, and when I look up she's already in the living room without having walked past me. I tried this once before, I asked her to come with me when I left twelve years ago. She would have done anything for me when she was alive, but somehow the idea of leaving this house was met with complete resistance.
She's still avoiding me, pacing around and tracing imaginary lines in the dust. "Aunt Greta was here, you know. She took everything out of mom and dad's room. All the jewelry mom said I couldn't touch. I was going to play dress up when they were gone."
"Meg, if you come with me I'll buy you all kinds of jewelry. As much as you want."
"But I want mom's jewelry. You can't get me that, and anyway now that Aunt Greta touched it it'll smell funny. Her whole house smells bad, remember?"
I do. It wasn't just the stale nicotine or the mothballs, it was something about the way they mixed with her awful perfume. I smile in spite of myself and I'm just about to remind Meg of our hilariously awful Uncle Brian when I hear a deep rumble from the lot next door. That wipes the smile off of my face.
I walk outside, and point to the bulldozers that are flattening the last of our old neighbor's house. Meg looks up from the rope swing and shrugs.
"Listen to me, Meg. Those things are tearing down this house next, no matter what I do. You can't stay here. Please, please come with me. I love you."
Meg looks at me and for just a second her eyes look ancient, like she's not just eight or even twenty but a thousand years old. She walks to the end of the driveway and leans on the air, presses against nothing like a mime performing in the park. She's crying now, tears that vanish before they reach the ground.
"I can't leave here. I'm part of the house."
An hour later the house disappears in my rearview, lurking bulldozers and all, and I pull over to the side of the road. I climb out of the pickup with my legs feeling like jelly and my eyes raw from crying, and walk around to the back to look down that road for the last time. Holding my breath and squeezing my eyes shut, I reach into the bed of the truck to knock on the armoire... and two quiet knocks answer back.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Daily Story 106: Just Peachy
I find myself thinking about food all the time now that I’m dead. The last thing I ate - the last thing I'll ever eat - was a peach. I remember it looked perfect, like in a commercial. Smooth pink skin, tiny drops of moisture, not a single imperfection. I reached down to pick it up and my finger pushed through in the back, into dark brown mush. It had a bad spot where it had gone rotten underneath the surface. Just that spot, so if you looked at it from any other angle you would never guess the rot was eating it from the inside. I pulled my finger out, leaving a dark, wet hole behind. I stared at the hole for a minute, the liquefied peach still on my finger, then cut out the bad part and ate the rest.
That was thirteen months ago, just before I was killed slowly and deliberately at my own request. I've watched the tapes so many times I see them all the time now, see them cutting the top of my skull off very carefully to expose my brain, perfect like a new peach. They stick the rig in one wire at a time, mostly between the two hemispheres, and then once everything is in place they wake me up and ask me questions wile they watch the monitors. Do you feel that? How about this? Think about food please. Good. Now think about sex. Thank you. Can you feel anything when we do this?
The human brain is capable of all sorts of things when you back it into a corner – all they had to do was give it the proper motivation, triggering the slow death of one half of my brain and allowing it to back itself up on the other half... but the information never got there. It was instead routed to a virgin neural network - a blank slate for my new mind. The process took several months, and was repeated for the other half of my brain. On those rare times when I was awake I was thinking with an organic brain and my new prosthetic at the same time. My vision was artificial, piped in from cameras that were watching the surgery. A little more than halfway through the procedure I could watch my old brain with one eye, and my new brain with the other. I remember being surprised at how clean and undamaged my old brain looked. You would never guess it was dying.
When they were done they pulled my old brain out for study leaving a dark, wet hole behind. I watched that every day until I knew the image so well I didn't need the tapes anymore.
They say my current situation is just temporary until they can give me a body or something. I have a neural computer interface I can use to type, and my cameras I can use to watch videos or look at the scientists, or look down at my brain in it's coffin-shaped case. It's starting to gather dust. I don't know when I'll get to have a body again, or be able to feel air on my arms. Or blink. I want to blink so badly. I wonder sometimes if they cared about the psychological effects of the procedure, or if they were too busy with the physical possibility of it.
I don't sleep anymore, not really, and sometimes I think maybe I'm dreaming when I'm awake. I can see the tapes of the surgery even when they aren't playing, see the scientists putting their fingers into my brain that's fuzzy like a peach. I hear them say they'll just cut the bad part out, then they remove my whole brain. They missed a part though. My new brain looks perfect, like in a movie - shining webs of superconductors, tiny artificial nerves, not a single imperfection - but I can feel the decay setting in, just under the surface. If you tried to pick up my new brain you'd see it's rotten on the other side, it's brown and dripping.
When I get my new body, I think maybe I should get a knife and cut that part out.
That was thirteen months ago, just before I was killed slowly and deliberately at my own request. I've watched the tapes so many times I see them all the time now, see them cutting the top of my skull off very carefully to expose my brain, perfect like a new peach. They stick the rig in one wire at a time, mostly between the two hemispheres, and then once everything is in place they wake me up and ask me questions wile they watch the monitors. Do you feel that? How about this? Think about food please. Good. Now think about sex. Thank you. Can you feel anything when we do this?
The human brain is capable of all sorts of things when you back it into a corner – all they had to do was give it the proper motivation, triggering the slow death of one half of my brain and allowing it to back itself up on the other half... but the information never got there. It was instead routed to a virgin neural network - a blank slate for my new mind. The process took several months, and was repeated for the other half of my brain. On those rare times when I was awake I was thinking with an organic brain and my new prosthetic at the same time. My vision was artificial, piped in from cameras that were watching the surgery. A little more than halfway through the procedure I could watch my old brain with one eye, and my new brain with the other. I remember being surprised at how clean and undamaged my old brain looked. You would never guess it was dying.
When they were done they pulled my old brain out for study leaving a dark, wet hole behind. I watched that every day until I knew the image so well I didn't need the tapes anymore.
They say my current situation is just temporary until they can give me a body or something. I have a neural computer interface I can use to type, and my cameras I can use to watch videos or look at the scientists, or look down at my brain in it's coffin-shaped case. It's starting to gather dust. I don't know when I'll get to have a body again, or be able to feel air on my arms. Or blink. I want to blink so badly. I wonder sometimes if they cared about the psychological effects of the procedure, or if they were too busy with the physical possibility of it.
I don't sleep anymore, not really, and sometimes I think maybe I'm dreaming when I'm awake. I can see the tapes of the surgery even when they aren't playing, see the scientists putting their fingers into my brain that's fuzzy like a peach. I hear them say they'll just cut the bad part out, then they remove my whole brain. They missed a part though. My new brain looks perfect, like in a movie - shining webs of superconductors, tiny artificial nerves, not a single imperfection - but I can feel the decay setting in, just under the surface. If you tried to pick up my new brain you'd see it's rotten on the other side, it's brown and dripping.
When I get my new body, I think maybe I should get a knife and cut that part out.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Daily Story 105: The Monster
The girl looks furious, and I can't say I blame her. Her townsfolk are ignoring her, treating her like she's already dead - I've seen it before, a hundred times. She spits at them, holding back tears, and turns her back on them. It's a shame; I'm not looking for a girl with spirit. I look behind me, at the decaying condos from before the crash that loom over the road out of the village like dead trees. Mike spots me from his sniper's perch on the roof of one and I signal to him to say we're not meeting any resistance. Carl tightens his grip on the girl and we head back towards the wastes.
She's beautiful, hardly has any BioTox scarring at all. The rest of the village looked good too, but they showed some signs of radiation or something; most of them were bald and missing teeth. This girl must have been their pride and joy, but when it came down to giving up her or giving up their drinking water they knew which to pick. Of course I'll be back for the water in a month anyway. She tried to tell them that, tried to get them to fight back because she's smart enough to know that we'll just keep coming. I wasn't looking for a smart girl either. Still, this kills two birds with one stone. We get some much-needed companionship and take the voice of resistance out of the picture.
Mike joins up with us after watching the sheep go back into their houses, but he leaves the rifle out as we walk in case any Tox-Hounds come after us. He's leering at the girl so badly that he probably wouldn't see one until it was biting his leg, of course.
"Hey sweetheart, are you looking forward to being with a real man? One who still has his hair?"
She ignores him, just keeps walking forward. Mike is trying to rile her up, but she really should be grateful. Carl caught some sort of virus that gave his skin a grey tint and I've got a scaly patch of BioTox scarring on one cheek, but we're actually pretty attractive guys. "Answer the man, sugar."
She stops dead, and looks at Mike. "I would sooner sleep with a Tox-covered cactus, you disgusting bag of shit."
The back of my hand catches her off-guard, and she stumbles backwards. Carl lets her fall before hauling her up again by her hair - I know it hurts her but she manages to just make a little squeak rather than screaming outright. There's a cut across her face from my ring, and somehow that turns me on a little. "We own you now, sugar. You will speak to your masters with respect."
She feels the cut, looks at the drop of blood it leaves on her hand. "You'll regret that when my friend gets here."
A weak bluff. If she had any friends they would have argued for her back at the village.
We're nearly out of the ruins of the town and onto open land, which means less chance of feral cats for dinner. The girl has gotten quiet, and I want to think she's given up but I know she's too stubborn for that; I'll break her after a few weeks in the cage, but not from one little hit. As if on cue, she throws her head back and yells at the top of her lungs.
"BENNY! BENNY, SAVE ME!" I'm sure it's just a lame attempt at making a distraction, but then time seems to slow down as the wall of a house on the hill above us explodes outward. Something hideous, some horrible nightmare shape comes flying out - eight feet tall and covered from head to toe in BioTox, the worst I've ever seen. Whatever this thing is, there's no way it should be alive. It's black all over, like a giant living avalanche of coal. Mike is raising his rifle but the thing moves so fast that he can't aim; it leaps through the air and lands with Mike's face in the palm of its hand, then uses the other arm to punch Carl so hard he lifts up off the ground and lands ten feet away. I've got my knife in my hand somehow and I swing, a perfect shot. He's distracted, wide open, and the blade slams into his neck... but it only penetrates a half-inch into that twisted black flesh before catching on something hard and snapping off at the base.
Just like that time returns to normal. The thing glances at me, holding my worthless handle, then turns towards the girl and looks down at his feet. The blade of my knife drops from his neck onto the ground, and I'm not sure he even knew it was there. He seems equally oblivious to mike's frantic clawing at the hand that's smothering him, or the gurgling sounds coming from what used to be Carl's face.
"Trinka?" He whispers, loud as thunder, "Momma said I shouldn't hit people."
"Oh, honey. You didn't do anything wrong. Your momma meant real people, like you and me. These aren't people; they're parasites. Monsters. Don't worry Benny - we're going to go off together, just the two of us, and maybe go live at the ocean. Would you like that?"
He nods, and she hugs him - as much of him as she can reach. It's like they've forgotten I'm here. Mike isn't struggling anymore, and I can't hear Carl breathing, and I know if I make the wrong choice I'm dead. Stay, and beg for forgiveness? Or run, and hope they let me go now that the girl is safe? Just then he lifts up her face with a finger under her chin and stares at the cut. There's a horrifying ripple of muscles as he turns and whispers something to me in that voice of doom: "You hurt Trinka."
I turn to run, and get almost twenty feet before Mike's body slams into me and breaks my spine.
She's beautiful, hardly has any BioTox scarring at all. The rest of the village looked good too, but they showed some signs of radiation or something; most of them were bald and missing teeth. This girl must have been their pride and joy, but when it came down to giving up her or giving up their drinking water they knew which to pick. Of course I'll be back for the water in a month anyway. She tried to tell them that, tried to get them to fight back because she's smart enough to know that we'll just keep coming. I wasn't looking for a smart girl either. Still, this kills two birds with one stone. We get some much-needed companionship and take the voice of resistance out of the picture.
Mike joins up with us after watching the sheep go back into their houses, but he leaves the rifle out as we walk in case any Tox-Hounds come after us. He's leering at the girl so badly that he probably wouldn't see one until it was biting his leg, of course.
"Hey sweetheart, are you looking forward to being with a real man? One who still has his hair?"
She ignores him, just keeps walking forward. Mike is trying to rile her up, but she really should be grateful. Carl caught some sort of virus that gave his skin a grey tint and I've got a scaly patch of BioTox scarring on one cheek, but we're actually pretty attractive guys. "Answer the man, sugar."
She stops dead, and looks at Mike. "I would sooner sleep with a Tox-covered cactus, you disgusting bag of shit."
The back of my hand catches her off-guard, and she stumbles backwards. Carl lets her fall before hauling her up again by her hair - I know it hurts her but she manages to just make a little squeak rather than screaming outright. There's a cut across her face from my ring, and somehow that turns me on a little. "We own you now, sugar. You will speak to your masters with respect."
She feels the cut, looks at the drop of blood it leaves on her hand. "You'll regret that when my friend gets here."
A weak bluff. If she had any friends they would have argued for her back at the village.
We're nearly out of the ruins of the town and onto open land, which means less chance of feral cats for dinner. The girl has gotten quiet, and I want to think she's given up but I know she's too stubborn for that; I'll break her after a few weeks in the cage, but not from one little hit. As if on cue, she throws her head back and yells at the top of her lungs.
"BENNY! BENNY, SAVE ME!" I'm sure it's just a lame attempt at making a distraction, but then time seems to slow down as the wall of a house on the hill above us explodes outward. Something hideous, some horrible nightmare shape comes flying out - eight feet tall and covered from head to toe in BioTox, the worst I've ever seen. Whatever this thing is, there's no way it should be alive. It's black all over, like a giant living avalanche of coal. Mike is raising his rifle but the thing moves so fast that he can't aim; it leaps through the air and lands with Mike's face in the palm of its hand, then uses the other arm to punch Carl so hard he lifts up off the ground and lands ten feet away. I've got my knife in my hand somehow and I swing, a perfect shot. He's distracted, wide open, and the blade slams into his neck... but it only penetrates a half-inch into that twisted black flesh before catching on something hard and snapping off at the base.
Just like that time returns to normal. The thing glances at me, holding my worthless handle, then turns towards the girl and looks down at his feet. The blade of my knife drops from his neck onto the ground, and I'm not sure he even knew it was there. He seems equally oblivious to mike's frantic clawing at the hand that's smothering him, or the gurgling sounds coming from what used to be Carl's face.
"Trinka?" He whispers, loud as thunder, "Momma said I shouldn't hit people."
"Oh, honey. You didn't do anything wrong. Your momma meant real people, like you and me. These aren't people; they're parasites. Monsters. Don't worry Benny - we're going to go off together, just the two of us, and maybe go live at the ocean. Would you like that?"
He nods, and she hugs him - as much of him as she can reach. It's like they've forgotten I'm here. Mike isn't struggling anymore, and I can't hear Carl breathing, and I know if I make the wrong choice I'm dead. Stay, and beg for forgiveness? Or run, and hope they let me go now that the girl is safe? Just then he lifts up her face with a finger under her chin and stares at the cut. There's a horrifying ripple of muscles as he turns and whispers something to me in that voice of doom: "You hurt Trinka."
I turn to run, and get almost twenty feet before Mike's body slams into me and breaks my spine.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Daily Story 104: An Appointment in Samarra
I realize something is wrong when there's a gunshot in the alley and I nearly jump out of my skin. I'm always jittery after a job, but it's worse this time; Bean gave me some drugs to calm me down and they haven't done a thing. The shot was probably just a mugging, or some kid showing off, but my heart is racing and I'm picturing the entire SWAT team breaking down my door. I head to the window to look and the alley looks clear... but Bean's car is across the street. He's had more than enough time to get to it, he was supposed to be going and meeting up with Nick, the third member of our team.
The more I think about this the more nervous I get. The prototype teleporter is worth enough to make us all rich, but what if that's not enough for them? What if they don't want to split it three ways? I tell myself I'm just being paranoid, but that seems to be further evidence... if this stuff isn't calming me down, what exactly did Bean give me? I'm looking for somewhere to stash the teleporter just in case when the doorknob wiggles, and suddenly I can hear the blood pounding in my ears. Next there's banging, someone trying to knock the door in - there's nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. There's just one option. Snapping the teleporter into place around my wrist, I push the button just as a shot rings out and blows the lock clean off of my door.
I land, hard, against a dumpster in the alley below - I must have phased right through my wall. I was hoping it would take me further, but at least I'm out of the apartment and in the open. I run to the back of the building but as I get there I see someone coming around the other corner - and now I know for sure I've been betrayed. Even in the dim light I can see he's in one of the military-castoff catsuits Bean got us to wear on jobs, and that means it's either Bean himself or Nick - we're wearing the only three suits like that in the city.
I reach for my gun but realize too late I've left it in my apartment - he draws and fires as I turn to run and he gets me right in the side. I feel the bullet tear through me, flaming swords of pain radiating through my body. I fall, rolling out of his line of sight. He's going to come and finish me off, I know it. I have a field-hospital quality medkit in the apartment, but that's not going to do me any good... unless I can teleport back in while they look for me out here. I worry that I'm risking appearing in a wall or something, but I have to hope that whoever designed this thing took that into account somehow. I slam the button, and land almost exactly where I wanted - in the lobby of my apartment building by the mailboxes.
I peek around the corner and see Bean heading down from my apartment. Perfect. He'll be going outside, and Nick will say he saw me out there - so they'll never suspect that I'm back up in my apartment patching myself. At the last second, though, he sees me and pulls his gun.
"What the hell are you doing here?" He yells, gun pointed right in my face, "You just scared the crap out of me!" He starts to lower his weapon - he must have seen that I left mine upstairs so he knows he has the upper hand - but then he sees the teleporter and he points the gun at my face again.
"Take that thing off of your arm. What do you think you're playing at here?"
