Welcome esteemed colleagues. I know a lot of you have been looking forward to this lecture, and I hope not to disappoint. I assure you that everything you are about to hear is factual, and supported by primary sources.
So buckle up.
Ments. Common slang for the practice of embedding circuitry via tattoo or surgery into the skin, and sometimes even deeper.
Ments actually have quite the varied history. Starting as a fad for the upper class, turning into an effective means of data transfer on the black market, and then becoming the fashionable and commercial product it is today. As of two years ago about 60% of the UE population was sporting at least one Ment.
And then, one year ago, as you are all aware, a child was born.
*click*
This child. Abraham Jacobs. Seemingly normal but for...
*click*
A Ment. An almost spider-like tattoo at the base of the spine.
*click*
The "body" if you will, integrated into the spinal cord.
*click*
*click*
And perhaps most shocking of all...
*click*
Nearly identical to her mother's.
*click*
As you can see with them side-by-side there is distortion. A few more tendrils, thinner, lighter in color. A mutation.
Yes, I know, I know. Hear me out.
Now how could this be possible? Millions have been Mented, millions with Ments have had children. None have had this condition arise. After all why should they? Ments are superficial, not genetic. There is nothing to be coded into the DNA.
...But that's the key word isn't it? Coded. DNA is a code. A series of bits that the body as computer reads to run its processes. As we know from viruses, code can be added to DNA. It's often junk, unreadable, but the legacy of viruses long dead can be found with ease in the DNA of all people living.
So what would happen if that code were readable? What if those viruses could delicately select the genes they knew would be replicated if properly added to the genome?
*click*
Since their creation, Ments have been used to store data. Easily readable and accessible data for the user. Easily transferable to anyone with a Ment and the proper clearance code.
As I said, this started out as a fad for the rich. Glowing tattoos,
*click*
more ornamentation than information transfer, hence them receiving the "Ment" moniker. But as tech does it hit the black market. The upper class, with no reason to fear, used the Ments to store all sorts of information without the current level of security Ments have received. As such...
*click*
many were robbed, many had their identities stolen, and according to my sources Ment Cons soon became highly sought after amongst the criminal underworld.
But, pretend with me that you are a part of that criminal underworld. Say it costs two million to hire a Ment Con for a job that will earn you twice as much. Why do that, when you can instead get your hands on the tech for four million, but put it into your trusted people instead and start earning those millions and more?
*click*
Ments started to spread. Their use as minor surreptitious data transfer caught on. Money traded hands, the tech improved and dropped in price. Security caught up to demand and the heyday of the Ment Con was over. Instead,
*click*
fashion once again became the focus. More and more opted in.
*click*
The tech evolved. Security evolved with it.
*click*
Convenience, as it does, determined the rest.
*click*
So how did this come about? How does a spiderous Ment show up on a baby when no surgery has occurred? How is this the first instance after millions of births?
*click*
This picture of Dorian Asworth, age 4 here, was taken 30 years ago at the height of the first wave of Ments. A seemingly normal picture. Until you look closer.
*click*
There, just poking up towards the neck. Looks awfully familiar doesn't it? But that could be anything.
*click*
Except there it is again. One year later. Looks a little more defined now doesn't it?
*click*
Dorian seems to wear a preponderance of high-necked clothing and scarves for the majority of his childhood. It isn't until he's 15 years old that he's photographed at a party,
*click*
with a Ment on his chest. A rather simple almost lightning-bolt like design, that sticks up exactly where we saw in those previous photos. One that looks rather
*click*
like his mother's. Seen and advertised as a gesture of love, of family. Sure he seemed a little young for a Ment but, teenagers, right?
*click*
Look for them.
*click*
They appear.
*click*
No one was looking.
*click*
So no one noticed.
*click*
And those that were born,
*click*
were either rich enough to have the news silenced,
*click*
or seen as a secret weapon by the underworld,
*click*
or simply killed.
Until,
*click*
Abraham Jacobs. Colleagues, I pose to you the rather terrifying certainty that we are already entering the second generation of a new symbiosis. There have been those born with Ments before this. And they are now having children themselves.
*click*
This is Dorian Asworth with his son. Very clearly, no lightning bolt on the chest.
*click*
This is the child's mother, Audrey Asworth, with her pink-hued Ments on the back of her thighs.
*click*
I have not been able to identify a Ment on their child.
*click*
But they are quite literally never photographed without long pants.
But now,
*click*
Dorian. A seemingly normal child from normal parents with only one Ment each.
And the press,
*click*
is praising it as a miracle. A very big deal is being made of little Dorian. And public perception is very much being led towards it being a "good thing". Why now? That I can only speculate on. But I hope you all keep an open mind in the weeks to come. Because there is one thing about little Dorian that's being kept out of the press.
*click*
The Ment isn't empty.
*click*
There's code.
*click*
Code that can also be found in his genome.
*click*
And code...that can't be read.
*click*
No one yet knows what to make of this seemingly extra and irrelevant data. They have compared it to the makeup of data in the mother's and father's Ment before birth. They have run it through all sorts of tests and ciphers and translations...nothing.
Well, there is one thing.
When Dorian's Ment connects to his mother's, the irrelevant data changes. And his mother's does the same.
And the one thing that I have to tell you, without the primary sources, without knowing it for sure...is that it sure looks like...like they're talking. The code changes. Adapts. Evolves.
Ments were once for fashion. Then for utility. Then both. And now, colleagues, they seem to be serving an altogether different purpose.
A purpose of their own.
Thank you, and I look forward to your questions.
Friday, December 6, 2019
Tuesday, November 26, 2019
Inktober #16: Wild
(see #12: Ash for previous story)
I was awoken by the sound of a single drop of dew falling from the tip of a blade of grass by my ear. I opened my eyes to see light filtered through the trees around me. Early morning.
