A Simple Cog
The door slammed hard into the plaster wall and knocked down a few errant portraits before swinging back just as violently. The door smacked the man following behind the baron right in the chest, staggering him back. Shaking his head, the older man managed to clear his head and burst through the door.
"Baron, I insist! Please, don't-"
"We have no choice, Flarius," the baron didn't look back as he spoke in his cultured English accent, practiced before a mirror since he was eight. The young baron stopped in a hallway and smacked one of the gas sconces. It swung down and a loud booming rang out. Flarius shuddered as the baron turned two others and the floor sank down into stairs leading below.
"B-But, my lord, your father said this was only for emergencies!"
The younger man's eyes flashed as he spun around.
"And what do you call an army heading inland?"
"You don't know-"
"I know what an army is when I see it," snapped the baron. Without giving the older man a chance to speak, he raced down the stairs. Flarius hurried down the stairs as fast as his aging bones could move.
He only made it half way before he heard light footsteps coming down the stairs after him. Looking up, he saw a familiar face of his personal maid, a gamine he picked up from the streets of Paris. She made to help him down the stairs.
"No, Gisele, try to stop him. He can't ever turn it on."
"Yes, master."
She slipped away from him and raced after the baron, the tapping of her black slippers fading quickly. He swallowed hard, dreading the future and hurried down the stairs as fast as he could.
At the bottom, he came to a hallway lined with copper pipes. Heat boiled off every surface. His wool suit, perfectly appropriate for early October, hung heavily on his shoulders as he hurried to the end. By the time he reached it, he had to lean against a brass railing to peer down the shaft into darkness. He grunted and tugged on the call chain. In the depths of the shaft, two gas lights glowed as an elevator rose for him. Still gaping for breath, he winced at the sight of a bit of Gisele's dress clinging to one of the many pipes.
"Be safe, girl."
The elevator rose up and Flarius' mouth dropped as he saw an armed guard standing on it. Armed with a saber and a new rifle, it took him a second to recognize the man.
"Jacob!?"
Jacob just nodded. Panting, Flarius stepped on the elevator and Jacob flipped the switch. Half a century old hydraulics rumbled and the elevator dropped quickly. Flarius watched the endless pipes and gauges flash by.
When he spoke, he tried to be as casual sounding as possible. It belayed the furiousness of his mind spinning.
"When did he buy it?"
"Three months ago."
Flarius frowned unhappily at the revelation. Around him, the heat cooled down but it was replaced with the sound of immense machinery rumbling deep in the caverns below the baron's mansion.
"Thirsty?"
The guard just grinned. Flarius reached into his pocket. Jacob stepped back, hand dropping to his saber. The steward pulled out his flask.
"It's peach brandy."
Flarius left it with Jacob and he hurried down a musty tunnel. As he entered the brass and iron control room, he realized the baron waited for him.
"Flarius, ready for history?"
The older man leaned against the railing.
"Please don't do this."
"It is for the safety of England."
"Your father said to use this only," he almost choked out the word, "when all of England was at stake, not just your barony."
"How do you know this isn't a surprise attack by the Germans?"
"You don't know who is coming."
The younger man's eyes narrowed.
"I know it in my heart."
"Young hearts make many mistakes."
"And old ones don't make enough!"
Flarius reached out to stop him, but the baron triumphantly yanked on the final lever and activated the enigmatic machine. Pressure built up as the room began to turn around on massive gears. Fear and sweat dripped down the older man's back as he felt the caverns rumbling, dust and steam rising up everywhere.
Then, an explosion as springs snapped and bolts sheared apart. Steam tanks ruptured and hydraulics exploded in the darkness. Something shot out of the darkness and then Flarius only saw light.
----
He groaned as he opened his eyes. Water dripped from every surface as he tried to remember where he was. The hard metal floor dug into his back and Giselle knelt over him, blood dripping from her shoulder.
"What happened?"
She smiled sheepishly, "It broke down."
She help him to sit up and he looked around at the now silent control room.
"Who knew that his father would have gotten anything wrong?"
She spoke up softly, "Um, begging the pardon, master, he didn't make no mistake."
He looked over to see her holding a simple cog between two bloody fingers.
"I hope we did the right thing, girl."
"You promised his father."
He reached up with a soft smile, to rub his thumb against a smudge on her soft cheek.
"A promise is a promise. Made over a lager in the middle of the night, but thank you for helping me keep it."
Arthur
Arthur was the kind of man who, if you asked him how he was, might say "Fine, and you?" with the sort of politeness that indicates he neither approves of or is concious of his response. His response is the result of 31 years of social conditioning, finely tuned through the complex systems of family, strangers, friends and co-workers. Complex the system may be, the results generally fall within one area on a politeness graph: "Automatic indifference and respect".
Today another man, who's social conditioning result falls into the 1% range of social conditioning which develops the same chemicals and responses in a section of the graph at the Steinmar-Renard Institute for Human Social Psychology as "Psychotic", asked Arthur how he was, and Arthur's conditioning prevented him from detecting the edge of violence in his voice.
"Fine, and you?" Arthur's mouth formed the words automatically. A full two seconds slipped by as his conciousness became aware of what his cerebral cortex had known for a while: This man had wielded a pistol, and he was smiling calmly.
"Just dandy. Why don't you come have a walk with me?"
Arthur's memory conjured projections of pain and discomfort as he explained to his associates why he was late and why his wallet with all of its credit cards and dollar bills no longer existed inside his pockets. Another part of his memory flashed images of a gravestone with "Arthur" printed on it in with unflinching accuracy. This projection of the future reached Arthur's conciousness as an overwhelming feeling to not worry so much about being late to his meeting and shift his weight and his focus to the smiling stranger with the strangely silent metal object in one hand.
"Ah, ok".
Arthur's motor cortex propelled him towards the alley while the new stranger (who was now the focus of his world, consuming his virtual reality) persists in broadcasting a calm, unafraid smile, grinning at the world and the facets of its strange reality. Something inside Arthur's grey matter clicks, and he attempts to gain knowledge so that, even if he is a sheep being led to a slaughter, he will at least know where he will be killed. "Where are we going?" his mouth asks, with sincerity and astonishing politeness.
His captor's smile dissipates for enough milliseconds for Arthur's brain to become aware that his question sparked nervousness and uncertianity. Arthur's mind, after jumping from several theories, ended at the conclusion that questing for more certianity might paradoxically raise the level of uncertianity in his situation. Flipping a coin when standing at gunpoint to determine if your captor will shoot you or not is a terrible position to be in, and Arthur processed that his survival chances would be higher if the coin is never flipped again by never giving this stranger a chance to decide if he wished to shoot Arthur by not giving any uncertianity to the stranger's situation by asking questions.
The stranger's smile was corrected well before Arthur arrived at this conclusion, giving him a moment to reflect that maybe he hadn't really said anything at all, or that the stranger was indifferent to questions. Arthur's mind began wandering even more, asking questions to himself such as "Has this stranger done this before? How did he get a gun in the city? Who did he work for?".
Arthur continued walking towards the stranger and his questions ceased being asked when the stranger pulled the trigger.
Earthblades Don't Mourn for Burnmules
We fucked meat plants into the soil on Sunday. By Thursday they were heavy with sirloin, shank, and liver. If Lulu Bell hadn't broke a hoof on a diamond the size of a Red Russet, we'd have had another square kilo of grade USA Choice. Goddamn last month's root crop! Pa hates only locusts more than harvest tailings.
Lulu Bell didn't want my sympathy nor my frustration. She wanted her carrot. Her head contended with her tether to the pen while I worked on her. I caved in and gave two carrots. With them chomped, I checked her fever. Pa'd done an awful job bandaging her. Hoof smelled like it should've been washed and redressed. She needed to be watered. I dreamed of the days of the Great Plains aquifer. Pa said in his childhood, they hardly had to drill a hundred meters down to tap that pure source of million year old rain.
