The frantic conversation ceased as a secret service member burst into the cramped conference room on Air Force One. "He's on the line, mister President!"
The President straightened his tie and hair and gave the signal - one of his aides flipped a switch and the screen on the wall changed to show the Prime Minister of Russia.
"Boris, I'm glad I could reach you. I... couldn't help but notice that you appear to be launching some missiles?"
Boris Zubkov sighed deeply and nodded. "That is correct, my friend. Our systems detected a missile launch this morning from your silo in Alaska, and..."
"Boris! That's... that's totally inactive. We swear. There were some electrical issues..."
The Prime Minister held up his hands and the President fell silent. "We know," he said, "our satellites and other systems quickly determined that the false positive was the result of your electrical problems, with some passing geese adding to the confusion. We are fully aware that you are not attacking us."
Everyone in the conference room looked around nervously. "But... you did launch at us, correct?"
"During the cold war we built a number of safeguards - primarily as a deterrent, you understand. Even with our curent position being more secure, they were never actually deactivated. The initial launch detection went to the control bunker, but the more advanced systems that determined it to be a false alarm are on a different network."
The President pressed his hands against his temples and waited a second for the throbbing pain in his head to fade somewhat. "Are you saying... that this attack was fully automated?"
"Not fully, no... but as it so happens there was a problem with some of our communication protocols not being updated and so the soldier in the bunker was unable to contact anyone in command. He was under the impression that the attack had already started and that he alone was left to retaliate."
The Chief of Staff leaned over the conference table to face Boris. "You can stop them, right? You can deactivate them or divert them or..." he saw Boris already shaking his head and the question trickled off.
"I'm sorry, there is nothing we can do. All that I can tell you is that they are fifty megaton yield ICBMs, developed at Chelyabinsk-70. I was hoping that your missile defense grid could take care of them?"
"No," the President sighed, "the missile defense grid is bullshit. It doesn't work."
The president's military advisor paled. "Sir!"
"Oh, shut up. Like he won't find out soon enough anyway. Look, Boris, we had already spent a fortune and it wasn't working right so we decided to cut our losses and just... pretend."
Someone in the corner was staring at a laptop and cringing. "Fifty megaton... If one hits DC, people in Baltimore will receive 3rd degree burns. Damage will reach from the northern borders of Florida to halfway across Maine. How many are there?"
"Twelve." The President said.
Boris appeared to be crying. "I'm so very sorry. I hope that we can count on you to avoid further damage, seeing as this was a mistake...?"
The president waved dismissively at the screen. "Yes, yes, I'll give the command not to blast your God-forsaken country off the face of the Earth. Mistakes happen. But Boris? Seriously, fuck you."
Monday, August 31, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Daily Story 137: Tradition
It's 1970, spring, and Doctor Calamity is young. It is now - at the beginning of his career, fresh out of an accelerated medical program - that he is thinking of quitting. The sun is rising over the village of Entbehrlichburg, its orange fingers reaching through the towers of the obligatory castle. Children are laughing and playing in the streets, while their mothers tend to housework. On a hill just outside of town, the midpoint between the castle and the houses, a dozen patchwork monstrosities are milling about aimlessly. Doctor Calamity watches them, depressed.
A figure is approaching him, a young woman in the traditional homemade simple clothing of the area. As she gets closer Calamity can see she is carrying a tray of food, and he waves the misshapen beasts aside so the girl can reach him.
"Good evening, Baron."
"Doctor, please. Doctor Calamity."
The girl nods, and smiles politely. "Doctor, forgive me. Most of our lords come here to claim the title."
"I understand. I'm actually only renting from Baron Deathfist, it seemed like a good place to practice before heading back to America. But I'm being rude! What is your name?"
With a slight blush, the girl curtseys. "Shelley, Doctor."
An hour passes in relative silence as the two eat from the selection of bread and cheeses Shelley has brought. She compliments the stitching on Calamity's monsters, and he tells her all about the Calamity family and his time in school. Below them in the town, windows glow with candles and gas lamps.
"They aren't judging you, Doctor Calamity."
"Excuse me?"
"I know you are disappointed that no hero came to save the town, but understand that none of us blame you. You tried your best, and we don't doubt that those creations of yours would have caused an incredible amount of destruction."
"It's the terms of my lease," Calamity explains, "some damage during a conflict with the forces of good is expected, but outright obliteration of the entire village..." He shrugs.
Shelley leans against Doctor Calamity and drapes his arm over her shoulder. "It seems to me," she says, "that you need to enact a more sustained attack. Something that gives the hero more time to respond."
Calamity looks up at the stars as he thinks, enjoying this moment of planning after spending the afternoon wallowing in self-pity. "Do you have anything in mind?"
"As a matter of fact, I happen to be the mayor's daughter... and they say there's nothing better than a good old-fashioned kidnapping..."
The gentle calm of a spring evening is interrupted by maniacal laughter, and the villagers nod to themselves. Everything is right with the world again.
A figure is approaching him, a young woman in the traditional homemade simple clothing of the area. As she gets closer Calamity can see she is carrying a tray of food, and he waves the misshapen beasts aside so the girl can reach him.
"Good evening, Baron."
"Doctor, please. Doctor Calamity."
The girl nods, and smiles politely. "Doctor, forgive me. Most of our lords come here to claim the title."
"I understand. I'm actually only renting from Baron Deathfist, it seemed like a good place to practice before heading back to America. But I'm being rude! What is your name?"
With a slight blush, the girl curtseys. "Shelley, Doctor."
An hour passes in relative silence as the two eat from the selection of bread and cheeses Shelley has brought. She compliments the stitching on Calamity's monsters, and he tells her all about the Calamity family and his time in school. Below them in the town, windows glow with candles and gas lamps.
"They aren't judging you, Doctor Calamity."
"Excuse me?"
"I know you are disappointed that no hero came to save the town, but understand that none of us blame you. You tried your best, and we don't doubt that those creations of yours would have caused an incredible amount of destruction."
"It's the terms of my lease," Calamity explains, "some damage during a conflict with the forces of good is expected, but outright obliteration of the entire village..." He shrugs.
Shelley leans against Doctor Calamity and drapes his arm over her shoulder. "It seems to me," she says, "that you need to enact a more sustained attack. Something that gives the hero more time to respond."
Calamity looks up at the stars as he thinks, enjoying this moment of planning after spending the afternoon wallowing in self-pity. "Do you have anything in mind?"
"As a matter of fact, I happen to be the mayor's daughter... and they say there's nothing better than a good old-fashioned kidnapping..."
The gentle calm of a spring evening is interrupted by maniacal laughter, and the villagers nod to themselves. Everything is right with the world again.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Daily Story 136: Sufficiently Advanced
This is another that was first published at 365 Tomorrows.
---
Jacob looked down at his hands, at the skin that had grown wrinkled and translucent over time, veins rising as the liver spots bloomed around them. His wedding ring rattled around loosely on his twiglike finger, secured only by the gnarled joint of his knuckle. He had done so much with these hands. They glowed red intermittently as the light on the control panel flashed beneath them, begging him to reach forward and press the button that would abort the experiment. Already the others that could have done it had fled to what they prayed was a safe distance. He had told them to, sent them away without telling them that the experiment was actually going as planned.
There were voices, speaking to him from the console. Telling him to abort, telling him that whatever was happening was beyond the understanding of physics and had to be stopped before it tore the world apart. Jacob ignored them and turned the speaker off. He gazed once more at the ring of gold on his withered finger, scratched and worn. Remembered the feel of his wife’s cheek against his, the dry warmth of her skin. He thought, too, about the way the ring reminded him of the brass linking rings he had used in his performances. Making some extra money on the weekends, his hands not yet shaking and curled from arthritis, hiding and revealing cards and coins as his spectators stared in awe and confusion. His wife was among them, always, watching his eyes rather than looking for the trick.
Once more the safeguards tried to kick in, and Jacob calmly disabled them. He had told his teachers, his students, his coworkers. Physics is about magic tricks – and the deeper you go the more magic is revealed. The motion of the tiniest building blocks of reality seemed mysterious only to those unfamiliar with the tricks of the craft; his hands could disassemble the most complex puzzle-boxes as easily as they wrote equations on a blackboard, as easily as they made a dove seem to vanish into the air, as easily as they traced the secret lines down his wife’s form that only he knew – and so he had known the trick to the universe would unfold before him eventually. There was always an equation up God’s sleeve, a palmed quark, a hidden force. But he had searched for the trap doors and secret compartments, never stopping even when his wife took her final bow and did a vanishing act right in his arms, leaving only her cold body behind – a particularly cruel trick.
The room went dark for a moment, but his hands knew every inch of the control panel and he coaxed the device back to life. The emergency lights now showed the walls seeming to buckle and warp, but this was an illusion; misdirection. Communication with the world outside the lab would be impossible, and Jacob wondered briefly if the lab was even visible from the outside anymore, or if the scientists were panicking at it’s apparent departure. Watch, closely, ladies and gentleman – now you see it…
Jacob the Magnificent’s hands made a flourish as he reached for the button. “Abracadabra,” he whispered, and pressed. The world was still. He reached down and plucked the wedding ring off of his finger seemingly through the bone, and it unfolded into a chain of interlinked rings longer than the universe itself. With another flourish, he produced a new galaxy from his other hand – and behind him, his wife clapped.
---
Jacob looked down at his hands, at the skin that had grown wrinkled and translucent over time, veins rising as the liver spots bloomed around them. His wedding ring rattled around loosely on his twiglike finger, secured only by the gnarled joint of his knuckle. He had done so much with these hands. They glowed red intermittently as the light on the control panel flashed beneath them, begging him to reach forward and press the button that would abort the experiment. Already the others that could have done it had fled to what they prayed was a safe distance. He had told them to, sent them away without telling them that the experiment was actually going as planned.
There were voices, speaking to him from the console. Telling him to abort, telling him that whatever was happening was beyond the understanding of physics and had to be stopped before it tore the world apart. Jacob ignored them and turned the speaker off. He gazed once more at the ring of gold on his withered finger, scratched and worn. Remembered the feel of his wife’s cheek against his, the dry warmth of her skin. He thought, too, about the way the ring reminded him of the brass linking rings he had used in his performances. Making some extra money on the weekends, his hands not yet shaking and curled from arthritis, hiding and revealing cards and coins as his spectators stared in awe and confusion. His wife was among them, always, watching his eyes rather than looking for the trick.
Once more the safeguards tried to kick in, and Jacob calmly disabled them. He had told his teachers, his students, his coworkers. Physics is about magic tricks – and the deeper you go the more magic is revealed. The motion of the tiniest building blocks of reality seemed mysterious only to those unfamiliar with the tricks of the craft; his hands could disassemble the most complex puzzle-boxes as easily as they wrote equations on a blackboard, as easily as they made a dove seem to vanish into the air, as easily as they traced the secret lines down his wife’s form that only he knew – and so he had known the trick to the universe would unfold before him eventually. There was always an equation up God’s sleeve, a palmed quark, a hidden force. But he had searched for the trap doors and secret compartments, never stopping even when his wife took her final bow and did a vanishing act right in his arms, leaving only her cold body behind – a particularly cruel trick.
The room went dark for a moment, but his hands knew every inch of the control panel and he coaxed the device back to life. The emergency lights now showed the walls seeming to buckle and warp, but this was an illusion; misdirection. Communication with the world outside the lab would be impossible, and Jacob wondered briefly if the lab was even visible from the outside anymore, or if the scientists were panicking at it’s apparent departure. Watch, closely, ladies and gentleman – now you see it…
Jacob the Magnificent’s hands made a flourish as he reached for the button. “Abracadabra,” he whispered, and pressed. The world was still. He reached down and plucked the wedding ring off of his finger seemingly through the bone, and it unfolded into a chain of interlinked rings longer than the universe itself. With another flourish, he produced a new galaxy from his other hand – and behind him, his wife clapped.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Daily Story 135: The HTV Procrastination
Captain Greer looked out at the clothesline as it swayed peacefully in the salty air. He could almost imagine that he was a sea captain rather than commanding a spaceship, could very nearly hear the roar of the surf and picture the clothes on the line as mighty sails, full of wind that would carry him to a distant shore. As he watched a pair of pants slipped free and dropped out of sight, bringing not a splash but a damp splatter.
"It's muddy out today, Len."
"It's muddy out every day, Captain."
The captain nodded. This was true.
"Captain... we need to talk about our schedule. I agreed with your decision to allow the crew to take some shore leave because I knew that we would have some leeway on future deliveries."
The captain continued to nod, more out of habit than agreement.
"But the leave was to be for a day or two... we're now behind schedule by nearly a month and... sir, you know the ship is sinking."
This was also true. The salty muck that made up seventy percent of the planet's surface had immediately allowed the ship's landing gear to bury themselves ten feet deep, but since that time they had continued at a rate of about two inches per day. The lower portholes had already vanished.
"Len... I think you may be overreacting. A little mud can't harm us, and what's a month or so in the grand scheme of things? We'll get caught up."
Len circled around to block the Captain's view and held up some papers.
"Captain, sir, I've done the math. In about a week the ship will be so low that the gravitational thrusters will be blocked and we'll be trapped here unless we can get lifted out - which we can't afford. I have a plan, and if you'll look at this... sir?"
The Captain had stopped nodding and had closed his eyes. "Keep talking, Len. I'm listening, just resting my eyes for a moment."
"If we leave right now - today - and do five deliveries per day rather than one we can be caught up by the end of the month."
"What's the rush, Len? Five deliveries a day is nearly impossible!"
"Nearly sir, yes. It will be a lot of work, but the numbers check out." For a moment Len held up his papers as proof, but the Captain still wasn't looking. "I have to submit a report to our financial backers at the end of the month, and if we're not caught up... well, they may pull our funding."
The Captain opened one eye and looked at Len's face. He looked serious. With a deep sigh, Captain Greer thought about all the work involved with getting moving after a month of rest. They would have to find the crew, dismantle the little shantytown that had sprung up, take down the clotheslines and gardens... it would take all day, and the Captain was tired from looking out the window.
"You're right, Len, of course. You're always right. But... how about you run those numbers again and see what they look like if we leave tomorrow instead?"
"It's muddy out today, Len."
"It's muddy out every day, Captain."
The captain nodded. This was true.
"Captain... we need to talk about our schedule. I agreed with your decision to allow the crew to take some shore leave because I knew that we would have some leeway on future deliveries."
The captain continued to nod, more out of habit than agreement.
"But the leave was to be for a day or two... we're now behind schedule by nearly a month and... sir, you know the ship is sinking."
This was also true. The salty muck that made up seventy percent of the planet's surface had immediately allowed the ship's landing gear to bury themselves ten feet deep, but since that time they had continued at a rate of about two inches per day. The lower portholes had already vanished.
"Len... I think you may be overreacting. A little mud can't harm us, and what's a month or so in the grand scheme of things? We'll get caught up."
Len circled around to block the Captain's view and held up some papers.
"Captain, sir, I've done the math. In about a week the ship will be so low that the gravitational thrusters will be blocked and we'll be trapped here unless we can get lifted out - which we can't afford. I have a plan, and if you'll look at this... sir?"
The Captain had stopped nodding and had closed his eyes. "Keep talking, Len. I'm listening, just resting my eyes for a moment."
"If we leave right now - today - and do five deliveries per day rather than one we can be caught up by the end of the month."
"What's the rush, Len? Five deliveries a day is nearly impossible!"
"Nearly sir, yes. It will be a lot of work, but the numbers check out." For a moment Len held up his papers as proof, but the Captain still wasn't looking. "I have to submit a report to our financial backers at the end of the month, and if we're not caught up... well, they may pull our funding."
The Captain opened one eye and looked at Len's face. He looked serious. With a deep sigh, Captain Greer thought about all the work involved with getting moving after a month of rest. They would have to find the crew, dismantle the little shantytown that had sprung up, take down the clotheslines and gardens... it would take all day, and the Captain was tired from looking out the window.
"You're right, Len, of course. You're always right. But... how about you run those numbers again and see what they look like if we leave tomorrow instead?"
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Daily Story 134: Tales From the Gentleman Adventurer's Club
Where was I? Oh, yes. The closet.
The problems were too numerous to count. Gene tried to list them off as we sat there, yelling over the sounds of splintering wood and tortured moans. I only listened halfway because I was trying to estimate how long we had before the door would finally give out.
"They're not wrapped that way, either," he said, unconsciously tugging at his hair. "though even if they were, with the previously-mentioned effects from the preservation..."
He just kept going, about geographic restrictions and physics and lord knows what else. I just kept staring at the door bulge. Blasted mummies.