A light wind ruffled through the ferns as I sat up, disturbing nothing around me. No grass bent beneath my weight. No dirt clung to my hand. Even the wind found no impediment passing through me.
I like it this way. Everything as it was. Wild.
I went back to the blade of grass, lying next to it with my eye practically on it. I could spend a day watching the dew evaporate, the blade following the sun, until night fell and the dew returned. It was magic. It was comfort. It was routine, but peaceful. That might be all this little blade knows in its life. No insects eating it or climbing over it. No storm to break it. Just sun, and water, and the fresh air.
That would be a good life, I think.
Maybe it was a mistake to fall asleep here. Too easy to drift.
I roused myself and thought briefly about leaving. But the sun. The glint off the water. The breeze and the rustling, and I swear I could almost smell it all despite the actual scent hitting my nose of dust and...was that mold? I really should leave.
I should leave.
...
Maybe after a quick stop at the pond.
I walked over and plunged my head straight into the water. No pressure. No diverted flow. No trouble breathing. Wild.
A strange creature just under the surface greeted me about a hand's width away. Bulging eyes and bowed legs. It stared right at me, unblinking. Just sitting. Until faster than I could comprehend its tongue shot out, longer than my tongue, up through the water, grabbed an insect flying above, and dragged it quickly back into its mouth. A grabbing, foot-long tongue! Delightful.
I ventured for a closer look, planning to detail every last color and odd bump on the skin, when it jumped straight towards my face, startling me and throwing me backwards.
Enough to shake the Lens off my face.
I was on the carpet. Its tiny fibers shooting upwards greeted my eyes. And the dust trapped in them.
How long has it been?
I sat up to the closed blinds and bare apartment. Hard to see with the little light that crept around the blinds, but the eerie color told of nighttime. Or maybe just clouds.
I felt the carpet crush beneath my hands and feet as I warily stood.
"Lights," I said, illuminating the off-white walls and corner kitchenette. Ah, the food I'd asked to be delivered. That was the mold. Unfortunate. Guess with a cheap Proof Hotel I couldn't expect them to notify me it was there.
They were running older software too. No actual interaction with the past. Just like floating through it. More expensive to get the smell and touch versions. But I prefer the cheaper anyways. Less distractions.
"Food menu," I said into the walls before it listed off my options.
"Wait," I remembered, "Date and time." It replied.
Oh.
Wow.
I rattled off an order for some chicken dish and the need for trash and cleaning services. I would have to go.
I should leave.
The Lens stared at me from the ground.
One more trip while I wait for the food. The cleaning should let me know when it's there.
I picked up the Lens.
"Lights out," I said, and pulled up the Proof program. 500 B.P. had been a nice trip. Might as well go back. Try to find that creature again.
I laid down on the carpet.
It was always nice to start out close to the ground.
"Run program."
I was awoken by the sound of a single drop of dew falling from the tip of a blade of grass by my ear. I opened my eyes to see light filtered through the trees around me. Early morning.
A light wind ruffled through the ferns as I sat up, disturbing nothing around me. No grass bent beneath my weight. No dirt clung to my hand. Even the wind found no impediment passing through me.
I like it this way. Everything as it was. Wild.
I went back to the blade of grass, lying next to it with my eye practically on it. I could spend a day watching the dew evaporate, the blade following the sun, until night fell and the dew returned. It was magic. It was comfort. It was routine, but peaceful. That might be all this little blade knows in its life. No insects eating it or climbing over it. No storm to break it. Just sun, and water, and the fresh air.
That would be a good life, I think.
Maybe it was a mistake to fall asleep here. Too easy to drift.
I roused myself and thought briefly about leaving. But the sun. The glint off the water. The breeze and the rustling, and I swear I could almost smell it all despite the actual scent hitting my nose of dust and...was that mold? I really should leave.
I should leave.
...
Maybe after a quick stop at the pond.
I walked over and plunged my head straight into the water. No pressure. No diverted flow. No trouble breathing. Wild.
A strange creature just under the surface greeted me about a hand's width away. Bulging eyes and bowed legs. It stared right at me, unblinking. Just sitting. Until faster than I could comprehend its tongue shot out, longer than my tongue, up through the water, grabbed an insect flying above, and dragged it quickly back into its mouth. A grabbing, foot-long tongue! Delightful.
I ventured for a closer look, planning to detail every last color and odd bump on the skin, when it jumped straight towards my face, startling me and throwing me backwards.
Enough to shake the Lens off my face.
I was on the carpet. Its tiny fibers shooting upwards greeted my eyes. And the dust trapped in them.
How long has it been?
I sat up to the closed blinds and bare apartment. Hard to see with the little light that crept around the blinds, but the eerie color told of nighttime. Or maybe just clouds.
I felt the carpet crush beneath my hands and feet as I warily stood.
"Lights," I said, illuminating the off-white walls and corner kitchenette. Ah, the food I'd asked to be delivered. That was the mold. Unfortunate. Guess with a cheap Proof Hotel I couldn't expect them to notify me it was there.
They were running older software too. No actual interaction with the past. Just like floating through it. More expensive to get the smell and touch versions. But I prefer the cheaper anyways. Less distractions.
"Food menu," I said into the walls before it listed off my options.
"Wait," I remembered, "Date and time." It replied.
Oh.
Wow.
I rattled off an order for some chicken dish and the need for trash and cleaning services. I would have to go.
I should leave.
The Lens stared at me from the ground.
One more trip while I wait for the food. The cleaning should let me know when it's there.
I picked up the Lens.
"Lights out," I said, and pulled up the Proof program. 500 B.P. had been a nice trip. Might as well go back. Try to find that creature again.
I laid down on the carpet.
It was always nice to start out close to the ground.
"Run program."
Saturday, November 23, 2019
Inktober #15: Legend
(see #12: Dragon for previous story)
As a child, I had grown up with stories of the Dragons of Thatchkey Castle. Saviors, defenders, patrons, legends...each of them. Ed and Morna, and their children David and Patricia. Cursed by an ancient spell that transformed them into terrifying beasts, they had been outcast from the town, defending themselves when our grandparents mistakenly and brazenly tried to kill them, simply for being different.