I clunked my wooden shoes two clicks away from our soddie barn and home. Hiking to Canal Corp's branch office, wore my callused feet like iron cat tongues. There, I groveled, licked toes and sucked sand. The irrigation manager wanted my cunt, but he settled for that diamond still dotted with mule blood. Eventually, he called into a speaking tube. Someone, somewhere pressed a button guarded deep within adobe walls. If I raced back, I might catch the water-allotment before Pa could imagine himself taking a bath. He'd wasted last week's ration on a hand-made, canvas slip-n-slide. My feet were bleeding by the time I returned to water Lulu Bell.
"Pa!" I kicked off my dutches. "Put down the ax. Lulu Bell just needs some water. She'll recover in a week and some days."
"Aw, I weren't gonna kill it, just hack off 'er forelock and replace it with a wheel." Pa reconsidered his grip on his tool. "Dad-burn mule! Had to go lame right before the turns to fallow."
"We'll make our plowshares turn those furrows, somehow. Maybe rent a tortoise for a week. Me 'n you still got blood harvest to pack and freeze." I punched our DoA-code into the hand pump and drew a pail of water. Pa drooled.
"There'll be enough for a bath later, if you don't waste it washing your hands before. Go start dinner."
"Sure you don't want mule hocks?" He licked his lips. "Come on, give papa a sip before that crippled beast touches it."
I held the pail up to my chest. He slurped and sucked and nearly drank a third. I followed with my own thirst and then topped up the pail. I kicked Pa out of the barn.
"Sorry, Lulu Belle. Don't listen to that babbling codger." I undressed and bathed her wound. I massaged her forelock. Black blood oozed out.
My breath clogged behind my breasts. I choked. Even the ax wouldn't have been a mercy. The tight air in my lungs squealed out long and soft. My nose snuffled and my eyes submerged. I had to look away. My hands began wiping my cheeks. I ran balling to the sod house. I ran until our straw tick mattress smothered me.
Pa whispered in the kitchen. "Fever ain't gonna go down. Saw it in her eyes. Saw it on her tongue. Saw it in her shit." He abandoned the hearth kettle and plunked down at the table.
The next day we called the vet. We didn't have the right kind of money for animal antibiotics. I paid what I could. Lulu Belle didn't suffer.
A shiny black stationwagon stopped by soon after. Mule skinner said he shouldn't pay as much as he did, but it was enough to rent that tortoise. Stupid creatures, huge, slow, tough.
---
We were turning expired meat plants back under the soil, when a dusty, well-dressed man walked up to me. A great leather suitcase hung from his hand. "Ma-am," he tipped his hat. "Let me interest you in a bargain priced line of fine Europa bath salts."
Pa laughed.
Ginkgos Gone, Gynoids Come
Project Quietus. A rumour about a state-run attack that spread silently through the network. Thirteen weeks ago, Sarah first heard of it. Two more seconds and the operation will get launched. Two more seconds and she will know what it is about. Thirteen weeks ago, her husband died. She didn't leave her computer more than thrice a day since then. Only shortly for necessities. She doesn't drink much, she doesn't like to flush the toilet. She has to hear it all the day, water, falling down the pipe. In a skyscraper you're never alone. Cheap insulation. Shabby. The room looks shabby. Wired. Dark. She turns her head, her long blond hair strokes her face. A longing look on the picture of her husband. One more second.
An obliging and honest man. Found a grave security gap in the servers of the National Cyberspace Forces. Went to the police department to report from it. Blundered into an assault of rebels. Was shot by a police officer. The report said, his head was in the way. Sarah knew, it were his ears. She doesn't know what corruption scandal it was about. There are simply too many. Probably censorship, probably the network barrier, probably a failed delivery, probably the so-called elections. Doesn't matter. The rebels got killed. The certain police officer got two of them. The certain police officer got a promotion. A look on the screen, longing for vengeance, no more seconds, sabotage.
Operation deciduation. Target: The Ginkgo shrine. Time remaining: Four minutes. "A damned tree". These are all her thoughts. "A damned tree". With anger she strikes on the table. A thud. Somewhere a book must have fallen from the desk. She stands up, looks behind it and there it is, an old photo album. She didn't even know it existed. The page shows a picture with a familiar person, her grandmother, Anna Crusis. In the background, her orchard. Suddenly she remembers her childhood. Nature. Hastily she leafs through the book and remembers more and awakes and realizes and sees another familiar person. It's him. Beneath a cherry tree. Blossoming. The place where they first met. Time remaining: Three minutes.
In the next second the echoes of hundred pressed keys resound in the room. Using the security gap her husband found, she enters the network. Time to act. Her blue eyes are gliding faster than electrons over the screen. The ginkgo shrine. Home of the last remaining tree. The only one that survived the evolution. Pilgrimage site for those who didn't let the state thieve their remembrances of a brighter world. Sarah wasn't part of them. Till now. Floppies are flying through the room. Time remaining: Two and a half minutes.
With her shaking hands she inserts the disks, with her insubordinate fingers she types the commands, with her tear-filled eyes she follows the chaos on the network. The ginkgo shrine, illuminated by four floodlights. The only source of light the tree has in his dungeon, probably the most secure in the world. The system controlling the light switch, probably the most secure in the world. Set up by the best hackers the network has ever seen. Anarchists, who didn't abandon themselves to the state. Fought the authority during their whole life. During their short life. A gunshot! She looks out the window. Breaking glass in the opposite building. Most probably a hacker's apartment. Never let them backtrack you. Sarah startles up. She forgot to take the precautions. Time remaining: Two minutes. Never mind. Too late. Lights remaining: Two. Already two cracked...
The data rate, decreasing. Never before did the wires reach such temperatures. A deluge-like flow of bytes shattering each other. Two fronts clashing after years of accumulating hate. Sarah, not in the middle of it. One of the few who managed to enter the servers of the National Cyberspace Forces, managed to approach the enemy's heart, managed to be hope. Cattech. This name showed up multiple times. Where does she know it from? Cattech. An idle glance over her desk. The newspaper from thirteen weeks ago. The advertisings. Cattech. A corporation arising by the fusion of the three largest technology giants on December 22. That's today. Their product: Wooldress. "The first gynoid that can't be distinguished from true women. The fabricators are under strict surveillance from the state." The beauty in Sarah's eyes has gone, what stays is nothing but fear. No, the state doesn't supervise the fabricators. The fabricators are the state. This whole operation's nothing more than a marketing strategy. Wiping out the last remnant of naturism. Another gunshot. Time remaining: One minute. Her pistol lays on the desk, pointing to the window, loaded, safety catch off. Lights remaining: One.
In a world where electrons are the only bridge of communication, where alienation's as abundant as skyscrapers, where everything's connected but still isolated, where freshly bred children can be delivered home, where cybernetic upgrades make the man, an old tree's the last link to everyone's root. If he's gone, the gynoids will take his place, will form a network supposed to hold together a fragile society and strengthen the power of their creator. The market, money, might. It's all about the wet dreams of a few power-hungry maniacs. Our DNA makes us individual, unprogrammable. They can't expect everybody to accept their rules, they can't strive a global network. Because everything became far too large. It's simply a too large scale. Another gunshot. Very close. Sarah grins at the thought what they might look at in her bedroom. A kick against the door. It partly breaks. A blast of air goes through the room. A memo flies against her face. "Look up cradle". She remembers, she wanted a child. Hectically she fights her way through the desk and finds an unopened pregnancy test. Ten steps to the frontdoor. To her dream. Another kick. Ten seconds remaining. Still one light. There's hope. Not for her, not for her dream, but nonetheless worth typing.
Laura
The walls of this modern city cease to breathe. The air's shimmering halts, and the world takes on a different, familiar color, like her vision is a television that her father has just twisted the contrast knob and the world settles back into an understandable, visible mess of the aftermath of the industrial revolution. Her father's eyes twist in her vision, turning themselves around like the television controls until they display all white and within the white, remorseless static.