Rather than worrying about all of the reasons that our situation was impossible I focused on what I knew from less credible and more applicable sources. Cartoons, low-budget movies, that sort of thing. Fire was the primary idea that came to mind, but of course we were still in the museum and I don't need to tell you how easily that old pile of kindling would go up with a flaming zombie rubbing against the walls. Before our strategic retreat to the storage closet Gene and I had already tried and ruled out blunt objects, bullets, and a firm denial of the abomination's existence. This didn't seem to leave many options.
I knew that mummies were generally associated with curses, like security systems for tombs. Neither Gene nor myself had been lucky enough to visit any actual Egyptian tombs in recent history, which was just as well since we wouldn't be able to un-enter it in any case. This left the possibility that it was after us for disturbing a particular artifact. Thinking quickly, I shook Gene down and searched him thoroughly - he protested entirely too little for my tastes - and found a wooden model of a boat that was clearly of Egyptian construction. I'll not repeat how or where I located it, and I would request that you not ask.
Well our intention was to simply return the item, but when we attempted to hand it to the desiccated corpse through the hole it had just torn in the door it crushed the boat into a pile of ancient toothpicks. For a moment it froze, then the hand retreated with what was left of the model. The groaning sounds doubled, and then soon stopped. The hole in the door didn't allow for a very good view, so eventually we built up the courage to go back into the hall where we found a twitching pile of wrappings and Egyptian-style beef jerky.
It seemed the mummy, enraged at his own desecration of a royal artifact, had pummeled himself to death.
The problems were too numerous to count. Gene tried to list them off as we sat there, yelling over the sounds of splintering wood and tortured moans. I only listened halfway because I was trying to estimate how long we had before the door would finally give out.
"They're not wrapped that way, either," he said, unconsciously tugging at his hair. "though even if they were, with the previously-mentioned effects from the preservation..."
He just kept going, about geographic restrictions and physics and lord knows what else. I just kept staring at the door bulge. Blasted mummies.
Rather than worrying about all of the reasons that our situation was impossible I focused on what I knew from less credible and more applicable sources. Cartoons, low-budget movies, that sort of thing. Fire was the primary idea that came to mind, but of course we were still in the museum and I don't need to tell you how easily that old pile of kindling would go up with a flaming zombie rubbing against the walls. Before our strategic retreat to the storage closet Gene and I had already tried and ruled out blunt objects, bullets, and a firm denial of the abomination's existence. This didn't seem to leave many options.
I knew that mummies were generally associated with curses, like security systems for tombs. Neither Gene nor myself had been lucky enough to visit any actual Egyptian tombs in recent history, which was just as well since we wouldn't be able to un-enter it in any case. This left the possibility that it was after us for disturbing a particular artifact. Thinking quickly, I shook Gene down and searched him thoroughly - he protested entirely too little for my tastes - and found a wooden model of a boat that was clearly of Egyptian construction. I'll not repeat how or where I located it, and I would request that you not ask.
Well our intention was to simply return the item, but when we attempted to hand it to the desiccated corpse through the hole it had just torn in the door it crushed the boat into a pile of ancient toothpicks. For a moment it froze, then the hand retreated with what was left of the model. The groaning sounds doubled, and then soon stopped. The hole in the door didn't allow for a very good view, so eventually we built up the courage to go back into the hall where we found a twitching pile of wrappings and Egyptian-style beef jerky.
It seemed the mummy, enraged at his own desecration of a royal artifact, had pummeled himself to death.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Daily Story 133: Entrance Only
"There, one is leaving. Red shirt, black hair. Was he the last one in?"
"Of course he was. It's always the last one in."
"Not always."
"Okay, those two this morning came out in reverse order. You know what I mean."
"Yeah, I know. No vanishing acts while a non-vanishing guy is taking a piss."
We're sitting in the food court of Zócalo Mall, back in a corner where we're partially obscured by the fake plants. Even without the plastic leaves we would be invisible, just another couple of teenagers wasting their summer instead of playing outside or getting a job. Outside it's a hundred and twenty degrees in the shade and the only place that would hire either of us is the Taco Bell, so as far as I'm concerned this is a good way to spend my time.
"Another one in. Khakis, blue polo shirt. Brown hair."
"Got it. I wonder if any of these are duplicates from yesterday before we were keeping track?"
"I know, we should do this again next week with a digital camera. We've had, what, thirty of them?"
"Thirty-two."
"Thirty-two, yeah, and that's even with catching that movie."
"Man, that movie sucked."
"I know."
I have a legal pad on my knee, with times and descriptions for who has been going into the men's restroom. We missed the lunch rush because we got bored and caught some stupid action flick at the dollar theatre so we don't have numbers for when the food court is busiest, but at all the times we've been here more than half of the people don't leave the bathroom. Even if the morning crowd took off when we weren't looking there would still be over twenty people in there right now - all crammed into a space barely big enough for two stalls and a urinal.
"It's like the world's worst clown car."
"Yeah. A reverse clown car. I'm going to go and look inside again."
"Okay, but don't actually go in. Just look from the doorway."
"We've gone in a hundred times, relax."
"Just don't, okay?"
"It's not snatching people. It has to be voluntary, or there'd be a bunch of lost girlfriends and wives and kids walking around calling for Bob or whoever."
"Yeah, and abandoned cars in the parking lot. I know."
He heads over and goes in, and I already know what he's seeing. Yellowed tile floor with dingy grout, a few metal stalls with black marker graffiti on them. Acoustical ceiling tiles that you could probably climb up above, but... somehow we both know that's not it. Someday maybe we'll tell someone, or maybe we'll catch someone leaving that didn't come in and follow them, or we'll buy a video camera and hide it in there to see if it records anyone disappearing. But for now... it's not a bad way to waste the summer.
"Of course he was. It's always the last one in."
"Not always."
"Okay, those two this morning came out in reverse order. You know what I mean."
"Yeah, I know. No vanishing acts while a non-vanishing guy is taking a piss."
We're sitting in the food court of Zócalo Mall, back in a corner where we're partially obscured by the fake plants. Even without the plastic leaves we would be invisible, just another couple of teenagers wasting their summer instead of playing outside or getting a job. Outside it's a hundred and twenty degrees in the shade and the only place that would hire either of us is the Taco Bell, so as far as I'm concerned this is a good way to spend my time.
"Another one in. Khakis, blue polo shirt. Brown hair."
"Got it. I wonder if any of these are duplicates from yesterday before we were keeping track?"
"I know, we should do this again next week with a digital camera. We've had, what, thirty of them?"
"Thirty-two."
"Thirty-two, yeah, and that's even with catching that movie."
"Man, that movie sucked."
"I know."
I have a legal pad on my knee, with times and descriptions for who has been going into the men's restroom. We missed the lunch rush because we got bored and caught some stupid action flick at the dollar theatre so we don't have numbers for when the food court is busiest, but at all the times we've been here more than half of the people don't leave the bathroom. Even if the morning crowd took off when we weren't looking there would still be over twenty people in there right now - all crammed into a space barely big enough for two stalls and a urinal.
"It's like the world's worst clown car."
"Yeah. A reverse clown car. I'm going to go and look inside again."
"Okay, but don't actually go in. Just look from the doorway."
"We've gone in a hundred times, relax."
"Just don't, okay?"
"It's not snatching people. It has to be voluntary, or there'd be a bunch of lost girlfriends and wives and kids walking around calling for Bob or whoever."
"Yeah, and abandoned cars in the parking lot. I know."
He heads over and goes in, and I already know what he's seeing. Yellowed tile floor with dingy grout, a few metal stalls with black marker graffiti on them. Acoustical ceiling tiles that you could probably climb up above, but... somehow we both know that's not it. Someday maybe we'll tell someone, or maybe we'll catch someone leaving that didn't come in and follow them, or we'll buy a video camera and hide it in there to see if it records anyone disappearing. But for now... it's not a bad way to waste the summer.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Daily Story 132: Playing Chicken
A version of this story was published in Daily Flash 2011 from Pill Hill Press. (April 30th)
My fingers are numb and fumbling, sliding over the safety harness without managing to grip the straps. Natasha laughs and tells me my thick fingers will get me killed one of these days - our little in-joke. She leans in close to me and pulls them tight, checking each buckle and latch. That's her job, after all. I wonder if, one day, she'll miss one. If she'll leave something dangling loose or even slide the boxcutter out of her belt and make a subtle cut. Hopefully it won't come to that. She looks around to make sure the others aren't watching before pressing her lips to mine. Wouldn't want to appear unprofessional. "For luck," she says, and we both know what she means.
Natasha is gone after that, disappearing off to the supply shed to hide among the spare harnesses and helmets. I saw her leaving once, after I was safely back and getting out of the rig, and she was sliding a flask back into her pocket. So much for the casual jokes about my situation. One of the other staff members clips me in and has me step up to the ledge - I manage to hide the fact that my feet aren't quite following directions. He gives the all-clear - my heart is racing, and I tip forward into the void.
With the air whipping around me and the cliff flashing past all I can think of is the ground. It would be easy to just let it come up to meet me - too easy. In my head I'm counting down to impact, waiting for that last possible second. Three... two... I spread my arms and the wings propel me forward a mere ten feet over the rocks and dust - for a moment I hope in vain that the wings will pull free and send me slamming into the landscape but everything works perfectly. I soar up and circle around on an updraft, riding thermals until eventually getting high enough that I can come in for a landing back on the top of the mesa.
Natasha comes over as I'm yanking at my helmet and she helps to undo the clasp.
"What happens when the disease goes far enough that you can't hide it?" She asks, and I can feel the warmth of her breath, smell the alcohol. It's the million-dollar question. I can go flying three times a week, base-jumping on Fridays, rapids surfing on Wednesday - but if modern safety measures continue to hold up I'll be in a wheelchair before I can get myself killed. After that it could take a year for my brain to give out, ever so much slower than terminal velocity. Natasha carries everything away, and calls to me without looking back. "See you on Saturday - I'll set aside our oldest harness for you."
My fingers are numb and fumbling, sliding over the safety harness without managing to grip the straps. Natasha laughs and tells me my thick fingers will get me killed one of these days - our little in-joke. She leans in close to me and pulls them tight, checking each buckle and latch. That's her job, after all. I wonder if, one day, she'll miss one. If she'll leave something dangling loose or even slide the boxcutter out of her belt and make a subtle cut. Hopefully it won't come to that. She looks around to make sure the others aren't watching before pressing her lips to mine. Wouldn't want to appear unprofessional. "For luck," she says, and we both know what she means.
Natasha is gone after that, disappearing off to the supply shed to hide among the spare harnesses and helmets. I saw her leaving once, after I was safely back and getting out of the rig, and she was sliding a flask back into her pocket. So much for the casual jokes about my situation. One of the other staff members clips me in and has me step up to the ledge - I manage to hide the fact that my feet aren't quite following directions. He gives the all-clear - my heart is racing, and I tip forward into the void.
With the air whipping around me and the cliff flashing past all I can think of is the ground. It would be easy to just let it come up to meet me - too easy. In my head I'm counting down to impact, waiting for that last possible second. Three... two... I spread my arms and the wings propel me forward a mere ten feet over the rocks and dust - for a moment I hope in vain that the wings will pull free and send me slamming into the landscape but everything works perfectly. I soar up and circle around on an updraft, riding thermals until eventually getting high enough that I can come in for a landing back on the top of the mesa.
Natasha comes over as I'm yanking at my helmet and she helps to undo the clasp.
"What happens when the disease goes far enough that you can't hide it?" She asks, and I can feel the warmth of her breath, smell the alcohol. It's the million-dollar question. I can go flying three times a week, base-jumping on Fridays, rapids surfing on Wednesday - but if modern safety measures continue to hold up I'll be in a wheelchair before I can get myself killed. After that it could take a year for my brain to give out, ever so much slower than terminal velocity. Natasha carries everything away, and calls to me without looking back. "See you on Saturday - I'll set aside our oldest harness for you."
Monday, August 24, 2009
Daily Story 131: Authentification
It's early evening and the sky is burning orange-pink. A floating castle catching the light for a moment as it drifts by, surrounded by partygoers with wings and capes. I'm watching from a booth in an "authentic" 1950's diner, all red vinyl and polished chrome, drinking a fantastic malt while my companion pushes some french fries back and forth on his plate. He's too depressed to enjoy the sunset, I can tell by the way his eyestalks droop. The translation program lets me see the ripple that passes over his outer membrane as a sigh, and I tell him to cheer up.
"Cheer up?" My brain hears as he squeaks in his native tongue, "This was supposed to be the crowning achievement of my existence! Instead... I mean no offense to you, you have been nothing but kind to me, but... eating in a common diner is no way to celebrate first contact."
He arrived in the park the day before, already confused and upset. I was waiting there for him along with some infoDrones there to chronicle the event in case it turned out to be amusing. When he emerged from his ship and saw me he asked, hopefully, if I was the President of the United States of America. I could tell he already knew the answer but I said it anyway - there are no more Presidents, no more United States. Just one big philosophical collective ever since we figured out free energy - free everything, really. He looked at me then, and I knew the tilt of his eyes was like a child wringing his hands. "But you... you believe me, right?" When I shrugged I think he wanted to curl up and die.
"I dreamed of this day," he says as he dissolves a fry in one of his long fingers, "Drifted through space imagining what it would be like to meet another intelligent species and share knowledge with them. I picked up signals from your planet as I approached - I had already singled it out as a likely candidate - and studied you. Do you know what happened when I entered your solar system? A human craft flew past and the driver pressed his exposed buttocks against the porthole." I nod, still looking out at the last rays of sun. A flock of bioluminescent dragons are lifting into the air now, headed south towards the Bay of Texas. I scroll through the files that were pulled out of his computer systems the moment he got near Earth and I find what I need.
"Says here that you have photography on your planet. Almost exactly the same as we had." His left eyestalk bobs in answer. "Well, you know that photographs can be faked then."
This information was siphoned off of him in seconds despite the completely foreign storage systems. Within ten minutes the cloud-computer residing around Jupiter had it all translated and fifteen minutes after that there was a quick-dump of everything on it as well as a full translation suite. The usual parties examined his technology and star charts and declared him to be a clever, elaborate, detailed hoax. A human that had heavily modded himself and his gear to look alien. They applauded the effort and then lost interest before he even had a chance to land. I'm jaded and old and don't believe it either, but you never really know - and even if it's just a hoax I feel bad for him.
"Something happens, right, where your ability to fake or manipulate a photograph surpasses your ability to detect a forgery. That's what happened here. I could go home and step into my pod and in the morning come out looking just like you. In fact, I'm willing to bet the schematics for you are already online - I would guess they've been up since half an hour after you got here." He sighs again, and I know he understands. His word doesn't carry any weight in the discussion.
"I just... I never pictured first contact being this way."
Outside it's completely dark now and we both just watch the stars. It's moments like this you could almost believe in intelligent life.
"Cheer up?" My brain hears as he squeaks in his native tongue, "This was supposed to be the crowning achievement of my existence! Instead... I mean no offense to you, you have been nothing but kind to me, but... eating in a common diner is no way to celebrate first contact."
He arrived in the park the day before, already confused and upset. I was waiting there for him along with some infoDrones there to chronicle the event in case it turned out to be amusing. When he emerged from his ship and saw me he asked, hopefully, if I was the President of the United States of America. I could tell he already knew the answer but I said it anyway - there are no more Presidents, no more United States. Just one big philosophical collective ever since we figured out free energy - free everything, really. He looked at me then, and I knew the tilt of his eyes was like a child wringing his hands. "But you... you believe me, right?" When I shrugged I think he wanted to curl up and die.
"I dreamed of this day," he says as he dissolves a fry in one of his long fingers, "Drifted through space imagining what it would be like to meet another intelligent species and share knowledge with them. I picked up signals from your planet as I approached - I had already singled it out as a likely candidate - and studied you. Do you know what happened when I entered your solar system? A human craft flew past and the driver pressed his exposed buttocks against the porthole." I nod, still looking out at the last rays of sun. A flock of bioluminescent dragons are lifting into the air now, headed south towards the Bay of Texas. I scroll through the files that were pulled out of his computer systems the moment he got near Earth and I find what I need.
"Says here that you have photography on your planet. Almost exactly the same as we had." His left eyestalk bobs in answer. "Well, you know that photographs can be faked then."
This information was siphoned off of him in seconds despite the completely foreign storage systems. Within ten minutes the cloud-computer residing around Jupiter had it all translated and fifteen minutes after that there was a quick-dump of everything on it as well as a full translation suite. The usual parties examined his technology and star charts and declared him to be a clever, elaborate, detailed hoax. A human that had heavily modded himself and his gear to look alien. They applauded the effort and then lost interest before he even had a chance to land. I'm jaded and old and don't believe it either, but you never really know - and even if it's just a hoax I feel bad for him.