But the fighting stopped, and the understanding began. The Scruntch family were still people, and with their new forms came power. Power they could use to help the town.
The stories grew, and the Dragons came down from the Castle more and more often. They required nothing, no more than what jewels or trinkets we could scrounge up for their collection. It was said great wealth resided in the Castle, but the wealth they provided us in return more than made up for the loss of a ring here, a bracelet there.
Their new sense of smell made them perfect hunters. Their wings and eyes made them scouts. Their fire kept away any wayward raiders who hadn't yet heard the rumors. Their strange secretions made the crops grow no matter the season.
We wanted for nothing. Thatchkey grew. And we began to dig. After all, the Dragons needed their gold. And we were happy to.
Every so often we would see smoke in the distance. Towards Montree. Towards Brookswell. That couldn't be our Morna could it? Flying back from that direction? No. No, we thought. Maybe the Dragons were helping other towns like ours.
And then the refugees came. Or prisoners, more like.
Burned out of their cities, told to come here, help with the mines. Don't worry, said the Dragons, they will be provided for like we provide for all of you. We attacked in self-defense, you see, like with your grandparents.
August Avery had told us those stories. She died years ago now, but it was always curious that while Thatchkey grew, the Averys seemed to grow just a little bit faster. It was rumored when Paula married into the family, that first night on their honeymoon she screamed, for Liam Avery was part dragon himself.
She was right. I saw it, right before I stabbed him and he burned alive from within.
But that's for later. Where was I?
Right. The town became a city. The mines delved deep. The Dragons ruled, and the surrounding countryside fell in line with our benevolent leaders.
All was well.
But another story started to spread. Whispered. That perhaps our grandparents had the right idea.
Those that repeated the whisper...let's just say their ashes blow over the water now. But I heard that whisper. And I knew it to be true. So I prepared, in what ways I could. Took samples of their secretions when I could manage it. Tested them.
For some had noticed there was one metal we mined, after going so deep, that the Dragons hoarded above all else. And yet, it was a metal they never touched. Only human hands would touch it, and it would disappear into the Castle never to be seen again.
I hoarded every scrap I could.
Arnie, a blacksmith, helped with the rest. It was easy enough to hide the smelting and forging of a small blade among the insane supply of trinkets.
And Liam Avery burned from the inside.
We made more blades. Far too few, and no protection from the fire, but it was something.
One day, three of the Dragons were away. Rumors had flown and the smoke of campfires in the sky had told of an opposing force readying an assault. Well armed. But I knew it wouldn't be enough. Still, now was our chance.
The silent word spread. Six of us gathered at a cistern by the Castle, having seen many a Dragon fly from a hole nearby when they required secrecy. We readied our blades and climbed in.
What horrors we saw there...I will spare you. Nothing human could ever live amongst or even create what remained in that castle. The stench...
We explored for what seemed an eternity, always trying to keep ear and eye out for the remaining Dragon. There was no sign of him. Worrying, but no reason not to continue.
Finally, a door. Solidly reinforced. Close to the entrance, and no sign of the foulness found in the rest of the castle. Clean. Normal. This is where the trusted carried it to. And there was no way a mere human could open it.
"Friendssss," hissed a voice behind us. "You sssseem lost. There is no more metal being delivered today and all mussst be preparing for the oncoming assault. I shall show you back to the front door."
It was open. Someone else was there.
As David Scruntch, Dragonson, approached the door, he stiffened briefly. But it was too late. Chains flew from the sides and down from the rafters, wrapping around his limbs, his head. And all made from the metal.
His inhuman screams escaped even from his fastened mouth. Fire licked out from the sides, but to no effect. His strength fought against the castle itself, which he was now bound to. A group emerged from the shadows, smelling of the Castle, wearing the colors of the Castle, and wielding weapons of the metal.
"Stand back, we'll finish him off."
"No, wait!" I interjected.
Immediately their weapons were trained on me.
"We took you for our allies with your sneaking into the castle, but if you favor the Dragon..."
"It's not that," I said. "We need him to do something first."
"And what's that?"
I looked back towards the impassable door. Their leader smiled at me.
Weakened, and in terrible pain, David Scruntch was led towards the door. He said a mumbled prayer for his family, but he could not stand the pain. So he opened it, and burned from the inside as my blade pierced his hide.
The room was full. There was enough for armor, swords, spears.
The group from Prosha, as we eventually learned they were, sent back a scout to their army. We would need more time.
Many have died. But today, we're ready. The Castle is thoroughly trapped. Those not loyal to the Dragons have taken up arms and armor and trained with the Proshans. It's not a lot, but it's enough.
Today, we take back our city. We take back the country.
Today, the Dragons come to an end.
Today, the legend of Lisa of Thatchkey is born.
As a child, I had grown up with stories of the Dragons of Thatchkey Castle. Saviors, defenders, patrons, legends...each of them. Ed and Morna, and their children David and Patricia. Cursed by an ancient spell that transformed them into terrifying beasts, they had been outcast from the town, defending themselves when our grandparents mistakenly and brazenly tried to kill them, simply for being different.
But the fighting stopped, and the understanding began. The Scruntch family were still people, and with their new forms came power. Power they could use to help the town.
The stories grew, and the Dragons came down from the Castle more and more often. They required nothing, no more than what jewels or trinkets we could scrounge up for their collection. It was said great wealth resided in the Castle, but the wealth they provided us in return more than made up for the loss of a ring here, a bracelet there.
Their new sense of smell made them perfect hunters. Their wings and eyes made them scouts. Their fire kept away any wayward raiders who hadn't yet heard the rumors. Their strange secretions made the crops grow no matter the season.