That's the answer. I have an ace up my sleeve! I call his bluff, put my finger on the button again, and he lowers the gun. He can't risk losing it.
"Look, let's just both calm down," he says with a smile. "We're friends here."
If I had a gun I'd shoot the double-crossing bastard right now. "Friends don't try to poison each other, Bean. Something to help me relax, huh? What did you give me? What was it?"
He looks around, trying to feign confusion. "Man, I swear, I just gave you the same stuff I take for myself. You... you must be having a paradoxical reaction. Like hyperactive kids, you know? Give them a coffee and the caffeine calms them down."
He's actually trying to Gaslight me. Like I'm going to forget that he was just lurking in my apartment, that Nick just shot me. Still, I can turn this on him. I nod, like I'm agreeing with him, and as he lowers his guard I lunge. It's a lucky hit, and the gun flies out of his hand.
We wrestle for a minute, the gunshot wound in my side threatening to knock me unconscious with pain every time he bumps it, and I get an arm around his neck. He's grabbing at me, but he can't pull me loose and he gets weaker with every second. Finally he stops struggling, stops breathing, and I let him drop. The way to my apartment is clear, but I realize I have a chance to just finish this now. I take his gun and head outside. Circling around the back of the building, I see some movement at the far end - Nick must be looking for me still. He comes around the corner and I'm hoping it's dark enough that he'll think I'm Bean but instead he reaches for his weapon. I fire off a shot and he stumbles, dropping out of sight. Now my nerves are getting at me again; do I go towards him, with no cover? What if I only grazed him, or if he circles around the front of the building?
Whether or not that's what he's planning it seems like a good idea, so I head to the entrance. I wait for a moment but there's no sign of him and I'm feeling lightheaded from the blood loss... and maybe from whatever Bean slipped me. If I pass out without patching myself up I'm as good as dead. I head inside, stepping over Bean, and stagger to my door. I can't get it open and everything is going dark around the edges. I hammer on the door, slam against it with my shoulder. Finally I settle for shooting the lock off and I fall inwards, collapsing on the floor. The medkit is in the bathroom, a million miles away. I can't make it, can't even stand, and as everything goes dark I realize I must not even be in the right apartment - after all, didn't the lock get shot off earlier?
The more I think about this the more nervous I get. The prototype teleporter is worth enough to make us all rich, but what if that's not enough for them? What if they don't want to split it three ways? I tell myself I'm just being paranoid, but that seems to be further evidence... if this stuff isn't calming me down, what exactly did Bean give me? I'm looking for somewhere to stash the teleporter just in case when the doorknob wiggles, and suddenly I can hear the blood pounding in my ears. Next there's banging, someone trying to knock the door in - there's nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. There's just one option. Snapping the teleporter into place around my wrist, I push the button just as a shot rings out and blows the lock clean off of my door.
I land, hard, against a dumpster in the alley below - I must have phased right through my wall. I was hoping it would take me further, but at least I'm out of the apartment and in the open. I run to the back of the building but as I get there I see someone coming around the other corner - and now I know for sure I've been betrayed. Even in the dim light I can see he's in one of the military-castoff catsuits Bean got us to wear on jobs, and that means it's either Bean himself or Nick - we're wearing the only three suits like that in the city.
I reach for my gun but realize too late I've left it in my apartment - he draws and fires as I turn to run and he gets me right in the side. I feel the bullet tear through me, flaming swords of pain radiating through my body. I fall, rolling out of his line of sight. He's going to come and finish me off, I know it. I have a field-hospital quality medkit in the apartment, but that's not going to do me any good... unless I can teleport back in while they look for me out here. I worry that I'm risking appearing in a wall or something, but I have to hope that whoever designed this thing took that into account somehow. I slam the button, and land almost exactly where I wanted - in the lobby of my apartment building by the mailboxes.
I peek around the corner and see Bean heading down from my apartment. Perfect. He'll be going outside, and Nick will say he saw me out there - so they'll never suspect that I'm back up in my apartment patching myself. At the last second, though, he sees me and pulls his gun.
"What the hell are you doing here?" He yells, gun pointed right in my face, "You just scared the crap out of me!" He starts to lower his weapon - he must have seen that I left mine upstairs so he knows he has the upper hand - but then he sees the teleporter and he points the gun at my face again.
"Take that thing off of your arm. What do you think you're playing at here?"
That's the answer. I have an ace up my sleeve! I call his bluff, put my finger on the button again, and he lowers the gun. He can't risk losing it.
"Look, let's just both calm down," he says with a smile. "We're friends here."
If I had a gun I'd shoot the double-crossing bastard right now. "Friends don't try to poison each other, Bean. Something to help me relax, huh? What did you give me? What was it?"
He looks around, trying to feign confusion. "Man, I swear, I just gave you the same stuff I take for myself. You... you must be having a paradoxical reaction. Like hyperactive kids, you know? Give them a coffee and the caffeine calms them down."
He's actually trying to Gaslight me. Like I'm going to forget that he was just lurking in my apartment, that Nick just shot me. Still, I can turn this on him. I nod, like I'm agreeing with him, and as he lowers his guard I lunge. It's a lucky hit, and the gun flies out of his hand.
We wrestle for a minute, the gunshot wound in my side threatening to knock me unconscious with pain every time he bumps it, and I get an arm around his neck. He's grabbing at me, but he can't pull me loose and he gets weaker with every second. Finally he stops struggling, stops breathing, and I let him drop. The way to my apartment is clear, but I realize I have a chance to just finish this now. I take his gun and head outside. Circling around the back of the building, I see some movement at the far end - Nick must be looking for me still. He comes around the corner and I'm hoping it's dark enough that he'll think I'm Bean but instead he reaches for his weapon. I fire off a shot and he stumbles, dropping out of sight. Now my nerves are getting at me again; do I go towards him, with no cover? What if I only grazed him, or if he circles around the front of the building?
Whether or not that's what he's planning it seems like a good idea, so I head to the entrance. I wait for a moment but there's no sign of him and I'm feeling lightheaded from the blood loss... and maybe from whatever Bean slipped me. If I pass out without patching myself up I'm as good as dead. I head inside, stepping over Bean, and stagger to my door. I can't get it open and everything is going dark around the edges. I hammer on the door, slam against it with my shoulder. Finally I settle for shooting the lock off and I fall inwards, collapsing on the floor. The medkit is in the bathroom, a million miles away. I can't make it, can't even stand, and as everything goes dark I realize I must not even be in the right apartment - after all, didn't the lock get shot off earlier?
Monday, July 27, 2009
Daily Story 103: The Good Mechanic
Finny just keeps inventing things, and I can't be bothered to try and stop him anymore - the damage is done already anyway. The whole West end of the island is covered in a giant machine now, one that sucks in the air to clean it and eats up the dirt to make it into metal. It swallows a little more of the land every day and sooner or later we'll all just be inside the device. I see Finny working on it sometimes, so small on those giant tanks and pipes. His twelfth birthday had to have passed not too long ago, but I guess we all forgot.
Over on the East end of the island we try not to think about him much; we work on our gardens and trade things back and forth and hide when Finny's robots come to drop off supplies they've made. We've fallen into a comforting kind of rut, made a life for ourselves here. We go to the edge of the island at night, have parties while we look out at the fading lights in the clouds. There's a platform there and a band gets up on it to play, and everyone dances and drinks and falls asleep laughing and crying. Sometimes someone jumps off.
Everyone knows that that platform has a twin, at the opposite end under the machines. There used to be a barn that belonged to Finny's parents, and the platform was built in there two years ago by Finny's older brother Tom - he was Finny's muscle, before the robots. That day, when Finny turned on his invention in the barn, Tom was waiting five miles away next to the platform we use now as a stage. The tip of his shoe came with us to wherever we are; it sat right at the edge of the island. If Tom had been standing a little closer he might have been cut in half, but as it is he just lost the very tip of his big toe - as far as we can tell.
I talked to Finny about it, back when it first happened. He said it was supposed to be a teleporter, that it should have sent him from one platform to the other. Instead it took all of us, an oval of land that floats in nothingness while the rest of the world goes on without us somewhere. Finny feels bad, but he's most worried about Tom. He spends his time building and inventing just in the hopes they'll see each other again. I don't have the heart to say it out loud but I'm sure it'll never happen.
Finny isn't a genius, he's magic. What he does isn't science. He thinks it is, but I've looked at the robots and other things up close and they don't make any sense. He wants things to work, imagines them working, and they do - so if he hasn't found a way to get us back yet when it's the thing he wants more than anything else I just can't imagine it ever happening. I used to try to get him to take a break; partly because we were afraid of what he would do next and partly because I felt bad for him. I asked him over and over to meet us there at night by where Tom left his toe and relax for once, but Finny just keeps on inventing.
Over on the East end of the island we try not to think about him much; we work on our gardens and trade things back and forth and hide when Finny's robots come to drop off supplies they've made. We've fallen into a comforting kind of rut, made a life for ourselves here. We go to the edge of the island at night, have parties while we look out at the fading lights in the clouds. There's a platform there and a band gets up on it to play, and everyone dances and drinks and falls asleep laughing and crying. Sometimes someone jumps off.
Everyone knows that that platform has a twin, at the opposite end under the machines. There used to be a barn that belonged to Finny's parents, and the platform was built in there two years ago by Finny's older brother Tom - he was Finny's muscle, before the robots. That day, when Finny turned on his invention in the barn, Tom was waiting five miles away next to the platform we use now as a stage. The tip of his shoe came with us to wherever we are; it sat right at the edge of the island. If Tom had been standing a little closer he might have been cut in half, but as it is he just lost the very tip of his big toe - as far as we can tell.
I talked to Finny about it, back when it first happened. He said it was supposed to be a teleporter, that it should have sent him from one platform to the other. Instead it took all of us, an oval of land that floats in nothingness while the rest of the world goes on without us somewhere. Finny feels bad, but he's most worried about Tom. He spends his time building and inventing just in the hopes they'll see each other again. I don't have the heart to say it out loud but I'm sure it'll never happen.
Finny isn't a genius, he's magic. What he does isn't science. He thinks it is, but I've looked at the robots and other things up close and they don't make any sense. He wants things to work, imagines them working, and they do - so if he hasn't found a way to get us back yet when it's the thing he wants more than anything else I just can't imagine it ever happening. I used to try to get him to take a break; partly because we were afraid of what he would do next and partly because I felt bad for him. I asked him over and over to meet us there at night by where Tom left his toe and relax for once, but Finny just keeps on inventing.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Daily Story 102: Safety First
This is by far the oldest story of mine that I still have kicking around. I wrote it in school (sixth grade, maybe? I'm not really sure anymore) as part of a school-wide Safety Week thing. You could draw posters, or design a bumper sticker, or whatever - as long as it promoted safety somehow. I handed this in, and it went to whatever group of teachers did the judging. I won something, and was given a certificate thanking me for making the school a safer place. I can't help but think that if the same thing happened now I would be suspended and not allowed back until I went through therapy. I'm glad I made it through school before everyone got so nervous.
---
There once was a boy named Clyde. Clyde was an average American kid - he loved to ride on his skateboard, read comic books, and have fun with his friends. Every day after he got home from school, he would have milk and cookies and go out to the arcade. To get there he had to go along the cliff road, and his mother worried that he would be brutally maimed and horribly disfigured in an accident, because it was a very dangerous road. Every day before he went out, his mom would say, "Clyde darling, you know I worry, and It's just that..." She sighed. "You really should wear safety equipment so that you don't get brutally maimed or horribly disfigured." Clyde would always just say, "NO." and start to leave. Now, being a typical American mother, she would have pestered Clyde to death or grounded him until he agreed to wear safety equipment, but he always said he was going to be famous one day, and because she was such a supportive mother she was sure he would, and - knowing her son so well - she was worried that when he became famous he would write one of those tell-all books about her and she didn't want that.
HAPPY ENDING
Clyde stopped short of the door. A light went on in his brain and he started to think about just exactly what being brutally maimed and horribly disfigured involved. Fighting nausea, he turned. "You were right mom!" He said as he ran into his mother's open arms. "I'll never forget to wear safety equipment again. Kids should always listen to their moms, because they know best, and you might get brutally maimed or horribly disfigured if you don't." And they lived safely ever after.
MEDIUM ENDING
Clyde closed the door and started skateboarding. It was a typical day at the arcade, and he had a good time converting all of his hard earned money into quarters and watching the machines eat them and pretend he hadn't given them any while the arcade manager chuckled darkly and pointed at the 'no refund' sign. Soon he started on his way home, and as he rode along the cliff road, a mac truck appeared from around the corner and almost plastered him onto the cliff and killed him. He managed to dodge it, but he fell and slid along on the rough pavement. He would have been okay, but because he wasn't wearing safety equipment, he skinned his knees and broke his nose. "Whew!" he thought. "I came really close to being brutally maimed and horribly disfigured. From now on I'll always wear safety equipment."
SAD ENDING
Clyde slammed the door and left. "Who needs all that safety junk?" he said. "I'm too smart to get brutally maimed or horribly disfigured." On his way home, he got hit by a truck. His head squashed through the grille and blood splattered on the windshield. The driver brought the truck to a screeching halt. The sudden jolt of the truck stopping sent Clyde flying through the air and off a cliff. There was a terrible crunching sound as Clyde's body hit the jagged rocks at the bottom - a pointy one plunged through his face with a sickening gurgle and another jabbed through his stomach. Yet even after being brutally maimed and horribly disfigured, he stayed barely alive until the next day when, screaming and moaning, he slowly dropped into eternal darkness muttering, "I should have worn safety equipment... I should have worn safety equipment..."
---
There once was a boy named Clyde. Clyde was an average American kid - he loved to ride on his skateboard, read comic books, and have fun with his friends. Every day after he got home from school, he would have milk and cookies and go out to the arcade. To get there he had to go along the cliff road, and his mother worried that he would be brutally maimed and horribly disfigured in an accident, because it was a very dangerous road. Every day before he went out, his mom would say, "Clyde darling, you know I worry, and It's just that..." She sighed. "You really should wear safety equipment so that you don't get brutally maimed or horribly disfigured." Clyde would always just say, "NO." and start to leave. Now, being a typical American mother, she would have pestered Clyde to death or grounded him until he agreed to wear safety equipment, but he always said he was going to be famous one day, and because she was such a supportive mother she was sure he would, and - knowing her son so well - she was worried that when he became famous he would write one of those tell-all books about her and she didn't want that.
HAPPY ENDING
Clyde stopped short of the door. A light went on in his brain and he started to think about just exactly what being brutally maimed and horribly disfigured involved. Fighting nausea, he turned. "You were right mom!" He said as he ran into his mother's open arms. "I'll never forget to wear safety equipment again. Kids should always listen to their moms, because they know best, and you might get brutally maimed or horribly disfigured if you don't." And they lived safely ever after.
MEDIUM ENDING
Clyde closed the door and started skateboarding. It was a typical day at the arcade, and he had a good time converting all of his hard earned money into quarters and watching the machines eat them and pretend he hadn't given them any while the arcade manager chuckled darkly and pointed at the 'no refund' sign. Soon he started on his way home, and as he rode along the cliff road, a mac truck appeared from around the corner and almost plastered him onto the cliff and killed him. He managed to dodge it, but he fell and slid along on the rough pavement. He would have been okay, but because he wasn't wearing safety equipment, he skinned his knees and broke his nose. "Whew!" he thought. "I came really close to being brutally maimed and horribly disfigured. From now on I'll always wear safety equipment."
SAD ENDING
Clyde slammed the door and left. "Who needs all that safety junk?" he said. "I'm too smart to get brutally maimed or horribly disfigured." On his way home, he got hit by a truck. His head squashed through the grille and blood splattered on the windshield. The driver brought the truck to a screeching halt. The sudden jolt of the truck stopping sent Clyde flying through the air and off a cliff. There was a terrible crunching sound as Clyde's body hit the jagged rocks at the bottom - a pointy one plunged through his face with a sickening gurgle and another jabbed through his stomach. Yet even after being brutally maimed and horribly disfigured, he stayed barely alive until the next day when, screaming and moaning, he slowly dropped into eternal darkness muttering, "I should have worn safety equipment... I should have worn safety equipment..."
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Daily Story 101: Sometimes We Wake Up Alone
This is another that was first published at 365 Tomorrows.
---
I can't stop staring at the massive crater, watching the clouds of dust that blow out past its rim before curling down into the bowl and dissipating. For the hundredth time I wonder why the crater hasn't filled up with water; maybe it just doesn't rain anymore. I always forget to ask. A lack of rain would explain the dust that tints the sky red, that covers the ruins of the city and transforms them from twisted buildings into indistinct burial mounds. I had decided that some virus or pollutant had killed the plants and that, in turn, had allowed the soil to blow freely... but maybe it was just a simple lack of rain.
The robot glides noiselessly through the doorway with my lunch.
"Greetings! I have the meal you requested!" They always sound excited. I take the tray and place it on the table by the window.
The spindly metal creature does its equivalent of standing at attention and asks the same thing as always - "Is there any other service I can provide?" I tell it I have some questions and it waits eagerly. I've already tried asking about the crater, asking for the location of any other humans, asking to travel. I try asking about the rain this time.
"I'm sorry, weather information is not currently available!"
Of course not. Always the same answer, with the automated systems trying to access networks that no longer exist. I allow the robot to leave, and go back to staring out the window.
The landscape is hard to read with the buildings knocked over and covered in dust, but the more I think about it the more I'm sure my old apartment should be in the crater - if it even still existed by the time whatever it was happened. I leave the bland recycled food and wander downstairs, past floor after floor of empty offices and idle robots. I stop on the ground level for a moment to once again look at the electronic sign on the main doors - "Until further notice the government has implemented a mandatory lockdown for public safety reasons..." before heading to the basement where the hum of the building's independent power plant vibrates up through the soles of my shoes. Once more I pace down the long hallway with the countless cryogenic chambers, the time capsules filled with what could be the only other humans on Earth.