"Something happens, right, where your ability to fake or manipulate a photograph surpasses your ability to detect a forgery. That's what happened here. I could go home and step into my pod and in the morning come out looking just like you. In fact, I'm willing to bet the schematics for you are already online - I would guess they've been up since half an hour after you got here." He sighs again, and I know he understands. His word doesn't carry any weight in the discussion.
"I just... I never pictured first contact being this way."
Outside it's completely dark now and we both just watch the stars. It's moments like this you could almost believe in intelligent life.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Daily Story 130: Breaking Down
When the black hat fabbers came we weren't prepared. I don't just mean that I was in a slinky dress and high heels, though that was certainly an issue; I mean that we had never fabbed anything to defend ourselves. That spider-blimp came crawling over the Piles, tearing huge chunks of housing up and eating them only to regurgitate acid behind it - you could hear the screaming getting closer like the bastard child of thunder and feedback. Everyone at the party was in a panic, pushing and shoving for the door - I saw my friend Melanie fall under the crowd and I don't think she got back up. Even if she did she wouldn't have made it.
There was a small fabber in the kitchen hooked up to a feed, and Zane was scrolling through the directory searching for a rocket launcher but he couldn't find anything. I looked out the floor-to-ceiling window at that floating monstrosity crawling closer by the second, and at the frothing, useless wall of terrified people, and just when I should have lost all hope something inside me clicked and I yelled in Zane's ear: "Parachutes!" He stared at me and I pointed at the window, which seemed to get it across. While he worked with the fabber I grabbed a heavy teak chair and hurled it as hard as I could. It bounced. Someone had been mailing around the formula for clear aluminum not long ago, perfect for keeping kids from shooting your windows out. I guess the owner of the house had used it.
Zane rushed over to me and helped me get the parachute on, and I tried to tune out the screams and the deep rumble of collapsing Piles and think only about how much I had wanted to be close like this to him, how nervous I had been as I got ready for the party. He finished and pulled away and I yelled to him, told him the window wouldn't break. He nodded, and started feeling around the edges of the massive pane. I tore my eyes away from the approaching airship and saw that the tangled throng of partygoers had barely moved. There was no escape. Zane ran past me to the crowd and my stomach dropped, knowing that he had given up and we were both going to die, ripped apart for material or dissolved by acid. Then he came back, at full speed.
He rebounded off of the window like it was rubber and rolled across the floor clutching his shoulder, but something had happened. There was plaster drifting from around the glass and as I watched it pitched outwards, slowly and gracefully like a diver. The thin cold air of the upper piles whipped around us and froze me to the bone, but I helped Zane up and we did the only thing we could - we jumped. There was a gap there by mutual agreement, a hole that led down a few levels into the disused city below to provide the houses around it with a view that wasn't the neighbor's living room. We dropped down so fast; I wanted to wait to pull the ripcord but the bottom was coming up at me and I couldn't do it. I opened my 'chute almost immediately and watched Zane flash past as I jerked to a stop - or what seemed like one by comparison. That illusion was ruined as I clipped a balcony and my knee shot up into my jaw.
I landed hard on the roof of some old building that looked like it might have been pre-fabber and started crawling towards Zane, reaching him just as the sunlight vanished - the black hats were directly above us, blotting out the sky. I was frozen in terror, watching the arms reach out and tear the top floors of the building off and consume them. Something fell, a tiny speck that arced down to finally slam against a wall a hundred feet above us - a bowl of bean dip from the party. That snapped me out of my stupor somehow and I grabbed Zane. He was unconscious, he hadn't opened his 'chute in time and had hit way too fast. I would find out later he'd broken both his legs.
I got him under cover just as the sunlight returned - just before the acid. I held him like a baby and covered his mouth with his shirt to help keep some of the fumes out of his lungs. The piles groaned around us and I could hear some collapsing, but our little cave stayed up as the toxic rain trickled past in little streams. It was over, just like that, and we fell asleep. We weren't prepared, and everyone I knew died because of that. Now I can't even remember that life, a life where I partied all day and wore skimpy clothes and stacked houses one on top of another to keep up with the Joneses.
My life now is flying above a trail of destruction with Zane and a cargo hold full of explosives. We're catching up to them one pile at a time.
There was a small fabber in the kitchen hooked up to a feed, and Zane was scrolling through the directory searching for a rocket launcher but he couldn't find anything. I looked out the floor-to-ceiling window at that floating monstrosity crawling closer by the second, and at the frothing, useless wall of terrified people, and just when I should have lost all hope something inside me clicked and I yelled in Zane's ear: "Parachutes!" He stared at me and I pointed at the window, which seemed to get it across. While he worked with the fabber I grabbed a heavy teak chair and hurled it as hard as I could. It bounced. Someone had been mailing around the formula for clear aluminum not long ago, perfect for keeping kids from shooting your windows out. I guess the owner of the house had used it.
Zane rushed over to me and helped me get the parachute on, and I tried to tune out the screams and the deep rumble of collapsing Piles and think only about how much I had wanted to be close like this to him, how nervous I had been as I got ready for the party. He finished and pulled away and I yelled to him, told him the window wouldn't break. He nodded, and started feeling around the edges of the massive pane. I tore my eyes away from the approaching airship and saw that the tangled throng of partygoers had barely moved. There was no escape. Zane ran past me to the crowd and my stomach dropped, knowing that he had given up and we were both going to die, ripped apart for material or dissolved by acid. Then he came back, at full speed.
He rebounded off of the window like it was rubber and rolled across the floor clutching his shoulder, but something had happened. There was plaster drifting from around the glass and as I watched it pitched outwards, slowly and gracefully like a diver. The thin cold air of the upper piles whipped around us and froze me to the bone, but I helped Zane up and we did the only thing we could - we jumped. There was a gap there by mutual agreement, a hole that led down a few levels into the disused city below to provide the houses around it with a view that wasn't the neighbor's living room. We dropped down so fast; I wanted to wait to pull the ripcord but the bottom was coming up at me and I couldn't do it. I opened my 'chute almost immediately and watched Zane flash past as I jerked to a stop - or what seemed like one by comparison. That illusion was ruined as I clipped a balcony and my knee shot up into my jaw.
I landed hard on the roof of some old building that looked like it might have been pre-fabber and started crawling towards Zane, reaching him just as the sunlight vanished - the black hats were directly above us, blotting out the sky. I was frozen in terror, watching the arms reach out and tear the top floors of the building off and consume them. Something fell, a tiny speck that arced down to finally slam against a wall a hundred feet above us - a bowl of bean dip from the party. That snapped me out of my stupor somehow and I grabbed Zane. He was unconscious, he hadn't opened his 'chute in time and had hit way too fast. I would find out later he'd broken both his legs.
I got him under cover just as the sunlight returned - just before the acid. I held him like a baby and covered his mouth with his shirt to help keep some of the fumes out of his lungs. The piles groaned around us and I could hear some collapsing, but our little cave stayed up as the toxic rain trickled past in little streams. It was over, just like that, and we fell asleep. We weren't prepared, and everyone I knew died because of that. Now I can't even remember that life, a life where I partied all day and wore skimpy clothes and stacked houses one on top of another to keep up with the Joneses.
My life now is flying above a trail of destruction with Zane and a cargo hold full of explosives. We're catching up to them one pile at a time.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Daily Story 129: Iraq and a Hard Place
Everyone around me vanishes and the air is filled with bullets, and that's the first clue I have that Franklin knows I'm banging his girlfriend. This whole mess is Franklin's fault of course, though I know he won't see it that way - I'm referring to the gunfire in this case rather than my intimate relations with his girl although maybe he could have treated her a little better too.
If Franklin had played it cool when he realized that kid was an undercover Fed we would have been okay; there's no way in hell they wanted to start a fight with all seventeen of us. That's closer to suicide than a firefight even if you have an army because we aren't the kind of freaks that stay at home and play house. Instead, he ripped the implants the kid was using to fake his powers right out of him without any thought of the consequences and the Feds opened fire in the hopes of saving their man. Nice work, asshole.
First thing is to get some cover, so I make the pool table flip into the air and plant itself against the window. Unfortunately my telekinesis isn't good for deflecting bullets; if Franklin hadn't teleported everyone away I would still have White's force field, not to mention a whole bar full of backup. I take inventory and see that the bouncer is cowering next to the bar. He's big, but I don't think his power is going to get me out of here; he shakes things until they fly apart or something, I don't really even remember. If I had Nelson or Crazy Ike it would be different.
The gunfire stops, which means they must know everyone has cleared out. Their guy is gone too; Franklin probably teleported him into the sewers or something, though if I know him he's going to claim that he tossed him all the way to the moon. Man, I hate that guy.
"Eddie Shorthand? Francis? What the hell is going on?"
That's Big Dave, and from the context I suppose the bouncer's name is Francis which I had somehow not known until now. If we survive this I'll have to make fun of him for that. Not that survival seems likely - Big Dave is just about the most useless guy I could have asked for since his power lets him tamper with other abilities and the Feds are using good old fashioned guns.
As if on cue, they whip out something different - gas grenades come flying in over the top of the pool table. I stop them in midair and send them right back, but that won't stall them much. If they come in, I might have to use Big Dave and "Francis" as projectiles. It won't be any more effective than pool balls or the Feds themselves, but it might make me feel better about them being no help at all. The door shakes, hinges twisting. Big Dave is sniffing around for some reason.
"Franklin took everyone else, didn't he? I can feel it." Feel it? What, like it's not obvious just by looking? The door shakes again.
"He's so sloppy he leaves tears and residue everywhere. Almost enough for me to use, if I could come at it from both sides." I have no idea wheat Big Dave is even talking about. He waves me over and I back towards him while pressing against the whole front of the building in the hopes of slowing them down. It won't work. I lose it as a meaty hand wraps around the back of my skull and I can feel Dave reaching my telekinesis around, feeling, poking. I feel pretty violated but I don't have any better ideas. He's got the bouncer too, and he's saying something about fraying the fabric of space and exposing the wound. Meanwhile since I'm being used in this metaphysical bullshit I'm not reinforcing the door or the pool table and both fly away.
The Feds are right there, and I try to grab every table in the bar at once so I can fling them but Big Dave is all tangled up in my powers so somehow I reach out with something else. It's like I'm stretching the bouncer's brain, and every surface in the Drowned Spider goes fuzzy as t vibrates and bursts into flames. Friction, I guess. I don't know what's going on, the bouncer always had to touch something to shake it, but I turn it on the Feds and the first wave of them start spraying blood from every exposed pore. Dave wrestles control back but that's okay because the other Feds are falling back for now.
"Got it!" Dave yells, and sunlight pours into the room. There's a tear, a ragged hole, and on the other side it's daytime. The edges of the hole are hard to look at, they're shaking and flickering in a way that makes my brain hurt. This isn't how Franklin teleports. Not even close. We all step through and that's when I see the undercover kid on the ground, passed out. I take a closer look and wherever we are it's not nice - it's stone walls and iron bars, both covered in blood and filth. "Wrong hole," Big Dave says, "I could try again but..."
The 'but' is clear. The bar is in flames, and the Feds are likely to start throwing fragmentation grenades in to finish the job. Screw it. I pull away from Dave and the hole snaps shut.
So I guess Big Dave isn't useless after all. I have to keep that in mind. "Francis, bust the walls down. Dave, start thinking about how we get back - sunlight means we're halfway around the world. I'll supervise." And when we do get back, Franklin won't hear us coming.
If Franklin had played it cool when he realized that kid was an undercover Fed we would have been okay; there's no way in hell they wanted to start a fight with all seventeen of us. That's closer to suicide than a firefight even if you have an army because we aren't the kind of freaks that stay at home and play house. Instead, he ripped the implants the kid was using to fake his powers right out of him without any thought of the consequences and the Feds opened fire in the hopes of saving their man. Nice work, asshole.
First thing is to get some cover, so I make the pool table flip into the air and plant itself against the window. Unfortunately my telekinesis isn't good for deflecting bullets; if Franklin hadn't teleported everyone away I would still have White's force field, not to mention a whole bar full of backup. I take inventory and see that the bouncer is cowering next to the bar. He's big, but I don't think his power is going to get me out of here; he shakes things until they fly apart or something, I don't really even remember. If I had Nelson or Crazy Ike it would be different.
The gunfire stops, which means they must know everyone has cleared out. Their guy is gone too; Franklin probably teleported him into the sewers or something, though if I know him he's going to claim that he tossed him all the way to the moon. Man, I hate that guy.
"Eddie Shorthand? Francis? What the hell is going on?"
That's Big Dave, and from the context I suppose the bouncer's name is Francis which I had somehow not known until now. If we survive this I'll have to make fun of him for that. Not that survival seems likely - Big Dave is just about the most useless guy I could have asked for since his power lets him tamper with other abilities and the Feds are using good old fashioned guns.
As if on cue, they whip out something different - gas grenades come flying in over the top of the pool table. I stop them in midair and send them right back, but that won't stall them much. If they come in, I might have to use Big Dave and "Francis" as projectiles. It won't be any more effective than pool balls or the Feds themselves, but it might make me feel better about them being no help at all. The door shakes, hinges twisting. Big Dave is sniffing around for some reason.
"Franklin took everyone else, didn't he? I can feel it." Feel it? What, like it's not obvious just by looking? The door shakes again.
"He's so sloppy he leaves tears and residue everywhere. Almost enough for me to use, if I could come at it from both sides." I have no idea wheat Big Dave is even talking about. He waves me over and I back towards him while pressing against the whole front of the building in the hopes of slowing them down. It won't work. I lose it as a meaty hand wraps around the back of my skull and I can feel Dave reaching my telekinesis around, feeling, poking. I feel pretty violated but I don't have any better ideas. He's got the bouncer too, and he's saying something about fraying the fabric of space and exposing the wound. Meanwhile since I'm being used in this metaphysical bullshit I'm not reinforcing the door or the pool table and both fly away.
The Feds are right there, and I try to grab every table in the bar at once so I can fling them but Big Dave is all tangled up in my powers so somehow I reach out with something else. It's like I'm stretching the bouncer's brain, and every surface in the Drowned Spider goes fuzzy as t vibrates and bursts into flames. Friction, I guess. I don't know what's going on, the bouncer always had to touch something to shake it, but I turn it on the Feds and the first wave of them start spraying blood from every exposed pore. Dave wrestles control back but that's okay because the other Feds are falling back for now.
"Got it!" Dave yells, and sunlight pours into the room. There's a tear, a ragged hole, and on the other side it's daytime. The edges of the hole are hard to look at, they're shaking and flickering in a way that makes my brain hurt. This isn't how Franklin teleports. Not even close. We all step through and that's when I see the undercover kid on the ground, passed out. I take a closer look and wherever we are it's not nice - it's stone walls and iron bars, both covered in blood and filth. "Wrong hole," Big Dave says, "I could try again but..."
The 'but' is clear. The bar is in flames, and the Feds are likely to start throwing fragmentation grenades in to finish the job. Screw it. I pull away from Dave and the hole snaps shut.
So I guess Big Dave isn't useless after all. I have to keep that in mind. "Francis, bust the walls down. Dave, start thinking about how we get back - sunlight means we're halfway around the world. I'll supervise." And when we do get back, Franklin won't hear us coming.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Daily Story 128: Where I Was Your Age
"Three spatial dimensions was good enough for my family growing up, and it should be good enough for anyone."
Grandpa is frowning and shaking his head at the state of the world as he bounces in the backseat of the car. He's got big drooping jowls now and I feel bad but all I can think of is if that's my future. My wife is ignoring him entirely, not because she doesn't care but because she's already learned that nothing she says can change the course of the conversation.
"We kept things separate," he says, "like they're supposed to be. We knew our place."
"You know there's still time, grandpa. It's just... different." Jules shoots me a warning look because she's smarter than me and knows I'm not going to make him feel better about the world in which we live by arguing semantics. Luckily grandpa just harrumphs and looks out his window at the changing seasons.
I turn at Mayo and 2005, heading towards the University - my brother is graduating today, class of 2011 just like me and our dad. "Grandpa... now that Jimmy is done with school he's going to move to Florida in 1983 to do environmental studies. That means nobody is going to live near the nursing home anymore. Jules and I... we would love it if you would come and live with us." That's a sort of half-lie. We both know it will be frustrating and annoying taking care of him and listening to him tell us about how much better the seventies were the first time around when you couldn't drive there for an afternoon, but that doesn't mean we mind doing it.
"I never liked California. Or the nineties, either."