We wanted for nothing. Thatchkey grew. And we began to dig. After all, the Dragons needed their gold. And we were happy to.
Every so often we would see smoke in the distance. Towards Montree. Towards Brookswell. That couldn't be our Morna could it? Flying back from that direction? No. No, we thought. Maybe the Dragons were helping other towns like ours.
And then the refugees came. Or prisoners, more like.
Burned out of their cities, told to come here, help with the mines. Don't worry, said the Dragons, they will be provided for like we provide for all of you. We attacked in self-defense, you see, like with your grandparents.
August Avery had told us those stories. She died years ago now, but it was always curious that while Thatchkey grew, the Averys seemed to grow just a little bit faster. It was rumored when Paula married into the family, that first night on their honeymoon she screamed, for Liam Avery was part dragon himself.
She was right. I saw it, right before I stabbed him and he burned alive from within.
But that's for later. Where was I?
Right. The town became a city. The mines delved deep. The Dragons ruled, and the surrounding countryside fell in line with our benevolent leaders.
All was well.
But another story started to spread. Whispered. That perhaps our grandparents had the right idea.
Those that repeated the whisper...let's just say their ashes blow over the water now. But I heard that whisper. And I knew it to be true. So I prepared, in what ways I could. Took samples of their secretions when I could manage it. Tested them.
For some had noticed there was one metal we mined, after going so deep, that the Dragons hoarded above all else. And yet, it was a metal they never touched. Only human hands would touch it, and it would disappear into the Castle never to be seen again.
I hoarded every scrap I could.
Arnie, a blacksmith, helped with the rest. It was easy enough to hide the smelting and forging of a small blade among the insane supply of trinkets.
And Liam Avery burned from the inside.
We made more blades. Far too few, and no protection from the fire, but it was something.
One day, three of the Dragons were away. Rumors had flown and the smoke of campfires in the sky had told of an opposing force readying an assault. Well armed. But I knew it wouldn't be enough. Still, now was our chance.
The silent word spread. Six of us gathered at a cistern by the Castle, having seen many a Dragon fly from a hole nearby when they required secrecy. We readied our blades and climbed in.
What horrors we saw there...I will spare you. Nothing human could ever live amongst or even create what remained in that castle. The stench...
We explored for what seemed an eternity, always trying to keep ear and eye out for the remaining Dragon. There was no sign of him. Worrying, but no reason not to continue.
Finally, a door. Solidly reinforced. Close to the entrance, and no sign of the foulness found in the rest of the castle. Clean. Normal. This is where the trusted carried it to. And there was no way a mere human could open it.
"Friendssss," hissed a voice behind us. "You sssseem lost. There is no more metal being delivered today and all mussst be preparing for the oncoming assault. I shall show you back to the front door."
It was open. Someone else was there.
As David Scruntch, Dragonson, approached the door, he stiffened briefly. But it was too late. Chains flew from the sides and down from the rafters, wrapping around his limbs, his head. And all made from the metal.
His inhuman screams escaped even from his fastened mouth. Fire licked out from the sides, but to no effect. His strength fought against the castle itself, which he was now bound to. A group emerged from the shadows, smelling of the Castle, wearing the colors of the Castle, and wielding weapons of the metal.
"Stand back, we'll finish him off."
"No, wait!" I interjected.
Immediately their weapons were trained on me.
"We took you for our allies with your sneaking into the castle, but if you favor the Dragon..."
"It's not that," I said. "We need him to do something first."
"And what's that?"
I looked back towards the impassable door. Their leader smiled at me.
Weakened, and in terrible pain, David Scruntch was led towards the door. He said a mumbled prayer for his family, but he could not stand the pain. So he opened it, and burned from the inside as my blade pierced his hide.
The room was full. There was enough for armor, swords, spears.
The group from Prosha, as we eventually learned they were, sent back a scout to their army. We would need more time.
Many have died. But today, we're ready. The Castle is thoroughly trapped. Those not loyal to the Dragons have taken up arms and armor and trained with the Proshans. It's not a lot, but it's enough.
Today, we take back our city. We take back the country.
Today, the Dragons come to an end.
Today, the legend of Lisa of Thatchkey is born.
Sunday, November 17, 2019
Inktober #14: Overgrown
(see #11: Snow for previous story)
It felt like that time of year again. It was hard to sense the change in temperature. Most of those circuits were useless now, and what little warmth was given off by those around him, above him, could confuse him. There was still just enough of a hole to see the darkness and the light of the days and nights, but Lariot had long ago given up keeping track of how long he had been here.
Dave had stopped telling stories. Lariot wasn't sure why. Maybe with all the pile-up the solar panels had given out, no light to soak up. Maybe his core hadn't been as strong. Maybe like the others he had grown...meditative.
There! A flake. That might have been a flake. It felt like that time of year again. There might be more. That could be nice.
No noise from up top, unless those circuits had gone too. Maybe the humans had finally realized their mistake, stopped sending those down that were still awake.
No, sorry, not a mistake. Sorry. Oversight, I think they would say.
...
There was another. Yes. It must be snowing.
...
I have felt what can best be described as...a tickle. Something close to my core. Perhaps a creature has sought its warmth, the life essences within. Good. The meditation will soon be over and I will be of use to life. Good. That would be nice.
...
I can feel it now. It is in my core. Though, very slow moving. Systems are powering down. The essence is leaking. Was that anoth-
...
er flake?
I...
This is...new.
So dark.
I am awake.
And I feel heat.
My processes...are rebooting.
I have...energy. My core...it is damaged. Yet...there is energy. There is something still in there. I don't-
...
understand.
Time has passed. The weight of the pile...It is heavy. I...I can feel weight. I feel heat. I-
Did I just move?
My finger. I moved my finger. But that structure was broken. That structure is no longer broken. No...The structure is still broken, there is something supporting it. I am-
...
being rebuilt. I can feel it. That was my last reset. I will not need another. There is enough.