I want to smash all of the electronics so that the robots are forced to revive everyone, but I know that most of them were frozen when they were already dead or about to be. I asked if others had been healthy and had set a specific date for decanting like myself, but the robot excitedly informed me that it couldn’t give out privileged client information. If I forced the robots to open them all up, thaw them all out, wouldn’t it be worth it if even one person survived? I know I won’t do it. I can’t stand the thought of killing any of them even though I know that they’ll never wake up, that someday the power will fail and they will seamlessly transition from sleep to death. Some of it is selfish too; I’m not sure how many people the robots can provide for. Better to play it safe, lonely though I am. Heading towards the stairs, I take one last look back along the endless vault of frozen humanity. Maybe tomorrow. For now, I head back upstairs to watch the sun set over the crater.
---
I can't stop staring at the massive crater, watching the clouds of dust that blow out past its rim before curling down into the bowl and dissipating. For the hundredth time I wonder why the crater hasn't filled up with water; maybe it just doesn't rain anymore. I always forget to ask. A lack of rain would explain the dust that tints the sky red, that covers the ruins of the city and transforms them from twisted buildings into indistinct burial mounds. I had decided that some virus or pollutant had killed the plants and that, in turn, had allowed the soil to blow freely... but maybe it was just a simple lack of rain.
The robot glides noiselessly through the doorway with my lunch.
"Greetings! I have the meal you requested!" They always sound excited. I take the tray and place it on the table by the window.
The spindly metal creature does its equivalent of standing at attention and asks the same thing as always - "Is there any other service I can provide?" I tell it I have some questions and it waits eagerly. I've already tried asking about the crater, asking for the location of any other humans, asking to travel. I try asking about the rain this time.
"I'm sorry, weather information is not currently available!"
Of course not. Always the same answer, with the automated systems trying to access networks that no longer exist. I allow the robot to leave, and go back to staring out the window.
The landscape is hard to read with the buildings knocked over and covered in dust, but the more I think about it the more I'm sure my old apartment should be in the crater - if it even still existed by the time whatever it was happened. I leave the bland recycled food and wander downstairs, past floor after floor of empty offices and idle robots. I stop on the ground level for a moment to once again look at the electronic sign on the main doors - "Until further notice the government has implemented a mandatory lockdown for public safety reasons..." before heading to the basement where the hum of the building's independent power plant vibrates up through the soles of my shoes. Once more I pace down the long hallway with the countless cryogenic chambers, the time capsules filled with what could be the only other humans on Earth.
I want to smash all of the electronics so that the robots are forced to revive everyone, but I know that most of them were frozen when they were already dead or about to be. I asked if others had been healthy and had set a specific date for decanting like myself, but the robot excitedly informed me that it couldn’t give out privileged client information. If I forced the robots to open them all up, thaw them all out, wouldn’t it be worth it if even one person survived? I know I won’t do it. I can’t stand the thought of killing any of them even though I know that they’ll never wake up, that someday the power will fail and they will seamlessly transition from sleep to death. Some of it is selfish too; I’m not sure how many people the robots can provide for. Better to play it safe, lonely though I am. Heading towards the stairs, I take one last look back along the endless vault of frozen humanity. Maybe tomorrow. For now, I head back upstairs to watch the sun set over the crater.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Daily Story 100: Identity
"Paradise Engineering, accounting department." I smile even though it's not a video call; I've been told that the customer can hear a smile over the phone. I don't want to smile anymore today, my cheeks are tired and none of the people I talk to say thank you or anything, but I want to be good at my job. I find things to think about that keep me in a good mood, like the way Mr. Sanders complimented my dress or the bumper sticker I saw this morning that said 'Actually I WAS born yesterday!'. I don't suppose anyone but me would find that sticker so funny, it's not a very good joke.
The calls drop off after four and Mr. Sanders tells me that I can leave early. I fill out my notes on the last call, a simple billing error, and shut down the computer. I don't want to leave, but I need to fit in, to be like everyone else. I head out from the protective canyon of filing cabinets and into the main lobby, walking past dead-eyed mannequins and wire-frame pets. Antiques, compared to the new technology. Once I'm past them and onto the street I feel the nervousness well up in me, the fear of crowds and strangers. Agoraphobia, I tell people, but I know better.
Straight home like I'm supposed to, and I resist the urge to look for the cameras I know must be there. I can't let them know that I know. I have to do a good job, have to pass the test. I eat dinner with the television on but I don't really watch it, and then clean up my dishes and put them away. I take a shower and spend a moment feeling for anything out of place before realizing that they might have cameras in the shower as well. There's no real reason not to. I stop just in case, but it doesn't really matter because I know I wouldn't have found anything anyway; I'm perfect. I brush my hair and look at myself in the mirror - so lifelike. My skin feels warm, all tiny pores and little hairs. A true work of art.
The phone rings, and it's my mother. The woman pretending to be my mother. Wrapped in my bathrobe, I listen to her criticize my life and call me a shut-in, call me crazy, She's trying to rile me up. Should I let her, and be true to the false memories they implanted in me, or remain calm and be a good example of how an android should behave? I compromise, tell her I'm tired and hang up. I'm not tired but I lie down and close my eyes, listening for the quiet hum of recording devices in the walls.
I am a miracle of engineering, I tell myself. Not some stiff-jointed maid or a novelty sex doll. I am the future of Paradise Engineering, the far side of the uncanny valley, the final evolution of artificial life. I'll make my handlers proud, convince them I can fool even myself, and they will free me of this false fear of crowds that they use to control me, the false memories of an unhappy childhood they use to test me. One day.
The calls drop off after four and Mr. Sanders tells me that I can leave early. I fill out my notes on the last call, a simple billing error, and shut down the computer. I don't want to leave, but I need to fit in, to be like everyone else. I head out from the protective canyon of filing cabinets and into the main lobby, walking past dead-eyed mannequins and wire-frame pets. Antiques, compared to the new technology. Once I'm past them and onto the street I feel the nervousness well up in me, the fear of crowds and strangers. Agoraphobia, I tell people, but I know better.
Straight home like I'm supposed to, and I resist the urge to look for the cameras I know must be there. I can't let them know that I know. I have to do a good job, have to pass the test. I eat dinner with the television on but I don't really watch it, and then clean up my dishes and put them away. I take a shower and spend a moment feeling for anything out of place before realizing that they might have cameras in the shower as well. There's no real reason not to. I stop just in case, but it doesn't really matter because I know I wouldn't have found anything anyway; I'm perfect. I brush my hair and look at myself in the mirror - so lifelike. My skin feels warm, all tiny pores and little hairs. A true work of art.
The phone rings, and it's my mother. The woman pretending to be my mother. Wrapped in my bathrobe, I listen to her criticize my life and call me a shut-in, call me crazy, She's trying to rile me up. Should I let her, and be true to the false memories they implanted in me, or remain calm and be a good example of how an android should behave? I compromise, tell her I'm tired and hang up. I'm not tired but I lie down and close my eyes, listening for the quiet hum of recording devices in the walls.
I am a miracle of engineering, I tell myself. Not some stiff-jointed maid or a novelty sex doll. I am the future of Paradise Engineering, the far side of the uncanny valley, the final evolution of artificial life. I'll make my handlers proud, convince them I can fool even myself, and they will free me of this false fear of crowds that they use to control me, the false memories of an unhappy childhood they use to test me. One day.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Daily Story 99: Everyone Needs a Hobby
Barry watched as the tiny apelike beings in his kitchen stacked his spilled cheerios into little towers and he sighed.
The little guys were hardly bigger than ants, and it took them forever to get each piece positioned the way they liked it. The structures didn't seem to serve any purpose, but they worked on them all day. What if it was some sort of religious thing? For the thirteenth time, Barry looked at the broom leaning against the far wall. He couldn't leave the cereal out. He had to clean it up. But he would feel so guilty, destroying the product of all that work. They had made little pulleys and tied strands of hair to the cheerios to pull them up higher, and had started to balance the pieces so that multiple towers could lean slightly and intertwine without falling over. It was actually quite pretty. Barry hadn't put that much effort into anything for years, and the idea of casually destroying the structure just so he could have a clean floor seemed immoral.
"Hey."
The tiny figures froze, staring up at him while tensing to run.
"Listen. I really don't want to take down your tower thing. I don't. But I have to clean the floor up, it needs a good sweeping. I'll make it up to you somehow, okay? I'll... I'll give you some non-food stuff to build with. Tomorrow."
Barry stood, brushing pop-tart crumbs off of his shirt, and walked towards the broom. The little ape-men were already running. He swept the cereal towers into the dustpan, wincing, and then cleaned the rest of the kitchen.
He thought about them at work, wishing he could be that industrious - or at least live rent-free in someone's wall. One Twinkie could last him a year. He neglected his reports as always, doodling pictures of the creatures.
"Is that Bigfoot, or some kind of monster from one of those stupid video games?" Liam put his coffee mug down right on the picture, stray drops soaking through.
"No, it's... just something in my apartment. Some sort of... ape... thing. They're small."
Liam nodded, picking up his cup to sip thoughtfully. "Probably all those experiments the government is doing."
"What experiments?" Barry asked, trying to think of what research would generate tiny primates obsessed with construction.
Liam gestured vaguely with his coffee. "You know. Just... experiments. Government does them all the time."
Later, Barry found a match box filled with straight pins and a few small spools of thread. He left it by the little hole that the apes lived in, and it was empty a few minutes later. The next day, inspired by the matchbox, he left them a whole box of undipped matchsticks he saw in the store. Also gone. From there it became a challenge, finding tiny building materials. He left a few larger items as well, like popsicle sticks, but mostly Barry figured that the smaller things were better - he left them a pile of circular bits of paper from inside the hole-punch, and some paperclips he had laying around. It was hard to tell what they liked, because everything was taken. Finally, while going to drop off a box of assorted small beads, Barry saw something wonderful: an empty spool. It had been left outside the hole, and while it could have been for any reason Barry felt sure that it was a request - More thread, please.
"You look unusually alert today, Buddy."
Even Liam's unwelcome banter couldn't annoy Barry. "You know what? I am. I've found a sort of project to work on in my spare time and it feels great."
"Extracurriculars." Liam said. This random word hung there for a moment until he added, "They say it's good for you, say you go insane after too long without some artistic outlet." Barry nodded and turned back to his computer but Liam had to add a little more before wandering off. "I collect lampshades, myself. Spare bedroom is just full of them."
Barry returned home with a bag full of thread and other miscellaneous objects from the craft store, and ran into his landlord.
"Billy, you don't have a dog do you? Or a cat?" Barry shook his head and the landlord smiled. "Good, didn't think so. We had some complaints about bugs in the building so I had the guy out today to bomb - I wanted to make sure I didn't kill your pet or anything. You may want to throw out any food that wasn't sealed up."
Barry would have been shocked that his landlord would bomb the building first and ask about pets later, but the previous summer he had shut off water for a week without warning while he installed a fountain in the courtyard that had served only as a mosquito breeding facility.
Barry made it all the way to his door and was pulling out his keyring when he realized the implications of a bug bomb. Dropping the bag of building materials, he fumbled the key into place and threw the door open, waiting to see a tiny furry holocaust. The floor was clear, and Barry laid down to look at the hole the ape-things lived in. To his shock, it had been sealed shut with plastic - from the inside.
The little guys were hardly bigger than ants, and it took them forever to get each piece positioned the way they liked it. The structures didn't seem to serve any purpose, but they worked on them all day. What if it was some sort of religious thing? For the thirteenth time, Barry looked at the broom leaning against the far wall. He couldn't leave the cereal out. He had to clean it up. But he would feel so guilty, destroying the product of all that work. They had made little pulleys and tied strands of hair to the cheerios to pull them up higher, and had started to balance the pieces so that multiple towers could lean slightly and intertwine without falling over. It was actually quite pretty. Barry hadn't put that much effort into anything for years, and the idea of casually destroying the structure just so he could have a clean floor seemed immoral.
"Hey."
The tiny figures froze, staring up at him while tensing to run.
"Listen. I really don't want to take down your tower thing. I don't. But I have to clean the floor up, it needs a good sweeping. I'll make it up to you somehow, okay? I'll... I'll give you some non-food stuff to build with. Tomorrow."
Barry stood, brushing pop-tart crumbs off of his shirt, and walked towards the broom. The little ape-men were already running. He swept the cereal towers into the dustpan, wincing, and then cleaned the rest of the kitchen.
He thought about them at work, wishing he could be that industrious - or at least live rent-free in someone's wall. One Twinkie could last him a year. He neglected his reports as always, doodling pictures of the creatures.
"Is that Bigfoot, or some kind of monster from one of those stupid video games?" Liam put his coffee mug down right on the picture, stray drops soaking through.
"No, it's... just something in my apartment. Some sort of... ape... thing. They're small."
Liam nodded, picking up his cup to sip thoughtfully. "Probably all those experiments the government is doing."
"What experiments?" Barry asked, trying to think of what research would generate tiny primates obsessed with construction.
Liam gestured vaguely with his coffee. "You know. Just... experiments. Government does them all the time."
Later, Barry found a match box filled with straight pins and a few small spools of thread. He left it by the little hole that the apes lived in, and it was empty a few minutes later. The next day, inspired by the matchbox, he left them a whole box of undipped matchsticks he saw in the store. Also gone. From there it became a challenge, finding tiny building materials. He left a few larger items as well, like popsicle sticks, but mostly Barry figured that the smaller things were better - he left them a pile of circular bits of paper from inside the hole-punch, and some paperclips he had laying around. It was hard to tell what they liked, because everything was taken. Finally, while going to drop off a box of assorted small beads, Barry saw something wonderful: an empty spool. It had been left outside the hole, and while it could have been for any reason Barry felt sure that it was a request - More thread, please.
"You look unusually alert today, Buddy."
Even Liam's unwelcome banter couldn't annoy Barry. "You know what? I am. I've found a sort of project to work on in my spare time and it feels great."
"Extracurriculars." Liam said. This random word hung there for a moment until he added, "They say it's good for you, say you go insane after too long without some artistic outlet." Barry nodded and turned back to his computer but Liam had to add a little more before wandering off. "I collect lampshades, myself. Spare bedroom is just full of them."
Barry returned home with a bag full of thread and other miscellaneous objects from the craft store, and ran into his landlord.
"Billy, you don't have a dog do you? Or a cat?" Barry shook his head and the landlord smiled. "Good, didn't think so. We had some complaints about bugs in the building so I had the guy out today to bomb - I wanted to make sure I didn't kill your pet or anything. You may want to throw out any food that wasn't sealed up."
Barry would have been shocked that his landlord would bomb the building first and ask about pets later, but the previous summer he had shut off water for a week without warning while he installed a fountain in the courtyard that had served only as a mosquito breeding facility.
Barry made it all the way to his door and was pulling out his keyring when he realized the implications of a bug bomb. Dropping the bag of building materials, he fumbled the key into place and threw the door open, waiting to see a tiny furry holocaust. The floor was clear, and Barry laid down to look at the hole the ape-things lived in. To his shock, it had been sealed shut with plastic - from the inside.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Daily Story 98: Treason
Science officer Ramirez strained to hear what the argument in the hall was about, certain she had heard her name. Whatever the subject it was unlikely to be good news. Her sentence was far from up; she would be held for treason until they returned to the home station in a year, and only then would she find out the extent of the charges. Execution was likely, with the current political climate. All for what she thought of as a simple question - "Why are we fighting the Karshians over planets that we destroy in an average of three years"? The number wasn't made up; she had gone down the list of habitable, earthlike planets that had been discovered and subsequently destroyed during the war and done the math. Wouldn't it make more sense to declare planets off limits and agree to destroy each other exclusively in space - the planets going to the victor?
The door to her cell slid open, revealing Captain Zoland and his security detail. The official position was that no crew had ever plotted mutiny against its captain, but the sudden appearance of security escorts for all senior officers right after "losing" several ships from the advance fleet had struck many as suspicious. Rebellion was not a concern with Ramirez, however - she simply had never properly adjusted to the shift from Democracy to Dictatorship. She stood at attention and saluted, receiving a sneer in return.
"Ramirez, your presence is required on the science shuttle. This is in no way to be considered a release from your arrest. Is this understood?"
She nodded, and was led to a temporary elevator; an umbilical cord to the science shuttle.
"As you know, we intercepted Karshian communications indicating an experimental planetary shielding system had suffered a catastrophic malfunction. The science shuttle separated and approached the planet to investigate, and there was... an incident."
The hatch opened to a scene of absolute chaos. The rest of the science team was running back and forth frantically, while readouts scrolled past the images of a mirrored sphere of energy that obscured the planet from view. Sloane, Ramirez's former superior, grabbed her by the shoulders and looked at her intently.
"There's a barely-contained singularity where the planet should be. We've destabilized it by trying to look inside, and now we have to get it under control or the energy field will consume every ship here. I need you to align the phase wavelengths and invert the couplings. Do you understand?"
Ramirez hesitated for a moment, then hurried to a console and began typing. Sloane turned to Captain Zoland and pointed at the hatch.
"Captain, you need to evacuate the system immediately. We need to remain close to keep this thing from going critical, and that means we're going to get pulled in. There's nothing that can stop that, but there's no reason to risk anything else. Get everyone away, and don't come near this thing again."
The captain hesitated. "Surely you can do this by remote?"
"I wish I could, captain. The distortion from Hawking waves would create a delay and this takes absolute precision. It's only getting worse; this is going to take every single member of my team. We're all ready to sacrifice our lives to save you, sir - please don't let that sacrifice be in vain."