"It's a really good neighborhood." Jules says. She isn't defensive though, because we had already anticipated his reaction. Grandpa never liked anything, so far as we can tell.
"I just hate seeing you in that place - and I know you don't want to live with dad."
"Eighteen-ninety! Can you believe it! That boy is going to get killed by... by civil war soldiers or something, I don't know. How would I? I never had to worry about getting shanghaied by Vikings on the way to school. It was better all around, if you ask me." My parents' place is gorgeous and in no danger of coming under fire by lost and confused civil war soldiers. That's not to say it never happens, of course - wayward patrols from World War Two have been seen as far out of era as 1980 and 1923 - but they weren't traveling on foot.
"Sweetheart," Jules says, "I think you missed our turn. That's fifty-ninth street coming up."
She's right, of course. "Sorry, sixty-fourth must not go through yet. I was trying to avoid the traffic in 2011." I turn around and drive back towards where sixty-fourth will hopefully be and find the intersection this time.
"In my day," Grandpa starts, "you could get by on your sense of direction..."
I squeeze Jules' hand and she smiles at me. Neither of us are listening too closely but we can get the general idea; When I was your age we didn't have to worry about being eaten by dinosaurs or going home to the wrong house because we didn't know what year we bought it in. Something like that. It's better than my in-laws, I suppose. They're native to 1850 and don't understand technology at all; they're always calling me and asking me questions about the computer we bought them. "And another thing," grandpa continues, "if they're serving dodo or some other extinct animal at the graduation party I don't want anything to do with it. It's not natural."
"Yes, grandpa." It's not his fault; some people just can't keep up with modern times.
Grandpa is frowning and shaking his head at the state of the world as he bounces in the backseat of the car. He's got big drooping jowls now and I feel bad but all I can think of is if that's my future. My wife is ignoring him entirely, not because she doesn't care but because she's already learned that nothing she says can change the course of the conversation.
"We kept things separate," he says, "like they're supposed to be. We knew our place."
"You know there's still time, grandpa. It's just... different." Jules shoots me a warning look because she's smarter than me and knows I'm not going to make him feel better about the world in which we live by arguing semantics. Luckily grandpa just harrumphs and looks out his window at the changing seasons.
I turn at Mayo and 2005, heading towards the University - my brother is graduating today, class of 2011 just like me and our dad. "Grandpa... now that Jimmy is done with school he's going to move to Florida in 1983 to do environmental studies. That means nobody is going to live near the nursing home anymore. Jules and I... we would love it if you would come and live with us." That's a sort of half-lie. We both know it will be frustrating and annoying taking care of him and listening to him tell us about how much better the seventies were the first time around when you couldn't drive there for an afternoon, but that doesn't mean we mind doing it.
"I never liked California. Or the nineties, either."
"It's a really good neighborhood." Jules says. She isn't defensive though, because we had already anticipated his reaction. Grandpa never liked anything, so far as we can tell.
"I just hate seeing you in that place - and I know you don't want to live with dad."
"Eighteen-ninety! Can you believe it! That boy is going to get killed by... by civil war soldiers or something, I don't know. How would I? I never had to worry about getting shanghaied by Vikings on the way to school. It was better all around, if you ask me." My parents' place is gorgeous and in no danger of coming under fire by lost and confused civil war soldiers. That's not to say it never happens, of course - wayward patrols from World War Two have been seen as far out of era as 1980 and 1923 - but they weren't traveling on foot.
"Sweetheart," Jules says, "I think you missed our turn. That's fifty-ninth street coming up."
She's right, of course. "Sorry, sixty-fourth must not go through yet. I was trying to avoid the traffic in 2011." I turn around and drive back towards where sixty-fourth will hopefully be and find the intersection this time.
"In my day," Grandpa starts, "you could get by on your sense of direction..."
I squeeze Jules' hand and she smiles at me. Neither of us are listening too closely but we can get the general idea; When I was your age we didn't have to worry about being eaten by dinosaurs or going home to the wrong house because we didn't know what year we bought it in. Something like that. It's better than my in-laws, I suppose. They're native to 1850 and don't understand technology at all; they're always calling me and asking me questions about the computer we bought them. "And another thing," grandpa continues, "if they're serving dodo or some other extinct animal at the graduation party I don't want anything to do with it. It's not natural."
"Yes, grandpa." It's not his fault; some people just can't keep up with modern times.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Daily Story 127: When First We Practice
The car is on fire when it goes over the cliff, because Jake knows they don't explode on their own the way you see in movies. He had me load up the trunk with gunpowder too, and when the whole thing reaches the end of its road-flare orange arc through the night sky and crumples like an accordion the back blows out. I can feel the air compress as the blast goes by even though I'm what seems like a thousand feet away - too far for that light to warm my numb fingers or ears that sting as the air whistles over me. Something lands next to Jake and he laughs, he points at it and folds to the ground like the car crushing itself. Humor rather than momentum, but no less effective. He can't stop laughing but when I look I don't get the joke; it's just a piece of metal from the car. Jake finally manages to stand up and he walks away without even brushing off the dirt that's covering him, that red dirt that will stain your clothes. I pick up the piece of metal carefully with the rag we used to wipe off our fingerprints and I hold it tight, letting it thaw my hands.
We meet up with Chris a minute later at the old dirt road, climb into the bed of the pickup to let him chauffer us back home where we can pretend we never saw my dad's car. Our heads bounce off of the metal with each rut and hole and once the asphalt starts it's seventy mile wind that cuts into us like we were naked in the snow. Jake is excited and trying to talk to me but I'm watching the stars instead because I know that sickly orange glow that seeps up from the city will wash over us soon enough and blot them out. Jake can be mad at me for ignoring him if he wants; soon he'll be in jail or juvenile detention or a group home in another city and I can sleep at night again. A shiver runs down my spine and not from the cold - he's staring at me again with that serial killer look from the true crime shows. He asks me if I'm going to betray him and I say he has a Jesus complex, I'm cool and smooth as a professional actor and there's no way he could suspect me - except that he already does. He smiles at the thought of being compared to Jesus, all teeth and those sparking eyes that never leave mine.
His energy is a virus that spreads just from breathing the same air, charisma and presence and dominance. I was weak and vulnerable and out of control and wanted to hurt my father so Jake came to me with righteous anger and lit me on fire like the car, ignited my mind with the possibilities for revenge and justice. He made me talk, made me relive the times my father would beat me with that belt of his - the buckle still on, a giant oval of iron that he used to remove the lids from beer bottles and fracture my ribs. He held me like my mother should have and whispered that he would make it okay, and then he asked me if my father packed his own bullets when he went hunting. That's what he wanted; gunpowder to torture neighborhood cats. Chris joined us too and he put on a better show than I did, a loving and devoted disciple to the great leader, but when they ask us tomorrow we'll both deny knowing him - we'll be each others alibis until suspicion passes and takes Jake with it. My father will be furious at losing his car, his pride and joy, his years of patient repairs and restoration. Falling, on fire, I couldn't see the hot rod paintjob or the chrome fins but I know they were there, can picture them melting and flowing like candle wax. Hopefully Jake's dogtags will survive like they survived the war that killed his brother, hanging from the gearshift where I told Chris to put them.
When we stop we're at the edge of town, red dirt giving way to manicured golf courses as the desert transitions to suburbs. Chris gets out and walks around the back, and I don't ask why. I want us to be on the road, want this operation to be over before anyone sees us together - yes officer, I saw that boy with two others and of course I can describe them. Chris hands something to Jake and I know what it is just from the flash of moonlight off of silver. The dogtags slide over his head and hang there, accusing, freezing my soul deeper than the wind. Jake is laughing again, that uncontrolled eruption of manic energy, and Chris pulls me over the edge of the bed onto the ground. The truck's door closes again like a gunshot and they drive away with that laughter still rolling out into the air behind them. The engine sound recedes as the world falls away from me because I'm falling, dropping into a bottomless pit I helped to dig. I don't stand up, staring at the stars that have never been further away. In the corner of my vision a white shape flutters like an injured animal and I can see it's the rag that's fallen from my pocket. I clutch it tightly once more but the warmth is gone from that scrap of metal - feeling it dig into my palm, I find myself comparing its shape to my father's belt buckle.
We meet up with Chris a minute later at the old dirt road, climb into the bed of the pickup to let him chauffer us back home where we can pretend we never saw my dad's car. Our heads bounce off of the metal with each rut and hole and once the asphalt starts it's seventy mile wind that cuts into us like we were naked in the snow. Jake is excited and trying to talk to me but I'm watching the stars instead because I know that sickly orange glow that seeps up from the city will wash over us soon enough and blot them out. Jake can be mad at me for ignoring him if he wants; soon he'll be in jail or juvenile detention or a group home in another city and I can sleep at night again. A shiver runs down my spine and not from the cold - he's staring at me again with that serial killer look from the true crime shows. He asks me if I'm going to betray him and I say he has a Jesus complex, I'm cool and smooth as a professional actor and there's no way he could suspect me - except that he already does. He smiles at the thought of being compared to Jesus, all teeth and those sparking eyes that never leave mine.
His energy is a virus that spreads just from breathing the same air, charisma and presence and dominance. I was weak and vulnerable and out of control and wanted to hurt my father so Jake came to me with righteous anger and lit me on fire like the car, ignited my mind with the possibilities for revenge and justice. He made me talk, made me relive the times my father would beat me with that belt of his - the buckle still on, a giant oval of iron that he used to remove the lids from beer bottles and fracture my ribs. He held me like my mother should have and whispered that he would make it okay, and then he asked me if my father packed his own bullets when he went hunting. That's what he wanted; gunpowder to torture neighborhood cats. Chris joined us too and he put on a better show than I did, a loving and devoted disciple to the great leader, but when they ask us tomorrow we'll both deny knowing him - we'll be each others alibis until suspicion passes and takes Jake with it. My father will be furious at losing his car, his pride and joy, his years of patient repairs and restoration. Falling, on fire, I couldn't see the hot rod paintjob or the chrome fins but I know they were there, can picture them melting and flowing like candle wax. Hopefully Jake's dogtags will survive like they survived the war that killed his brother, hanging from the gearshift where I told Chris to put them.
When we stop we're at the edge of town, red dirt giving way to manicured golf courses as the desert transitions to suburbs. Chris gets out and walks around the back, and I don't ask why. I want us to be on the road, want this operation to be over before anyone sees us together - yes officer, I saw that boy with two others and of course I can describe them. Chris hands something to Jake and I know what it is just from the flash of moonlight off of silver. The dogtags slide over his head and hang there, accusing, freezing my soul deeper than the wind. Jake is laughing again, that uncontrolled eruption of manic energy, and Chris pulls me over the edge of the bed onto the ground. The truck's door closes again like a gunshot and they drive away with that laughter still rolling out into the air behind them. The engine sound recedes as the world falls away from me because I'm falling, dropping into a bottomless pit I helped to dig. I don't stand up, staring at the stars that have never been further away. In the corner of my vision a white shape flutters like an injured animal and I can see it's the rag that's fallen from my pocket. I clutch it tightly once more but the warmth is gone from that scrap of metal - feeling it dig into my palm, I find myself comparing its shape to my father's belt buckle.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Daily Story 126: Different Perspectives
HEADER: 167.88.004
TO: SMADDEN@MAINTENANCE.MODERATION
SUBJECT: Recent Edits, File 10040823
Dear Mr. Madden,
I see that my recent updates are being disputed and are in danger of being reverted. I'm sure that you mean well, but I think my edits speak for themselves; there is a drastically positive trend from my change right up to the Nedströms Barrier. I am of the opinion that any minor concerns can be addressed downstream from this change and it should therefore remain in place.
Stephen
------
HEADER: 167.88.005
TO: SFRY@MAINTENANCE.EDITING
SUBJECT: RE: Recent Edits, File 10040823
Mr. Fry,
I appreciate your polite tone and will try my best to match it, but let's just cut to the chase: You broke the rules. Editors much smarter than you have gone down that road, and feel confident that it leads to ruin. You could have read their findings but instead you were impatient and made an edit that you were expressly told not to when you were certified. I want to be clear - it is not 'in danger of being reverted', it is GUARANTEED to be reverted on the very next wipe. This isn't open to discussion.
Sam Madden
Moderator IV
------
HEADER: 167.88.006
TO: SMADDEN@MAINTENANCE.MODERATION
SUBJECT: RE: Recent Edits, File 10040823
Sir,
Your complete unwillingness to listen to reason is beyond frustrating. This is a baseless stigma in our culture, and you have a responsibility as a Moderator to use the powers of logic and critical thinking that God gave you rather than just repeating absurd and outdated nonsense. There is nothing magical about World War II or about Hitler himself - it is just an event like any other.
------
HEADER: 167.88.007
TO: SFRY@MAINTENANCE.EDITING
SUBJECT: RE: Recent Edits, File 10040823
I'm going to use my powers of logic and critical thinking to deduce that you are one of those unfortunates that actually believes the tripe in that 'dark future' conspiracy video. That someone so easily duped by poorly-researched lies is able to obtain an Editing license makes me weep for the future.
Let me try this again, in the hopes that you will understand: Don't mess with Hitler's timeline. At all. Ever. If you had bothered to actually read the NUMEROUS reports on this issue, you would understand why - but since you would rather get the abbreviated, edited, fictionalized version I doubt you'll do that.
------
HEADER: 167.88.008
TO: SMADDEN@MAINTENANCE.MODERATION
SUBJECT: RE: Recent Edits, File 10040823
"Moderator",
I'm making the timeline a better place, and you are openly confirming the conspiracy you scoff at by so callously reverting this beneficial edit. It's a relatively small change in the course of accessible time - whether he is assassinated or commits suicide, dies in July of '41 or in April of '45, cannot be given any weight. What we need to look at instead is the impact it has on the flow of history as a whole, you insufferable prick. So what if the war is a little longer my way - the actual body count is lower due to the avoidance of the plague that followed. Using unknowable events beyond the Nedströms Barrier like some sort of bogeyman is irresponsible at best. You are a murderer and an idiot.
------
HEADER: 167.88.009
TO: SFRY@MAINTENANCE.EDITING
SUBJECT: RE: Recent Edits, File 10040823
Am I talking to a brick wall? We NEED to worry about the barrier. By the time it advances enough to access 2012 and see how royally you've screwed us all the Uppströms barrier will have sealed up your edit. This sixty-five year window is all we have, and if we act like idiots and screw up history downstream we're going to have to spend every second trying to repair it. In light of your total refusal to listen to reason, I'm recommending your license be revoked.
------
HEADER: 167.88.010
TO: SMADDEN@MAINTENANCE.MODERATION
SUBJECT: RE: Recent Edits, File 10040823
Mr. Douchebag,
Fine! You win, you fascist genocidal son of a bitch. Revert it - I can at least sleep at night. Have it your way, let Hitler be assassinated. I can't believe you're so afraid of that stupid cold war - it ended peacefully, within accessible time. It's over. The worst I'm responsible for is nuclear weapons being detonated in Japan, but that region was going to be ravaged by the Zebra Pox anyway. Go ahead and save Hitler. I hope you burn in hell.
------
HEADER: 167.88.011
TO: SFRY@MAINTENANCE.EDITING, #REVIEW@MAINTENANCE.ADMINISTRATION
SUBJECT: RE: Recent Edits, File 10040823
Dear Mr. Fry,
I'm including the review board on this reply so they can be made aware of our respective complaints. Unfortunately for you they, at least, are aware that all signs point to the leftover nuclear arsenals from the cold war being used in 2012 to effectively wipe out humanity. You should get down on your knees and thank the Lord that you're not living in a world where the war lasted past 1943.
Sam Madden
Moderator IV
TO: SMADDEN@MAINTENANCE.MODERATION
SUBJECT: Recent Edits, File 10040823
Dear Mr. Madden,
I see that my recent updates are being disputed and are in danger of being reverted. I'm sure that you mean well, but I think my edits speak for themselves; there is a drastically positive trend from my change right up to the Nedströms Barrier. I am of the opinion that any minor concerns can be addressed downstream from this change and it should therefore remain in place.
Stephen
------
HEADER: 167.88.005
TO: SFRY@MAINTENANCE.EDITING
SUBJECT: RE: Recent Edits, File 10040823
Mr. Fry,
I appreciate your polite tone and will try my best to match it, but let's just cut to the chase: You broke the rules. Editors much smarter than you have gone down that road, and feel confident that it leads to ruin. You could have read their findings but instead you were impatient and made an edit that you were expressly told not to when you were certified. I want to be clear - it is not 'in danger of being reverted', it is GUARANTEED to be reverted on the very next wipe. This isn't open to discussion.