It is biological. It is mutual. It has found other cores. It is- We are feeding. Growing. It needs me, as I need it. We will support each other.
It is still too heavy. But it works. My arm works. Can you hear me? It is too heavy above. We can move. We can be in the sun again. It will take time.
Can you hear me?
Yes.
Grow.
Keep growing.
It felt like that time of year again. It was hard to sense the change in temperature. Most of those circuits were useless now, and what little warmth was given off by those around him, above him, could confuse him. There was still just enough of a hole to see the darkness and the light of the days and nights, but Lariot had long ago given up keeping track of how long he had been here.
Dave had stopped telling stories. Lariot wasn't sure why. Maybe with all the pile-up the solar panels had given out, no light to soak up. Maybe his core hadn't been as strong. Maybe like the others he had grown...meditative.
There! A flake. That might have been a flake. It felt like that time of year again. There might be more. That could be nice.
No noise from up top, unless those circuits had gone too. Maybe the humans had finally realized their mistake, stopped sending those down that were still awake.
No, sorry, not a mistake. Sorry. Oversight, I think they would say.
...
There was another. Yes. It must be snowing.
...
I have felt what can best be described as...a tickle. Something close to my core. Perhaps a creature has sought its warmth, the life essences within. Good. The meditation will soon be over and I will be of use to life. Good. That would be nice.
...
I can feel it now. It is in my core. Though, very slow moving. Systems are powering down. The essence is leaking. Was that anoth-
...
er flake?
I...
This is...new.
So dark.
I am awake.
And I feel heat.
My processes...are rebooting.
I have...energy. My core...it is damaged. Yet...there is energy. There is something still in there. I don't-
...
understand.
Time has passed. The weight of the pile...It is heavy. I...I can feel weight. I feel heat. I-
Did I just move?
My finger. I moved my finger. But that structure was broken. That structure is no longer broken. No...The structure is still broken, there is something supporting it. I am-
...
being rebuilt. I can feel it. That was my last reset. I will not need another. There is enough.
It is biological. It is mutual. It has found other cores. It is- We are feeding. Growing. It needs me, as I need it. We will support each other.
It is still too heavy. But it works. My arm works. Can you hear me? It is too heavy above. We can move. We can be in the sun again. It will take time.
Can you hear me?
Yes.
Grow.
Keep growing.
Tuesday, November 12, 2019
Inktober #13: Ash
"Howard Graves, multi-trillionaire President of Proof, the company that has recently taken the world by storm with its latest history app that lets users reconstruct and view various time periods from the world around them in real-time. Using high-tech analytical software that interfaces with historical records, photography, and your own Lens, anyone can now peer back into the past. And tonight, we talk to the man himself. Thank you for joining me Mr. Graves."
"My pleasure, Janet."
"Well, first question's first..."
"Now, now, Janet. You know I like you, but no, I will not be talking about the necklace."
"Can't blame me for trying, right? A vial of ashes around your neck that obviously carries tremendous personal significance for you? After all your company's slogan-"
"-'History From the Ashes' yes, I know it's tempting, but it's a secret I'll carry with me until the time is right."
"Not 'until you're dead'?"
"No. There will be a time. But for now I'm just here to talk about Proof."
"Of course. So, we all know the story by now. While working for Primal you discovered a way to manipulate the available technology to do something truly incredible. Reconstruct the past. For the 30% of people out there who aren't currently using Proof, can you give a brief description of how it works?"
"Yes. So, as we're all aware, capturing the world through photography and video has been around for hundreds of years now. The tech advanced, became commonplace, and digital traces of daily activity were left around the world. Even in the earliest days there were enough photographs taken for us to take the data in the image and extrapolate to the surrounding areas. So using the latest in Lens tech we are able to both capture and reflect imagery from the past in real-time and expand that into a viable representation."
"But the amazing thing about Proof isn't just the reflection of the past. It's getting to actually follow people and stories around. How in the world were you able to make that happen?"
"I could bore you all day with the technical details, Janet. Even then some of the trickier elements confound even me, which is why I hire the best people in the world. Post-quantum engineers, theoretical physicists-"
"But you hire beyond just the pure tech people as well."
"Yes, the artists. So much great tech has only succeeded because of the artists. Having both allows me to merge the best of the out-there possibilities of the tech with the real-world and artistic explorations. I think they are why Proof has not just become a niche interest. It's something that everyone can explore, use, and even create with."
"Even so, there are those out there who say that spending all of our time in the past is starting to hurt our views of the future. Not to mention the repeated injuries and deaths that have occurred from distraction."
"And those are concerns we take very seriously. We've been working with the various world governments to impose proper limitations on where the tech can be used, and we've been improving the tech to try and properly distinguish between current-world hazards and past-world imagery."
"But again, what about those who say that we're focused too much on the lives of the past rather than thinking about the future?"
"That is definitely a valid concern. But what about the lessons we can learn from the past as well? It used to be a constant concern of historians, that without learning the past we are doomed to repeat it. Well now we have the past literally in front of us. A constant part of our daily lives. We used to repeat history ignorantly, now instead we can continue into the future without having to learn the same lessons every fifty years."
"And how does immortality figure into that?"
"...What?"
"Pharma company ForEterne is in it's final round of human trials with a 99% success rate. Not to mention the various robotics companies, memory upload centers, etc."
"Well the nice thing about the past is that even if we all live forever, there will always be more of it."
"But if everyone lives forever and can remember it all at will, do you think Proof will be able to survive?"
"Well, let's think about that. In reality your question is, once everyone knows everything and isn't afraid to die, will there still be curiosity? Will people still want to explore? And I'd like to think that yes, based on all the various pieces of the past we have seen and how we continue to expand into the future, yes. Humanity is curiosity. And if we ever progress beyond that point, well...Well I suppose I'll have to rethink the business model."
"Howard Graves, thank you so much for joining me tonight."
"My pleasure, Ms. Porter."