She lets her breath out easily, the trip melding into memory while she finds reality, Godsford street waiting to be explored. No, not tonight, no exploration, there was a meeting, a purpose, a cause behind the acid trip and a will driving her to rest in motion, walking for over forty minutes on Godsford street, nothing but an alley. No cars now, or ever in the last two months. This was Town, Their Town and They didn't drive cars here. Laughter falls from her throat and touches the ground, white snow melts with the sun's fierce and undying heat.
'Success' she thinks in her head, her conciousness meditates on what it means to succeed in something that cannot be measured by if it can be done or not, but if an individual person will respond to a test in the right way. She passed. She knew it because she hadn't run away after the trip and hadn't lost her mind while the universe exploded in color and motion, obscuring her selfish ideas that the world was white and black and filled with nothing but death traps. Ideas had sparkled to her soul inside the snow particles which fed into her eye, her all-seeing human eye.
"I'm human" she says aloud. They are not around. They are inside, transcending a different barrier then the one she crossed. Her barrier existed in her mind before she took the test. The barrier They cross existed only after the test was created: "Can you pass through cyberspace?". She doubted she could and never wanted to. Cyberspace could be nothing compared to the beauty she had found in the world today.
"Beauty is what compels me" she remembers another soldier explain to her. "The world and the people in it are beautiful, and that's what compels me to destroy their hideous machinations".
Her heart raises its beats per minute to 92, and she feels soft and sharp, visualizing herself as a beautiful destroyer. Inside the walls of Godsford street are her victims, hanging over airspace and screenspace like pathetic children lay outside the hospital, dying from HIV. Smiling and laughing she runs forward to the metal door housing Them. The Army promised her it would be disabled at the hour and only for seconds. Reading her watch gives her one hundred and thirty one seconds left. She breathes them by. The door clicks. She opens.
They are inside, not breathing and not living. Corpses strung over monitors shaped like futuristic televisions except with no static instead their crystal clear displays pronounce with no assumption "Connected: 1 year, 4 months. 3 D 22 H 57 M 44 S". She is too stunned to gasp. One minute later she reaches for the telephone sitting on a desk beside one of Their corpses, just like the Army said there would be. She dialed the Army.
"Operation They Understand Us Now, Operative Reporting 04K" she hestiated for an insignificant 110 milliseconds, shaky with the information she transmitted. "559B. They are dead. Every operator in this room has been dead for months, maybe a year." She remembers the nose plugs she has installed as a nasal anti-virus. Their smell doesn't reach her yet the sight remains vividly terrifying.
"Dead? The Town Operators are all Dead?"
"Yes sir. For a long time. Looks like a connection overdose.. they're still plugged in, I don't see any life support or monitoring systems anywhere on their bodies. Sir.. I.." a tear is flung sweeping over her face. "They've been dead and we've been their slaves sir."
From the telephone came the silence of inaudible static.
She wills herself to speak again when the voice speaks again, strained with guilt. "Then.. their systems have been running without them. The police, the fabricated politicians, the corporations.. we have been run by machines, not by men. The men have died and their machines lived on.. and we did not know.." he gulps. "Operative. Destroy the machines."
"Yes sir."
She turned upon the Town's corpses, their gigantic machines piled beneath the desks. Labels, professionally written on each of them. "Gas. Law Enforcement. Detention. Farms. Public Safety Affirmation."
From her waist pocket she removes a gun, Army issued and People owned. She aims at each of the machines, remembers her father's static eyes as he died from bacteria They created, the hospital unable to provide assistance because They ran that too, and with a smile and vengeance she fires at each machine, destroying The Town and all that They stood for.
The Town dies and she grasps the telephone grip. There is the static of a faulty connection. Communications machine smokes to her left. She smiles, and she is free.
Lies
The head contraption used to connect to the Network put pressure on my temples. The few seconds immediately after I activated the switch on the machine were as if my mind's link to my body had been severed, ending with an almost painful return of all the senses at once. Although I still recognized the connection shop when I glanced around, it looked ethereal now, with a plastic-like quality to everything, and no one else remained in the place. I had no idea what to do, as this was my first time connecting.
Father had kept us both away from technology. In our house, which used to lay in the outskirts of town, we didn't need to worry too much about anything other than the city's waste contamination and humbly working the land. My sister hated Father, though, and the day he died she fled, leaving Mother and I to ourselves. We didn't hear from her in those two years, until Mother died of the disease as well. A neighbor pressured to buy the land after that; there was nothing left for me there anymore, and I was already grown enough to leave, so I accepted the greedy offer. I departed in search of the only person I still had left.
What I discovered when I arrived in the city, though, was that she was also dead. It took me some time to find her, because she had changed her last name, but I could confirm what I had been told once I saw the dried blood atop the table she had her computer on, her face with sunken eyes, and smelled the pungent stench that would not leave my nostrils for days. She had been dead for a week, but the motel owners never took care of the body, claiming that it was the responsibility of the police. It had been suicide.
I tentatively removed the device from my head and, confirming that I was still connected, walked toward the door of the connection shop. Outside, it was similarly devoid of life, and there was no wind, or any sort of motion. Bright, blinking advertisements were now unlit, and even the sound of my footsteps seemed to have become quieter.
I walked through the city for several hours, though nothing reflected this, not even the dim, unmoving sun. I found the motel and climbed the four flights of stairs that led me to my sister's room. Inside, it was just as it had been the first time I visited, with her laying motionless, her face turned to the window opposite the door, one hand on the table. The only difference was that there was no blood this time, no smell. I approached her, and kneeled. Lifting her hand I felt a faint warmth, and a soft pulse; I clutched it with my own. Softly brushing her hair, I sensed a reaction in my palm. Slowly, she turned her head to me. She found my eyes, and she smiled.
As soon as I got to the city and learned of the rumors regarding the Network, I knew that she had never really hated Father. And I knew just why so many people abandon their quiet place to come live in the city that Father despised so much. I was no better, no stonger than them. Outside, there are so many people without hope, people that have nothing left to live for. There are so many other people that don't mind the lies.
Payday
The pitch black obsidian sky was littered with the carbon-black towers of the corporations and their artificial advertisement lightning. Heavy rain draped a blurry veil over the urban sprawl's ugly picketfence. John sighed and tilted his head back.
"No can do, buddy", he said. The handle of the high caliber pistol felt cold in his hands. The connection of the wire leading to his head, cold. The touch of the toxic rain on his skin, cold. John flicked up the collar of his jacket and looked at his former friends. The Thermal Vision Implant painted them in funny red and orange warm colors. Against the cold blue background noise, they looked like parasites, intruders. They were shivering, shaking, their heartbeat thumping violently, Amateurs trying to outsync, outlive and outsmart the city.
"I told you, you're not cut out for this", John tossed himself a cigarette, the hand holding the gun wasn't even moving. He inhaled a sharp breath, the self igniting cigarette sparked into life. After the first cough, John chuckled.
"Look John, we jus' want ze money. We want ze better live, ja? We want out of here!", one of his former friends said. Now he was just another lifeless shape holding a sawn off shotgun.
"You can have your money. But I want mine", John started playing with the gun's safety switch, idly twiddling his thumb over it. It felt cold. The metal cock making clicking alien noises that blended into the cities soundscape of whining and buzzing engines, mixing with the distorted voices of some random Video Suit Anchormen repeating the latest bullshit.
An acoustic warning, directly fed back into his brain caught John's attention again. Two at the front and one goddamn lousy punkhead sneaking up from behind, he interpreted the feedback. Several thoughts passed his mind, none of them centered on the current situation and most of them where of explicit nature. Man, you're a sick puppy, he thought. The cold touch of reality's door slamming his behind through the means of a shouted "Now!" brought him back to his consciousness.
Something glowing hot carved its way through his right shoulder, pieces of flesh and metal flew past his eyes, loose wire stuck from the wound. He sighed, the pain editor nullified the wound immediately while Father Adrenaline pumped up his system.