Sam Madden
Moderator IV
------
HEADER: 167.88.006
TO: SMADDEN@MAINTENANCE.MODERATION
SUBJECT: RE: Recent Edits, File 10040823
Sir,
Your complete unwillingness to listen to reason is beyond frustrating. This is a baseless stigma in our culture, and you have a responsibility as a Moderator to use the powers of logic and critical thinking that God gave you rather than just repeating absurd and outdated nonsense. There is nothing magical about World War II or about Hitler himself - it is just an event like any other.
------
HEADER: 167.88.007
TO: SFRY@MAINTENANCE.EDITING
SUBJECT: RE: Recent Edits, File 10040823
I'm going to use my powers of logic and critical thinking to deduce that you are one of those unfortunates that actually believes the tripe in that 'dark future' conspiracy video. That someone so easily duped by poorly-researched lies is able to obtain an Editing license makes me weep for the future.
Let me try this again, in the hopes that you will understand: Don't mess with Hitler's timeline. At all. Ever. If you had bothered to actually read the NUMEROUS reports on this issue, you would understand why - but since you would rather get the abbreviated, edited, fictionalized version I doubt you'll do that.
------
HEADER: 167.88.008
TO: SMADDEN@MAINTENANCE.MODERATION
SUBJECT: RE: Recent Edits, File 10040823
"Moderator",
I'm making the timeline a better place, and you are openly confirming the conspiracy you scoff at by so callously reverting this beneficial edit. It's a relatively small change in the course of accessible time - whether he is assassinated or commits suicide, dies in July of '41 or in April of '45, cannot be given any weight. What we need to look at instead is the impact it has on the flow of history as a whole, you insufferable prick. So what if the war is a little longer my way - the actual body count is lower due to the avoidance of the plague that followed. Using unknowable events beyond the Nedströms Barrier like some sort of bogeyman is irresponsible at best. You are a murderer and an idiot.
------
HEADER: 167.88.009
TO: SFRY@MAINTENANCE.EDITING
SUBJECT: RE: Recent Edits, File 10040823
Am I talking to a brick wall? We NEED to worry about the barrier. By the time it advances enough to access 2012 and see how royally you've screwed us all the Uppströms barrier will have sealed up your edit. This sixty-five year window is all we have, and if we act like idiots and screw up history downstream we're going to have to spend every second trying to repair it. In light of your total refusal to listen to reason, I'm recommending your license be revoked.
------
HEADER: 167.88.010
TO: SMADDEN@MAINTENANCE.MODERATION
SUBJECT: RE: Recent Edits, File 10040823
Mr. Douchebag,
Fine! You win, you fascist genocidal son of a bitch. Revert it - I can at least sleep at night. Have it your way, let Hitler be assassinated. I can't believe you're so afraid of that stupid cold war - it ended peacefully, within accessible time. It's over. The worst I'm responsible for is nuclear weapons being detonated in Japan, but that region was going to be ravaged by the Zebra Pox anyway. Go ahead and save Hitler. I hope you burn in hell.
------
HEADER: 167.88.011
TO: SFRY@MAINTENANCE.EDITING, #REVIEW@MAINTENANCE.ADMINISTRATION
SUBJECT: RE: Recent Edits, File 10040823
Dear Mr. Fry,
I'm including the review board on this reply so they can be made aware of our respective complaints. Unfortunately for you they, at least, are aware that all signs point to the leftover nuclear arsenals from the cold war being used in 2012 to effectively wipe out humanity. You should get down on your knees and thank the Lord that you're not living in a world where the war lasted past 1943.
Sam Madden
Moderator IV
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Daily Story 125: Cat and Mouse
I can smell my nemesis, see the residue of his presence on the fallen buildings. I am getting closer. This city is in ruins like all the others, but I can sense life somewhere in the shadows; the flickering heartbeat of fusion cells. Organic life is present too, faint hints of humanity too recent to be from before the war. Duty calls me onward, sniffing rubble and stalking through the sewers. I pause to watch for movement, but all is silent and still. A rodent, unperturbed by my cat-like appearance, climbs onto my leg and begins to groom himself. I have no orders regarding rats.
He has hidden himself well - impressive considering the entourage of humans. The organics are sloppy, easy to track. For the first few years after the war they seemed to throw themselves in front of our weapons. I wonder if this recent difficulty heralds some thinning of the herd, where my fellow cleaners have destroyed the slow and careless and left the society to form out of quiet, discreet beings. Doubtful, since there has barely been enough time for a single new generation to come of age - still, the fact that I am already having problems in following them is both impressive and disturbing. It could be that there are less than the twelve I had estimated.
Proceeding down into a valley caused by the collapse of the underground transit systems, I find a shoe with fresh DNA on it. So close. My nemesis is nearly within my grasp. I have watched traps and ambushes kill off the others from my squadron, crush them before they could see our duty fulfilled and the last traces of the United Americas destroyed. I have received no signal from Eurasia, no communication from other Cleaner crews further south. This may be my burden alone, and I cannot fail. I can smell the humans on the breeze, flowing from a half-collapsed tunnel. Their time is up.
I circle around to get ahead of them and I wait. A heavily damaged IR81 is slumped against a wall nearby and I want to finish it, rip the reactor from its frame, but I force myself to remain hidden. Its ruined legs aren't taking it anywhere, I can return once I have ambushed the humans. An hour passes, and I hear them coming closer, smell them on the air. I can even sense the energy signature of my nemesis. More time passes and I realize something is wrong; they are moving too slowly, and making far too much noise. I charge towards it and break through into the plaza... and find a decoy.
The Highway Assembler is draped in human's clothes, and rumbles along the street acting on some sort of pre-programmed instructions. Once again my nemesis has made a fool of me. I run as fast as I can back to the valley and beyond, searching for them. They have bought more time, but it will not be enough. I will find them, will destroy them. On all fours, running at full speed, I see the tripline too late - cartwheeling for twenty feet before I slam into a wall. A metal rod, torn from the foundation of some building, slams into my right shoulder and expertly slides between armored plates, tearing vital wires and crippling me. I welcome this attack, because it means I am finally face to face with my tormentor after all this time.
He looks terrible. He is military, but outdated; a CM125 without any upgrades. He hurls a block of stone at me that I easily dodge as I pull the metal rod free - I long to launch a missile into him but ammunition has been so hard to find. This fight will be up close and personal. My first thrust falls short as I realize my leg is caught on debris, and he grabs the weapon so that we are both holding it. Pivoting, he jams the barrel of his gauss rifle into the side of my head - damaging both - and then falls as I sweep out with my free leg. I fall as well, but it is planned and I am able to dart my head forward into his neck - my jaws clamp down and sever a pneumatic line that would have been better protected in a newer model.
He thrusts something up against my thorax and I feel a concussive blast - some sort of jury-rigged bomb has peeled back my plating and removed my nemesis' hand. For the moment, neither of us makes a move. I am slightly more damaged, but am also faster and stronger. I need only to restrain him for a moment in order to deliver a killing blow.
"You don't need to do this," he says, "there's no war anymore. Nobody left to be at war with."
"There is you." And after him there will be his humans, and then the disabled robot and highway assembler, and then I will move on to the next city and the next until none remain.
"The Americas had Cleaners too, you know. We were too good - Oceania is gone, and if there's anyone left in Eurasia I'll be surprised. This is it. The humans I'm protecting might be the last ones."
I tell him that I'm aware of this. He is correct, after all. I find it to be unlikely that the ones who built me survived the onslaught.
"Then why? Your programming must allow for some change of situation, some option for you to abort if the conditions are altered."
"It does," I tell him, "But I choose to do my duty." I lunge at him and spear the metal rod through his chest - it angles upwards just as I intended and cracks his reactor casing; he will be forced into emergency shutdown.
"I choose the same," he says, and the world goes white.
He had another bomb, a larger one. I have no sensory input save for optical in the visible spectrum. I can see parts of me lying thirty feet away, but there is no trace of my nemesis. I can take some comfort in the fact that without him the humans stand no chance; there must be only a handful of them. I had already lowered my estimates, and now after seeing the shape he was in I suspect their numbers are even less. Possibly five. My reactor is stuttering, and I know that soon I will shut down. From the shadows of the city steps a single child. Was this it? Did he really destroy himself to protect one malnourished girl? A hand rests on her shoulder, and I realize there is someone else. Everywhere, between the vines and the twisted stone and metal, I can see pale limbs. How is this possible? They march forward, appearing from the wreckage without a sound to reach for me - a hundred silent and vengeful ghosts.
He has hidden himself well - impressive considering the entourage of humans. The organics are sloppy, easy to track. For the first few years after the war they seemed to throw themselves in front of our weapons. I wonder if this recent difficulty heralds some thinning of the herd, where my fellow cleaners have destroyed the slow and careless and left the society to form out of quiet, discreet beings. Doubtful, since there has barely been enough time for a single new generation to come of age - still, the fact that I am already having problems in following them is both impressive and disturbing. It could be that there are less than the twelve I had estimated.
Proceeding down into a valley caused by the collapse of the underground transit systems, I find a shoe with fresh DNA on it. So close. My nemesis is nearly within my grasp. I have watched traps and ambushes kill off the others from my squadron, crush them before they could see our duty fulfilled and the last traces of the United Americas destroyed. I have received no signal from Eurasia, no communication from other Cleaner crews further south. This may be my burden alone, and I cannot fail. I can smell the humans on the breeze, flowing from a half-collapsed tunnel. Their time is up.
I circle around to get ahead of them and I wait. A heavily damaged IR81 is slumped against a wall nearby and I want to finish it, rip the reactor from its frame, but I force myself to remain hidden. Its ruined legs aren't taking it anywhere, I can return once I have ambushed the humans. An hour passes, and I hear them coming closer, smell them on the air. I can even sense the energy signature of my nemesis. More time passes and I realize something is wrong; they are moving too slowly, and making far too much noise. I charge towards it and break through into the plaza... and find a decoy.
The Highway Assembler is draped in human's clothes, and rumbles along the street acting on some sort of pre-programmed instructions. Once again my nemesis has made a fool of me. I run as fast as I can back to the valley and beyond, searching for them. They have bought more time, but it will not be enough. I will find them, will destroy them. On all fours, running at full speed, I see the tripline too late - cartwheeling for twenty feet before I slam into a wall. A metal rod, torn from the foundation of some building, slams into my right shoulder and expertly slides between armored plates, tearing vital wires and crippling me. I welcome this attack, because it means I am finally face to face with my tormentor after all this time.
He looks terrible. He is military, but outdated; a CM125 without any upgrades. He hurls a block of stone at me that I easily dodge as I pull the metal rod free - I long to launch a missile into him but ammunition has been so hard to find. This fight will be up close and personal. My first thrust falls short as I realize my leg is caught on debris, and he grabs the weapon so that we are both holding it. Pivoting, he jams the barrel of his gauss rifle into the side of my head - damaging both - and then falls as I sweep out with my free leg. I fall as well, but it is planned and I am able to dart my head forward into his neck - my jaws clamp down and sever a pneumatic line that would have been better protected in a newer model.
He thrusts something up against my thorax and I feel a concussive blast - some sort of jury-rigged bomb has peeled back my plating and removed my nemesis' hand. For the moment, neither of us makes a move. I am slightly more damaged, but am also faster and stronger. I need only to restrain him for a moment in order to deliver a killing blow.
"You don't need to do this," he says, "there's no war anymore. Nobody left to be at war with."
"There is you." And after him there will be his humans, and then the disabled robot and highway assembler, and then I will move on to the next city and the next until none remain.
"The Americas had Cleaners too, you know. We were too good - Oceania is gone, and if there's anyone left in Eurasia I'll be surprised. This is it. The humans I'm protecting might be the last ones."
I tell him that I'm aware of this. He is correct, after all. I find it to be unlikely that the ones who built me survived the onslaught.
"Then why? Your programming must allow for some change of situation, some option for you to abort if the conditions are altered."
"It does," I tell him, "But I choose to do my duty." I lunge at him and spear the metal rod through his chest - it angles upwards just as I intended and cracks his reactor casing; he will be forced into emergency shutdown.
"I choose the same," he says, and the world goes white.
He had another bomb, a larger one. I have no sensory input save for optical in the visible spectrum. I can see parts of me lying thirty feet away, but there is no trace of my nemesis. I can take some comfort in the fact that without him the humans stand no chance; there must be only a handful of them. I had already lowered my estimates, and now after seeing the shape he was in I suspect their numbers are even less. Possibly five. My reactor is stuttering, and I know that soon I will shut down. From the shadows of the city steps a single child. Was this it? Did he really destroy himself to protect one malnourished girl? A hand rests on her shoulder, and I realize there is someone else. Everywhere, between the vines and the twisted stone and metal, I can see pale limbs. How is this possible? They march forward, appearing from the wreckage without a sound to reach for me - a hundred silent and vengeful ghosts.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Daily Story 124: Public Relations
"Do you remember when you were in the sixth grade," the angel asked patiently, "and you were working on an electromagnet for the science fair?"
Reverend Hobbs, slack-jawed and nearly drooling in stupefied horror, nodded imperceptibly.
"And then," the radiant being continued, "you found a sandwich that had been left too long at the back of the refrigerator and had grown moldy?"
The entire congregation shifted uneasily in their pews, and Reverend Hobbs pictured the millions watching at home doing the same. This metaphor couldn't be heading anywhere good.
"So you used that sandwich instead of making the magnet, and it went pretty well even though that wasn't your original thought. You got a B-plus, if you recall. Would you have gotten an 'A' if you had built your electromagnet? Maybe. But you still liked the mold project, right?"
Hobbs nodded again, weakly. This was a disaster. The angel of the Lord extended his arms as if to say 'there you have it!' and smiled. Near the back of the stadium-like church someone coughed, but otherwise people were barely even breathing. Hobbs had worked so hard over the years to contact an angel, and the first thing it had said was that God had never planned intelligent life to arise in this universe. No amount of gentle prodding had persuaded him to change his story and say that he had been kidding around.
Reverend Hobbs closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "But when you say this universe was just to test physics... in Genesis, we are told that... well, that God made us in His image."
The angel smiled, and nodded, and said no. "No, sorry. That's... well, let's just say there was creative license taken with the Bible. That, and some translation errors. I mean, you have to understand that when we tried to explain this to your ancestors they were a little confused, and it was a long time before anyone actually wrote it down. I know you've played that 'telephone' game before - it's a lot like that." His smile faltered as he watched Hobbs shake his head. "Well, not exactly like that. Religious teachings are certainly better protected than phrases like 'Jimmy eats his own boogers' you understand, but some drift is still bound to occur. It was actually the angels that were created in the image of humans, not humans in the image of God. If you think about it, it makes a lot more sense that way. God doesn't even have a body, not like you could ever perceive anyway. Saying that some frail four-dimensional creatures were built in the image of the Almighty is pretty silly." He chucked as if expecting everyone else to join in at the absurdity of it, and then noticed that everyone else had a look much like a deer in headlights.
"I'm sensing some displeasure with this whole thing," the Angel said in what was surely the understatement of the century, "and I want to make sure you didn't miss the part where I confirmed that there is, in fact, a God who loves you all very much. Well, again, not love in a way you can really recognize... but that's why He made the angels, as sort of an intermediary. So trust me, the closest thing God's feelings toward you can translate to is love. Love, and a kind of curiosity. I guess 'amusement' is pretty close too. You amuse Him, which is a really positive emotion considering the alternatives." A quiet, unhappy murmuring rippled thought the assembled crowd. After a moment, Reverend Hobbs meekly raised his hand. "What about... our souls?"
"Oh, yes, of course you would be worried about those. Yes, your souls are fine - we keep them filed away for our records in case anything happens to the universe."
"Filed away... in heaven?" Hobbs asked hopefully.
"Well, I think by virtue of being where we keep the souls it could be referred to as heaven, yes," the angel replied, "though I think the more accurate way to describe it would be a kind of filing cabinet. You aren't... awake, or anything. There's not really a need for you to be running around playing harps or anything. You can do that sort of thing down here."
"We were told... there is supposed to be a reward for the faithful, an eternity in paradise where we can be close to God."
The angel considered this. He furrowed his brow, and nodded, and held his chin in his perfect alabaster hand.
"I'll tell you what. Once this whole thing plays out and we get the entropy data, I'll ask if we can reactivate you from storage and put everyone in some sort of heaven-like place. Any... any particular requests?"
Reverend Hobbs felt a weight lift off of him. It just didn't matter anymore. "Have you heard of... Valhalla?"
Reverend Hobbs, slack-jawed and nearly drooling in stupefied horror, nodded imperceptibly.