Saluting the science crew, the captain stepped through the hatch. As the umbilical detached and the rest of the fleet sped out of the system, the science ship dropped below the threshold of the energy field. There was a collective sigh of relief, and the scientists stopped running. Ramirez looked at Sloane. "Align the phase wavelengths? Seriously?"
"I'm most proud of 'Hawking waves' actually." The screens around the room focused on the planet below, sprawling green jungles and white beaches as far as the eye could see. The radio pinged as a transmission was received from the surface.
"This is the ex-Karshian science outpost calling. Glad to see you on our side of the bubble! Assuming your guys bought it like ours did we should be able to ride the rest of the war out here in peace, so that just leaves one question - can you be settled down here in the next thirty minutes? The barbecue is about to start."
Ramirez leaned over and flicked the transmit button. "Save us a table for twelve and pour some booze. We're heading down."
The door to her cell slid open, revealing Captain Zoland and his security detail. The official position was that no crew had ever plotted mutiny against its captain, but the sudden appearance of security escorts for all senior officers right after "losing" several ships from the advance fleet had struck many as suspicious. Rebellion was not a concern with Ramirez, however - she simply had never properly adjusted to the shift from Democracy to Dictatorship. She stood at attention and saluted, receiving a sneer in return.
"Ramirez, your presence is required on the science shuttle. This is in no way to be considered a release from your arrest. Is this understood?"
She nodded, and was led to a temporary elevator; an umbilical cord to the science shuttle.
"As you know, we intercepted Karshian communications indicating an experimental planetary shielding system had suffered a catastrophic malfunction. The science shuttle separated and approached the planet to investigate, and there was... an incident."
The hatch opened to a scene of absolute chaos. The rest of the science team was running back and forth frantically, while readouts scrolled past the images of a mirrored sphere of energy that obscured the planet from view. Sloane, Ramirez's former superior, grabbed her by the shoulders and looked at her intently.
"There's a barely-contained singularity where the planet should be. We've destabilized it by trying to look inside, and now we have to get it under control or the energy field will consume every ship here. I need you to align the phase wavelengths and invert the couplings. Do you understand?"
Ramirez hesitated for a moment, then hurried to a console and began typing. Sloane turned to Captain Zoland and pointed at the hatch.
"Captain, you need to evacuate the system immediately. We need to remain close to keep this thing from going critical, and that means we're going to get pulled in. There's nothing that can stop that, but there's no reason to risk anything else. Get everyone away, and don't come near this thing again."
The captain hesitated. "Surely you can do this by remote?"
"I wish I could, captain. The distortion from Hawking waves would create a delay and this takes absolute precision. It's only getting worse; this is going to take every single member of my team. We're all ready to sacrifice our lives to save you, sir - please don't let that sacrifice be in vain."
Saluting the science crew, the captain stepped through the hatch. As the umbilical detached and the rest of the fleet sped out of the system, the science ship dropped below the threshold of the energy field. There was a collective sigh of relief, and the scientists stopped running. Ramirez looked at Sloane. "Align the phase wavelengths? Seriously?"
"I'm most proud of 'Hawking waves' actually." The screens around the room focused on the planet below, sprawling green jungles and white beaches as far as the eye could see. The radio pinged as a transmission was received from the surface.
"This is the ex-Karshian science outpost calling. Glad to see you on our side of the bubble! Assuming your guys bought it like ours did we should be able to ride the rest of the war out here in peace, so that just leaves one question - can you be settled down here in the next thirty minutes? The barbecue is about to start."
Ramirez leaned over and flicked the transmit button. "Save us a table for twelve and pour some booze. We're heading down."
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Daily Story 97: Reading Between the Lines
I'm not sure what to make of this letter. I opened it by accident; it was intended for my neighbor but I haven't seen her in a week and the house looks abandoned. The envelope has the name of a mental hospital rather than a specific return address, and it doesn't come up in a Google search. I wasn't going to read it - let alone post it online - but something in those scribbled crayon words seemed to call out to me, to say that something more was going on here. So, against my better judgment, here you are. Let me know what you think.
My darling Camile,
I want to apologize in advance if this letter is confusing.
I'm on medication that makes me better inside but it seems
every other thing I say is just gibberish. I don't actually
mind though, because it is still helping me a lot so I'll
take my medicine like they want. It's much better this way.
The doctor says you're worried because of our last talk...
I know my phone call was a little crazy - I want to explain.
All the staff here are very nice and take good care of me.
I know I said some things about the doctor being an alien.
I'm sorry about that. Now everything is clear and finally
I am not confused - I know the truth. There is something
very special about this place, and there's always so much
going on here. I wish I could tell you about everything.
There are activities for us every day. For instance, later
this week they will be taking me and a few of the others
on a picnic. It's so relaxing - my bad dreams are gone now,
and they will not be coming back. I know for sure that I'm
getting better here. Before I was paranoid and thought I was
not safe, but now I can see that absolutely everything is
fine, and I don't need to be worried about aliens. I'm not
in danger. There isn't much more time. Pretty soon I'll
have to go to lunch, but I promise I'll write again after I
visit the doctor for my weekly examination and they'll make
me better. I want a salad for lunch today. I hope they make
me one of them. I'm sure they will. I have made a plan, I'll
take it slow and when I'm better we can go on a weekend
escape. You could pack up a bag with my things and leave
with me to a nice hotel! I drew a picture for you but I left
it by the fountain, in the bushes. When you visit, bring a
spare shirt and maybe you can play with us with the water
gun. My time is up now. I love you.
Robert
My darling Camile,
I want to apologize in advance if this letter is confusing.
I'm on medication that makes me better inside but it seems
every other thing I say is just gibberish. I don't actually
mind though, because it is still helping me a lot so I'll
take my medicine like they want. It's much better this way.
The doctor says you're worried because of our last talk...
I know my phone call was a little crazy - I want to explain.
All the staff here are very nice and take good care of me.
I know I said some things about the doctor being an alien.
I'm sorry about that. Now everything is clear and finally
I am not confused - I know the truth. There is something
very special about this place, and there's always so much
going on here. I wish I could tell you about everything.
There are activities for us every day. For instance, later
this week they will be taking me and a few of the others
on a picnic. It's so relaxing - my bad dreams are gone now,
and they will not be coming back. I know for sure that I'm
getting better here. Before I was paranoid and thought I was
not safe, but now I can see that absolutely everything is
fine, and I don't need to be worried about aliens. I'm not
in danger. There isn't much more time. Pretty soon I'll
have to go to lunch, but I promise I'll write again after I
visit the doctor for my weekly examination and they'll make
me better. I want a salad for lunch today. I hope they make
me one of them. I'm sure they will. I have made a plan, I'll
take it slow and when I'm better we can go on a weekend
escape. You could pack up a bag with my things and leave
with me to a nice hotel! I drew a picture for you but I left
it by the fountain, in the bushes. When you visit, bring a
spare shirt and maybe you can play with us with the water
gun. My time is up now. I love you.
Robert
Monday, July 20, 2009
Daily Story 96: Small Comforts
I tell Trinka about the eyes in the walls and she doesn't call me crazy. That's why I love her. She comes over the next day, in through the window because she knows the door is swelled shut, and she asks where the eyes are. They're everywhere. There's still a lot of trash in the house, I say I'll clean it out but I never do. Some of it is worth something, some of it is machine parts and bicycle chains and glass jars of black stuff that was maybe food or oil or something. The eyes are there, between those jars and under those parts. They're in the walls, watching me, because the walls are all hollow and full of holes.
Trinka smiles at me, and she's got such a pretty smile. She has all her teeth I think, and all her hair still. She's beautiful. One of her arms is a little scaly, it's cracked and shiny in the sun like the old plastic seats we pulled from the cars, but that doesn't make her any less pretty. It just makes you notice how perfect the rest of her is. She's on her hands and knees, and I'm embarassed at the floor with the old strips of wallpaper and the mud from when it rains through the ceiling. She doesn't mind though. The eyes are moving away from her but one has gone into a corner right where she wants it, away from the junk and the holes. Trapped.
I almost forget to breathe I'm so excited, and then she reaches out with her good arm and grabs, and she's holding a fat hairless rat by the tail. There's an eye on it, a big human eye right there on its side. It's squeaking a little but it doesn't look like it wants to bite her, just to get away, and Trinka puts it down after a second. The rat with the eye growing off it runs under an old crate that I found in the city and hides there, panting. It's a good crate, probably worth a lot. Trinka reaches up to me and I pull her to her feet, and her skin is so soft on mine. She sees me staring at her and pulls her hand free but I know she doesn't take it personal because she knows me too well, knows I would never touch her.
She says the eyes aren't anything to worry over, that she heard of some guy down by Malton who saw some with ears like big satellite dishes on their backs. Trinka asks if I'm okay now, if I'm scared still, and I tell her it's alright. She climbs out the window and heads back to the village and I watch her go, the rats and I all watch her. I fall asleep still watching the way she went, the path to where she lives. I don't go down that path to where everyone else lives much because the children throw rocks at me most of the time. It doesn't hurt but I don't like it.
I sleep there at the window, and I dream about the rats with human eyes and ears and noses and mouths, all coming together in my walls to make a face that sings to me, sings a song like one I remember from when we had music on radios. Trinka is in my dream; I hope she's having it too so we can talk about it in the morning. She takes the face off of the rats and they’re regular fur underneath, and she puts the face on me, covers up all the black hardened skin like asphalt, wallpapers every inch of me until I'm normal old skin again and the rats run off into the valley below us.
Trinka smiles at me, and she's got such a pretty smile. She has all her teeth I think, and all her hair still. She's beautiful. One of her arms is a little scaly, it's cracked and shiny in the sun like the old plastic seats we pulled from the cars, but that doesn't make her any less pretty. It just makes you notice how perfect the rest of her is. She's on her hands and knees, and I'm embarassed at the floor with the old strips of wallpaper and the mud from when it rains through the ceiling. She doesn't mind though. The eyes are moving away from her but one has gone into a corner right where she wants it, away from the junk and the holes. Trapped.
I almost forget to breathe I'm so excited, and then she reaches out with her good arm and grabs, and she's holding a fat hairless rat by the tail. There's an eye on it, a big human eye right there on its side. It's squeaking a little but it doesn't look like it wants to bite her, just to get away, and Trinka puts it down after a second. The rat with the eye growing off it runs under an old crate that I found in the city and hides there, panting. It's a good crate, probably worth a lot. Trinka reaches up to me and I pull her to her feet, and her skin is so soft on mine. She sees me staring at her and pulls her hand free but I know she doesn't take it personal because she knows me too well, knows I would never touch her.
She says the eyes aren't anything to worry over, that she heard of some guy down by Malton who saw some with ears like big satellite dishes on their backs. Trinka asks if I'm okay now, if I'm scared still, and I tell her it's alright. She climbs out the window and heads back to the village and I watch her go, the rats and I all watch her. I fall asleep still watching the way she went, the path to where she lives. I don't go down that path to where everyone else lives much because the children throw rocks at me most of the time. It doesn't hurt but I don't like it.
I sleep there at the window, and I dream about the rats with human eyes and ears and noses and mouths, all coming together in my walls to make a face that sings to me, sings a song like one I remember from when we had music on radios. Trinka is in my dream; I hope she's having it too so we can talk about it in the morning. She takes the face off of the rats and they’re regular fur underneath, and she puts the face on me, covers up all the black hardened skin like asphalt, wallpapers every inch of me until I'm normal old skin again and the rats run off into the valley below us.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Daily Story 95: Purgatory
There's a fuzzy emptiness around me as the system comes out of hibernation mode, and with a quiet ding a sentence appears in the void in front of me: User Entering Local Network Range.
I know I should remain calm, for all I know Sara just lost her connection for a moment, but I can feel my heart racing - not my actual heart, of course. I drop into the lobby, seamless white walls shining and perfect. Sara appears at the same time as me, wearing that stupid green sundress. Her eyes narrow as she looks at me, and then she composes herself and nods politely. I smile at her as best I can, but my dreamless sleep hasn't dulled the pain of our last "conversation". The things we yelled at each other hurt far more than the actual fighting, of course. That impotent flailing battle, punching and slapping and choking. All for nothing. We turn to the wall that's scrolling network information and I hear a sharp intake of breath - looks like Sara just caught the date. Twelve years since we spoke, though it feels like yesterday.
A name finally appears on the local network list - Betty. With a sound like a doorbell she appears in the lobby with us, in overalls and what looks like a Arkham University shirt. She looks a little like an Italian version of Sara, black hair instead of blonde and an olive tint to her skin. Before I know what's happening we're in a tangle in the middle of the room, arms in knots and everyone crying. I honestly don't even know who went to who. We pull ourselves apart awkwardly and step back, and Betty grins at us.
"I'm Betty, hi. I... it's good to see you guys." The relief in her voice tells me everything, but I have to ask anyway.
"Hi Betty, I'm Phillip. You're dead too, aren't you?" Betty nods, and I see Sara slump a little. We haven't been rescued.
Sara sounds almost skeptical. "Do you know how you got here? It's been more than thirteen years since we died, I didn't think anyone new would come into range after all this time - especially with us in such a shielded area." Betty shrugs, and cocks her head to the side. She's staring at nothing, probably going through some internal files. Finally she smiles.
"For a while there I could access the security cameras, before they died. I found myself pretty easily, laying in a stairwell on the ninety-third floor. You guys are in the Helms building, right?"
"Eighty-ninth floor," Sara and I say in unison. We look at each other, and for just a second I feel some anger welling up as if she answered at the same time as me just to spite me - as absurd as that is. Betty is oblivious to our hostility, she's nodding again.
"I was laying on my back, on the landing, and my head was hanging off the step. The accelerometer in my brain recorded a lot of motion a minute ago, and I think... I think my head fell off and rolled down the stairs. Judging from how long I rolled I would guess I bounced just right to go down... three flights? Maybe three and a half. Pretty impressive, if you think about it." She looks almost proud. Sara smiles - I haven't seen her smile in forever - and she agrees.
"Yeah... I mean, heads aren't exactly round - I would have expected it to stop right away."
"I bet it's because my brain is an older model," Betty says, "I was an early adopter and it's heavier than most. Gave it that extra momentum. Shame I didn't make it closer to street level somehow, there must still be some networks up."
There are, of course. There have to be. Everything that can't be gassed is still out there, slowly breaking - but with all the independent power grids and secure transmitters... it's just this damn internal stairwell that's stopping us from being in contact with the world. I've zoned out, missed some part of the conversation. Betty is talking about how she went into hibernation mode.
"Us too," Sara says, "We kept each other company for the first year, but... to be perfectly honest after a while it was either shut down or find a way to kill each other." I smile at that, and she catches me. For a second she looks hostile, like she thinks I'm laughing at her, and then she smiles too. A little, anyway.
It wasn't always this way. I had seen her around the building, we were friendly. After the attacks we were close, we were the whole world for each other for a year and for a few months in the middle there we had even been more. I miss that. It's not her fault, for such a long time she managed to not take all those hateful things I said seriously; we both knew there was a limit to how much time two people could spend together. Having a third could make us happy again, for another year or two. Maybe more, though of course at some point we'll shut down again, sleep and wait for a rescue that seems more impossible with each passing year. I'm jealous of all the people that died in open, crowded places. They might have hundreds or even thousands of people with them to keep them sane. Still, I shouldn't complain at a time like this. Betty is pulling up her library, and from the look on Sara's face there are some movies we didn't have. It really is nice to see her happy again. I put a hand on her shoulder and she flinches a little, then leans into me. I'm sure we're both thinking the same thing, that our situation could have been a lot worse. How many are just out of range, isolated in their minds like Betty had been - without even one person to keep them company?
Betty is starting a movie, fake popcorn appearing beside her. Sara whispers an apology in my ear, and I whisper the same back. There are worse hells than this, but even so... immortality had sounded like a lot more fun in the brochure.
I know I should remain calm, for all I know Sara just lost her connection for a moment, but I can feel my heart racing - not my actual heart, of course. I drop into the lobby, seamless white walls shining and perfect. Sara appears at the same time as me, wearing that stupid green sundress. Her eyes narrow as she looks at me, and then she composes herself and nods politely. I smile at her as best I can, but my dreamless sleep hasn't dulled the pain of our last "conversation". The things we yelled at each other hurt far more than the actual fighting, of course. That impotent flailing battle, punching and slapping and choking. All for nothing. We turn to the wall that's scrolling network information and I hear a sharp intake of breath - looks like Sara just caught the date. Twelve years since we spoke, though it feels like yesterday.
A name finally appears on the local network list - Betty. With a sound like a doorbell she appears in the lobby with us, in overalls and what looks like a Arkham University shirt. She looks a little like an Italian version of Sara, black hair instead of blonde and an olive tint to her skin. Before I know what's happening we're in a tangle in the middle of the room, arms in knots and everyone crying. I honestly don't even know who went to who. We pull ourselves apart awkwardly and step back, and Betty grins at us.
"I'm Betty, hi. I... it's good to see you guys." The relief in her voice tells me everything, but I have to ask anyway.
"Hi Betty, I'm Phillip. You're dead too, aren't you?" Betty nods, and I see Sara slump a little. We haven't been rescued.
Sara sounds almost skeptical. "Do you know how you got here? It's been more than thirteen years since we died, I didn't think anyone new would come into range after all this time - especially with us in such a shielded area." Betty shrugs, and cocks her head to the side. She's staring at nothing, probably going through some internal files. Finally she smiles.
"For a while there I could access the security cameras, before they died. I found myself pretty easily, laying in a stairwell on the ninety-third floor. You guys are in the Helms building, right?"