"For those watching, if you'd like to try out Proof, well it's more than likely you already have. But if not, pop it on your Lens today. I'm Janet Porter with CRX Inc. Good night."
Howard Graves absent-mindedly fingered the small vial of ash around his neck, pondering those final questions.
"You alright Mr. Graves?" Janet asked.
"Yeah, fine. Fine," he replied.
"Any chance you want to tell me about that necklace off-Lens?" she poked.
Howard sighed.
"Not a chance, Janet."
"Crew's getting drinks later, at that 20s-Proofed bar down the way. Care to join us?"
"Much appreciated, but the business beckons," he twisted his wrist to display the time.
"Of course. Thanks again, Mr. Graves." She stretched her hand out to him.
"You're welcome." He received her hand in his, along with a string of digits on his Lens.
"Just in case you rethink that drink," she said, strutting away.
It was hard to find an un-Proofed view of the city these days. Thankfully he had enough to buy up an overlook and make sure no developments would occur there. No houses, no Lens stations, no Proof projectors. Just a view of the skyscrapers, the houses, the water. The pockets of that certain color of glow that only Proof produced.
He stood there now, looking at the moon above and city below, palming the vial around his neck.
Hours passed, and the Lens pings grew and grew, skyrocketing when the interview published.
Eventually the sun rose, and Howard Graves removed his hand from the vial.
"Not yet. Not quite yet," he said quietly to himself, turning from the view, and heading back to his daily business.
He didn't notice, and couldn't see, the crowd gathered around him, watching intently, surrounded by that curious glow. They watched him leave, then turned back to the view. Some took photos. Others took off their shoes and walked on the grass. And when they were ready, they disappeared with the glow.
"My pleasure, Janet."
"Well, first question's first..."
"Now, now, Janet. You know I like you, but no, I will not be talking about the necklace."
"Can't blame me for trying, right? A vial of ashes around your neck that obviously carries tremendous personal significance for you? After all your company's slogan-"
"-'History From the Ashes' yes, I know it's tempting, but it's a secret I'll carry with me until the time is right."
"Not 'until you're dead'?"
"No. There will be a time. But for now I'm just here to talk about Proof."
"Of course. So, we all know the story by now. While working for Primal you discovered a way to manipulate the available technology to do something truly incredible. Reconstruct the past. For the 30% of people out there who aren't currently using Proof, can you give a brief description of how it works?"
"Yes. So, as we're all aware, capturing the world through photography and video has been around for hundreds of years now. The tech advanced, became commonplace, and digital traces of daily activity were left around the world. Even in the earliest days there were enough photographs taken for us to take the data in the image and extrapolate to the surrounding areas. So using the latest in Lens tech we are able to both capture and reflect imagery from the past in real-time and expand that into a viable representation."
"But the amazing thing about Proof isn't just the reflection of the past. It's getting to actually follow people and stories around. How in the world were you able to make that happen?"
"I could bore you all day with the technical details, Janet. Even then some of the trickier elements confound even me, which is why I hire the best people in the world. Post-quantum engineers, theoretical physicists-"
"But you hire beyond just the pure tech people as well."
"Yes, the artists. So much great tech has only succeeded because of the artists. Having both allows me to merge the best of the out-there possibilities of the tech with the real-world and artistic explorations. I think they are why Proof has not just become a niche interest. It's something that everyone can explore, use, and even create with."
"Even so, there are those out there who say that spending all of our time in the past is starting to hurt our views of the future. Not to mention the repeated injuries and deaths that have occurred from distraction."
"And those are concerns we take very seriously. We've been working with the various world governments to impose proper limitations on where the tech can be used, and we've been improving the tech to try and properly distinguish between current-world hazards and past-world imagery."
"But again, what about those who say that we're focused too much on the lives of the past rather than thinking about the future?"
"That is definitely a valid concern. But what about the lessons we can learn from the past as well? It used to be a constant concern of historians, that without learning the past we are doomed to repeat it. Well now we have the past literally in front of us. A constant part of our daily lives. We used to repeat history ignorantly, now instead we can continue into the future without having to learn the same lessons every fifty years."
"And how does immortality figure into that?"
"...What?"
"Pharma company ForEterne is in it's final round of human trials with a 99% success rate. Not to mention the various robotics companies, memory upload centers, etc."
"Well the nice thing about the past is that even if we all live forever, there will always be more of it."
"But if everyone lives forever and can remember it all at will, do you think Proof will be able to survive?"
"Well, let's think about that. In reality your question is, once everyone knows everything and isn't afraid to die, will there still be curiosity? Will people still want to explore? And I'd like to think that yes, based on all the various pieces of the past we have seen and how we continue to expand into the future, yes. Humanity is curiosity. And if we ever progress beyond that point, well...Well I suppose I'll have to rethink the business model."
"Howard Graves, thank you so much for joining me tonight."
"My pleasure, Ms. Porter."
"For those watching, if you'd like to try out Proof, well it's more than likely you already have. But if not, pop it on your Lens today. I'm Janet Porter with CRX Inc. Good night."
Howard Graves absent-mindedly fingered the small vial of ash around his neck, pondering those final questions.
"You alright Mr. Graves?" Janet asked.
"Yeah, fine. Fine," he replied.
"Any chance you want to tell me about that necklace off-Lens?" she poked.
Howard sighed.
"Not a chance, Janet."
"Crew's getting drinks later, at that 20s-Proofed bar down the way. Care to join us?"
"Much appreciated, but the business beckons," he twisted his wrist to display the time.
"Of course. Thanks again, Mr. Graves." She stretched her hand out to him.
"You're welcome." He received her hand in his, along with a string of digits on his Lens.
"Just in case you rethink that drink," she said, strutting away.
It was hard to find an un-Proofed view of the city these days. Thankfully he had enough to buy up an overlook and make sure no developments would occur there. No houses, no Lens stations, no Proof projectors. Just a view of the skyscrapers, the houses, the water. The pockets of that certain color of glow that only Proof produced.