"Come on! Give me a break, do you have any bloody frickin' idea just how expensive implants are?", John shouted. He was shaking. Damnit, he thought, calm down. The smile creeped back onto his face, pale argon light from a nearby "phallic enhancement device" advertisement tainted his head into a ghostly light. It was cold.
Inhale. Let's get things started then. Breathe. Cuddle the trigger, sweet baby. Count to three. Ah fuck that, just shoot already. Exhale. Listen to the music. John smirked and tilted his head. A wail of agony was coming from behind him. Pictures of a derelict opera house flooded his head, memories, dancing corporation marionettes - figures of soulless slaves, he had pinned them up on electrically charged bolts during one particular job and watched them do the dance macabre. In his memory, they smiled. The drugs he gave them made sure of that. He smiled too. No drugs though.
"Your finest card just died", John said, not without a certain tone of amusement in his voice. A little spark jumped from the wire hanging from his shoulder. Rain poured into the wound and left it again, crimson red water. His blood formed a sharp contrast to the black and blue background. He flicked his Thermal Vision back on. Dear gummybears, he thought, their hearts were about to burst. The two shapes were scared stiff. They had seen the bullet pass through his shoulders, without effect, they had seen the insane smile on his lips. They saw the blur of his arm as he shot their friend dead without even looking. John was way out of their league. The wrong punk to piss off. You're a sick puppy, John.
"Well John. Considering it, forget it. I'd rather take ze 10.000 Credits and leave, ja? I mean its your money!", one of the shapes said.
"Sure thing, buddy. Can't blame you for trying", John put up another smile, it was a cold one. He knelt down and grabbed the cold handle of the suitcase. He flicked it open and picked up exactly 20.000 Credits, one bundle for each of them. He casually tossed it in their direction and as they ran for it, they smiled. He smiled too. Two silenced gunsnaps, his finger had squeezed the trigger twice.
"I just can't stand greedy people", he explained, looking at their bodies. The rain already cooled them down. Following a twisted urge, he knelt down and spread their arms. "Beautiful, you two look like angels. God will pick up his angels anytime", he said and moved over towards the Ledge, glancing a look down "And angels oughta fly, don't you think?".
John raised his head and looked upwards into the night. The sound of their bodies falling down several hundred meters had been entertaining, partly because they were still somewhat alive.
A heavily armored Mitsukimaki Gunship was flying patrol duty, it too had been bombarded with advertisements, leaving a rainbow colored smeary shade in the clouds. With another sigh, he reached into his pockets and pulled out his mobile phone.
"Hey, Janine!"
...
"Is that really you?"
...
"Good to hear your voice again"
...
"True, I'm fine"
...
"No, really? Cool"
...
"Something else, lovely"
...
"Well listen, I know you're down low on money"
...
"I'm not blind?"
...
"Okay, okay damnit, calm the fuck down"
...
"That's better"
...
"Listen up sister, you want on my team?"
...
"New positions are open as of now!"
...
"You're in"
...
"No clue where they're now"
...
"We divided our money and parted ways"
...
"What? Oh, didn't know that"
...
"Yeah they wanted to get away from their lives here"
...
"Haha. Well I reckon they succeeded"
...
"So you in sis'? Great, kisses. See you".
Quadruple Pound Punk
Chapter I
He suddenly realized he only had 6 legs.
"Who took my arms?" he wondered, the words not echoing because he thought them.
His best friend, continents away, did not realize what was going on.
"I'm on my own", he spoke, this time speaking.
Did his wife know? Maybe. IF he had a wife.
Crawling on all sixes, he grabbed today's can.
It looked and tasted like beef Jello,
which made it the best breakfast he had eaten in years.
Or would have eaten... if he had possessed arms.
The anger grew like a bean plant... slowly, overnight, in a green pod.
A cybernetic wolf howled right next to him, his owner long since eaten.
"What if", he thought.
"What if... no... why would they?"
Exactly.
What he really wanted was a coffee - outlawed long before he was born.
Needless really, since the ingredients for coffee no longer existed.
Most people drank "Sunny D" - a combination of rust and corpses.
On a good day, you got more corpse than rust.
Chapter II
Jose Electric jerked his fourth double corpse espresso.
They don't format the place like they used to, but it pays the googles.
Ned, a gigantic steam powered electric zombie who was not introduced until just now,
barked his order: "2 Sunnys, no worms, make it snappy"
Jose's OS froze - thank god his heart was virtual.
Jose switched, rebooted, then spoke: "How can I help you, Sir!"
"2 SUNNYS AND NO GODDAMN WORMS!!!"
Even if Jose remembered, he couldn't make it snappy - his hardware was completely outdated.
The software required to manipulate his hands consumed most of his internal resources.
The finger threads alone took such high priority, he went blind when he used them.
Luckily, Jose had learned to pour with his cybernetic elbows -
take that Windows Ultra Mega XP Vista 2132.
Ned: "I'm looking for a man with no arms and 6 legs."
A lady with child bearing hips responded "Aren't we all!"
The bar patrons (3 heterosexual terminators, 2 chinese wookies, and the last surviving human being) laughed.
Jose: "Only person even remotely fits that description..."
Jose collapses into a contorted heap (speaking was a higher priority than standing)
"... has 9 legs and 3 arms."
"You sure about that?"
Their tentacles met, Jose's buttocks clenched... he screamed "OF COURSE!!!!"
Satisfied, Ned retracted his extrusion, and noticed his order remain unfulfilled.
Ned's temper flared, "WHERE'S MY GODDAMN NIGGLENITS!"
Jose: "How can I help you, Sir!"
Chapter III
Today's can lay open, its contents digested by Jimmy 88.8.
His best friend, continents away, was always impressed by Jimmy's ability to digest pretty much anything.
FLASHBACK
Jimmy: "You gonna eat that?"
Best Friend: "Jimmy... it's concrete..."
Rising to the challenge, Jimmy devours it instantly.
Best Friend: "... and it's my bed."
PRESENT (soliloquy)
Jimmy: "It's the year 2149, and my name is Jimmy 88.8.
My friends call me {1171A62F-05D2-11D1-83FC-00A0C9089C5A}.
About 100 years ago, the earth stopped rotating.
At least that's what the robots tell us.
The seas turned hot, and their steam (their lovely steam) powers everything.
They say that the steam is running out,
but the scientists assure us global warming will fix it.
What no-one knows is, I am a robot... baseball player."
(dramatic pause)
Sitting beside Jimmy was now the largest steam powered electric zombie Jose had ever seen.
Unimpressed, Jimmy 88.8 spoke "Hello Ned. Got my arms have you?"
Without missing a beat, zombie Ned replied "... and your legs."
"I guess that makes it a fair fight SHORYUKEN!!!!"
Ned's zombie bandages were lit by the passing fireball.
Frantically trying to extinguish the flames, Ned wondered aloud "BUT YOU HAVE NO AR"
But he was greeted by 18 kicks to the face (Jimmy having retrieved and attached his missing legs)
Chapter Infinity
"ARRETEZ!!!"
In the distance, high atop keyboard mountain, magnetic cyborg punk wizard Gandalf stood.
That was bad, very bad. Ned was crying dry, electric zombie tears. Jimmy: "Ned, you're my only hope."
Ned was wide eyed, like a child, as Jimmy stuffed him with explosives
(tying the whole package neatly together with Ned's zombie tentacle).
Magnetic cyborg Gandalf was now airborne, and lightning was shooting from his pants
[Pants were declared illegal during the Facebook wars].
Ned, reduced to a giant crying fiery zombie ball of explosives, was too heavy too lift. All hope seemed lost...
Jose's smiling, idiotic face inexplicably appeared from underneath the mass of Ned,
"Need some help {1171A62F-05D2-11D1-83FC-00A0C9089C5A}?"
This wasn't going to be easy. While Jose was useless, he had an adamantium skeleton
(all the rage in 2100, but nowadays considered tacky).
Jimmy slung Jose over his back like a sack of future potatoes.
Gandalf was 400 feet away, and flying straight at them.
"Perfect", Jimmy thought, but Jose somehow heard.