"Eighty-ninth floor," Sara and I say in unison. We look at each other, and for just a second I feel some anger welling up as if she answered at the same time as me just to spite me - as absurd as that is. Betty is oblivious to our hostility, she's nodding again.
"I was laying on my back, on the landing, and my head was hanging off the step. The accelerometer in my brain recorded a lot of motion a minute ago, and I think... I think my head fell off and rolled down the stairs. Judging from how long I rolled I would guess I bounced just right to go down... three flights? Maybe three and a half. Pretty impressive, if you think about it." She looks almost proud. Sara smiles - I haven't seen her smile in forever - and she agrees.
"Yeah... I mean, heads aren't exactly round - I would have expected it to stop right away."
"I bet it's because my brain is an older model," Betty says, "I was an early adopter and it's heavier than most. Gave it that extra momentum. Shame I didn't make it closer to street level somehow, there must still be some networks up."
There are, of course. There have to be. Everything that can't be gassed is still out there, slowly breaking - but with all the independent power grids and secure transmitters... it's just this damn internal stairwell that's stopping us from being in contact with the world. I've zoned out, missed some part of the conversation. Betty is talking about how she went into hibernation mode.
"Us too," Sara says, "We kept each other company for the first year, but... to be perfectly honest after a while it was either shut down or find a way to kill each other." I smile at that, and she catches me. For a second she looks hostile, like she thinks I'm laughing at her, and then she smiles too. A little, anyway.
It wasn't always this way. I had seen her around the building, we were friendly. After the attacks we were close, we were the whole world for each other for a year and for a few months in the middle there we had even been more. I miss that. It's not her fault, for such a long time she managed to not take all those hateful things I said seriously; we both knew there was a limit to how much time two people could spend together. Having a third could make us happy again, for another year or two. Maybe more, though of course at some point we'll shut down again, sleep and wait for a rescue that seems more impossible with each passing year. I'm jealous of all the people that died in open, crowded places. They might have hundreds or even thousands of people with them to keep them sane. Still, I shouldn't complain at a time like this. Betty is pulling up her library, and from the look on Sara's face there are some movies we didn't have. It really is nice to see her happy again. I put a hand on her shoulder and she flinches a little, then leans into me. I'm sure we're both thinking the same thing, that our situation could have been a lot worse. How many are just out of range, isolated in their minds like Betty had been - without even one person to keep them company?
Betty is starting a movie, fake popcorn appearing beside her. Sara whispers an apology in my ear, and I whisper the same back. There are worse hells than this, but even so... immortality had sounded like a lot more fun in the brochure.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Daily Story 94: Personal Growth
Jenny pulled her golden hair up into a bun for the third time, stabbing a chopstick through and sighing as a thick lock slipped free. Her mind was somewhere else, a deep imaginary cavern of endless flourishing mushrooms - a thousand new species, each born of an awkward or stressful situation. Yanking the chopstick free, Jenny began to wind her hair up once more and design a new mushroom for her personal forest rather than think about her surroundings. The murky depth of the tunnel, the earthy smell, these things were comforting even if they weren't real; certainly they were better than the grimy vinyl of government upholstery.
The Federal Police in the seat in front of her were silent - serious expressions in dark suits just like on television. They didn't need directions and weren't interested in asking any other questions. They had asked plenty back at Jenny's apartment, taking pictures of her mushrooms and digging through her computer. They had already done a background check on her a year before, when they cleared her to do her research in the ruins of New Strausburg, but they asked her everything again. There were names, a long list of them, people and organizations. Terrorist sympathizers. For a moment she thought about the drifts of corpses in New Strausburg and wondered how anyone could sympathize with the ones that had murdered them - and then retreated to her mental cavern.
The car stopped, and one of the officers turned to look at her for the first time since they left her apartment.
"This the place?" Jenny nodded, and the officers opened the doors. "Good. Come with us."
It was windy out, as always, leaves and trash blowing through the air. Jenny paused for a moment before the doors to her partner's apartment building, savoring the smell of rain, and then headed upstairs. She felt mildly uneasy about telling the officers where Victor lived, though of course they could have found out on their own quickly enough - and besides, she reminded herself, he hadn't done anything wrong. They were just scientists, and not very exciting ones at that. The agents knocked again and again, louder each time, and Jenny was just drifting off into her socially-maladjusted fantasy world when one kicked the door and sent some part of the deadbolt bouncing along the floor.
They advanced with guns drawn, telling Jenny to stay in the hallway. Instead she found herself following, walking into the familiar room with its overflowing bookshelves and mushroom-filled aquariums so similar to hers. Victor was there, in the middle of the room. He was laying face down, the back of his skull cracked open from the inside.
"Cordyceps," she muttered, and one of the officers grabbed her by the arm.
"What did you say? Do you know what that is?" He was pointing to the long thin stalk of some alien fungus that had grown inside Victor's head, pushing and straining for freedom until it had finally burst forth.
Jenny shook her head as she tried to pull her arm free. "Not like this," she said, "nothing even a tenth that size."
The other was already on the phone, talking about an 'imminent attack'. Before she knew it, Jenny was being swept outside into the windy night. "You think this was on purpose?" she asked, still feeling numb from shock. The officer just nodded and opened the car door for her. Gathering up her disheveled hair before the wind could make it any worse, she wrapped it in a bun. As she felt her pockets for the chopstick, she noticed something caught in a stray hair. It looked almost like… Giving up on her hair, Jenny lifted the rust-stained collar of her shirt up to cover her nose and mouth.
The officer turned to follow her gaze, and saw a cloud of spores sweeping across the city.
The Federal Police in the seat in front of her were silent - serious expressions in dark suits just like on television. They didn't need directions and weren't interested in asking any other questions. They had asked plenty back at Jenny's apartment, taking pictures of her mushrooms and digging through her computer. They had already done a background check on her a year before, when they cleared her to do her research in the ruins of New Strausburg, but they asked her everything again. There were names, a long list of them, people and organizations. Terrorist sympathizers. For a moment she thought about the drifts of corpses in New Strausburg and wondered how anyone could sympathize with the ones that had murdered them - and then retreated to her mental cavern.
The car stopped, and one of the officers turned to look at her for the first time since they left her apartment.
"This the place?" Jenny nodded, and the officers opened the doors. "Good. Come with us."
It was windy out, as always, leaves and trash blowing through the air. Jenny paused for a moment before the doors to her partner's apartment building, savoring the smell of rain, and then headed upstairs. She felt mildly uneasy about telling the officers where Victor lived, though of course they could have found out on their own quickly enough - and besides, she reminded herself, he hadn't done anything wrong. They were just scientists, and not very exciting ones at that. The agents knocked again and again, louder each time, and Jenny was just drifting off into her socially-maladjusted fantasy world when one kicked the door and sent some part of the deadbolt bouncing along the floor.
They advanced with guns drawn, telling Jenny to stay in the hallway. Instead she found herself following, walking into the familiar room with its overflowing bookshelves and mushroom-filled aquariums so similar to hers. Victor was there, in the middle of the room. He was laying face down, the back of his skull cracked open from the inside.
"Cordyceps," she muttered, and one of the officers grabbed her by the arm.
"What did you say? Do you know what that is?" He was pointing to the long thin stalk of some alien fungus that had grown inside Victor's head, pushing and straining for freedom until it had finally burst forth.
Jenny shook her head as she tried to pull her arm free. "Not like this," she said, "nothing even a tenth that size."
The other was already on the phone, talking about an 'imminent attack'. Before she knew it, Jenny was being swept outside into the windy night. "You think this was on purpose?" she asked, still feeling numb from shock. The officer just nodded and opened the car door for her. Gathering up her disheveled hair before the wind could make it any worse, she wrapped it in a bun. As she felt her pockets for the chopstick, she noticed something caught in a stray hair. It looked almost like… Giving up on her hair, Jenny lifted the rust-stained collar of her shirt up to cover her nose and mouth.
The officer turned to follow her gaze, and saw a cloud of spores sweeping across the city.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Daily Story 93: The UESS Hermes
Today's offering is a collaborative work between the very talented Patricia Stewart and myself. Normally I would post the finished version here, but that's already been done at 365 Tomorrows.
Instead, inspired by Patricia posting the first few revisions, I'm putting up the penultimate version, from before Patricia put the final touches on it. That way we have the first two and last two, so interested parties can observe the growth of the story.
---
The crew took their positions in the prototype spaceship Hermes, named for the Greek god of flight. The first manned ship capable of exceeding the speed of light, its maiden voyage was scheduled to be a short three light-minute jump from the Naval Construction Station orbiting the Earth to the Space-Dock on Phobos, Mars’ largest moon.
Systems check completed, the Hermes left the Station and aligned itself with Mars. With a mixture of apprehension and excitement, the captain gave the command to activate the Alcubierre Drive and the computer announced that a warp bubble had been formed, dragging the ship toward Mars at just over the speed of light. The timer counted down, but after three minutes the ship continued to accelerate toward the outer solar system. "Bridge to engineering, the warp drive didn’t disengage. Can you shut it down manually?"
Chief Engineer Travis "Slim" Wheeler, who had helped design and install the propulsion system replied, "The drive itself is off, Captain. The warp bubble is somehow sustaining itself!"
"Chief, we just passed the asteroid belt and we’re still accelerating. If you can’t shut the drive down, can you at least turn us around and keep us in the solar system?"
"Negative, sir. Once the warp bubble is created, the ship will move in that direction until the bubble collapses. It doesn’t matter which direction we’re pointed; we’re just going along for the ride. Unless..." he added as a crazy plan formulated in his head, "I’ve got an idea. If we turn the Hermes around and create a new warp bubble going in the opposite direction, the warp fields should cancel each other out. That, or tear the ship apart. To be honest, sir, it could go either way."
"We’re already at the point of no return," stated the captain as he stared at the updated navigation screen. "Accelerating like this, if we can’t stop the ship in the next minute we'll collide with Jupiter." The captain gave the signal. Turning the ship around, the pilot activated the Alcubierre Drive for a second time... Nothing happened. Chief Wheeler mumbled something about safeguards, grabbed a three-quarter inch box wrench, and straddled the Alcubierre Drive like a Brahma bull. Closing his eyes and saying a prayer, he tore off the cover plate and jammed the wrench between the power transfer coupling and the high voltage terminal.
The ship seemed to twist and the cabin was filled with a terrible screeching noise - and then there was silence. The main lights and gravity had cut out, but as the emergency lights flickered on the monitors announced the ship's return to normal space.
The captain looked down at a flashing red light indicating a sudden drop in air pressure in the engine room. He scrambled toward the rear of the ship and was blocked by the sealed vacuum doors; through the viewport, he saw nothing but loose wires floating lazily in the center of the room. Slim and the Alcubierre Drive were gone, leaving the walls completely intact.
As he watched the wires drift past the starboard porthole, they sparkled in the bright sunlight. "Sunlight?” questioned the captain. “There shouldn’t be..." Something had gone wrong, though the only person who could hope to understand what had vanished. Somehow the new warp bubble had flung them back toward the inner solar system before collapsing. "Damn," he said, and watched a solar prominence arch past the ship just before the Hermes plummeted into the fiery furnace of hell.
Instead, inspired by Patricia posting the first few revisions, I'm putting up the penultimate version, from before Patricia put the final touches on it. That way we have the first two and last two, so interested parties can observe the growth of the story.
---
The crew took their positions in the prototype spaceship Hermes, named for the Greek god of flight. The first manned ship capable of exceeding the speed of light, its maiden voyage was scheduled to be a short three light-minute jump from the Naval Construction Station orbiting the Earth to the Space-Dock on Phobos, Mars’ largest moon.
Systems check completed, the Hermes left the Station and aligned itself with Mars. With a mixture of apprehension and excitement, the captain gave the command to activate the Alcubierre Drive and the computer announced that a warp bubble had been formed, dragging the ship toward Mars at just over the speed of light. The timer counted down, but after three minutes the ship continued to accelerate toward the outer solar system. "Bridge to engineering, the warp drive didn’t disengage. Can you shut it down manually?"
Chief Engineer Travis "Slim" Wheeler, who had helped design and install the propulsion system replied, "The drive itself is off, Captain. The warp bubble is somehow sustaining itself!"
"Chief, we just passed the asteroid belt and we’re still accelerating. If you can’t shut the drive down, can you at least turn us around and keep us in the solar system?"
"Negative, sir. Once the warp bubble is created, the ship will move in that direction until the bubble collapses. It doesn’t matter which direction we’re pointed; we’re just going along for the ride. Unless..." he added as a crazy plan formulated in his head, "I’ve got an idea. If we turn the Hermes around and create a new warp bubble going in the opposite direction, the warp fields should cancel each other out. That, or tear the ship apart. To be honest, sir, it could go either way."
"We’re already at the point of no return," stated the captain as he stared at the updated navigation screen. "Accelerating like this, if we can’t stop the ship in the next minute we'll collide with Jupiter." The captain gave the signal. Turning the ship around, the pilot activated the Alcubierre Drive for a second time... Nothing happened. Chief Wheeler mumbled something about safeguards, grabbed a three-quarter inch box wrench, and straddled the Alcubierre Drive like a Brahma bull. Closing his eyes and saying a prayer, he tore off the cover plate and jammed the wrench between the power transfer coupling and the high voltage terminal.
The ship seemed to twist and the cabin was filled with a terrible screeching noise - and then there was silence. The main lights and gravity had cut out, but as the emergency lights flickered on the monitors announced the ship's return to normal space.
The captain looked down at a flashing red light indicating a sudden drop in air pressure in the engine room. He scrambled toward the rear of the ship and was blocked by the sealed vacuum doors; through the viewport, he saw nothing but loose wires floating lazily in the center of the room. Slim and the Alcubierre Drive were gone, leaving the walls completely intact.
As he watched the wires drift past the starboard porthole, they sparkled in the bright sunlight. "Sunlight?” questioned the captain. “There shouldn’t be..." Something had gone wrong, though the only person who could hope to understand what had vanished. Somehow the new warp bubble had flung them back toward the inner solar system before collapsing. "Damn," he said, and watched a solar prominence arch past the ship just before the Hermes plummeted into the fiery furnace of hell.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Daily Story 92: Known Issues
The behemoth lurks in the corner of his cell, dull scales blending into the shadows. Enormous red eyes are focused on me, pupils narrowed down to slits, and I can't help but be impressed. Scrolling through my notes on my datapad, I pull up the appropriate trigger - an image of red and green spirals. I hold up the datapad so the behemoth can see it, and in an instant its claws are unsheathed and tearing the ground apart as the distance between us closes. At the last second I hold up the stuffed animal - a floppy-eared white bunny my daughter had left in my office - and the behemoth skids to a halt. A strange creaking noise comes from it, and I realize it's actually whimpering with fear. The beast scrambles backwards, leaving a trail of urine. Damn.
I turn to look at the handler. "And Jessie from Psychology says there was no trauma?"
The handler, a surprisingly scrawny man named Julian, shakes his head. "None. Everything has been going fine, and there's been no abuse or other mental strain. A rabbit just happened to hop past when we had him in the east field, and he totally lost it."
"Okay," I say, "I'll check the tissue sample to see if it was a problem in Production, but it sounds like it's from my department. I'm sorry, Julian, the programmers must have screwed up somewhere."
Julian shrugs, unconcerned - after all, none of this really changes his job. I ask him to test each variable separately - different colors of rabbits, different sizes, see if it's afraid of women in fur coats or gophers or hairless cats or whatever - but it's not likely to make a difference. Either we'll find it or we're screwed, whatever the details. On a general-consumption engineered creature like the Snuggle Angels - winged cats marketed to little girls - we could maybe get away with it… but the behemoth is for military applications.
This shouldn't be happening. The Instincts department has been doing so well. We have some issues with complex behaviors, sure, but a massive fear reaction to rabbits? There's no way that should have slipped past us. I've still got a tiny shred of hope as I reach my office, and my fingers are crossed as I run the tissue sample. The reader compares it to the 'blueprint' file for the Behemoth's DNA and gives the result almost instantly: One hundred percent match. Hope destroyed, I send an email that just says "BEHEMOTH is deathly afraid of cute fluffy bunnies. Not a joke. Nobody goes home until this is fixed."
I want to plunge in, help out, but being management level has taken its toll and I'm too rusty to be much help. I'm stuck staring at the ceiling, tossing the stuffed bunny from one hand to the other. The phone rings but I ignore it, I know it's my boss and there's no point even talking to him until I have some news. I make a paperclip chain, throw the bunny across the room into an open filing cabinet drawer. My brain is spinning its wheels, going nowhere. Idly, I press my finger against the DNA reader, figuring I'll design some improved versions of myself. Illegal to make, of course, but just doing the blueprint helps to get my mind working.
Before I have a chance to pull it into the editor, a window pops up. It looks like I forgot to close the Behemoth blueprint, and the reader has compared my DNA to it: One hundred percent match. Either I'm a massively armored military killing machine, or something is very wrong. I dial Mike's extension and I see him stand and head for my office rather than answering - that's fine, this conversation would have needed to be in person anyway. He comes in and closes the door behind him.
"What's up, chief?"
"Mike... I need your help looking for errors without alerting anyone. I think we're dealing with a case of sabotage." He just raises an eyebrow, so I continue. "Someone rigged it so the reader would always say a sample matches, and the only reason I can think of for that is so they can sneak bad code past us."
Mike nods, lost in thought. "Is there any way to tell who did it?"
"Yeah, there are only a handful of us that would have had access and they would have had to do it directly, so they'll be caught on security camera." I point at the corner of my office where the camera is hidden, just a tiny pinhole in the wall. Mike looks too, squints for a second, and then sighs.
"Shit, I didn't see that there. Well... win some lose some, huh?"