"And then," the radiant being continued, "you found a sandwich that had been left too long at the back of the refrigerator and had grown moldy?"
The entire congregation shifted uneasily in their pews, and Reverend Hobbs pictured the millions watching at home doing the same. This metaphor couldn't be heading anywhere good.
"So you used that sandwich instead of making the magnet, and it went pretty well even though that wasn't your original thought. You got a B-plus, if you recall. Would you have gotten an 'A' if you had built your electromagnet? Maybe. But you still liked the mold project, right?"
Hobbs nodded again, weakly. This was a disaster. The angel of the Lord extended his arms as if to say 'there you have it!' and smiled. Near the back of the stadium-like church someone coughed, but otherwise people were barely even breathing. Hobbs had worked so hard over the years to contact an angel, and the first thing it had said was that God had never planned intelligent life to arise in this universe. No amount of gentle prodding had persuaded him to change his story and say that he had been kidding around.
Reverend Hobbs closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "But when you say this universe was just to test physics... in Genesis, we are told that... well, that God made us in His image."
The angel smiled, and nodded, and said no. "No, sorry. That's... well, let's just say there was creative license taken with the Bible. That, and some translation errors. I mean, you have to understand that when we tried to explain this to your ancestors they were a little confused, and it was a long time before anyone actually wrote it down. I know you've played that 'telephone' game before - it's a lot like that." His smile faltered as he watched Hobbs shake his head. "Well, not exactly like that. Religious teachings are certainly better protected than phrases like 'Jimmy eats his own boogers' you understand, but some drift is still bound to occur. It was actually the angels that were created in the image of humans, not humans in the image of God. If you think about it, it makes a lot more sense that way. God doesn't even have a body, not like you could ever perceive anyway. Saying that some frail four-dimensional creatures were built in the image of the Almighty is pretty silly." He chucked as if expecting everyone else to join in at the absurdity of it, and then noticed that everyone else had a look much like a deer in headlights.
"I'm sensing some displeasure with this whole thing," the Angel said in what was surely the understatement of the century, "and I want to make sure you didn't miss the part where I confirmed that there is, in fact, a God who loves you all very much. Well, again, not love in a way you can really recognize... but that's why He made the angels, as sort of an intermediary. So trust me, the closest thing God's feelings toward you can translate to is love. Love, and a kind of curiosity. I guess 'amusement' is pretty close too. You amuse Him, which is a really positive emotion considering the alternatives." A quiet, unhappy murmuring rippled thought the assembled crowd. After a moment, Reverend Hobbs meekly raised his hand. "What about... our souls?"
"Oh, yes, of course you would be worried about those. Yes, your souls are fine - we keep them filed away for our records in case anything happens to the universe."
"Filed away... in heaven?" Hobbs asked hopefully.
"Well, I think by virtue of being where we keep the souls it could be referred to as heaven, yes," the angel replied, "though I think the more accurate way to describe it would be a kind of filing cabinet. You aren't... awake, or anything. There's not really a need for you to be running around playing harps or anything. You can do that sort of thing down here."
"We were told... there is supposed to be a reward for the faithful, an eternity in paradise where we can be close to God."
The angel considered this. He furrowed his brow, and nodded, and held his chin in his perfect alabaster hand.
"I'll tell you what. Once this whole thing plays out and we get the entropy data, I'll ask if we can reactivate you from storage and put everyone in some sort of heaven-like place. Any... any particular requests?"
Reverend Hobbs felt a weight lift off of him. It just didn't matter anymore. "Have you heard of... Valhalla?"
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Daily Story 123: Into the Fire
I watch the old lady run out of the room, and I try to get my bearings. I'm in a file room, surrounded by shelves and cabinets. It's definitely not a doctor's office. I was sitting down a minute ago but there's no chair, and that raises some interesting questions about exactly how much of what I'm remembering is real. My ex husband would have attributed this to some form of feminine weakness. It's possible I was imagining him as well, though I don't know what that would say about my subconscious. Probably nothing worse than what actually marrying him said.
He was probably real, and the shelves and files around me feel real. That narrows it down somewhat. It seems safe to say that my insanity was limited to the time in which I was actively hallucinating, but that would include my visit to the doctor since I am clearly not in his office like I should be. That means the first thing I have to do is make an actual doctor's appointment. The imaginary doctor at least seems to have fixed my hallucinations, since the room has stayed the same since I arrived - other than the chair that I was sitting in not being here, and the old lady who acted like I appeared out of nowhere. She was probably just in my head.
I open the door and step out into an average-looking cube farm. It's a lot like the office I work in, but unfortunately not close enough; I'm trespassing. I can see the exit down a short hallway, and so I head that way while trying to look like I belong here. Someone almost runs into me, but he barely even looks up from the scrap of paper he's staring at as he heads outside. I stop in the lobby and watch him looking around nervously, but I'm startled by the receptionist.
"Can I help you?"
I'm at a loss. Too late I realize I could have just said no and left, but now I've taken too long to answer. Logically I know that I can still just walk out, that I'll never see this woman again and I don't care if she thinks I'm nuts, but some strange ingrained sense of social normalcy won't allow it. I ask her if I can use the phone, instead. She lifts it up onto the edge of the desk, and I have to think fast about who to even call. I settle on my friend Stacy, who is less likely than most to ship me off to an institution.
The phone is missing a button. I stare at it for a moment because I don't want to sound like an idiot, but then I can feel the receptionist's eyes boring a hole in my skull so I finally ask.
"The what?" She asks, with a hint of amusement. I repeat myself, asking where the ampersand button is. The hash button is there, the asterisk is there, but no ampersand. How am I supposed to dial anyone?
"So... you think you need to dial an ampersand before you can complete a call? And it's always been this way, on normal phones?" She sounds almost excited. Am I so crazy that I'm just randomly inventing the most basic information? Will shoelaces turn out to be a figment of my imagination next? I look up just in time to see the man who left ahead of me lean towards the sculpture in front of the building and vanish. Just... gone. I think I'm insane. Wait, did I say that out loud?
"Ma'am, I'm sure you're not insane."
Oh, shit.
She's trying to calm me down, but I'm not listening. I turn away from the door and look around me at the office, the phone, everything. It seems so real. The man I just saw vanish walks past me, looking very... there.
"It may sound odd, but I think my boss might be able to help with this." She dials something, something with far too many numbers - at least twelve.
"It's Alice. We have someone here that I think belongs to another branch. Can you get clearance from Mr. Tweed to bring her over? Yes, I'll hold."
She turns back to the books that are laying open in front of her. There are notes scribbled all over the margins. She catches me looking, and smiles.
"Just a... research thing. I'm into codes and riddles. Hidden messages. Though it would be easier if half of it wasn't just nonsense." Suddenly she turns away and continues talking into the phone. "No, mister Tw... Dundee. She doesn't look like a shambling horror." A shambling horror? Either I've just been insulted or this is part of my hallucination.
The vanishing man walks past me yet again, and turns to the receptionist. "Alice, I just threw up so I'm going home, but my car is dead so... can you call me a cab?" She looks up from the call and nods. "Sure thing, Des. Just as soon as... what? Yes, Mr. Dundee. What do you mean, as a control group? Fine. Okay." Alice hangs up and closes the books - one is Through the Looking-Glass and the other is called 'Alice's Adventures Underground' - and also takes a framed picture off of the desk. "Change of plans," she says, "I'm giving both of you a ride."
I try to tell her I'll be fine, that I was just joking about the phone and really I need to get going.
"Really? You do know that you've still got electrodes glued to your head, right?"
Son of a bitch. I try to peel them off, and Alice glances around as if looking for someone. She starts poking at her arm for some reason, almost like typing, and out of nowhere a sort of glowing doorway appears. The man seems stunned and she has to half-shove him through, but before she even tries to convince me I walk in on my own. I'm done fighting it; I'm clearly crazy.
In for a penny, in for a pound.
He was probably real, and the shelves and files around me feel real. That narrows it down somewhat. It seems safe to say that my insanity was limited to the time in which I was actively hallucinating, but that would include my visit to the doctor since I am clearly not in his office like I should be. That means the first thing I have to do is make an actual doctor's appointment. The imaginary doctor at least seems to have fixed my hallucinations, since the room has stayed the same since I arrived - other than the chair that I was sitting in not being here, and the old lady who acted like I appeared out of nowhere. She was probably just in my head.
I open the door and step out into an average-looking cube farm. It's a lot like the office I work in, but unfortunately not close enough; I'm trespassing. I can see the exit down a short hallway, and so I head that way while trying to look like I belong here. Someone almost runs into me, but he barely even looks up from the scrap of paper he's staring at as he heads outside. I stop in the lobby and watch him looking around nervously, but I'm startled by the receptionist.
"Can I help you?"
I'm at a loss. Too late I realize I could have just said no and left, but now I've taken too long to answer. Logically I know that I can still just walk out, that I'll never see this woman again and I don't care if she thinks I'm nuts, but some strange ingrained sense of social normalcy won't allow it. I ask her if I can use the phone, instead. She lifts it up onto the edge of the desk, and I have to think fast about who to even call. I settle on my friend Stacy, who is less likely than most to ship me off to an institution.
The phone is missing a button. I stare at it for a moment because I don't want to sound like an idiot, but then I can feel the receptionist's eyes boring a hole in my skull so I finally ask.
"The what?" She asks, with a hint of amusement. I repeat myself, asking where the ampersand button is. The hash button is there, the asterisk is there, but no ampersand. How am I supposed to dial anyone?
"So... you think you need to dial an ampersand before you can complete a call? And it's always been this way, on normal phones?" She sounds almost excited. Am I so crazy that I'm just randomly inventing the most basic information? Will shoelaces turn out to be a figment of my imagination next? I look up just in time to see the man who left ahead of me lean towards the sculpture in front of the building and vanish. Just... gone. I think I'm insane. Wait, did I say that out loud?
"Ma'am, I'm sure you're not insane."
Oh, shit.
She's trying to calm me down, but I'm not listening. I turn away from the door and look around me at the office, the phone, everything. It seems so real. The man I just saw vanish walks past me, looking very... there.
"It may sound odd, but I think my boss might be able to help with this." She dials something, something with far too many numbers - at least twelve.
"It's Alice. We have someone here that I think belongs to another branch. Can you get clearance from Mr. Tweed to bring her over? Yes, I'll hold."
She turns back to the books that are laying open in front of her. There are notes scribbled all over the margins. She catches me looking, and smiles.
"Just a... research thing. I'm into codes and riddles. Hidden messages. Though it would be easier if half of it wasn't just nonsense." Suddenly she turns away and continues talking into the phone. "No, mister Tw... Dundee. She doesn't look like a shambling horror." A shambling horror? Either I've just been insulted or this is part of my hallucination.
The vanishing man walks past me yet again, and turns to the receptionist. "Alice, I just threw up so I'm going home, but my car is dead so... can you call me a cab?" She looks up from the call and nods. "Sure thing, Des. Just as soon as... what? Yes, Mr. Dundee. What do you mean, as a control group? Fine. Okay." Alice hangs up and closes the books - one is Through the Looking-Glass and the other is called 'Alice's Adventures Underground' - and also takes a framed picture off of the desk. "Change of plans," she says, "I'm giving both of you a ride."
I try to tell her I'll be fine, that I was just joking about the phone and really I need to get going.
"Really? You do know that you've still got electrodes glued to your head, right?"
Son of a bitch. I try to peel them off, and Alice glances around as if looking for someone. She starts poking at her arm for some reason, almost like typing, and out of nowhere a sort of glowing doorway appears. The man seems stunned and she has to half-shove him through, but before she even tries to convince me I walk in on my own. I'm done fighting it; I'm clearly crazy.
In for a penny, in for a pound.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Daily Story 122: There's Always Tomorrow
James was panting and he could hear blood rushing in his ears. He collapsed into the sun-bleached folding chair and allowed the bloody length of pipe to slip from his hand and roll away.
"I'm sorry," he said, "but I need to take a break."
Will leaned against one of the porch's wooden supports and nodded, then gingerly felt his head. They looked out across the wasteland, tumbleweeds and dust devils occasionally breaking the monotony and stillness. The sun seemed to swell and darken as it dropped down the sky, and as it angled to deprive them of the little bit of shade the awning had provided James sighed and stood up again.
"You know," he mused, "On the television when someone hits a guy in the back of the head it just knocks them unconscious the first time. One shot - pow - and they're sleeping like a baby."
Will nodded as he resumed the position, facing away from James on his knees. "That's true, yeah. I'm sorry I'm being so difficult - if it makes you feel any better I'm pretty sure I have a concussion."
James considered this as he hefted the pipe, then shook his head. "No, because the goal wasn't ever really to hurt you - I figured you'd wake up in a few hours with a headache and a bump but no worse for wear. Concussions, those can be nasty. Make you feel sick and confused for days. I'm sorry about that, I'll try for a little longer and then we'll just call it a night."
The sun crept ever lower as the hollow thudding echoed across the landscape. A Jackrabbit finally built up the courage to race towards the noise and disappeared into its burrow under the porch.
"Well, I must be doing something wrong." James offered a hand to Will and hauled him up, supporting him with one shoulder and pulling him into the house.
"Don't say that," Will mumbled, "you're doing it just fine, I must have a thick head."
"Well it's too late for me to make it back home before nightfall now, and I've always been afraid of the dark. Do you mind if I stay over?"
They dropped together onto an ancient couch that coughed up a small cloud of dust and groaned as if about to collapse entirely. Will patted James on the leg and smiled, though he found one side of his mouth wasn't quite doing it right.
"Sure thing. I've got a spare bathtub - I mean bedroom, sorry - and you can help yourself to any food in the... the thing."
"That means a lot, thank you. Let me help you to bed, and in the morning I'll try to rob your place again."
"Of course. But..." Will looked at the faded painting on the wall as if focusing on something a hundred miles away. James waited patiently, but after ten minutes it didn't seem like Will was going to finish his thought. He reached out and shook Will, who blinked a few times and continued. "...but maybe in the morning you could just tie me up?"
After throwing together a meal of baked beans and chicken and cleaning up the floor - Will seemed to have a really hard time getting the food into his mouth - they said their good-nights and headed down the hallway to bed. James found a nightlight and settled in, staring up at the ceiling while he went over a mental shopping list of the items in the house. After a moment there was a tapping on the wall, and he tapped back. Will's voice floated through the plaster, muffled but still audible.
"Never mind about tying me up - I wouldn't want to starve to death if I couldn't get loose."
"That's a good point," James replied, "I tie pretty good knots. So you want I should go back to the other plan, and knock you out?"
"I think that's probably best. Good..."
"Night?"
"Yeah. That."
"I'm sorry," he said, "but I need to take a break."
Will leaned against one of the porch's wooden supports and nodded, then gingerly felt his head. They looked out across the wasteland, tumbleweeds and dust devils occasionally breaking the monotony and stillness. The sun seemed to swell and darken as it dropped down the sky, and as it angled to deprive them of the little bit of shade the awning had provided James sighed and stood up again.
"You know," he mused, "On the television when someone hits a guy in the back of the head it just knocks them unconscious the first time. One shot - pow - and they're sleeping like a baby."
Will nodded as he resumed the position, facing away from James on his knees. "That's true, yeah. I'm sorry I'm being so difficult - if it makes you feel any better I'm pretty sure I have a concussion."
James considered this as he hefted the pipe, then shook his head. "No, because the goal wasn't ever really to hurt you - I figured you'd wake up in a few hours with a headache and a bump but no worse for wear. Concussions, those can be nasty. Make you feel sick and confused for days. I'm sorry about that, I'll try for a little longer and then we'll just call it a night."
The sun crept ever lower as the hollow thudding echoed across the landscape. A Jackrabbit finally built up the courage to race towards the noise and disappeared into its burrow under the porch.
"Well, I must be doing something wrong." James offered a hand to Will and hauled him up, supporting him with one shoulder and pulling him into the house.
"Don't say that," Will mumbled, "you're doing it just fine, I must have a thick head."
"Well it's too late for me to make it back home before nightfall now, and I've always been afraid of the dark. Do you mind if I stay over?"
They dropped together onto an ancient couch that coughed up a small cloud of dust and groaned as if about to collapse entirely. Will patted James on the leg and smiled, though he found one side of his mouth wasn't quite doing it right.
"Sure thing. I've got a spare bathtub - I mean bedroom, sorry - and you can help yourself to any food in the... the thing."
"That means a lot, thank you. Let me help you to bed, and in the morning I'll try to rob your place again."