In Jimmy's robotic baseball hands, Jose made the perfect cyberpunk bat.
Jimmy swung and connected with Ned perfectly, snapping Jose in two.
"ZOOM!" screamed Ned, as he hurled toward flaming pants Gandalf.
"Amazing hit!" Jose would have said, if he hadn't been dead.
"no...", naked Gandalf whispered, as the realization that his pants burned off dawned on him.
Plus, he was going to die.
Jimmy and dead Jose watched triumphantly, as the apocalyptic explosion engulfed the horizon,
killing Jimmy's best friend - who had been visiting his mom in the aforementioned floating mega city.
Can you believe it!?
Epilogue
500 years later...
Robot baseball player Jimmy lay on the cyborg hillside,
his 3 arms folded behind his head,
wondering how he got that can open.
Appendix A
I. NiggleNits is future for Drinks.
II. Pockets were also outlawed.
Spanning the Valley
The beige door slides open with a click and I let her go in first. It's dark, save for the neon glow streaming in like smog through the plexiglass. The glow gives the room's edges an ambiguous quality, and I consider turning on the light but what's the point. There's a bed. A sink if you're lucky. A functional room, and one that charges by the quarter hour.
There's a small basin in the corner. It is my lucky night. I toss my coat onto it, sit down on the edge of the bed. I debate whether to take off my shoes this time.
She's more or less how you'd describe a cat if they still existed: lithe and tawny, with spiky red hair. She practically purred into my neck when I came up to her, but I could taste the heat in this one. In different times she could've been an athlete, up on the uneven bars maybe, or an archer.
"So. What'll it be?" she asks, an eyebrow raised. I don't say anything, and when she drops her eyelids and licks her lips ? more like grazes them with the tip of her tongue ? I know she knows what she's doing. The room's no longer than fifteen feet, but she walks the small distance between her and the bed slowly, one pump in front of the other so her hips sway. When she finally touches me it's almost maternal; her hands run through my hair, fingernails grazing electric furrows on my scalp before they glide down my neck. Next she's going to go for my tie, and she does, undoing the knot with the easiest of motions before she takes it, slides it across her throat like a ribbon of silk, then draws it down across her chest?
Wait. No. She couldn't be. This one couldn't.
I get up from the bed and approach her. She stops her routine as my hands cup her face, as if I were about to kiss her. Suddenly I tilt her head towards the window to bring it into the glow, my thumb pressing hard against the soft spot under her right jaw. "Like it rough, do ya," she breathes. A small, dim blue light winks underneath her skin from the pressure. In the neon her face is painted a garish pink, a rouge that'd never run even if she cried. Not that she would, unless you wanted her to.
"Not rough enough." I push her away and sit back heavily on the bed. As I pull out a cigarette, I reflect that I have at least thirty minutes left. Fuck.
Usually you can tell when it's a bot, down to its country of origin. Japanese ones are doe-eyed, virginal things, naive about everything. American ones are almost cartoonishly sexual. Who knew about this one, though. I take a drag. She stands by the window looking at me, a hand on her hip, head tilted at an angle I'd almost call miffed if I didn't know better.
"Lost your nerve, guy?" she asks, swinging my tie between her thumb and forefinger.
"My appetite." I exhale, and the smoke puts up a brief wall that obscures her face.
"Ouch. If I could actually be offended, I think I would be." She tosses my tie back. "I don't suppose you expect a refund."
I wave my hand. "Course not. Working girl's gotta eat, after all." She smirks.
"What gave it away?"
"The dance. Not the first time I've seen a bot run through that routine. Tie across your back like you got out of the shower, then between your legs like you're buffing a pole."
Her eyes flicker up and right for a millisecond before she laughs. "Didn't realize you cared so much about choreography," she says. "Sure you wanted a girl tonight?" I say nothing and look at the floor. She strides over, leans down next to my ear. "Hey," she coos. "Everyone's lonely. Why make it harder on yourself?" She nuzzles my neck. "Besides, you still got half an hour." Leave it to a bot to care about whether I waste my creds. I push her aside.
"Some of us want to be reminded why we're lonely." I kill the cigarette, and she looks at me in a simulation of disbelief.
"Thousands of humans, and you're the first," she says. She taps the edge of the bed. "Can I sit down, at least?" I say nothing but she does it anyway. "I can go if you want."
"What's your name?" I ask. She leans back and stretches.
"Oh, Tammy," she murmurs.
"Try again."
"What does it matter?"
"In case I run into you at church."
"Fine. Julia. Hello and what's your name?" she says, extending a hand in mock greeting. I look away. "Just playing along," she mutters.
"That's the problem." Was I really going to get into it, with her of all things. "It's just playing along." Hell, nothing better to do.
Julia looks up at the ceiling. "Nothing wrong with taking your comfort where you can get it."
"That's too easy. That's how we ended up here." I pause, notice for the first time my hands are trembling. "Things got easier and easier, and when wecfound out where we were headed, we'd already greased the slide too much. Frictionless, all the way to the bottom." Julia's silent at this, her foot dangling in time to some internal rhythm, a tempo unknown and irreproducible in any living thing.
"But you shouldn't keep punishing yourself for it," she says softly.
"I don't have to. Waking up in this city is enough."
The urge comes out of nowhere, but I don't fight it; slowly, I bring my legs up onto the bed and I rest my head in her lap. For a second, I sense something stir within her that feels like hesitation, and then her hand gently alights on my temple, strokes my hair. I feel my eyes go wet, and I pretend.
Steampunk (David)
Sweat trickled down David's forehead as he stared at the scene before him. Flames licked hungrily at dry timbers and crumbling slate roofs. Bloody, charred corpses littered the streets; armed and unarmed, men and women... and children. Amongst the wreckage strolled twelve-foot-tall iron suits of armor with heavy guns held ready, steam hissing from heavy boilers bolted to their backs. Those mechanical soldiers, unaffected by the townspeople's defenses, had brought about this destruction. One of them was him. They had been sent here by the Lord General himself with one objective: destroy it.
"It is a base of spies, of dangerous enemies to our nation. We must not allow them to continue undermining our country! They must be destroyed, at all costs. All persons are suspect, release no one and take no prisoners." The Commander had emphasized the last command.
But this was no criminal base, no hotbed of enemy plotting. Deep down, David realized it just an innocent small town. They were not enemies, and they were not dangerous rebels. They were normal people - the very people he had sworn to protect. Raising his foot, he lifted the propulsion control lever and slowed the suit's relentless march. The body of a young woman lay across his path, her fear and desperation evident even in death, even through the metal grating across the front of the suit's helm. Had he been the one to shoot her? With the chaos of the charge, there was no way to know.
The radio crackled into life. "Remember, no prisoners. Shoot anything that moves." David looked around once again, seeing fellow soldiers stop to scan for any signs of life. A sudden shot rang out, followed by the dying shriek of a cat. A sick, twisting feeling started in the pit of David's gut at the sound. He started to push his foot back down on the lever, but hesitated. He looked back down at the woman. It wasn't right, leaving her lying there like that. A sheet of canvas caught his eye, and he reached his hand towards the left. The bracing around his arm moved smoothly, directing the iron arm outside to echo his movements. Carefully lifting the canvas, he draped it over the young woman's corpse. Probably the only burial she'll ever get.
Bitterly, he pressed his foot down on the lever, and the suit responded with a sudden surge forward. He strode down the street, trying to ignoring the littered corpses and burning buildings. A quiet sob from a nearby alleyway, barely audible over his own loud tread, caught his attention. Sliding his foot to the right, he turned the machine towards the sound to investigate. The suit barely fit between the brick walls, but fit it did, and he only had to go a short distance down the alley. A small child, probably six years old, stood clutching a torn and stained stuffed bear.
The boy and the machine stared at each other silently, motionlessly. A second shot rang out across the town. This time, there was no scream. A drop of sweat trickled into David's eye, stinging sharply.
The people I've sworn to protect.
Take no prisoners.