I'm just staring at him, stunned. I guess it's not a total shock, it had to be someone in the department. He looks so calm - he must know I can call security and have the whole property locked down before he could get ten feet. Mike leans forward, smiling, and whispers to me.
"You're going to just love what the Snuggle Angels do!"
The bunny is staring at me from the filing cabinet drawer as if to ask me what my daughter is playing with right now.
I turn to look at the handler. "And Jessie from Psychology says there was no trauma?"
The handler, a surprisingly scrawny man named Julian, shakes his head. "None. Everything has been going fine, and there's been no abuse or other mental strain. A rabbit just happened to hop past when we had him in the east field, and he totally lost it."
"Okay," I say, "I'll check the tissue sample to see if it was a problem in Production, but it sounds like it's from my department. I'm sorry, Julian, the programmers must have screwed up somewhere."
Julian shrugs, unconcerned - after all, none of this really changes his job. I ask him to test each variable separately - different colors of rabbits, different sizes, see if it's afraid of women in fur coats or gophers or hairless cats or whatever - but it's not likely to make a difference. Either we'll find it or we're screwed, whatever the details. On a general-consumption engineered creature like the Snuggle Angels - winged cats marketed to little girls - we could maybe get away with it… but the behemoth is for military applications.
This shouldn't be happening. The Instincts department has been doing so well. We have some issues with complex behaviors, sure, but a massive fear reaction to rabbits? There's no way that should have slipped past us. I've still got a tiny shred of hope as I reach my office, and my fingers are crossed as I run the tissue sample. The reader compares it to the 'blueprint' file for the Behemoth's DNA and gives the result almost instantly: One hundred percent match. Hope destroyed, I send an email that just says "BEHEMOTH is deathly afraid of cute fluffy bunnies. Not a joke. Nobody goes home until this is fixed."
I want to plunge in, help out, but being management level has taken its toll and I'm too rusty to be much help. I'm stuck staring at the ceiling, tossing the stuffed bunny from one hand to the other. The phone rings but I ignore it, I know it's my boss and there's no point even talking to him until I have some news. I make a paperclip chain, throw the bunny across the room into an open filing cabinet drawer. My brain is spinning its wheels, going nowhere. Idly, I press my finger against the DNA reader, figuring I'll design some improved versions of myself. Illegal to make, of course, but just doing the blueprint helps to get my mind working.
Before I have a chance to pull it into the editor, a window pops up. It looks like I forgot to close the Behemoth blueprint, and the reader has compared my DNA to it: One hundred percent match. Either I'm a massively armored military killing machine, or something is very wrong. I dial Mike's extension and I see him stand and head for my office rather than answering - that's fine, this conversation would have needed to be in person anyway. He comes in and closes the door behind him.
"What's up, chief?"
"Mike... I need your help looking for errors without alerting anyone. I think we're dealing with a case of sabotage." He just raises an eyebrow, so I continue. "Someone rigged it so the reader would always say a sample matches, and the only reason I can think of for that is so they can sneak bad code past us."
Mike nods, lost in thought. "Is there any way to tell who did it?"
"Yeah, there are only a handful of us that would have had access and they would have had to do it directly, so they'll be caught on security camera." I point at the corner of my office where the camera is hidden, just a tiny pinhole in the wall. Mike looks too, squints for a second, and then sighs.
"Shit, I didn't see that there. Well... win some lose some, huh?"
I'm just staring at him, stunned. I guess it's not a total shock, it had to be someone in the department. He looks so calm - he must know I can call security and have the whole property locked down before he could get ten feet. Mike leans forward, smiling, and whispers to me.
"You're going to just love what the Snuggle Angels do!"
The bunny is staring at me from the filing cabinet drawer as if to ask me what my daughter is playing with right now.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Daily Story 91: Serious Business
Doctor Meyers prepared for the final test before sending a human subject. "Okay, what do we send through this time?"
"We should really send something living. Do we have any lab rats left?" Doctor Johnson asked, glaring at Doctor Hastings, "Oh, wait! I forgot, someone put them all in my car as a prank."
"It wasn't a prank," Doctor Hastings mumbled, "It was an experiment. Or something."
"Well whatever it was, you should have rolled the windows down. Unless the experiment specifically called for the rats to be dead when I found them."
Hastings shrugged. "Might have."
Meyers grabbed a whiteboard from the wall. "Whatever. Let's just send this."
Almost instantly there was a flash from the far end of the lab and a whiteboard dropped onto the floor. The three scientists ran over to it and excitedly read the message that had been scrawled on it: IF YOU CAN READ THIS TIME TRAVEL IS POSSIBLE. Doctor Meyers hung the original whiteboard back up, and took the new arrival to a platform a few feet away.
Johnson looked horrified. "You're not going to send that one, are you?"
Meyers nodded. "I don't see why not. I have to make sure the message is exactly the same anyway, I might as well just cut out the middle man." With the press of a button the whiteboard vanished, and Doctor Johnson moaned.
"Oh... this is bad. Meyers, if that's the one we sent back... who wrote the message on it?"
Meyers rolled his eyes and prepared his best condescending tone, but then found himself at a loss for words.
"That's it!" Johnson shouted. "Meyers is out of the pool for breaking causality, and since Hastings is already out for talking about going back and killing his father as a child -" ("That was a Joke!" Hasting yelled) "- that means I'll be the one to go back in time."
Checking the mirror to ensure he would look his best when he encountered himself, Johnson looked at the clock and made a note.
"Okay, I'll arrive in five, four, three, two..."
Nothing happened.
"Is it broken?"
All three of them gathered around the platform. There was no smoke, no warning lights.
"Aha!" Johnson yelled, "It's fine! I just haven't gone back yet. This must be the original timeline still. Once I go back this won't have happened."
This was met with a rather large dose of skepticism. "Hang on," Hastings said, "I thought we were operating under the model of time travel that said you couldn't do anything that hadn't already been done?"
"Well, okay, yes. We were. But by that logic the machine is broken and I can't go back in time. Wouldn't you rather go with the explanation that allows us to time travel?"
They thought about this for a moment, and then Meyers spoke up.
"I'm mostly fine with it, but then what happens to me when you leave? Do I just cease to exist?"
"No, you'll be fine. Or, rather, the you in the past will be as fine as you were at that point. This you, the present you that will be the future you... uh... yes, okay, you'll cease to exist. Sorry."
"But I don't want to not exist!"
"Look, you big baby, sometimes we have to cease to exist for the betterment of science! And anyway, you've already ceased to exist a bunch of times; every test we did must have started with one of you getting erased. The whole world is doing it, and you don't hear them complaining."
"To be fair," Hastings said, "the rest of the world doesn't know that we're about to erase them and overwrite them with a new timeline or they might very well complain."
"Well," Johnson said, "They can suck it. I'm going."
Meyers ran over to the refrigerator and started digging through their lunches.
"Hang on, Johnson, before you leave I'm going to eat your strawberries."
"Excuse me?"
"If you're going to unmake me I might as well have a last meal, and it's been forever since I've had strawberries. Allergic, you know."
Johnson waited for a moment while Meyers stuffed down his strawberries and made very unscientific 'mmmmph' noises, and then hit the button and vanished.
"Well," The still-existing Hastings said after a moment, "That's fascinating. I suppose it's possible that we're operating on a kind of 'many worlds' system where the changed timeline is separate from the original, which continues. Though I guess you can't tell unless you happen to be the version that is on the original timeline. What do you think, Meyers? ...Meyers?"
"We should really send something living. Do we have any lab rats left?" Doctor Johnson asked, glaring at Doctor Hastings, "Oh, wait! I forgot, someone put them all in my car as a prank."
"It wasn't a prank," Doctor Hastings mumbled, "It was an experiment. Or something."
"Well whatever it was, you should have rolled the windows down. Unless the experiment specifically called for the rats to be dead when I found them."
Hastings shrugged. "Might have."
Meyers grabbed a whiteboard from the wall. "Whatever. Let's just send this."
Almost instantly there was a flash from the far end of the lab and a whiteboard dropped onto the floor. The three scientists ran over to it and excitedly read the message that had been scrawled on it: IF YOU CAN READ THIS TIME TRAVEL IS POSSIBLE. Doctor Meyers hung the original whiteboard back up, and took the new arrival to a platform a few feet away.
Johnson looked horrified. "You're not going to send that one, are you?"
Meyers nodded. "I don't see why not. I have to make sure the message is exactly the same anyway, I might as well just cut out the middle man." With the press of a button the whiteboard vanished, and Doctor Johnson moaned.
"Oh... this is bad. Meyers, if that's the one we sent back... who wrote the message on it?"
Meyers rolled his eyes and prepared his best condescending tone, but then found himself at a loss for words.
"That's it!" Johnson shouted. "Meyers is out of the pool for breaking causality, and since Hastings is already out for talking about going back and killing his father as a child -" ("That was a Joke!" Hasting yelled) "- that means I'll be the one to go back in time."
Checking the mirror to ensure he would look his best when he encountered himself, Johnson looked at the clock and made a note.
"Okay, I'll arrive in five, four, three, two..."
Nothing happened.
"Is it broken?"
All three of them gathered around the platform. There was no smoke, no warning lights.
"Aha!" Johnson yelled, "It's fine! I just haven't gone back yet. This must be the original timeline still. Once I go back this won't have happened."
This was met with a rather large dose of skepticism. "Hang on," Hastings said, "I thought we were operating under the model of time travel that said you couldn't do anything that hadn't already been done?"
"Well, okay, yes. We were. But by that logic the machine is broken and I can't go back in time. Wouldn't you rather go with the explanation that allows us to time travel?"
They thought about this for a moment, and then Meyers spoke up.
"I'm mostly fine with it, but then what happens to me when you leave? Do I just cease to exist?"
"No, you'll be fine. Or, rather, the you in the past will be as fine as you were at that point. This you, the present you that will be the future you... uh... yes, okay, you'll cease to exist. Sorry."
"But I don't want to not exist!"
"Look, you big baby, sometimes we have to cease to exist for the betterment of science! And anyway, you've already ceased to exist a bunch of times; every test we did must have started with one of you getting erased. The whole world is doing it, and you don't hear them complaining."
"To be fair," Hastings said, "the rest of the world doesn't know that we're about to erase them and overwrite them with a new timeline or they might very well complain."
"Well," Johnson said, "They can suck it. I'm going."
Meyers ran over to the refrigerator and started digging through their lunches.
"Hang on, Johnson, before you leave I'm going to eat your strawberries."
"Excuse me?"
"If you're going to unmake me I might as well have a last meal, and it's been forever since I've had strawberries. Allergic, you know."
Johnson waited for a moment while Meyers stuffed down his strawberries and made very unscientific 'mmmmph' noises, and then hit the button and vanished.
"Well," The still-existing Hastings said after a moment, "That's fascinating. I suppose it's possible that we're operating on a kind of 'many worlds' system where the changed timeline is separate from the original, which continues. Though I guess you can't tell unless you happen to be the version that is on the original timeline. What do you think, Meyers? ...Meyers?"
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Daily Story 90: Priority
I remember being afraid. Now I walk down a hallway confidently, knowing that a guard is coming towards the junction. (He'll see me as he turns the corner, and he's quick on the draw. A bullet will hit me in the left eye, sending my brains flying in chunks out the back of my head.) I pull my weapon and shoot, and the bullet arrives just as the guard does. He slumps against the wall before he even knows what happened. I remember tripping during a difficult hike, and nearly falling off of a ledge. I couldn't see what was below me, couldn't see if letting go would kill me. (I'll open the door in front of me and the hall will erupt in alarms, red lights flashing as the entire facility goes into lockdown. I'll be sealed in, trapped.) I stop with my hand halfway to the door handle, and head down the other hall instead.
The last time I was afraid was when I got the treatment. I was afraid that I would reject it, that my brains would melt and run out my ears. (I will open fire on a guard as soon as I walk into the room, but the scientist on the left will hit a button before I can get to him and smoke will pour out of the specimen cabinet.) I shoot the scientist as I enter, rolling behind a desk as the guard pulls his sidearm. I can still remember waking up when the treatment was completed and hearing the doctor speak in an echo, every word reaching me twice. (The guard sneaks around to my right, and I see him too late; my lungs are perforated by round after round before I finally drop to the ground, unmoving.) I finish the guard as he tries to surprise me. If only he understood that surprise isn't something I have to deal with anymore.
(I'll stand and head to the specimen cabinet, and the code my contact provided will allow me access. In seconds, I will have cleaned out the cabinet.) I stand and head to the specimen cabinet, and the sound of footsteps reaches my ears. The world is in slow motion and my blood runs cold, shock causing me to lose concentration and turn towards the sound without taking aim. The gun comes around the corner first, and I barely manage to drop to the floor without losing my head. Everything is quiet except for my breathing, rough and fast. (I'll stand and run up the aisle between desks, and find my target - a woman about my age, olive completion and dark hair pulled up in a bun. The bun will unravel as the back of her head explodes outwards.) I stand and run (the bullets will shatter my spine, as I) but swerve and slide on the tile as I try to avoid the gunfire.
I'm back behind cover, but my leg has been hit. I'm not wearing any kind of body armor; I wanted to be able to move as quickly as possible and I felt so sure I wouldn't be shot. I can't win this, even if I wasn't already injured. She's had the treatment, she must have, and she's better than me. I'm only seeing the baseline, but she's looking at my reactions to it. She'll always be one step ahead of me. I'm scared now, afraid for the first time since I heard that glorious echo of the doctor telling me the treatment was a success. (I'll be paralyzed with indecision and fear, and she'll take her time to line up a shot through a gap in the workstation - killing me instantly.) I lean to the side to stay out of her line of sight, but I'm prolonging the inevitable. I'm a kid again, hanging off of that ledge and not knowing if there is anything beneath me to stop my fall.
The last time I was afraid was when I got the treatment. I was afraid that I would reject it, that my brains would melt and run out my ears. (I will open fire on a guard as soon as I walk into the room, but the scientist on the left will hit a button before I can get to him and smoke will pour out of the specimen cabinet.) I shoot the scientist as I enter, rolling behind a desk as the guard pulls his sidearm. I can still remember waking up when the treatment was completed and hearing the doctor speak in an echo, every word reaching me twice. (The guard sneaks around to my right, and I see him too late; my lungs are perforated by round after round before I finally drop to the ground, unmoving.) I finish the guard as he tries to surprise me. If only he understood that surprise isn't something I have to deal with anymore.
(I'll stand and head to the specimen cabinet, and the code my contact provided will allow me access. In seconds, I will have cleaned out the cabinet.) I stand and head to the specimen cabinet, and the sound of footsteps reaches my ears. The world is in slow motion and my blood runs cold, shock causing me to lose concentration and turn towards the sound without taking aim. The gun comes around the corner first, and I barely manage to drop to the floor without losing my head. Everything is quiet except for my breathing, rough and fast. (I'll stand and run up the aisle between desks, and find my target - a woman about my age, olive completion and dark hair pulled up in a bun. The bun will unravel as the back of her head explodes outwards.) I stand and run (the bullets will shatter my spine, as I) but swerve and slide on the tile as I try to avoid the gunfire.
I'm back behind cover, but my leg has been hit. I'm not wearing any kind of body armor; I wanted to be able to move as quickly as possible and I felt so sure I wouldn't be shot. I can't win this, even if I wasn't already injured. She's had the treatment, she must have, and she's better than me. I'm only seeing the baseline, but she's looking at my reactions to it. She'll always be one step ahead of me. I'm scared now, afraid for the first time since I heard that glorious echo of the doctor telling me the treatment was a success. (I'll be paralyzed with indecision and fear, and she'll take her time to line up a shot through a gap in the workstation - killing me instantly.) I lean to the side to stay out of her line of sight, but I'm prolonging the inevitable. I'm a kid again, hanging off of that ledge and not knowing if there is anything beneath me to stop my fall.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Daily Story 89: With Longing
It's three in the morning and for just a second I'm trapped in that fog where you're not really awake yet. I'm sure an alarm is going off and I grab my gun before realizing that the sound is my phone ringing and all I've grabbed is my wallet off the nightstand. A soft moan tells me Shelley is awake, and I know I'll get hell about this in the morning because she's convinced she can't get back to sleep after being woken up. We've been married thirty years, and I've never seen anyone who can drop so quickly back into a dead sleep but there's no telling her that.
I slide the phone over - an antique, black Bakelite with a rotary dial on the base - and lift the handset. I mumble something that even I'm not sure is a 'hello' but there's just silence on the other end.
"Charlie? It's you, isn't it?" There's a ragged intake of breath like you hear when someone's been really sobbing, and then just a quiet 'yeah'. Must be bad tonight.
"How about I meet you at the Denny's in ten?"
The Denny's is just a minute away from my house so I get there first and grab a booth. Some kids in the corner give me some funny looks, though I can't say if they're staring at the bunny slippers or the scar that runs all the way down the center of my face. The menu is sticky with something, and I don't have a napkin so I have to wipe my hands off on my shirt, but they could slap me on the way in the door and feed me canned dog food and I'd probably still come here just because it's open. Besides, Charlie has some strange fondness for their burgers and tonight it's all about him. I'm mostly steady these days, but Charlie can still hear it calling to him, trying to make him fall off the wagon.
He comes in a minute later, wearing a tattered cardigan and worn blue jeans. I can see that under that cardigan he's wearing a seven hundred dollar silk shirt left over from his days in the fast lane. He settles into the patched vinyl seat and takes a menu, even though we both know what he's going to order, and after a moment he gives me a sheepish look that seems out of place with those wide shoulders and square jaw. "Sorry about on the phone," he says, "I lost it. I'm still adjusting, you know?"
