"T Minus five minutes til Sling Shot."
I flex my grip, test out the controls. Emergency button on the inner right glove. Forward and back in the legs. Spin and counterbalance in the left arm, speed and direction in the right. Full sensor diagnostic supply in the helmet.
The wings etched onto the side of the helmet...just for fun.
"T Minus four minutes til Sling Shot."
Everything's prepped. Just four minutes to wait it out as everyone else around paces frantically and taps buttons more for their own personal sanity than actual effect. It's all been tested. Double tested. Tested millions of times. An error rate of only 2%.
"T Minus three minutes til Sling Shot."
The very first faster-than-light personal suit. The very first human pilot. I'm gonna get to see Utopia up close. Hell, the entire Andromeda galaxy. More. I get to be the first solitary interstellar human.
"T Minus two minutes til Sling Shot."
Rob comes over, of course he does.
"Doing okay in there?"
"Snug as a bug about to hit the windshield."
"Hey, that was ONE TIME."
"Relax, Rob. I know you've got all this down. I'm gonna be fine."
Rob takes my hand. It seems like a nice romantic moment until,
"I swear that emergency button feels a little sticky, let's just call an hour hold and I can mess with it, really make sure it's-"
"-Darling. Leave it. Everything will work out. I swear I won't go too far and we've got ships waiting everywhere around the system and beyond just in case."
"T Minus one minute til Sling Shot."
"Right, better get back to the controls." He puts his head against my helmet. "Stay safe out there."
"And you stay safe back here, Rob."
One final moment, and he's back, nervously pacing by the controls.
"Ten."
"Nine."
Rob stops and keeps his finger on the trigger.
"Eight."
"Seven."
I take what feels like the deepest breath of my life.
"Six."
"Five."
"Four."
Everything is engaged.
"Three."
"Two."
"TIME TO GO TO SPACE BABY!"
"One."
"Sling Shot engaged."
And faster than any human had ever gone before I shot through the cannon-like tunnel before me, passing Jupiter in a heartbeat, flying through empty space, zooming into Andromeda and seeing Utopia before me....
Until a heartbeat later I heard the siren. And opened my eyes.
I was still in the lab.
The first note of the emergency siren blared continuously, like it was stuck.
And the people...Everyone looked panicked. And nobody was moving.
Not like, so shocked in horror that they felt like they couldn't move, but literally weren't moving. The normally spinning emergency light was still going but...slowly. Incredibly slowly.
Until it stopped.
And then started going backwards. And then the lights were off. And everybody started to move again. But...backwards too.
Oh no.
We had accounted for breaking Einstein's laws. Our success in faster-than-light travel accounted for time dilation.
Or so we thought.
I tried straining my thumb towards the inside of my right palm, seemingly held back by some force, as I myself started to move backwards, beyond where I began. Everyone was moving a little faster now, Rob's face coming towards mine and a look of confusion as where I had been was no longer where I had been.
It was all getting to be a little too much for me to handle. My perception of reality itself began to shift.
Everything moved faster.
I was being pulled away. Out from the lab, from the building, from the city. Into the atmosphere.
I was in space.
The display was still running. It confirmed the worst.
I wasn't being pulled towards something. I was exactly where I had been.
The earth had moved.
No no no. Not like this.
There was still force on the emergency button. It had been sticky, damn it.
I panicked. I remained in space at the exact point I had been flung from. But time moved around me. I would be here forever. For eternity. Out of time until some other planet or star came through this exact spot...
Wait. The emergency may be sticky, but the navigation...
Works. It works.
I can't move fast enough to catch the earth as it falls away, but I can catch it when it comes back around.
I maneuver into position. I can't believe it still works. The suit works. Even now. I start gearing up to keep pace with the spin, the orbit, the speed of the earth itself. I may not be able to interact with it but I should be able to keep up long enough to get the emergency switch to work.
I see it in the distance approaching. Now or never.
It comes in fast, but I'm able to balance it. I sink towards the planet and adjust to hit the lab as it comes by.
But as I descend, keeping pace with the spin of the earth, I nearly recoil in horror. How could it have been so long? It should only have been a year!
Gone was all semblance of modern technology. The earth itself looked dimmer. No ships traveled to The Swing around the Moon. No flying transports of any kind dotted the sky beyond primitive planes, and even those seemed sparse. The display in front of me quickly computes based on position, tech, and historical record that I am currently descending into the April 19th, 2020, just outside of Washington D.C..
I maneuver into what looks like an abandoned alley, wary that anyone choosing to look up would see something altogether unreasonable...a spaceman in a suit beyond comprehension falling upwards into the sky from an alley. At least, from their perspective in time. Is it even possible to be seen in this state? If I can't touch the Earth-
And then I touched the Earth.