The memory of the dead woman rose again in his minds eye. If this is how it's going to be, I'll have no part in it. He pressed down ever so slightly with his foot, and the suit took one small step forwards. The boy clutched his bear even more tightly and stood still.
David slid his left arm out of the control brace, reaching for a lever next to his seat and pulling it once, twice. The suit helm unlatched and then lifted halfway, and man and child looked each other straight in the eye.
"I'm going to help you."
The boy stared, wide-eyed, before nodding silently. David smiled back, then closed the helm again before sliding his arm back into the brace. Reaching forward, he held out one giant armored gauntlet to the small boy, who crept over and sat gingerly on the palm. David carefully lifted the child, holding him close against the chest plate. Pressing a second lever now, he backed out of the narrow alleyway. He noted with relief that none of the other soldiers were within sight. He started towards the edge of town, hoping he would stay unnoticed.
A soldier appeared from an intersecting street, and David cursed as both suits stopped dead. The other aimed his gun at the small boy, then hesitated. That was all David needed. Slamming his foot down as hard as he could, the suit lunged forward at a full run. He heard a gun fire behind him, felt the bullet ricochet off the cast iron boiler, and kept running. There were trees outside of town. If he could reach the trees, the boy could escape to safety on his own.
Another gunshot, another ricochet. He only needed to keep the machine together for a few dozen more meters, and then it didn't matter what happened to him. A brief doubt flickered in his mind. He was disobeying direct orders. Was one child's life really worth his own?
Sworn to protect.
He could feel the legs starting to give way as he rounded the last corner. The trees were straight ahead now, though. Another gunshot - two, three. He lost count as bullets rained against him.
Finally he reached the trees. The suit ran another few meters before the left knee gave out, forcing him to stop. Placing the boy on the ground, David raised the helm one last time.
"Run away, quickly!"
The boy turned and fled, vanishing into the woods. The stampede of iron feet was racing towards. He'd disobeyed orders from the Lord General himself. There would be no trial - and he wasn't going to wait for the firing squad. Slowly, David drew his pistol and cocked it.
He closed his eyes, pictured a small boy with a stuffed bear, and smiled.
Tell-A-Tale Blues
Act 1:
Night. Brother speaks,
Petrol stench lingers the air,
my icy eyes behold the land,
without the barrels as poisoned heir,
this greenly land would sure look bland
Pestilence would sit in awe,
Metal Teeth rake the sky,
People's death, signed by law
All are numbers in my eye.
Barren lands, homely lands,
I once had hope and supported you,
Radiated lands, desolate sprawl,
One thing to do, you too will crawl
To control the masses, but an easy deed
Their thoughts are simple
as their minds are dimple
I lean back, spread a truth or two,
my of course, for all to heed.
After all, I'm here for you.
Act 2:
Dawn. People speak,
Ant, ant, another step
Hand in hand, another tear
March, March, on we go
Dead, Death, to you we bow
Stomp, Stomp, another death,
Rage, Rage, we mute it all,
Hope, Hope, first to fall,
Dead, Death, to you we bow
Lies, Lies, we see them here,
Truth, Truth, don't shed a tear,
Stumble, Tumble, stand up one more time,
Dead, Death, nod your head and you'll be fine
Ant, Ant, just march on
Quiet, Quiet, by tomorrow you're gone
Life, Life, don't we deserve better
Dare, Dare, the forbidden letter.
Act 3:
Morning. She speaks,
Hexogen Tears cry beneath a phosphor sky,
Brother State wants you all to die.
Like Moths, you stare and feel,
the burning touch of angry steel.
A thousand dead, just to kill me
This lifeless Hive, empty shell,
I sit and laugh, for all to see
He promised heaven and gave you hell.
Veins of Light, Veils of Lies
Hovering above like an old satelite
I sit and laugh, and cut the ties
I lift the cup and take a sip.
Fabricated Truth, my brother's domain
He calls it victory over Terror.
I'll leave him to it, it's all in vain,
He will be dead, when he sees his error.
Hexogen Tears cry beneath a phosphor sky,
Brother State, forget your lie.
Like Bees, i'll buzz and seal
the slow pact of your goodbye
Celulose Pulp, piled into a sheet
Illusions as chains and still so true
A letter, contract of your brother's defeat
signed by the miserable likes of you.
Epinephrine, I summon thee,
concentration, come here and see,
Like bees to the hive, honey honey,
I'm not in for fame: just your money.
This contract I seal, Austenite Feather,
it scratches over outdated hope
I dress to kill, black skintight leather,
Come all and play, on the slippery slope
Argon kisses the prophet's skin,
a small pistol, unlike any other kin,
Just one shot, to change the country,
Wash away dictators, then do the laundry.
I sigh and smile, my humor just died,
Who wouldn't with what I have in sight.
Brother state, my ugly brother,
What tragedy, I was your greatest lover.
Act 4:
Noon. Brother speaks,
My I wonder what's the meaning of this?
The numbers do not calculate,
Who did the thing at Allworld Tower?
Metal pieces, a spikefilled shower
Why am I punished by fate?
My, what do I care about it,
Of course you will rebuild that thing,
I laugh manically while I sit,
Shut up people, you have a song to sing.
Now what? You dare another riot?
Numbers, one and one open the way
Here have a gift, nuclear diet
You won't survive that very day
I lean back and laugh in silence
My best bet always is violence
And you my little ants, what say you?
"I believe everything you say is true!"
Now hush, minor being,
I have a truth to spread
I need to shape a feeling,
my god that's hard, for I don't care
But I will act sad, oh yes I dare!
Dear Citizens, loyal sheep
Please jump the hole, it isn't deep
It's filled with truth, I really swear
Those damned terrorists wage warfare.
The things I do are of your own will
Just nod your head and take the bill
I need more toys, har, weapons of course
Watch in awe as I ride death's horse
Act 5:
Dawn. She speaks,
Over the shoulders of Justice
I look down on your disease
I'm in your your office,
No its no longer in one piece.
The screens are flickering
Your soldiers are bickering,
You sure are sickening,
My pulse is quickening,
The prophet's shot is fired
Your promised death was hired.
Wait, something is wrong
from halls afar I hear a Gong
You stand up from the ground
Smiling like a hellpit hound.
Soldiers swarm from all directions,
I raise my arms with no objections
Brother State why do you smile?
Why are there no people within a mile?
The soldiers blur, just a ghost
I stumble forwards, what is this
A man appears by the name of Host
You won't fool me, I spit and hiss
You've won the game, Mylady Queen.
Grace and style, the likes i've not seen.
His smile speaks those empty words to me,
They're just hollow, illusions, hah, now I see.
I look at my target, still alive.
If I am to lose, for your death I'll thrive
Two steps, Three steps, then one more
I bash your head till my arms feel sore
I've won, my dearest brother.
That look tells me, you thought you'd win
Go and cry for your mother
Then ponder and burn in hell for your sin
Act 6:
Night. Media speaks,
Dear viewers, I come bearing information,
Some things have changed in our nation.
Those once in charge, are no longer,
Their own madness turned out stronger.
The queen killed the king,
After our simulated game,
Ah and just one more thing,
She'll never be the same.
As it seems, she lost her mind,
A spirit that had once been kind
Game and Reality for her they mixed
Lunatic Asylum, your duty to fix
With these words, your host bids good night
Until tomorrow's next great fight.
The Alchemist's Apprentice
"The Magistrate will see you now."
The announcement snapped everyone back to a consciousness of their surroundings from the haze caused by Rob's cryptic warning. For a moment visiting the magistrate didn't seem all that important. But duty pushed them onward.
The three of them began to climb the steps to the Magistrate's throne, but Robs large wooden feet had difficulty finding purchase on the steps. After a few unsuccessful starts Thew pulled the witch's divination bones from his cloak and used one to bridge the gap between Robs heal and the stair. In this way by standing a pace behind Thew and Jimmy could insure their ticket to the Magistrate's audience could make it. Fortunately the Magistrate's throne wasn't nearly as tall as the temple because by the time they reached the top nearly half of the wooden bones had snapped. When finally they reached the summit Thew was determined to make as short an interview as he could and begin searching for the presence Rob had mentioned.