"You should come to the meeting tomorrow, Charlie. Talking to me is great and that's what sponsors are for, but you never see people anymore."
The waitress takes our order, and I decide I might as well dive on in.
"Okay Charlie, spill it. What is it that has you halfway off the wagon?"
He shrugs, then stares out through the window at the parking lot. He looks old suddenly, and I realize I don't know how old he is. Guys like us might look ancient when we're twenty or we might be healthy as a bear into our eighties - if we don't get killed first. We've both had our close calls for sure; I've got my scar down my face and he has that hand.
"I drove past Milton's place earlier. Down on fifth. He keeps it looking like a smoke shop, but I know he would recognize me if I went in, he'd invite me into the back. I can afford it, barely. Just one, but one is all you need." His voice is quiet, almost like he's talking to himself.
"I know Milton. Got some stuff off of him back when I was active, he did a custom job for me. Zombie snakes, a whole crate of them." Just the memory of those things gives me a terrible black twinge of longing. Charlie is nodding, his mind filled with the possibilities.
"Never did zombies before, always meant to try them. I was into death rays. Had one mounted in a converted observatory, sixty feet long and could level a city block."
I shouldn't encourage this, I should change the subject, but I don't know a lot about Charlie's career and I'm curious. "Who smashed it?"
Charlie smiles, ear to ear. "Silas Cantrell, gentleman spy. Ah, he was a class act. He managed to get it to collapse onto me at the last second, pinned my legs but didn't do any permanent damage. Exactly how it should be. I activated the self destruct, told him I would see him in hell... and of course while he jumped dramatically out the window I pulled free and dropped into the tunnels. Not all of my ventures went that well."
I nod, thinking back at my extensive résumé. "I had a few disasters. Once, the hero got there when I was out on a supply run and set off the self-destruct, didn't even get out in time so there was nobody to vow revenge on. Just a big silly waste of a secret lair."
We both sigh, and Charlie is fidgeting with the salt and pepper shakers. The glass clinks against his metal hand, a replacement from some run-in with a masked vigilante.
"Charlie... you know you can't go back to it. Come to the Villains Anonymous meeting with me, we'll get you back on track."
He nods, but I don't know that he means it. He wants to feel a windpipe in his iron grip, he wants... how does the saying go? 'To crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentation of their women.' God, it's been so long since I've heard the lamentations of anyone's women.
The waitress gives Charlie his burger, and in the silence as we eat I find that I'm now trying to talk myself down instead of Charlie. Take it one day at a time Doctor Calamity. One day at a time.
I slide the phone over - an antique, black Bakelite with a rotary dial on the base - and lift the handset. I mumble something that even I'm not sure is a 'hello' but there's just silence on the other end.
"Charlie? It's you, isn't it?" There's a ragged intake of breath like you hear when someone's been really sobbing, and then just a quiet 'yeah'. Must be bad tonight.
"How about I meet you at the Denny's in ten?"
The Denny's is just a minute away from my house so I get there first and grab a booth. Some kids in the corner give me some funny looks, though I can't say if they're staring at the bunny slippers or the scar that runs all the way down the center of my face. The menu is sticky with something, and I don't have a napkin so I have to wipe my hands off on my shirt, but they could slap me on the way in the door and feed me canned dog food and I'd probably still come here just because it's open. Besides, Charlie has some strange fondness for their burgers and tonight it's all about him. I'm mostly steady these days, but Charlie can still hear it calling to him, trying to make him fall off the wagon.
He comes in a minute later, wearing a tattered cardigan and worn blue jeans. I can see that under that cardigan he's wearing a seven hundred dollar silk shirt left over from his days in the fast lane. He settles into the patched vinyl seat and takes a menu, even though we both know what he's going to order, and after a moment he gives me a sheepish look that seems out of place with those wide shoulders and square jaw. "Sorry about on the phone," he says, "I lost it. I'm still adjusting, you know?"
"You should come to the meeting tomorrow, Charlie. Talking to me is great and that's what sponsors are for, but you never see people anymore."
The waitress takes our order, and I decide I might as well dive on in.
"Okay Charlie, spill it. What is it that has you halfway off the wagon?"
He shrugs, then stares out through the window at the parking lot. He looks old suddenly, and I realize I don't know how old he is. Guys like us might look ancient when we're twenty or we might be healthy as a bear into our eighties - if we don't get killed first. We've both had our close calls for sure; I've got my scar down my face and he has that hand.
"I drove past Milton's place earlier. Down on fifth. He keeps it looking like a smoke shop, but I know he would recognize me if I went in, he'd invite me into the back. I can afford it, barely. Just one, but one is all you need." His voice is quiet, almost like he's talking to himself.
"I know Milton. Got some stuff off of him back when I was active, he did a custom job for me. Zombie snakes, a whole crate of them." Just the memory of those things gives me a terrible black twinge of longing. Charlie is nodding, his mind filled with the possibilities.
"Never did zombies before, always meant to try them. I was into death rays. Had one mounted in a converted observatory, sixty feet long and could level a city block."
I shouldn't encourage this, I should change the subject, but I don't know a lot about Charlie's career and I'm curious. "Who smashed it?"
Charlie smiles, ear to ear. "Silas Cantrell, gentleman spy. Ah, he was a class act. He managed to get it to collapse onto me at the last second, pinned my legs but didn't do any permanent damage. Exactly how it should be. I activated the self destruct, told him I would see him in hell... and of course while he jumped dramatically out the window I pulled free and dropped into the tunnels. Not all of my ventures went that well."
I nod, thinking back at my extensive résumé. "I had a few disasters. Once, the hero got there when I was out on a supply run and set off the self-destruct, didn't even get out in time so there was nobody to vow revenge on. Just a big silly waste of a secret lair."
We both sigh, and Charlie is fidgeting with the salt and pepper shakers. The glass clinks against his metal hand, a replacement from some run-in with a masked vigilante.
"Charlie... you know you can't go back to it. Come to the Villains Anonymous meeting with me, we'll get you back on track."
He nods, but I don't know that he means it. He wants to feel a windpipe in his iron grip, he wants... how does the saying go? 'To crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentation of their women.' God, it's been so long since I've heard the lamentations of anyone's women.
The waitress gives Charlie his burger, and in the silence as we eat I find that I'm now trying to talk myself down instead of Charlie. Take it one day at a time Doctor Calamity. One day at a time.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Daily Story 88: P is For...
This is another that was first published at 365 Tomorrows.
---
Ah, Mr. Knight! Thank you for coming, sir. Doctor Dave Ewing is going to be calling you at some point to tender his resignation, and – oh, has he? Well, after this meeting you’ll want to call him and get him back, tell him the charges are dropped – hopefully before he commits suicide or something... the poor bastard is despondent.
Yes, sir. I know he used the fuel cell, and I know we only had four. I can understand your anger at hearing that an eighty billion dollar power source was used to fuel an unsuccessful experiment without permission, but you need to know that Doctor Ewing wasn’t crazy – just... near-sighted. He genuinely believes that his project was a failure, but – well, watch. Pay attention to the mouse, and that empty chamber on the other end of the device. There!
Yes, that’s what I thought at first too but it’s not a teleporter. The matter can’t appear any further away than that, and it has to weigh less than seventy pounds – actually it’s based on mass, but it’s easier to think of it as seventy pounds for our purposes. Yes sir, I agree that that sounds useless, but the point is that the good doctor wasn’t trying to invent a teleporter anyway. It’s a time machine.
I know, I know, but let me slow the video down – the lab cams can do some crazy slow-motion – and watch the part where the mouse moved. There it is! For just a fraction of a second there’s two of them. The bad news is that that’s as far as it’s possible to send anything back – not even as much time as the machine itself takes to warm up. That’s why Ewing thought it was worthless, the readouts from this test run confirmed he’ll never be able to go back in time far enough to do anything interesting.
Yes, sir, I’m getting to that. I played around with his device – I don’t understand the time travel stuff but I know the mechanical aspects and then I took the other three fuel cells and – sir, no, calm down! Look at the box next to you. See, it turns out you can put a real hair-trigger on the killswitch, link it to a sensor on the “receiving” end... and a fuel cell weighs less than seventy pounds.
Don’t worry Mr. Knight – it took me a while to stop giggling too.
---
Ah, Mr. Knight! Thank you for coming, sir. Doctor Dave Ewing is going to be calling you at some point to tender his resignation, and – oh, has he? Well, after this meeting you’ll want to call him and get him back, tell him the charges are dropped – hopefully before he commits suicide or something... the poor bastard is despondent.
Yes, sir. I know he used the fuel cell, and I know we only had four. I can understand your anger at hearing that an eighty billion dollar power source was used to fuel an unsuccessful experiment without permission, but you need to know that Doctor Ewing wasn’t crazy – just... near-sighted. He genuinely believes that his project was a failure, but – well, watch. Pay attention to the mouse, and that empty chamber on the other end of the device. There!
Yes, that’s what I thought at first too but it’s not a teleporter. The matter can’t appear any further away than that, and it has to weigh less than seventy pounds – actually it’s based on mass, but it’s easier to think of it as seventy pounds for our purposes. Yes sir, I agree that that sounds useless, but the point is that the good doctor wasn’t trying to invent a teleporter anyway. It’s a time machine.
I know, I know, but let me slow the video down – the lab cams can do some crazy slow-motion – and watch the part where the mouse moved. There it is! For just a fraction of a second there’s two of them. The bad news is that that’s as far as it’s possible to send anything back – not even as much time as the machine itself takes to warm up. That’s why Ewing thought it was worthless, the readouts from this test run confirmed he’ll never be able to go back in time far enough to do anything interesting.
Yes, sir, I’m getting to that. I played around with his device – I don’t understand the time travel stuff but I know the mechanical aspects and then I took the other three fuel cells and – sir, no, calm down! Look at the box next to you. See, it turns out you can put a real hair-trigger on the killswitch, link it to a sensor on the “receiving” end... and a fuel cell weighs less than seventy pounds.
Don’t worry Mr. Knight – it took me a while to stop giggling too.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Daily Story 87: A Case of the Blues
The storm was the only feature visible from space, a swirling white mass like down feathers. It was a thing of light, reflecting rays from the sun during the day and flickering from within at night as lighting raced through it like synapses firing in the universe's largest brain. Satellites jockeyed for prime positions as they orbited, recording and storing information mindlessly. Without guidance or repair, they drifted over the storm that was the world in smaller numbers each year.
It was forty years after the storm's birth that the last satellite floated too close to the world and dropped into the churning atmosphere. Solar collectors and antennae tore loose as it tumbled, plunging into the wet darkness of racing clouds where no sunlight could reach. crackling tendrils of energy arced around the satellite until they, too, had been left behind and it entered the howling space below the great storm. Water came in larger drops here, coming down so heavily that they endlessly collided and split apart in every available inch.
The impact was violent, throwing up a mountain of mud and concrete. The debris fell wetly back to Earth, one large piece sliding down a small hill until it came to rest against the exposed edge of a long-buried structure. It weighed less than a hundred pounds, and yet it had wedged itself into just the right spot to slowly lift the object that had stopped its decent. If there was any kind of creaking or groaning noise it was lost in the eternal sounds of the storm, and so it would have appeared to rise silently like a magician's assistant being levitated had there been anyone left to observe it. After a moment the movement stopped with the object still largely prone, until a massive gust of wind caught it and wrenched the entire thing out of the marshy ground.
It was large, and rectangular, and flew through the air erratically - ricocheting off of half-eroded buildings and knocking over one of the few standing street lamps. It came to rest at an angle against a statue that had been worn down to anonymity, and the rain swept against it and began to wear away at the accumulated mud and grime that had survived its flight. The harsh glare of lightning illuminated something more than the grays and browns of the storm-ravaged world, something being exposed piece by piece on the object.
Bright colors began to show, slowly revealing a scene of happiness and prosperity. Little cartoon people gathered under the smiling face of a yellow sun, as a farmer waved at an anthropomorphic cloud who cheerfully watered his crops. Sunbathers sat on a perfect beach. There was a puppy. Above this idyllic scene was a bright green banner that proclaimed "Never Have Bad Weather Again! Microsoft WeatherMan - Coming in June!"
The storm continued to beat at the billboard, and the picture started to bubble and peel. In another five minutes, it was gone completely.
It was forty years after the storm's birth that the last satellite floated too close to the world and dropped into the churning atmosphere. Solar collectors and antennae tore loose as it tumbled, plunging into the wet darkness of racing clouds where no sunlight could reach. crackling tendrils of energy arced around the satellite until they, too, had been left behind and it entered the howling space below the great storm. Water came in larger drops here, coming down so heavily that they endlessly collided and split apart in every available inch.
The impact was violent, throwing up a mountain of mud and concrete. The debris fell wetly back to Earth, one large piece sliding down a small hill until it came to rest against the exposed edge of a long-buried structure. It weighed less than a hundred pounds, and yet it had wedged itself into just the right spot to slowly lift the object that had stopped its decent. If there was any kind of creaking or groaning noise it was lost in the eternal sounds of the storm, and so it would have appeared to rise silently like a magician's assistant being levitated had there been anyone left to observe it. After a moment the movement stopped with the object still largely prone, until a massive gust of wind caught it and wrenched the entire thing out of the marshy ground.
It was large, and rectangular, and flew through the air erratically - ricocheting off of half-eroded buildings and knocking over one of the few standing street lamps. It came to rest at an angle against a statue that had been worn down to anonymity, and the rain swept against it and began to wear away at the accumulated mud and grime that had survived its flight. The harsh glare of lightning illuminated something more than the grays and browns of the storm-ravaged world, something being exposed piece by piece on the object.
Bright colors began to show, slowly revealing a scene of happiness and prosperity. Little cartoon people gathered under the smiling face of a yellow sun, as a farmer waved at an anthropomorphic cloud who cheerfully watered his crops. Sunbathers sat on a perfect beach. There was a puppy. Above this idyllic scene was a bright green banner that proclaimed "Never Have Bad Weather Again! Microsoft WeatherMan - Coming in June!"
The storm continued to beat at the billboard, and the picture started to bubble and peel. In another five minutes, it was gone completely.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Daily Story 86: Productivity
This is another that was first published at 365 Tomorrows.
---
I’m staring at the clock. Just staring at it, waiting for it to tick off a minute at which point I will have exactly one hour left of this hell. My brother the crazy artist says I’m not living my life. He says that I’ve sold my soul. If he knew my automator was broken he’d be ecstatic, he’d probably try to get me to go out and party with him as if I didn’t have to go to work anymore.
Actually, though, calling out tomorrow might not be a terrible idea. My productivity is shot anyway – I keep finding myself staring at the screen in front of me, drifting off and daydreaming. It’s the sound of everyone else working; it’s hypnotic. They’re all typing at full speed, seated thirty to a row, all the way down this massive room. It sounds like a thunderstorm pouring around me. I wandered down the aisles this morning for ten wasted minutes, just listening to the endless shower of keystrokes and looking at all of their blank faces… the only good thing was that I saw someone I went to school with. We’ve probably been working together for ten years. I should call her later.
I know my brother isn’t alone, there’s a very vocal minority that will talk your ear off about how terrible automators are. I can only assume none of them have office jobs, because I’ve only been here for four hours and I’m ready to murder someone. Don’t even get me started on my exercise routine! Do I really do that every morning? Why in god’s name would I want to be aware for that? I finished less than half of the workout before going back to bed. If they can’t fix my automator soon I’m going to get all pudgy.
If I tried to explain this to my brother he’d just suggest that I work somewhere more interesting, as if everyone in the world can be an artist for a living. He’d say having less money would be worth not going through life as a zombie, but every second that ticks by feels like an hour and every time I look at the pathetic amount of work I’ve gotten done I know exactly why a “work day” used to be eight hours – more for some people! Missing my life? If this is what my life is when I’m not looking then I’m happy to miss it. Only fifty-nine minutes and thirty seconds to go. Please, let them fix me soon.
---
I’m staring at the clock. Just staring at it, waiting for it to tick off a minute at which point I will have exactly one hour left of this hell. My brother the crazy artist says I’m not living my life. He says that I’ve sold my soul. If he knew my automator was broken he’d be ecstatic, he’d probably try to get me to go out and party with him as if I didn’t have to go to work anymore.
Actually, though, calling out tomorrow might not be a terrible idea. My productivity is shot anyway – I keep finding myself staring at the screen in front of me, drifting off and daydreaming. It’s the sound of everyone else working; it’s hypnotic. They’re all typing at full speed, seated thirty to a row, all the way down this massive room. It sounds like a thunderstorm pouring around me. I wandered down the aisles this morning for ten wasted minutes, just listening to the endless shower of keystrokes and looking at all of their blank faces… the only good thing was that I saw someone I went to school with. We’ve probably been working together for ten years. I should call her later.
I know my brother isn’t alone, there’s a very vocal minority that will talk your ear off about how terrible automators are. I can only assume none of them have office jobs, because I’ve only been here for four hours and I’m ready to murder someone. Don’t even get me started on my exercise routine! Do I really do that every morning? Why in god’s name would I want to be aware for that? I finished less than half of the workout before going back to bed. If they can’t fix my automator soon I’m going to get all pudgy.
If I tried to explain this to my brother he’d just suggest that I work somewhere more interesting, as if everyone in the world can be an artist for a living. He’d say having less money would be worth not going through life as a zombie, but every second that ticks by feels like an hour and every time I look at the pathetic amount of work I’ve gotten done I know exactly why a “work day” used to be eight hours – more for some people! Missing my life? If this is what my life is when I’m not looking then I’m happy to miss it. Only fifty-nine minutes and thirty seconds to go. Please, let them fix me soon.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Daily Story 85: Lost and Found
Desmond was angry.