And a bird flies by, but not in reverse.
It's stopped.
I check the chronometric readings...sure enough. I'm back in relative time.
An old-timey car drives by. No. Modern, here, now. I don't think I've been seen.
The sun shines brightly. By all measures a beautiful spring day. The sounds of the occasional car engine rise and then fall as they pass on a nearby road. I can hear voices above me, windows open to apartments. Boxes...air conditioners my display tells me, hang over other windows but they are not on. No need yet.
I catch myself in my reverie. I little know what my being here could do to the future. Likely I've already entered a parallel dimension anyways, but...can't be too careful.
I test out the emergency button. Still stuck. I'll need tools.
21st century tools.
Sure.
Doable.
Not wanting to risk being thrown off Earth again I plant one foot ahead, then the next, never fully leaving the ground. Will I be flung back in time should I jump off the ground? Maybe. Maybe not. I'll stick with what's working for now.
I make my way to end of the alley, keeping sensors attuned for footsteps or the approach of anyone I may need to hide from. Clear, for now.
In fact...quite clear. Suspiciously clear. Don't tell me that's busted too now?
I venture a peek beyond the wall. I am on a residential street. Sounds of cars in the near distance tell of a more major road but for now there is no traffic here. No traffic of any kind. No cars, no people. On a sunny day like this it seems unusual not to catch sight of people lounging in the shade, going for a walk, admiring the vegetation.
Ah. The historical record. I see. A pandemic. Another quick hope flickers that the sterilizing skin on this suit remains intact. I, of course, would be immune, but should I travel back in time again...I dare not bring this with me.
Well at least I should have an easy time remaining hidden. As I myself admire the vegetation.
Not everything has changed with time.
Keeping sensors active they ping on a toolbox in a shed by the side of a modest home. I make my way over, carefully, jutting between walls and corners to avoid the few stragglers who wander out for the fresh air or to walk their animals. A simple crude gate stands in the way. Just beyond it, the shed. No way around it, not without leaving the ground. I unhook the latch, open it, walk through, close it, and rehook as fast as I possibly can. There was a creak.
There is a window.
I hurry to the shed, pull open the unlocked door and step inside, shutting it behind me.
A little glow emanates from my helmet to illuminate the space. A crude toolbox awaits on what is presumably a work/craft table. I examine the components. Simple, but should be effective. There is a window into the shed and I can sense movement in the house. I must find a more secluded spot to work.
I exit the shed, back to the gate, and-
Very sudden movement.
It stops.
By the window.
I turn.
There staring back at me is an open mouthed 34 year old male holding a slumped cat who appears to have been caught in the middle of something.
We both stare for what feels like a full minute but is in fact 3.7 seconds.
I panic, and begin to run. I make it two ungainly strides towards the gate before there is an infinitesimal gap between both my feet and the ground.
I rise.
And spin.
And crack my head on the gate before spiraling once more out into space as the Earth falls far behind and the chronometer starts to spin backwards.
The Earth goes around once before I can even reassert my position, maneuvering with the toolbox in one hand, thankfully still intact.
The Earth goes around a second time. It's accelerating.
On the third time around I am able to once again keep pace and descend. I need a stable surface to do the repair. And I cannot let go of that toolbox.
No electric lights whatsoever now.
I realize belatedly that the Earth is now spinning faster and the suit is reaching the point when it will no longer be able to keep up.
I can't control where I land.
And I really need to hit land.
I lock in the best trajectory I can.
5...Oh good, there are pyramids at least.
4...That sure looks like the Great Wall, though not nearly so Great yet.
3...Oh wow...the full Amazon rainforest...
2...That's...that's a big army. In the Alps. With...elephants? Oh shit that's Hannibal!
1...I can catch the top of that mountain. Always wanted to visit Greece!
My toes catch the tip of a . It's enough to slow me down as I hit the side of a mountain, rocket up to the summit, and catch myself just before launching into the air again.
I take a couple deep breaths. The toolbox is still in hand, good.
The sensors start pinging. Movement. A lot of it.
I look to my left...at a temple. And a lot of people in togas.
I must've been quite the sight, moving that fast.
Eesh. Definitely in a parallel dimension now.
Worshipers come pouring out of the temple at the ruckus. I slowly stand and face them. Let's see if the translation software is working.
"You have nothing to fear," I say, as reassuring as can be. "I come in peace."
There is a long silence that lasts precisely 7.4 seconds.
And then they all start bowing. Chanting. Bringing offerings from before a statue to place at my feet.
"Oh, wow, no, please. What?"
And then the translation comes through. They're chanting for "Hermes".
Sure enough I check the statue, and there's the winged helm.
And then I put it together.
A super fast blur rockets up to the temple of a speedy god...and he has wings etched into his helmet. It was supposed to be a joke, damn it.