Thew's solution to the climb meant that Rob was the first one to reach the top. By the time Thew and Jimmy came around him they could see that the Magistrate's court was simply the top of the pyramid with a cover over it, wide open without walls save a few pillars. There was nothing between them and the Magistrate. Yet the magistrate seemed hardly to acknowledge their presence. Not knowing whether they should approach or wait to be summed Thew and Jimmy froze at the top of the stairs. It was Rob, again oblivious to such notions as etiquette, who lumbered forward first. When he had gone a pace a flunky next to the magistrate boisteriously announced them Over taking the clockwork man Rob and Jimmy approached until a signal from the fluky told them they were close enough. Jimmy nudged Thew to address the Magistrate who suddenly felt his age.
"Magistrate, we have done as you have asked and have brought our clockwork man to see you," Thew said, motioning to Rob who he could hear by his ticks and tocks was right behind them, "and would like to discuss with you a matter of grave importance. There is a mounting army..."
Suddenly Thew was cut off as Rob with deliberate motion pushed him aside and continued forward extending the smaller of his arms, tick by tick, towards the Magistrate.
"What are you..." began Jimmy before two impressively muscled guards appeared from either side of the throne and reached for the ticking robot. "Wait," Jimmy yelled, tho whether it was at Rob or the guards Thew wasn't sure.
Jimmy continued his vocal protests and the guards shouted theirs back as they closed the distance between them and Rob. In a moment Robs progress had been halted by the guards who brought him crashing to the ground. Robs counter weights tangled around his pendulums and Thew could see that Rob was at risk of ceasing up so Thew threw himself at Robs gears and tried to untangle the chains but was roughly pushed aside the guard, skidding to a stop near the Magistrate. As the din rose Thew tried to distinguish voices from each other.
"Assassin!"
"...brought this thing here..."
"...must have it..."
"...You've stopped him, there's no need..."
"...presence..."
"...get it for me..."
"...Look, look, will you just look..."
"...presence..."
"...must have..."
"...presence..."
Suddenly Thew saw Rob's hand. He was pointing at the magistrate's chest even as the motion of his gears were grinding to a stop. Thew could make out that it was Rob was saying "presence" over and over again. Then Thew heard Robs voice again, as if talking twice at the same time. No, not Robs voice, but A voice that sounded , like Robs, no so much in his ears but in his bones. This one was saying, "get it for me, give it to me, I must have it."
Thew followed robs finger and looked at the magistrate's chest. In the middle of the gold chains and finery there was a red crystal in a ordinate jewelry piece.
"What are you looking at? How dare you... Guards! Get them out and have that thing..." continued the Magistrate in a tirade.
Under the magistrate's voice Thew could hear the other voice whispering, "Get it for me. Keep it safe, don't damage it."
"Don't damage it." The magistrate echoed.
Thew looked at the Magistrate. "You can hear it." Thew said quietly. Then to Jimmy he yelled, "He can hear it!"
Jimmy who was caught up in a shouting match with the guards yelled back, "Hear what?!"
The Magistrate turned his attention to his guards while Thew explained, "The crystal! On his chest! It speaks! Like Rob!"
Disrupting Jimmy's shouting match, the guards could now hear their Magistrate as he shouted orders at them, "Take that thing away, but keep it safe."
"Don't let it start moving again," whispered the stone on the magistrate's chest.
"Don't let it start moving again, just keep those chains where they are," sad the Magistrate echoing the words of the crystal with a momentary nervous glance at Thew.
Thew was sure this time but the revelation transfixed him, unsure what he could possibly do.
"And take them away," ordered the Magistrate, motioning to Thew and Jimmy.
"That thing is our companion," Jimmy began to protest.
The Magistrate cut him off with "Who tried to assassinate me," and proceeded to threaten death as he ordered Rob be stored until later.
"Yes. Yes." Thew heard the crystal on his chest whisper it's approval.
"You," the Magistrate continued, "are to leave immediately. I will not allow assassins in my country. Now go."
Jimmy's hand on Thew's arm and gentle whisper in his ear told him that they were in danger if they stayed. Feeling confused and angry and helpless Thew didn't even realize Jimmy had led him away until they were outside the city and Jimmy was explaining what happened to Aeoril and Trapper.
The Red Squire
"While it is general knowledge that red amber stone repels the fae, ghosts, evil spirits, goblins, witchcraft and every other evil and malign influence alike, however, there is no rule without an exception, or as Franks say, "Il n'y a pas de regle sans exception". I myself, in my day, have seen such creatures of demonic power who had been stricken with or dressed themselves in red amber stone and felt no ill effects whatsoever.
Lax'gnor the Goblin, also known as Fiery-eyed Beast of Gloucestershire...
Regdar, the Giant of Faewood, who lived in a cave of amber...
And, most horrible and terrifying of them all, a thing known only as;
The Red Squire"
excerpt from "A Traveler's Life, the journal of Caleb King"; King, Caleb; 1492; pg. 32
a story by renton
---
Through the Faewood and by the castles of the Highland she walked. How long had it been now? A week? Ten days, maybe? He was losing track of the time. She wiped clean her glasses, moist from the mist of the hill. Her eyes, weary, slowly looked at the dark sky above; it was about to pour down. She looked around for a cave to go in, rock to hide under, anything to guard her from the coming rain and the exploding winds that come with it, and maybe then she could have some much needed rest. Not a single rock in sight. With the first few cold drops, she found a hole, a gap or whatever. It was large enough a gap to provide sanctuary. She squeezed into the walls of wet soil and rocks.
The little gadget she had in his pocket, something called the EctoGauge, had a small copper rod which had started hitting two copper bells very slowly some hours ago. It had started as a click now, a ring then, and he just ignored the sound.But now, it was ringing continously, almost like a warning chime, meaning only that something was coming, and it wasn't a good something. She reached for the pockets of his long, brown coat. Inside the pockets were trinkets aand charms and talismans she had gathered during her many journeys and in fact, she was sure that she was about to get one talisman he came for. She stood up, with an amulet, its string wrapped around, in one hand and a big revolver in the other, to see a scarlet shadow cast down on him. She turned around, mumbling something in some almost gibberish language, and aimed for the head.
"'Lo, Cam'ron"
"Hello, Red. I believe you have my gnome-head. I want it."
"Wha' if I donnae want t'give it too ya?"
"Then I'll fill your cranium with some enchanted hollow points, take my gnome-head, carry you back to the town and let everyone see that their greatest fear, their shining evil knight in red amber stone armor, was not some demon spawn, super powered, invulnerable goblin; but an old dwarf in some mechanical suit covered in shiny rock!"
"Well, ye hav quite an argument, lass."
"Can I have my gnome-head now?"
"Yeah, yeah, 'ere, take it an' go."
"Thank you."
Cameron left the misty hills with her trophy in her hand. The nearby locals never saw or heard the Red Squire again.
The Seventh Dimension of Agna'arakon IV Owen Rendall vs the Red Pirates
It was dawn, and all the Pilots were preparing for the daily launch. The airguards ran to and fro atop the narrow scaffolding, high above clean white cloudscapes, carrying equipment to the Pilots and helping them suit up. Overhead, each of the twenty-three Stormrunners dangled from the belly of the Great Ark, wings folded like giant metal moths, prepared to drop from the belly of the colossal city and into the clutches of death at a moment's notice. Ever-vigilant. Ever-protecting. Ever-prepared to fight off the Red Pirate raids that occurred with increasing frequency.
'Another red sky today,
Another storm on its way.'
Owen Rendall jotted down a poem into his little beige notebook, like his psychologist had suggested some years ago. She said that, by putting his immediate thoughts and emotions onto paper, with structure, he would be able to better understand himself and give structure to the turmoil in his life.
A week later, an ExSec camera caught her jumping The Edge.