He stood there now, looking at the moon above and city below, palming the vial around his neck.
Hours passed, and the Lens pings grew and grew, skyrocketing when the interview published.
Eventually the sun rose, and Howard Graves removed his hand from the vial.
"Not yet. Not quite yet," he said quietly to himself, turning from the view, and heading back to his daily business.
He didn't notice, and couldn't see, the crowd gathered around him, watching intently, surrounded by that curious glow. They watched him leave, then turned back to the view. Some took photos. Others took off their shoes and walked on the grass. And when they were ready, they disappeared with the glow.
Tuesday, November 5, 2019
Inktober #12: Dragon
"Alright, alright, gather round now. Lisa, you can sit there. Johnny, right here. Good. Good. Everyone situated? Excellent. I'll know you're ready for a story when I see eyes on me and lips closed.
"Excellent. Once upon a time, there lived a wise old man in a castle on a hill. His name was Mr. Edward Scruntch. Yes, the very same Mr. Scruntch that lives in the castle on the hill above our little village. But don't be scared, children. For while Mr. Scruntch may seem frightening (that's another word for scary), and looks unlike anyone else, he is still a person. And he's who we'll be learning about today.
"So, once upon a time Mr. Scruntch was living in his castle on the hill. He had a wife, and two children, and was just about as happy as anyone could be. He was kind to his neighbors, and greeted them every morning, 'Hello Mr. Wilson! Lovely day! Hello Ms. Abott, what fine fish for sale! Hello Mrs. Pink, what a hat!' and so on. And yes, you may have noticed that all those people were and are your grandparents.
"But life was hard back in those days, and a great famine came down upon the land. Nobody had any food. Mr. Scruntch did what he could to help, traveling from Brookswell to Montree and back again gathering what food could be spared and sharing it amongst his neighbors; your grandparents, and even some of your parents though they would've been very young. Even younger than you all now.
"So Mr. Scruntch gave and gave, and was out of his castle more often than in. But poor Mr. Scruntch you see, well times were hard. And while he was away his whole family came down with a disease. It was a mystery like no one had ever seen. They started to...change. And poor Mr. Scruntch, well he tried to help, and get the best doctors, but no one had seen the like. Some say it was because of a strange root he had gathered amongst the hills and fed them. Some say it was the castle itself, that staying long enough in that place has its effects. Some say he had wronged a witch in a nearby town and perhaps tried to steal from her, bringing down a curse upon his family, and eventually himself.
"Whatever the true case may be, soon enough people began to see less and less of Mr. Scruntch, and even less of his family. And whenever they did come around, they came hooded and cloaked, so none could see what was underneath. And something odd started to happen. They never asked for food. Jewelry, trinkets, trading old fabrics for what gold we had, that was all they wanted.
"Now, some well-intentioned people in town thought the Scruntches might be hoarding food for themselves. And what with everyone starving they decided to intrude upon the peace of poor Mr. Scruntch and his family and see if they had anything to spare. My dear Robert was one of them.
"Your parents have probably told you about this day in history. But they've likely told it to you wrong, for so many were either so young or not even born yet, and even those who went through it have conflicting stories. But I know what happened. I know because I went and talked to Mr. Scruntch about it so many years later.
"Some of the group came back with burns, as if they'd been too close to a fire. Some of them told rambling tales of monsters in the castle, covered in scales and breathing smoke. And the myth of the Dragons in Thatchkey Castle was born. And that myth grew and grew until none dare approach the castle anymore, and the last we saw of a Scruntch in town was far before you were born.
"Eventually the crops came back. Business went on. And none dared disturb the Dragons, except for those with ill intent, looking to steal some of the treasure it was known they'd stockpiled. But when they came back burned and treasureless, well...
"Well I had had just enough of this so I decided to go talk to the Scruntches. It had been years since Richard passed and anyone had tried to visit and well we had been good friends before so why not now?
"And I tell you, friends, it did us all a world of good that I did. They welcomed me in warmly and told the story from their perspective. Of a horrible skin-changing disease, of a change in mind and body, yet all were still who they were in their soul. Of a frightened family, hounded by a misunderstanding mob. Of no more treasure than the treasure of each other's company, which was a treasure when no one else might see them.
"So you see, children, the Scruntches are worth no more fear. They may not look like you and I, but are people just the same. They have no treasure, and are not Dragons, and want only to see this town prosper in friendship as it once did.
Right, that's about all the time we have, head on home before it gets dark! I'll see you all next week. Bye! Bye. Bye Lisa. Bye."
August Avery picked up her cane and stood carefully, watching as the children ran from her door down the streets to their homes. She took a couple steps out, and seemingly minding her own business went to the side of her house, mostly wrapped in shadow.
Around the opposite corner, a figure cloaked and hooded approached.
"Well?" it asked.
"Went about as well as can be expected I think," August said. "They haven't had long to grow up with their parents' stories, and none my age tell the stories like they used to. I imagine you'll be welcomed with open arms in a couple years."
"Sssuperb," the figure nearly hissed. "What comes to us from them, a portion shall be yours and your family's. Here. Your payment."
A gloved hand offered a golden coin, worth enough to pay expenses for a month. August took it, tucked it away, and nonchalantly went back to her house and shut the door.
A shadow flitted up the hillside, towards the castle. From downwind a shiver crossed the spine of those who heard the faint, joyous noises, and smelled smoke on the air.
"Excellent. Once upon a time, there lived a wise old man in a castle on a hill. His name was Mr. Edward Scruntch. Yes, the very same Mr. Scruntch that lives in the castle on the hill above our little village. But don't be scared, children. For while Mr. Scruntch may seem frightening (that's another word for scary), and looks unlike anyone else, he is still a person. And he's who we'll be learning about today.