"Of course. But..." Will looked at the faded painting on the wall as if focusing on something a hundred miles away. James waited patiently, but after ten minutes it didn't seem like Will was going to finish his thought. He reached out and shook Will, who blinked a few times and continued. "...but maybe in the morning you could just tie me up?"
After throwing together a meal of baked beans and chicken and cleaning up the floor - Will seemed to have a really hard time getting the food into his mouth - they said their good-nights and headed down the hallway to bed. James found a nightlight and settled in, staring up at the ceiling while he went over a mental shopping list of the items in the house. After a moment there was a tapping on the wall, and he tapped back. Will's voice floated through the plaster, muffled but still audible.
"Never mind about tying me up - I wouldn't want to starve to death if I couldn't get loose."
"That's a good point," James replied, "I tie pretty good knots. So you want I should go back to the other plan, and knock you out?"
"I think that's probably best. Good..."
"Night?"
"Yeah. That."
Friday, August 14, 2009
Daily Story 121: Process of Elimination
My head is ringing, and when I put a hand to it I feel fresh blood flowing from somewhere. The curtains are glowing pale yellow with early morning light, barely enough to let me see that I'm alone in some sort of hotel room - hotel sheets, hotel paintings, hotel furniture. I stand, leaning against the bed, and as I rise there's something tugging at my skull. A cord. I follow it back to a small device of some sort, a white rectangular screen with a single sentence displayed: "SYNCH ERROR, RETRIEVAL FAILED".
I feel around the base of the cord and there doesn't seem to be a release, so I just pull gently until the plug pops free from my brain. As I tilt my head blood runs stinging into my right eye and beyond, dripping off of my cheekbone to land on the disgusting hotel carpet. I make my way to the bathroom and clean up as best I can, leaving the white counter pink with diluted blood. The cut isn't bad as it turns out, but there's a scar all the way around like the top of my head has been removed - should that leave a scar? Can't they prevent that sort of thing? "They". Hmm. I guess I'm not a doctor.
I look at the rest of myself and it all feels right, familiar. I'm a little cold in only boxer shorts so I press a washcloth against the cut just in case and start looking through drawers. There are some clothes, but I can't really tell much by them. I put some on, a pair of jeans and a plain shirt. I don't see any dirty laundry, and there's no wallet or keys in the nightstand. I wonder if they have a laundry service but from the appearance of the rest of this dump I would doubt it. I turn on the television that's bolted to the dresser, and some woman appears talking about Wall Street. It all sounds like Greek to me; probably not an investor or anything.
The device with the cord still isn't ringing any bells. Something to do with my memory, I'm sure, though I don't know what. There are sirens outside, Doppler effect warping the sound as the cruisers speed by. I'm most likely in a bad part of town. I take a closer look at my clothes to see if they're expensive but I can't really say. There's no way I can call anyone for help until I know more. Something about this whole thing feels unsafe, maybe illegal. The financial news is over now and they've moved on to local stuff. It sounds like I'm in Chicago. Too well known of a city for it to make me remember anything.
I'm pacing, and something catches my attention. A name, but it's already gone. I look at the screen and it's a story about someone they've just found murdered with his brain pulled out. One of the talking heads says something about a possible serial killer and the other counters with a comment about corporate espionage. The dead guy is someone important, the head of a big company. Did they say that or did I know it? Do I work for that company? Or am I a reporter? The device might be part of a hidden camera system, to record what I see for exposes. There's a shot on the screen of crime scene tape, with someone wearing a bulletproof vest and holding a RNZ-6 Gauss rifle - the European model with the folding stock and extended... Oh. Maybe I'm in the military? Or could I be SWAT or something?
I march into the bathroom to wash my face. The cold water is refreshing, and I look myself in the eyes. I'm not involved with that thing on the television. I'll remember any second. There's a smudge of something on my cheek but no soap, so I pull the shower curtain aside to check in there. I find the bar of soap, along with my dirty laundry. It's soaked in blood that I feel certain isn't mine. So I'm guessing not law enforcement then.
I feel around the base of the cord and there doesn't seem to be a release, so I just pull gently until the plug pops free from my brain. As I tilt my head blood runs stinging into my right eye and beyond, dripping off of my cheekbone to land on the disgusting hotel carpet. I make my way to the bathroom and clean up as best I can, leaving the white counter pink with diluted blood. The cut isn't bad as it turns out, but there's a scar all the way around like the top of my head has been removed - should that leave a scar? Can't they prevent that sort of thing? "They". Hmm. I guess I'm not a doctor.
I look at the rest of myself and it all feels right, familiar. I'm a little cold in only boxer shorts so I press a washcloth against the cut just in case and start looking through drawers. There are some clothes, but I can't really tell much by them. I put some on, a pair of jeans and a plain shirt. I don't see any dirty laundry, and there's no wallet or keys in the nightstand. I wonder if they have a laundry service but from the appearance of the rest of this dump I would doubt it. I turn on the television that's bolted to the dresser, and some woman appears talking about Wall Street. It all sounds like Greek to me; probably not an investor or anything.
The device with the cord still isn't ringing any bells. Something to do with my memory, I'm sure, though I don't know what. There are sirens outside, Doppler effect warping the sound as the cruisers speed by. I'm most likely in a bad part of town. I take a closer look at my clothes to see if they're expensive but I can't really say. There's no way I can call anyone for help until I know more. Something about this whole thing feels unsafe, maybe illegal. The financial news is over now and they've moved on to local stuff. It sounds like I'm in Chicago. Too well known of a city for it to make me remember anything.
I'm pacing, and something catches my attention. A name, but it's already gone. I look at the screen and it's a story about someone they've just found murdered with his brain pulled out. One of the talking heads says something about a possible serial killer and the other counters with a comment about corporate espionage. The dead guy is someone important, the head of a big company. Did they say that or did I know it? Do I work for that company? Or am I a reporter? The device might be part of a hidden camera system, to record what I see for exposes. There's a shot on the screen of crime scene tape, with someone wearing a bulletproof vest and holding a RNZ-6 Gauss rifle - the European model with the folding stock and extended... Oh. Maybe I'm in the military? Or could I be SWAT or something?
I march into the bathroom to wash my face. The cold water is refreshing, and I look myself in the eyes. I'm not involved with that thing on the television. I'll remember any second. There's a smudge of something on my cheek but no soap, so I pull the shower curtain aside to check in there. I find the bar of soap, along with my dirty laundry. It's soaked in blood that I feel certain isn't mine. So I'm guessing not law enforcement then.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Daily Story 120: The Teacher's Lounge
There's nothing like a good ogre, is there? You see the way they glisten just a little in the light like that?
That's a troll. Look, it has horns.
You're both wrong... maybe. Does our new host have bad eyes? I can't tell if the horns are part of a helmet or actually growing there.
I'm just waking up I think... How many of us are talking right now? Lord, this is miserable. Does it get better?
You must be the new one. Yes, you get used to it. There's eight of us now, counting yourself.
Eight? That can't be right.
It is. And I'm sure that's an ogre - it's closer now, look at the layer of mucus.
Ogres don't have a mucus layer.
Hold on. There was the original swordsman, and then Barris, and then Moore, and then me.
And after that Flynn and... who came after Flynn? Wait, I did. Sorry.
And then Benton and then Tell. And now this new kid, with the bad eyesight.
I think you switched Barris and Moore.
I'm Moore, and I say he didn't.
Sorry then.
Does everything always happen this slowly?
No, heavens no. Just when something is trying to kill whoever is wearing the glove. Like this troll here.
Ogre.
Giant kobold.
Giant what? There's no such thing.
There is, I killed a whole pack of them once.
Not after you put on the glove or I would have remembered, and before that you were useless in a fight - so either way you're lying.
I'll have to side with Flynn on that, mate.
At any rate it's close enough now, have a look. Huh. Okay, the horns are part of the helmet, my mistake.
Still doesn't look like an ogre though. Hey, Tell - you're the one that died here. Remind us what sort lives in these parts.
Goblins, mainly. Nothing that big. I was killed by a spider, if you recall. Rather embarrassing, actually.
Shame, that. The greatest swordsman in the world, killed by a spider. Still, not as bad as me.
Nothing is as bad as you.
Oh, let's not bring it up.
I didn't, he did! Oh, the ogre or whatever is getting within striking range. Does the new kid even have a sword?
Of course he has a... huh. No sword.
That's awkward.
Okay everyone, look around. We have three more giant kobolds rounding the entrance, we really need a weapon.
I had an arsenal, someone must have taken them while we were sleeping and just left the glove. Worthless graverobbers.
Calm down, more than half of us are grave robbers. Let's see...
Got it. Fireplace poker, right there.
Oh, excellent. Here we go, let's grab him.
Done. Oh, it's heavy! This kid needs to build some muscle.
Bad eyesight, weak arms... speed is decent though. I assume we don't have legs?
No, he's not used to the glove yet. We just have his left arm. Swinging...
Well that settles that - ogres don't have any bones in their noses and I distinctly heard something shatter there.
Ooh, drop the poker mid-swing and pull that spare sword out of the thing's belt. There!
Good call. Here's the disembowelment... done... the other three aren't in range, drat.
We need legs, I could have lunged there. Is he going to turn and run?
No, he's pretty much paralyzed with fear.
Giant kobolds can do that, you know.
Oh, shut up.
Okay, here's the next set. Blocked that easily enough. Let's... oh, dear, I seem to have lodged the sword into that thing's neck. Stuck on a vertebra or something; I had grown used to just slicing clean through.
I know, if he makes it we'll need to make him exercise.
Well he's not left-handed, that's the problem. Speaking of, is the right hand doing something?
Look at that, so it is! Slow like tar compared to us, but it's groping for a weapon. You know, I think I like this kid.
You liked him as soon as he put the glove on. I woke up and you were already talking about him.
Well, there's something wonderful about someone who finds an obviously magical glove on a corpse in an abandoned cottage and slides it right on. A bit stupid, yes, but wonderful nontheless.
He sure did seem upset when he couldn't take it off.
Third one is swinging, and we're losing the sword. Not enough control to spin around him.
Relax, here comes the right hand... There!
Ahh, frying pan to the side of the head. Excellent form, we'll make a master swordsman out of him yet.
Don't we always?
That's a troll. Look, it has horns.
You're both wrong... maybe. Does our new host have bad eyes? I can't tell if the horns are part of a helmet or actually growing there.
I'm just waking up I think... How many of us are talking right now? Lord, this is miserable. Does it get better?
You must be the new one. Yes, you get used to it. There's eight of us now, counting yourself.
Eight? That can't be right.
It is. And I'm sure that's an ogre - it's closer now, look at the layer of mucus.
Ogres don't have a mucus layer.
Hold on. There was the original swordsman, and then Barris, and then Moore, and then me.
And after that Flynn and... who came after Flynn? Wait, I did. Sorry.
And then Benton and then Tell. And now this new kid, with the bad eyesight.
I think you switched Barris and Moore.
I'm Moore, and I say he didn't.
Sorry then.
Does everything always happen this slowly?
No, heavens no. Just when something is trying to kill whoever is wearing the glove. Like this troll here.
Ogre.
Giant kobold.
Giant what? There's no such thing.
There is, I killed a whole pack of them once.
Not after you put on the glove or I would have remembered, and before that you were useless in a fight - so either way you're lying.
I'll have to side with Flynn on that, mate.
At any rate it's close enough now, have a look. Huh. Okay, the horns are part of the helmet, my mistake.
Still doesn't look like an ogre though. Hey, Tell - you're the one that died here. Remind us what sort lives in these parts.
Goblins, mainly. Nothing that big. I was killed by a spider, if you recall. Rather embarrassing, actually.
Shame, that. The greatest swordsman in the world, killed by a spider. Still, not as bad as me.
Nothing is as bad as you.
Oh, let's not bring it up.
I didn't, he did! Oh, the ogre or whatever is getting within striking range. Does the new kid even have a sword?
Of course he has a... huh. No sword.
That's awkward.
Okay everyone, look around. We have three more giant kobolds rounding the entrance, we really need a weapon.
I had an arsenal, someone must have taken them while we were sleeping and just left the glove. Worthless graverobbers.
Calm down, more than half of us are grave robbers. Let's see...
Got it. Fireplace poker, right there.
Oh, excellent. Here we go, let's grab him.
Done. Oh, it's heavy! This kid needs to build some muscle.
Bad eyesight, weak arms... speed is decent though. I assume we don't have legs?
No, he's not used to the glove yet. We just have his left arm. Swinging...
Well that settles that - ogres don't have any bones in their noses and I distinctly heard something shatter there.
Ooh, drop the poker mid-swing and pull that spare sword out of the thing's belt. There!
Good call. Here's the disembowelment... done... the other three aren't in range, drat.
We need legs, I could have lunged there. Is he going to turn and run?
No, he's pretty much paralyzed with fear.
Giant kobolds can do that, you know.
Oh, shut up.
Okay, here's the next set. Blocked that easily enough. Let's... oh, dear, I seem to have lodged the sword into that thing's neck. Stuck on a vertebra or something; I had grown used to just slicing clean through.
I know, if he makes it we'll need to make him exercise.
Well he's not left-handed, that's the problem. Speaking of, is the right hand doing something?
Look at that, so it is! Slow like tar compared to us, but it's groping for a weapon. You know, I think I like this kid.
You liked him as soon as he put the glove on. I woke up and you were already talking about him.
Well, there's something wonderful about someone who finds an obviously magical glove on a corpse in an abandoned cottage and slides it right on. A bit stupid, yes, but wonderful nontheless.
He sure did seem upset when he couldn't take it off.
Third one is swinging, and we're losing the sword. Not enough control to spin around him.
Relax, here comes the right hand... There!
Ahh, frying pan to the side of the head. Excellent form, we'll make a master swordsman out of him yet.
Don't we always?
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Daily Story 119: Armed Robbery
The below is very long; I apologize. It was originally written for the Machine of Death project, but they didn't want it.
---
I didn't want to use the Machine; I wanted my death to be a surprise. I've always been a worrier, and I was sure that once I knew how I was going to die I would be neurotic for the rest of my life. I know that I can't avoid my fate, but I never would have stopped trying - so it's a little ironic that I didn't avoid getting the reading even though that WAS in my power. I thought about it. I knew that I could tell the nice man at the insurance company that it was against my religion and he would be forced to figure out my rates some other way. This was even technically true, although it's also against my religion to have sex outside of marriage, use birth control, use the Lord's name in vain, and skip church. I do all of those things most Sundays. I'm a healthy twenty-eight year old guy, no real history of anything, so I probably could have gotten a good deal on life insurance even without the reading from the Machine. Really there was no reason to do it at all, but somehow it pulled at me like a moth towards an open flame - or, less melodramatically, like a starving college student to a slice of pizza. One that may or may not contain anchovies hidden below the cheese.
Instead of actually resisting I imagined resisting. I pictured telling the insurance clerk that I wouldn't do it, at which point he would insist, and I would make an impassioned speech about religious freedom. He would try to sneak a blood sample, but I would catch him and throw the machine to the ground, smashing it. The machine would smoke and sizzle for a moment before spitting out an entire roll of paper with 'ERROR' down its length. I would sue the company for trying to force me to know my destiny, and of course I would win. Already rich, I would go on tour to promote my new book, "Just Say No to Fate". I would be an instant celebrity, be surrounded by women, and live forever. All this went through my head in the time it took for the Machine to process my blood sample and spit out the tiny slip of paper with my "mortality analysis" on it. It was as vague as all of the predictions were, giving no real information; I wasn't going to be able to avoid it. On the other hand, it wasn't 'WATER' - I actually know someone who was handed that, and just thinking about it turned me into a wreck immediately. Water? What the hell does that mean? I can't avoid water, I need water to live! Am I going to drown? Be skewered by an icicle? More than seventy percent of the Earth's surface is covered in the instrument of my death! So mine could have been a lot worse; mine just said 'ARMED ROBBERY'.
I went through most of the Kübler-Ross model's stages of grief, although I don't feel like I ever really hit 'anger' except in passing. Denial hit me first, which I'm guessing is common; I had a daydream where I would be in a bank making a deposit when sinister-looking commandos would rush in and fire automatic weapons into the air. They would yell for everyone to lie down and shut up, go around collecting jewelry and cell phones - but I would go unnoticed behind a particularly healthy ficus. The cashiers would fill bags with money, everything would be going okay, and then one of the badguys would decide to rape some beautiful woman from the crowd. Not able to let him get away with this, I would lunge out and hit him over the head with a paperweight - not that anyone actually uses paperweights anymore - and grab his gun as he fell. One of the others would turn and raise his machinegun, but I would shoot him between the eyes. Two more would start shooting, one on either side of me, but with a leap I would slide across a convenient desk (the same one I had grabbed the paperweight from I guess) and, in slow motion, shoot them mid-slide as I dropped onto the far side of the desk, safe behind cover. One of the men would throw down his weapons and run for it, but the last one - the evil mastermind - would shoot him in the back for his cowardice. I would shoot at the boss at that same moment, blasting the gun out of his hand and forcing him to attack me with his combat knife. The battle would be fierce, but in the end I would get him with a letter-opener - presumably because I have some sort of subconscious obsession with obsolete office equipment. The woman that I had saved would throw her arms around me and kiss me passionately, and the other patrons of the bank would stand up and applaud. The next time I tried to use the Machine it would just spit out a blank piece of paper, letting me know that I had defeated fate itself. Yes.