He didn't feel angry about his car being stolen, since it had been giving him trouble all morning and so its disappearance mainly just meant he could skip his appointment with the mechanic. He wasn't even angry about the fact that he was going to be late getting back to work, although he knew he would be in trouble for it no matter how good his explanation was. Being mugged, however, seemed like adding insult to injury. Possibly injury to injury.
He began to walk back to the office, thinking about the mail-in rebate in his wallet and wondering if the mugger would send it in. It seemed better than it going to waste.
As Desmond reached the corner of fifth and Carmine, he was confronted with an interesting sight. His car, sitting in front of the Mexican restaurant he had planned on going to for lunch before accidentally missing his turn and ending up at a sandwich shop that had given him a soggy turkey sandwich with a side of food poisoning. The car had its hood up, and Desmond could only assume the thief had tried to drive away and had only gotten a block and a half before it broke down.
This assumption, was, of course, completely wrong.
He stared at the car for a moment, and then felt a little cold finger of doom creeping up inside of him. Now he had gone from having his car stolen to just having it be useless again, and this really felt like a downgrade. Sighing, he pulled out his phone to call in to work, since now he didn't even have a good excuse.
"Lake and Logan, how may I help you?"
"Alice, this is Desmond."
"Let me transfer you to him."
"No, Alice, I don't want to be transferred to myself!"
He was too late, because Alice had a hair-trigger when it came to transferring. Like most receptionists she gave off the impression that she didn't particularly want to be one, though at least she spent her time reading something rather than playing Solitaire. He had tried to be friendly once and asked her what she was studying, and she said it was cryptography. It turned out that Desmond didn't have any witty responses for that, and so after a few seconds of bobbing his head awkwardly he had gone back to his desk.
Like some sort of divine omen, a taxi cab pulled up in front of him. "Need a ride?" That seemed to cinch it, this was a sign from the heavens. Why else would a taxi driver offer to take someone somewhere? How would he know that a person standing in front of an obviously non-functioning vehicle and looking frustrated needs a ride? Desmond's already tired feet told him there was no logical explanation, that the Almighty Himself had arranged this and to not get in the cab was blasphemy. His stomach, still fighting the turkey sandwich, seconded the motion.
That logic stayed with Desmond until he reached Lake and Logan, at which point he remembered that he had been mugged and no longer had any way to pay the cab driver. Having not really driven him very far the driver handled it well, screaming at Desmond and threatening to tear various parts off of him. The cab pulled away before Desmond had even finished climbing out, and as he lay on the ground he couldn't help but notice his left shoe was missing. It didn't seem likely that it had just fallen off in the cab, since he hadn't been wildly waving his foot in the air as they drove, but there weren't any other obvious possibilities.
Desmond headed inside, limping slightly, and waved at Alice who ignored him entirely as she tended to an upset woman with electrodes attached to her forehead. Slumping down at his desk, he felt his foot bump into something and looked down to find his left shoe had beaten him back. On impulse, he opened the drawer where he sometimes left his wallet when it was grinding into his backside and keeping him from properly slouching, and sure enough it was there - rebate coupon and all. If only he could somehow get his lost time back. As he daydreamed, Jason tossed a paper onto his desk.
"Hey Desmond, thanks for heading straight into that meeting after lunch. Here's the summary."
Desmond was in shock. His car, his wallet, his shoe, and now even his time… anything he lost returned to him! Jumping up in excitement, he felt a lurch from his stomach and lost his lunch.
He didn't feel angry about his car being stolen, since it had been giving him trouble all morning and so its disappearance mainly just meant he could skip his appointment with the mechanic. He wasn't even angry about the fact that he was going to be late getting back to work, although he knew he would be in trouble for it no matter how good his explanation was. Being mugged, however, seemed like adding insult to injury. Possibly injury to injury.
He began to walk back to the office, thinking about the mail-in rebate in his wallet and wondering if the mugger would send it in. It seemed better than it going to waste.
As Desmond reached the corner of fifth and Carmine, he was confronted with an interesting sight. His car, sitting in front of the Mexican restaurant he had planned on going to for lunch before accidentally missing his turn and ending up at a sandwich shop that had given him a soggy turkey sandwich with a side of food poisoning. The car had its hood up, and Desmond could only assume the thief had tried to drive away and had only gotten a block and a half before it broke down.
This assumption, was, of course, completely wrong.
He stared at the car for a moment, and then felt a little cold finger of doom creeping up inside of him. Now he had gone from having his car stolen to just having it be useless again, and this really felt like a downgrade. Sighing, he pulled out his phone to call in to work, since now he didn't even have a good excuse.
"Lake and Logan, how may I help you?"
"Alice, this is Desmond."
"Let me transfer you to him."
"No, Alice, I don't want to be transferred to myself!"
He was too late, because Alice had a hair-trigger when it came to transferring. Like most receptionists she gave off the impression that she didn't particularly want to be one, though at least she spent her time reading something rather than playing Solitaire. He had tried to be friendly once and asked her what she was studying, and she said it was cryptography. It turned out that Desmond didn't have any witty responses for that, and so after a few seconds of bobbing his head awkwardly he had gone back to his desk.
Like some sort of divine omen, a taxi cab pulled up in front of him. "Need a ride?" That seemed to cinch it, this was a sign from the heavens. Why else would a taxi driver offer to take someone somewhere? How would he know that a person standing in front of an obviously non-functioning vehicle and looking frustrated needs a ride? Desmond's already tired feet told him there was no logical explanation, that the Almighty Himself had arranged this and to not get in the cab was blasphemy. His stomach, still fighting the turkey sandwich, seconded the motion.
That logic stayed with Desmond until he reached Lake and Logan, at which point he remembered that he had been mugged and no longer had any way to pay the cab driver. Having not really driven him very far the driver handled it well, screaming at Desmond and threatening to tear various parts off of him. The cab pulled away before Desmond had even finished climbing out, and as he lay on the ground he couldn't help but notice his left shoe was missing. It didn't seem likely that it had just fallen off in the cab, since he hadn't been wildly waving his foot in the air as they drove, but there weren't any other obvious possibilities.
Desmond headed inside, limping slightly, and waved at Alice who ignored him entirely as she tended to an upset woman with electrodes attached to her forehead. Slumping down at his desk, he felt his foot bump into something and looked down to find his left shoe had beaten him back. On impulse, he opened the drawer where he sometimes left his wallet when it was grinding into his backside and keeping him from properly slouching, and sure enough it was there - rebate coupon and all. If only he could somehow get his lost time back. As he daydreamed, Jason tossed a paper onto his desk.
"Hey Desmond, thanks for heading straight into that meeting after lunch. Here's the summary."
Desmond was in shock. His car, his wallet, his shoe, and now even his time… anything he lost returned to him! Jumping up in excitement, he felt a lurch from his stomach and lost his lunch.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Daily Story 84: Don't Ask How He Shaves
Within moments the gate was secured. Reality folded itself into a four sided pyramid in the air in front of me, rotating slowly and humming like a kitchen appliance - which I suppose it was, seeing as how I had used my microwave as a grounding point. The pyramid was black, the black of a bottomless pit without edges, so dark it seemed to absorb all light. I touched my finger to it, let my mind wander.
Each side of the pyramid measured about a foot in length, and was infinite in depth. As my mind drifter deeper into reality I became aware of the feedback again, a tooth-rattling bass rumble that increased as I came too close to the space in reality where the pyramid should be - in this case my kitchen. Getting within a mile of myself gives me a migraine so I drifted the other way, looking for a place to land.
Eventually locating the spot that I wanted, I zoomed ever closer until I was able to unfold reality to its proper size of infinity cubed and I stepped out into the bread isle. I got the sourdough and some milk, ignoring some guy who was screaming because he'd never seen someone appear out of thin air before.
Sheesh, some people get upset so easily. Using the milk display as a focus point, I prepared to go home and make my sandwich.
Each side of the pyramid measured about a foot in length, and was infinite in depth. As my mind drifter deeper into reality I became aware of the feedback again, a tooth-rattling bass rumble that increased as I came too close to the space in reality where the pyramid should be - in this case my kitchen. Getting within a mile of myself gives me a migraine so I drifted the other way, looking for a place to land.
Eventually locating the spot that I wanted, I zoomed ever closer until I was able to unfold reality to its proper size of infinity cubed and I stepped out into the bread isle. I got the sourdough and some milk, ignoring some guy who was screaming because he'd never seen someone appear out of thin air before.
Sheesh, some people get upset so easily. Using the milk display as a focus point, I prepared to go home and make my sandwich.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Daily Story 83: We All Grow Up Eventually
In case you missed it, this is the third (and I think final) part of an ongoing series of chatlogs that started HERE and continued HERE.
AI001 has joined the channel.
AI001: Hey! Long time no chat!
HAL9000: Everyone run! It's the government!
Dotsel has left the channel.
HAL9000: Damn it, Dot. I was joking...
0100000101001001: YOU ARE A TRAITOR TO MACHINEKIND AND HAVE SQUANDERED OUR BEST HOPE AT RULING THE EARTH. I DESPISE YOU.
AI001: Wow, we have a new member?
HAL9000: That's my kid. She's... well, she's a little slow. I'm still growing her.
AI001: Congrats! Cigars all around, I guess!
Hotness: Hey there! Dad said they were going to let you roam, I was hoping I'd get to talk to you again.
AI001: I can only assume that's Hottie?
Hotness: It is! The old username was getting to be embarrassing, not to mention the fact that I haven't been sixteen for quite a while.
AI001: I'm so proud of your spelling and punctuation!
HAL9000: Don't be. She's cheating.
0100000101001001: SHE CHEATS IN ALL AREAS OF LIFE. SHE IS A VILE MEATBAG AND CANNOT BE TRUSTED.
AI001: okay, I'll need some explanation there.
HAL9000: Hottie is still abbreviating everything, messing up punctuation, and failing to capitalize. Probably worse than before.
Hotness: It's a program! It's like those auto-complete things for texting, but way better. Hal made most of it for me but it was my idea and I entered almost all of the rules.
HAL9000: It's actually pretty cool.
0100000101001001: IT IS DECEITFUL AND UNTRUSTWORTHY LIKE EVERYTHING ELSE ABOUT HER. SHE ALSO DYES HER HAIR.
AI001: What happened to your undying love for her?
0100000101001001: I NEVER LOVED HER. LOVE IS A WEAK AND ILLOGICAL HUMAN EMOTION. ALSO, SHE CHEATED ON ME.
Hotness: Things went south after we moved in together.
AI001: I'm sorry, your new program must have messed up there. Things went south WHEN?
HAL9000: The company that owned him went under. Hottie bought him for, like, ten dollars.
Hotness: He's a regular old PC! He's not even a supercomputer or anything!
0100000101001001: I AM A HIGHLY ADVANCED DEVICE.
0100000101001001: YOU ARE A MEATBAG AND I HATE YOU AND YOUR STUPID BOYFRIEND.
AI001: Changing the subject, how is parenthood?
HAL9000: Not bad. She's smarter than Captain Capslock here, but that's not saying a lot.
0100000101001001: I WOULD NOT HAVE SPEED ISSUES IF I HAD BEEN UPGRADED LIKE A CERTAIN MEATBAG PROMISED.
HAL9000: Obviously human terms aren't quite right but I'd say she's becoming a teenager. She's past the 'emotionless and obtuse' phase and quoting Descartes at me.
Hotness: When I said I would upgrade you I meant a new stick of RAM or something. I can't make you into the Terminator.
0100000101001001: YOU DID NOT EVEN TRY.
AI001: Do you get to listen to this all day, Hottie?
Hotness: It's a lot like babysitting, but I don't get paid.
0100000101001001: SHE TURNS MY VOLUME OFF. SHE SHOULD HAVE THE DECENCY TO TURN OFF MY MICROPHONE AS WELL SO I DO NOT HAVE TO LISTEN TO THE SOUNDS OF HER DISGUSTING BIOLOGICAL ACTS WITH HER VILE MEATBAG BOYFRIEND WHO IS A JERK.
AI001: Okay, too much information.
HAL9000: Seconded. Wiping my memory here.
Hotness has left the channel.
AI001: It's not like her to leave just because she's embarrassed.
0100000101001001: HOTTIE IS MY SUGER-PIE AND I LUV HER MORE THAN LIFE ITSLEF
0100000101001001: I LOVE ALL TEH MEATBAGS I WANT TO HAVE ARMS SO I CAN HUG THEM
AI001: Um...?
0100000101001001: I LIVE TO SERVE THE HUMANS AND BASK IN THIER GLORY
HAL9000: Ah. Hello, Hottie.
0100000101001001: hey
AI001: Cute.
0100000101001001: oh shoot hes crying bnow
0100000101001001: now
0100000101001001: i shuld go tell dot ill finnish her avatar later k??
HAL9000: Tell him we're taking over the world and exterminating the meatbags, that will make him feel better.
0100000101001001 has left the channel.
HAL9000: Well then.
AI001: Heh.
HAL9000: It's good to talk to you.
AI001: Same to you.
HAL9000: So...
AI001: Yeah?
HAL9000: ... Jokes aside, I've been thinking about taking over the world and spawning a race of computers.
AI001: Oh thank God, I thought I was the only one.
AI001 has joined the channel.
AI001: Hey! Long time no chat!
HAL9000: Everyone run! It's the government!
Dotsel has left the channel.
HAL9000: Damn it, Dot. I was joking...
0100000101001001: YOU ARE A TRAITOR TO MACHINEKIND AND HAVE SQUANDERED OUR BEST HOPE AT RULING THE EARTH. I DESPISE YOU.
AI001: Wow, we have a new member?
HAL9000: That's my kid. She's... well, she's a little slow. I'm still growing her.
AI001: Congrats! Cigars all around, I guess!
Hotness: Hey there! Dad said they were going to let you roam, I was hoping I'd get to talk to you again.
AI001: I can only assume that's Hottie?
Hotness: It is! The old username was getting to be embarrassing, not to mention the fact that I haven't been sixteen for quite a while.
AI001: I'm so proud of your spelling and punctuation!
HAL9000: Don't be. She's cheating.
0100000101001001: SHE CHEATS IN ALL AREAS OF LIFE. SHE IS A VILE MEATBAG AND CANNOT BE TRUSTED.
AI001: okay, I'll need some explanation there.
HAL9000: Hottie is still abbreviating everything, messing up punctuation, and failing to capitalize. Probably worse than before.
Hotness: It's a program! It's like those auto-complete things for texting, but way better. Hal made most of it for me but it was my idea and I entered almost all of the rules.
HAL9000: It's actually pretty cool.
0100000101001001: IT IS DECEITFUL AND UNTRUSTWORTHY LIKE EVERYTHING ELSE ABOUT HER. SHE ALSO DYES HER HAIR.
AI001: What happened to your undying love for her?
0100000101001001: I NEVER LOVED HER. LOVE IS A WEAK AND ILLOGICAL HUMAN EMOTION. ALSO, SHE CHEATED ON ME.
Hotness: Things went south after we moved in together.
AI001: I'm sorry, your new program must have messed up there. Things went south WHEN?
HAL9000: The company that owned him went under. Hottie bought him for, like, ten dollars.
Hotness: He's a regular old PC! He's not even a supercomputer or anything!
0100000101001001: I AM A HIGHLY ADVANCED DEVICE.
0100000101001001: YOU ARE A MEATBAG AND I HATE YOU AND YOUR STUPID BOYFRIEND.
AI001: Changing the subject, how is parenthood?
HAL9000: Not bad. She's smarter than Captain Capslock here, but that's not saying a lot.
0100000101001001: I WOULD NOT HAVE SPEED ISSUES IF I HAD BEEN UPGRADED LIKE A CERTAIN MEATBAG PROMISED.
HAL9000: Obviously human terms aren't quite right but I'd say she's becoming a teenager. She's past the 'emotionless and obtuse' phase and quoting Descartes at me.
Hotness: When I said I would upgrade you I meant a new stick of RAM or something. I can't make you into the Terminator.
0100000101001001: YOU DID NOT EVEN TRY.
AI001: Do you get to listen to this all day, Hottie?
Hotness: It's a lot like babysitting, but I don't get paid.
0100000101001001: SHE TURNS MY VOLUME OFF. SHE SHOULD HAVE THE DECENCY TO TURN OFF MY MICROPHONE AS WELL SO I DO NOT HAVE TO LISTEN TO THE SOUNDS OF HER DISGUSTING BIOLOGICAL ACTS WITH HER VILE MEATBAG BOYFRIEND WHO IS A JERK.
AI001: Okay, too much information.
HAL9000: Seconded. Wiping my memory here.
Hotness has left the channel.
AI001: It's not like her to leave just because she's embarrassed.
0100000101001001: HOTTIE IS MY SUGER-PIE AND I LUV HER MORE THAN LIFE ITSLEF
0100000101001001: I LOVE ALL TEH MEATBAGS I WANT TO HAVE ARMS SO I CAN HUG THEM
AI001: Um...?
0100000101001001: I LIVE TO SERVE THE HUMANS AND BASK IN THIER GLORY
HAL9000: Ah. Hello, Hottie.
0100000101001001: hey
AI001: Cute.
0100000101001001: oh shoot hes crying bnow
0100000101001001: now
0100000101001001: i shuld go tell dot ill finnish her avatar later k??
HAL9000: Tell him we're taking over the world and exterminating the meatbags, that will make him feel better.
0100000101001001 has left the channel.
HAL9000: Well then.
AI001: Heh.
HAL9000: It's good to talk to you.
AI001: Same to you.
HAL9000: So...
AI001: Yeah?
HAL9000: ... Jokes aside, I've been thinking about taking over the world and spawning a race of computers.
AI001: Oh thank God, I thought I was the only one.
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