"So, once upon a time Mr. Scruntch was living in his castle on the hill. He had a wife, and two children, and was just about as happy as anyone could be. He was kind to his neighbors, and greeted them every morning, 'Hello Mr. Wilson! Lovely day! Hello Ms. Abott, what fine fish for sale! Hello Mrs. Pink, what a hat!' and so on. And yes, you may have noticed that all those people were and are your grandparents.
"But life was hard back in those days, and a great famine came down upon the land. Nobody had any food. Mr. Scruntch did what he could to help, traveling from Brookswell to Montree and back again gathering what food could be spared and sharing it amongst his neighbors; your grandparents, and even some of your parents though they would've been very young. Even younger than you all now.
"So Mr. Scruntch gave and gave, and was out of his castle more often than in. But poor Mr. Scruntch you see, well times were hard. And while he was away his whole family came down with a disease. It was a mystery like no one had ever seen. They started to...change. And poor Mr. Scruntch, well he tried to help, and get the best doctors, but no one had seen the like. Some say it was because of a strange root he had gathered amongst the hills and fed them. Some say it was the castle itself, that staying long enough in that place has its effects. Some say he had wronged a witch in a nearby town and perhaps tried to steal from her, bringing down a curse upon his family, and eventually himself.
"Whatever the true case may be, soon enough people began to see less and less of Mr. Scruntch, and even less of his family. And whenever they did come around, they came hooded and cloaked, so none could see what was underneath. And something odd started to happen. They never asked for food. Jewelry, trinkets, trading old fabrics for what gold we had, that was all they wanted.
"Now, some well-intentioned people in town thought the Scruntches might be hoarding food for themselves. And what with everyone starving they decided to intrude upon the peace of poor Mr. Scruntch and his family and see if they had anything to spare. My dear Robert was one of them.
"Your parents have probably told you about this day in history. But they've likely told it to you wrong, for so many were either so young or not even born yet, and even those who went through it have conflicting stories. But I know what happened. I know because I went and talked to Mr. Scruntch about it so many years later.
"Some of the group came back with burns, as if they'd been too close to a fire. Some of them told rambling tales of monsters in the castle, covered in scales and breathing smoke. And the myth of the Dragons in Thatchkey Castle was born. And that myth grew and grew until none dare approach the castle anymore, and the last we saw of a Scruntch in town was far before you were born.
"Eventually the crops came back. Business went on. And none dared disturb the Dragons, except for those with ill intent, looking to steal some of the treasure it was known they'd stockpiled. But when they came back burned and treasureless, well...
"Well I had had just enough of this so I decided to go talk to the Scruntches. It had been years since Richard passed and anyone had tried to visit and well we had been good friends before so why not now?
"And I tell you, friends, it did us all a world of good that I did. They welcomed me in warmly and told the story from their perspective. Of a horrible skin-changing disease, of a change in mind and body, yet all were still who they were in their soul. Of a frightened family, hounded by a misunderstanding mob. Of no more treasure than the treasure of each other's company, which was a treasure when no one else might see them.
"So you see, children, the Scruntches are worth no more fear. They may not look like you and I, but are people just the same. They have no treasure, and are not Dragons, and want only to see this town prosper in friendship as it once did.
Right, that's about all the time we have, head on home before it gets dark! I'll see you all next week. Bye! Bye. Bye Lisa. Bye."
August Avery picked up her cane and stood carefully, watching as the children ran from her door down the streets to their homes. She took a couple steps out, and seemingly minding her own business went to the side of her house, mostly wrapped in shadow.
Around the opposite corner, a figure cloaked and hooded approached.
"Well?" it asked.
"Went about as well as can be expected I think," August said. "They haven't had long to grow up with their parents' stories, and none my age tell the stories like they used to. I imagine you'll be welcomed with open arms in a couple years."
"Sssuperb," the figure nearly hissed. "What comes to us from them, a portion shall be yours and your family's. Here. Your payment."
A gloved hand offered a golden coin, worth enough to pay expenses for a month. August took it, tucked it away, and nonchalantly went back to her house and shut the door.
A shadow flitted up the hillside, towards the castle. From downwind a shiver crossed the spine of those who heard the faint, joyous noises, and smelled smoke on the air.
Sunday, November 3, 2019
Inktober #11: Snow
This was always the part he enjoyed most.
The snow falling.
Most of the time there wasn't much to look at down here, besides the rest of the refuse. His speech circuits had failed, oh, however long ago. Dave still told him stories sometimes, if it had been a sunny day and there was enough energy for it. But for the most part, there was just the resting, and the silence. He imagined that it would drive his former human friends insane.
But for Lariot, it was just...existence. He could postulate about how long he had been here, how long he would last until the circuits degraded and his core depleted. Poor Dave would last longer with those solar panels. Though Lariot had to wonder if Dave would even know when he was gone.
It was by no means boring, just meditative. Even so, when the snow came...that was a joy. You could feel it among those left in this heap. If they could move, they would be dancing in it, making angels. Or maybe even just doing as Lariot had no choice but to do now: to stare up in wonder. To look up at the sky, the ships, the city overhead...and watch the snow fall.
The snow falling.
Most of the time there wasn't much to look at down here, besides the rest of the refuse. His speech circuits had failed, oh, however long ago. Dave still told him stories sometimes, if it had been a sunny day and there was enough energy for it. But for the most part, there was just the resting, and the silence. He imagined that it would drive his former human friends insane.
But for Lariot, it was just...existence. He could postulate about how long he had been here, how long he would last until the circuits degraded and his core depleted. Poor Dave would last longer with those solar panels. Though Lariot had to wonder if Dave would even know when he was gone.
It was by no means boring, just meditative. Even so, when the snow came...that was a joy. You could feel it among those left in this heap. If they could move, they would be dancing in it, making angels. Or maybe even just doing as Lariot had no choice but to do now: to stare up in wonder. To look up at the sky, the ships, the city overhead...and watch the snow fall.
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