Owen had been working in ExSec at the time, and he choked when he saw the tape. She must have sneaked past security to get to the Exterior, where few precautions were taken against falling into the sky below. She calmly approached to the high banister dividing the Great Ark from the nothing and scaled it with ease. On the other side, she hung for a moment and gazed directly into the eye of the spying ExSec camera. It was not the first time Owen had noticed how beautiful she was, with her neatly cropped hair, fair skin, and gray eyes so full of caring worry. Owen felt her staring into his soul through the glass eye of a camera, learning more in that instant than she ever had after two years of being his psychiatrist.
She flashed a smile, winked at the camera, and then was gone ? swept up by the swirling white clouds.
That all happened years ago, though. Owen seldom gave it much thought anymore. He scratched out the last line of his poem and wrote beside it:
'Another storm come this way.'
It sounded more poetic.
The Pilots were ready for drop-off now, all seated within the Stormrunners.
Gages, rudders, flaps, pressure...all go.
Finally, an airguard stood on the scaffolding holding two brightly colored flags and signaled to Stormrunner 001. A loud hiss filled the air as the airlock disengaged from the craft. Then, one by one, the locks holding it in place released. For a split second, it was suspended in mid-air. Then, in a flash, it fell away from the ceiling, wings opening.
And it was gone ? swept up by the swirling white clouds.
Owen didn't think of her at all anymore. He swore he didn't.
But his heart still ached for the sky.
One by one the process repeated with the remaining Stormrunners until all had vanished into the clouds below. A few orphan kids had gathered on the scaffolding to watch the launch. Almost all of them were illegitimate children, abandoned by parents who feared for their reputation should such a child be discovered.
One of them was Hers.
Theirs.
The orphans gathered every day to watch the launch ? an escape from the taunts of other children. Flight; the ultimate freedom.
They were the few who would become Pilots.
When the last Stormrunner dropped off, one of the children ? an older boy, about 14 ? leaned against the rail and strained to peer into the clouds for some sign of the vessel.
"Hey, I think I see it!"
"Where?"
"There, there!"
"Where!?"
"That's just a cloud."
"No, not that!"
"Oh wait, I think I ? AAAAHH!!!"
*KKRACCKK*
The child's weight was too much for the thin metal guardrail, and it buckled beneath him. He tumbled towards the vast sea of nothingness beneath. His arm twisted, caught between the railing. pouring blood into the open sky below and keeping him from following suit. He let loose an agonized scream, wailing and thrashing in a desperate attempt to save himself.
"Help! Somebody, help!" The other orphans cried for help, all too weak to lift the boy on their own. The airguards were all too far away to reach him before the rail gave way and set him free into the abyss.
Owen Rendall had been sitting right next to the children the whole time, watching the launch along with them, as he did every day. They never spoke to one another, but they knew that they were the same. Owen was what they would someday become, and the children were a reminder of what Owen once was. Before he was a Pilot. Before he was stricken down by a crippling stroke. Before she died. Owen had been just like them.
Now, though, confined to his chair, he was helpless to help them. What could he do? He couldn't even stand. Then he looked into the boy's eyes and saw again that reflection of his past self. The airguards were still a ways away, and the rail was weakening with each passing second.
This damned chair was no limit.
The sky was the limit.
Owen wheeled himself over to the section of broken railing and braced himself against it with his left arm. He motioned for the boy to use his good arm to grab the scaffolding. The boy, crying, complied. Then, with his right arm, Owen wrenched the twisted railing, releasing the boy's arm.
Another agonized scream.
Still bracing himself against the railing, Owen grabbed the boy's good arm and heaved him up onto the scaffolding. In pulling the boy, though, Owen's chair began to roll towards the abyss.
He felt the movement but did nothing to fight it.
He looked at the boy ? the child he had been secretly watching over for the past fourteen years, since the day she jumped the Edge.
The boy returned his gaze, and through the tears of pain recognized his father.
One of the other children noticed Owen's slow roll towards the edge -
"Hey, mister -"
Owen flashed a smile, winked, and was gone ? over the edge, swept up by the swirling white clouds.
He thought about Her every day.
Tranny-Bot Chronicles
I watch the wall of panel screens in front of me. I pose for the hidden cameras. I'm sure security is getting a jolt out of this. My new Rackmount 3000s bolt-ons are deadly enough to pop the circuits of any male robot.
Chevonne is in the corner trying out a pink torso. "Sam, does this make me look fat?" she asks. "No darling, I think it looks fabulous," I lie to her. What else could I say, you look like a pig?
To be honest with you, Chevonne is as fun as a video game with only one level and that level includes only jumping puzzles and no continues. A Personality 3000 upgrade would do her wonders. She's already on the verge of getting reformatted for poor performance. Our clients are always right, but she thinks otherwise. We are hostess-bots in New Orleans City. We host parties and entertain guests, human and robotic. Some call me a Transformer - how many other male robots pretend to be female? You'd be surprised at the number of "normal" guests that seem to make an extra effort to attend the corporate parties we host. We have the usual genital plugins, but the some request we get will blow your capacitors. Thankfully we erase any memories we wish to forget. I guess all fantasies do come true in New Orleans City - except ours.
Chevonne taps her fat ass bolt-on to check if it still is connected. She's tried every bodily upgraded in the last year. This week she's playing the hefty trucker woman. Last week, she was an secret assassin. Thankfully, this is all covered by the corporation we work for - Bad Robots Hostesses.
As we leave His & Hers and head into the bustling mall crowd, a man accosts us. "Pardon me, are you Sam 20571?" he asks.
He's holding a photo of us (at a party) in his hand. I don't recognize him. Maybe I erased him from my memory. Some our clients can be a bit stalkerish. And this one looks extra super stalkerish. I put my hand on my immobilizer spray. Chevonne, however, pops out her pen and is ready sign the photo. The fool.
Another man grabs her wrist from behind and handcuffs her. "We'd like to ask you a few questions down at central," the man says stiffly.
Central is where they boot-up robots for the first time. Central is where the deactivate robots for reformatting. Central is life & death for us. You don't go there if you can help it so we don't.
"May I ask, why we are needed at Central?"
"That's for us to know and you to find out," he says with a grin. It wasn't a pleasant grin.
They shove us into the back seat of the hover van. At least we avoid the metal coffin treatment. Violent criminals we are not. Chevonne's internal CPU frequency is spiking and she's beginning to overheat. I can tell by her silence. I remain stable - throttling any circuits that try to crash my program - and put myself in hibernate to save on energy in case they hold us there overnight.
An hour or so later, we arrive. Central is a Gaudi-like cathedral covered in dark one-way glass. Its spires are the tallest things in the city. It's because the federalists can spy on everyone from up there without installing cameras everywhere. We are escorted to a sparse room and told to remove all plugins. If I could blush, I would have, but instead I pull out my work-related necessities to circuit busting eyes. Chevonne is robotic - she goes through the mechanics without any neural processing.
"Plug these on," snarls another man. Obviously, he thinks his task is meaningless. We are handed new svelte black & white outfits and a pair of bunny ears. How original... Playbunny fantasies were so last millennium. Chevonne's removed her hideous trucker body and is back to her deadly self - which what she was designed and programmed to do.
The man points to the door when we are done. Armed guards wait for us outside with laser rifles pointed down. Curiosity is killing me. Why all the attention?
"So why are we here again?" I ask one of the guards.
"You are the entertainment," says one of them. "For the president."
Chevonne's lights blink as she switches back into normal running mode, but I, I am a bit worried. Don't they know I'm a tranny-bot?
...
Sometime after, I awaken with Chevonne in a taxi cab. Our communicators buzz with thank you mesages, but we remember nothing. Our memories of the past few hours were erased. Jello, mud, and torn bits of clothing remain between our joints. Our genital plugins are still fully attached including my male one. My default body is a bit worse for wear with nicks and scratches along my back and ass. The president or whomever must have liked it rough.
I'll never understand humans. I'm glad I'm not one.