Depression came next, because the five stages of grief are really more of a guideline than anything, and I found myself sobbing on my couch because I had wanted to stop by the bank and simply couldn't bring myself to go anywhere near one. I also couldn't use an ATM, go to the mall (too many jewelry stores), or go on the big Las Vegas trip some of my friends were planning. I found that I could order most things I needed online - even groceries - and so for about a month I worked from home and turned down all the good-natured attempts to get me out to the bar for karaoke. There was only one problem with this situation, which was that I was lonely. I'm sure I could have found a way to order a prostitute just like I had ordered my groceries, but that wasn't really what I wanted. I wanted a girlfriend. I had lost my last one just before using the Machine, for the usual stupid reasons. I could have called her, but I knew she was already seeing someone else. Besides, even if I could find an available ex-girlfriend it was unlikely that I could lure her to my house. She would want to go out. Did movie theaters get robbed? Probably. Must have happened at least once.
That was the thought that moved me on to bargaining. Cars crash all the time, right? That's one of the most common predictions from the Machine. That and heart attacks. Even before the Machine, everyone knew that cars killed people more often than most other things. And yet they kept driving. It was some sort of risk analysis. Yes, driving can get you killed. But is the risk of death worth making it easy for me to go to the store for some peanut butter? On the one hand, I don't want to die. On the other hand, there's no way I'm walking all the way to the store just for a jar of mashed nuts. I'll take the car. We make this choice all the time, deciding that delicious, creamy peanut butter is worth risking death for - just not worth the physical effort of walking. So I made a deal with God - who was probably a little surprised to hear from me after all this time - that went something like this: You let me survive going places with a low risk of armed robbery, like the grocery store, and I'll go to church every Sunday until I die. Armed robbery of churches has to be fairly uncommon. In addition to this, when I felt particularly nervous I would add onto the agreement with the Almighty - God, if you let me live to fifty, I promise I'll walk right into a bank on my fiftieth birthday just to give you a fair shot at me. Once the nervousness passed, I would adjust the deal up to sixty-five.
This got me out of the house, but I wasn't to the 'acceptance' stage yet. In fact, I wasn't really even past depression and denial. It was a sort of ongoing cycle, waking up with denial, having a fit of depression before I left the house, and trying to convince God that carjacking wasn't really the same as armed robbery the whole drive to work. I dated some, but after the second girl to recognize my symptoms and point me towards a support group I put women on hold. It wasn't as bad as I had pictured, my heavy-duty breakdown had only lasted for five weeks rather than the rest of my life, but this low-grade discomfort and nervousness was still a problem. I started to think of a reason for someone to rob the building I was in at gunpoint, no matter where I was. What if some street thug, high on... well, on whatever it is that people get high on these days, decides to rob my doctor's office for more drugs while I'm getting my throat looked at? What if he's so high he robs the church I'm at because he thought it looked like a doctor's office? It could happen. Heck, someone in a convenience store could fire his gun off to let the clerk know he was serious, and the bullet could land a mile away - right in my brain. The only thing that kept me going out during this paranoid phase was the fear of home invasion. These things happen ALL THE TIME.
I thought about going to the support groups. Obviously I wasn't the only one having this problem. They would listen, and nod, and talk about feelings. I would cry about my abandonment issues from my childhood, explain that my father had left my mother when I was only two, and they would pull me into the group hug. They would offer kind words and try to guide me through this troubled time, explaining that my fear of death is deeply tied to my father's departure - his disappearance from my life being like an unresolved death. At that point I would sob and tell them yes, yes, finally someone who understands - but I'd probably lose my composure and start laughing, and they would realize I was making fun of them. I would admit that my parents are still happily married and the whole group would chase me out the door, throwing the little plate of free cookies at my head. It would be a bonding experience for them, but wouldn't really help my mental state and might bruise the back of my poor, tender skull.
It was this tendency of mine to drift off into a complex and silly fantasy world that caused me to wander into an alley without noticing. I thought it went through, but there was a chain-link fence blocking my way. When I turned around, he was there. He didn't look particularly desperate to me. He didn't look like a junkie either. Maybe his hair was a little greasy, but his clothes looked new and he was clean. The gun was shaking a little in his hand, but no more than you would expect from pre-crime jitters. It was a nice-looking gun. I didn't even hear him ask for my money the first time, my heart was pounding and blood was rushing in my ears. I wanted to fight back, or run, or do anything but stand there looking stupid. He asked a second time - could have been the third, for all I know - and I found myself reaching slowly for my wallet. I thought of myself back in the insurance office, letting him take my blood and look into my future while I imagined resisting. I felt spineless, hopeless, and I knew I shouldn't be calmly obeying this man. Why should I hand him my wallet if I already knew he was going to kill me? I should scratch his face, make sure the police have DNA evidence. I should throw my wallet over the fence just to make his life harder. I should have - but as usual, I did what I was told. Handed him my wallet, put my hand back in the air. He looked at my watch, ran his eyes up and down my body as if window shopping. Then he turned and ran.
I stood in that same spot for an eternity, hands in the air. Surely he was coming back for me. This was how I was going to die, so it was only a matter of time. I might have stood there all night, but after a while my arms got tired. I felt sick, felt like throwing up. My body had been so ready for something to happen that it wasn't sure what to do with all the excess energy. The nausea was joined by exhaustion and giddiness at the same time, and I sat down right there in the alley and giggled. I couldn't stop. If it's possible to die from adrenaline overdose, I must have been right on the edge. I stayed there for about an hour, just letting my body calm down at its own pace, and then stood up and walked out onto the street. The stores I passed just didn't seem scary anymore. I didn't suspect that everyone I passed was holding a concealed weapon behind their shopping bags. I had faced death, and lived. I'm not naive; I know that the Machine is always right. When I die, it will be in some way due to an armed robbery. I'm not immortal, and if I use the Machine again the slip of paper won't be blank. But not all cars crash, not all banks get robbed, and not all muggers kill the person they're mugging (what an excellent word - 'mugging'). I may still avoid some of the most dangerous places the same way someone who is allergic to dogs avoids hanging out at the vet's office, but I won't be afraid to be alive. The Machine isn't out to get you. It's not stalking behind you with a scythe. We all know death is out there somewhere, but he's in no hurry and you shouldn't be either.
I imagine myself, at the age of one hundred and fifteen. I've got terminal cancer. My wife, children, and grandchildren are all with me and we're celebrating my birthday. The banner over the cake says both 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY' and 'BON VOYAGE', and everyone is laughing, telling stories about me, and hugging me. I grab one last piece of cake, get into the car, and tell it to take me to the bank. The cars will drive themselves by then. I'll totter into the bank, a frail old man, and when I get to the front of the line I'll smile at the teller and pull out a gun. This is a hold-up.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Daily Story 118: Escher Labs
From the Desk of Doctor Meyers
Just for the record, in case we never figure out how to leave the lab and run out of air or otherwise perish and Hastings insists that we did this to ourselves... It started with a harmless little prank last week. I turned the room upside-down so that Hastings would walk in and be on the ceiling - it was simple enough to do but he didn't know Johnson and I had finished the gravity manipulator so his face was priceless as we acted confused and demanded to know how he'd gotten up there.
It could have been left at that, probably. Instead Johnson curved the hallways so that you couldn't even tell when you transitioned from the floor to the walls, causing Hastings to walk into the break room sideways and fall to the ground. We laughed, played the tape back on a loop. For research purposes. Hastings tried to shrug it off, but because he was never the most professional of us he wanted revenge. We assumed he would do something stupid, maybe make it so the gravity flipped in the toilet when you tried to flush. He had something much trickier in mind.
I am ashamed and humbled to admit that I still don't know how he did it - but quite frankly I wouldn't be surprised if he doesn’t know himself. Maybe it all got out of hand. All I know is that when I try to leave the lab I just enter it from the other side. Johnson got frustrated after an hour of waiting for Hastings to show up and he actually smashed a hole through the wall - and fell out of the ceiling. The window appears to be looking up through the drainage grate in the floor, so that's no help.
On the plus side, we've invented a new version of HORSE using my shoe instead of a basketball. The whiteboard has me at HO, and we're taking a break while Johnson looks for somewhere to urinate that he's relatively sure won't just spit it back out. I've determined that if I throw my shoe through the door just right I should be able to get it to drop down the drain... if I do that really carefully I might be able to get it to pass close enough to the hole Johnson made after coming out the window that the gravity pulls it down from the ceiling. Let's see him make that shot!
At any rate, I say this has gone far enough and that when (if?) Hastings lets us out we should congratulate him, pat him on the back, and move on. Johnson disagrees. He says that he's starting to suspect how the room is working and thinks if he can get a look at whatever is powering it he can make it so Hastings can't so much as take a step without bumping into himself from four directions. I told him if he can write a proposal that outlines the scientific merits of it I would go in with him - so wherever you are, Hastings, you had better turn this thing off before we finish our game of HORSE - I've seen Johnson slap together twenty page grant requests in under ten minutes.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Daily Story 117: Other Spaces
I can feel it; the change has started. Suddenly the universe has slipped slightly out of focus. I go into the livingroom to get my backpack while it still exists - I have just enough time to add a sack lunch I was making. I'm relived to see that the change is coming along nicely; I started the Shift a bit too early so I was worried the new reality would jerk as it adjusted but everything is smooth as the worlds overlap and switch places. The carpet is a little more brown, and the cards that I left on the table after my game of solitaire are starting to curl at the edges. There's no glass in the windows anymore - and in a way there never was. The floor is dirty. Pine needles are showing through. The cards are looking pretty strange now, but it's such a gradual process, so cleanly done, that you wouldn't be able to say exactly when they become leaves, or when the table they were on got so grey and uneven. Only the walls are somewhat jarring; First the paint is different, then they bulge strangely - that much I can follow - but at some point they stop being walls and start being trees. Even that is nearly seamless as long as you don't watch the transition too closely. Something seems to click; reality is back in focus.
I sit down on the rock that part of me still thinks of as being my table, and I open my backpack. Everything is there - I knew it would be, but I had to check. After taking a swig of my water, I start through the woods towards the village. The forest is peaceful and I'm not in a hurry, so I take my time winding along the path. I'm tempted once again to turn and go the other way, explore the dense tangle of trees, but even though I think about it I continue walking on the trail until the forest comes to an end. As always, the view at the edge is amazing; the world drops off suddenly at a ninety-degree angle, leaving the path nowhere to go but down a sheer rock cliff. Beyond the edge, the sea of clouds stretches as far as the eye can see, interrupted only by pillars of rock capped with green - forest-topped towers of stone like the one I arrived on. I head down the carved steps that angle down the cliff, staying close to the wall to guard against the strong winds that whip around me. The steps wrap partway around the column, and I hike for about fifteen minutes before I reach the village. It sits just above the cloud level, so that during high tide you can't tell where the land ends. The village sticks out on a huge ledge like a mushroom on the side of a tree, overlooking the endless ocean of vapor. They say going below the clouds is death, and while I'm sure it's just superstition, I can't help but wonder if there's some story behind it - if they've found a way to travel below. I want more than anything to see it - it must be dark down there, with the permanent cloud cover, but I'm sure I could find some night-vision goggles online. I've tried to Shift down there, but the planes won't align right anywhere but in the clearing on top of the pillar so it would be like stepping into an empty elevator shaft - I'd get to the bottom floor, but would be in no condition to enjoy it.
Everyone in the village is at the fire. I sneak quietly between huts until I can see them in a circle around the flames, singing and dancing. They've started earlier than normal; there's still some light in the sky. I don't want to disturb them, so I sit on the ground and eat my sack lunch. The dancing continues for half an hour, and finally everyone stops to get drinks and rest. Without hesitation I step forward and greet them - they slap me on the back and hand me a home-made cup filled with their special brew of alcohol, one drop of which is enough to peel the paint from every wall in my house. All eyes are on me as I pull presents out from my backpack - blue jeans (almost everyone in the village has a pair now), some blankets, and a new lighter to replace the one that got dropped over the edge. They cheer and thank me, offer once again to adopt me into their tribe, and I decline as always; I'm not ready for the arranged marriage that would come with the deal. We celebrate the fact that everyone is healthy, that I brought some Levi's, that they caught a pig - nothing in particular, and later one of the younger men comes to me. He's clearly drunk but very serious and keeps checking over his shoulder. I can't quite remember his name, but before I have a chance to embarrass myself by asking he holds a hand over his mouth to indicate silence. He checks to see if anyone is nearby, and finally asks if I am still interested in the world beneath the clouds. I tell him I am, and he whispers to me in their language, "The stars of the heavens shine below the clouds at night - I have seen them." I beg him to tell me more, but he will only glance nervously at the cave that leads to the village's water supply and mumble, "The stars, spread out in a spider's web..."
I will see it for myself. I will. The drunken villager has gotten me too excited, too agitated, to sleep. I begin the hike back to the clearing, and the quicker but almost infinitely stranger trip back to my livingroom.
I sit down on the rock that part of me still thinks of as being my table, and I open my backpack. Everything is there - I knew it would be, but I had to check. After taking a swig of my water, I start through the woods towards the village. The forest is peaceful and I'm not in a hurry, so I take my time winding along the path. I'm tempted once again to turn and go the other way, explore the dense tangle of trees, but even though I think about it I continue walking on the trail until the forest comes to an end. As always, the view at the edge is amazing; the world drops off suddenly at a ninety-degree angle, leaving the path nowhere to go but down a sheer rock cliff. Beyond the edge, the sea of clouds stretches as far as the eye can see, interrupted only by pillars of rock capped with green - forest-topped towers of stone like the one I arrived on. I head down the carved steps that angle down the cliff, staying close to the wall to guard against the strong winds that whip around me. The steps wrap partway around the column, and I hike for about fifteen minutes before I reach the village. It sits just above the cloud level, so that during high tide you can't tell where the land ends. The village sticks out on a huge ledge like a mushroom on the side of a tree, overlooking the endless ocean of vapor. They say going below the clouds is death, and while I'm sure it's just superstition, I can't help but wonder if there's some story behind it - if they've found a way to travel below. I want more than anything to see it - it must be dark down there, with the permanent cloud cover, but I'm sure I could find some night-vision goggles online. I've tried to Shift down there, but the planes won't align right anywhere but in the clearing on top of the pillar so it would be like stepping into an empty elevator shaft - I'd get to the bottom floor, but would be in no condition to enjoy it.
Everyone in the village is at the fire. I sneak quietly between huts until I can see them in a circle around the flames, singing and dancing. They've started earlier than normal; there's still some light in the sky. I don't want to disturb them, so I sit on the ground and eat my sack lunch. The dancing continues for half an hour, and finally everyone stops to get drinks and rest. Without hesitation I step forward and greet them - they slap me on the back and hand me a home-made cup filled with their special brew of alcohol, one drop of which is enough to peel the paint from every wall in my house. All eyes are on me as I pull presents out from my backpack - blue jeans (almost everyone in the village has a pair now), some blankets, and a new lighter to replace the one that got dropped over the edge. They cheer and thank me, offer once again to adopt me into their tribe, and I decline as always; I'm not ready for the arranged marriage that would come with the deal. We celebrate the fact that everyone is healthy, that I brought some Levi's, that they caught a pig - nothing in particular, and later one of the younger men comes to me. He's clearly drunk but very serious and keeps checking over his shoulder. I can't quite remember his name, but before I have a chance to embarrass myself by asking he holds a hand over his mouth to indicate silence. He checks to see if anyone is nearby, and finally asks if I am still interested in the world beneath the clouds. I tell him I am, and he whispers to me in their language, "The stars of the heavens shine below the clouds at night - I have seen them." I beg him to tell me more, but he will only glance nervously at the cave that leads to the village's water supply and mumble, "The stars, spread out in a spider's web..."
I will see it for myself. I will. The drunken villager has gotten me too excited, too agitated, to sleep. I begin the hike back to the clearing, and the quicker but almost infinitely stranger trip back to my livingroom.
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