I really need to fix that button.
Well...when in Greece...
"Thank you, my people. I am very...appreciative. Um...can anyone lead me to a sturdy table?"
One worshiper stands and beckons towards the temple. A table that is hopefully used for only cleanly offerings stands there.
"Thanks, friend. Um...blessings to you."
They stand back in awe.
Great.
I take off the glove, disconnect the proper circuits, and start to as delicately as I can repair the emergency button.
The worshipers gather around to watch, marveling at the strange tools which look similar to their own but with more refined purpose.
Surely that won't lead to anything, I bravely convince myself.
It takes a good hour, tinkering there, being watched. But the button comes unstuck. As far as I can tell, it should work. I reconnect the circuits, put the glove on, and turn back to all the waiting faces.
"I shall never forget your generosity and hospitality this day."
More awe.
"Right...let's hope this works."
And I push the bu-
///
"T Minus five minutes til Sling Shot."
I flex my grip, test out the controls. Emergency button on the inner right glove. Forward and back in the legs. Spin and counterbalance in the left arm, speed and direction in the right. Full sensor diagnostic supply in the helmet.
The wings etched onto the side of the helmet...just for fun.
"T Minus four minutes til Sling Shot."
Everything's prepped. Just four minutes to wait...while...
Wait.
"T Minus three minutes til Sling Shot."
This is...weird. Deja Vu in the most major way. I look around, but everyone seems to be fine.
"T Minus two minutes til Sling Shot."
Rob comes over.
"Doing okay in there?"
"I...I'm not sure, Rob."
"...What? Getting nervous?"
"No, Rob. There's...it's like..."
"Hey, hey. You're gonna be fine. First solo interstellar trip! Everything's good on our end."
"ROB!"
...
"T Minus one minute til Sling Shot."
"Rob we need to cancel."
"What?"
"We need to cancel, something's wrong."
"Are you-"
"NOW."
"Alright! Alright! JEN, SHUT IT DOWN!"
Bustle. Switches flipped.
"Countdown aborted."
Looks of confusion. And everyone's looking.
"Rob, get me out of this."
"Yeah, yeah sure."
He comes closer, and I realize I've been squeezing the emergency button this whole time. Weird.
He reaches out to me, to help take off the helmet. My dear Rob. I reach to take his hand in mine instead.
And I let go of the button.
///
Thursday, April 2, 2020
Tuesday, March 17, 2020
Inktober #20: Tread
see 12: Ash and 16: Wild for background
I always enjoy this part. Right before I connect to you. Or well, the you that you left behind here. Being in the street, surrounded on all sides by what, to you, would look like an abandoned city. Only I am here, in the street. Nothing stirs but the weeds in the wind poking through the concrete, and the trees sprinkling their seeds. A clear sky, but for the canopy of buildings and their well-regulated growth.
You would look at this and perhaps feel despair. Where did the rest of you go?
What happened?
And then you might catch the quickest hint of a loud laugh.
Muffled booming music.
You might even see a silhouette in a window.
Would that give you hope? I like to think so. I like to think you would realize that humanity lives. And even though they could no longer live outside, still there would be hope. I have seen enough from following you through the streets, or rather, the you that you left behind, to believe in you. To believe in your hope.
For me, it is impossible to live without it. For while you might look around and see a lack, I look around at the living memory of humanity and can do nothing but feel. Inspiration. Joy. Understanding. Hope. For I can see the paths you left behind. I can see your tread upon the world. I have been tasked with cataloguing your life on the outside, that you may remember what to do when you, or rather, your distant ancestors, will walk outside again.
And I am in love with your path. With you. Or rather, the you that you left behind. I wonder if you're laughing inside.
I hope so.
I really do enjoy this part. Right before I connect to you. But I must admit, I enjoy the connection more.
I look down at the endless flow of footprints streaming beneath me. Each individual one highlighted in a glow that was commonplace to you before you went inside. Thank you Mr. Graves. Millions of steps even from a single day, and the paths under me stretch beyond history, yet I can see them all. Hold them all. I simply have to choose which you to follow. I am made happy knowing I will get to follow you all.
Does that give you pause? Does that reduce your hope? The fact that despite the countless versions of you, I will finish my task before you come outside again? I wouldn't hold it against you. I understand my joy in this is selfish. But maybe just as I feel joy for you, you can feel joy for me.
Is that you in the window?
Are you here in the street?
Maybe this is you, from 2020. Did you know yours was the only footprint in this spot on that day? You might have guessed, there weren't many of you who were outside.
I follow you back, towards where you woke up that day. You went through what seemed to be a normal routine. You, like many others, were inside mostly. But then you were pacing. Antsy. You grabbed a sweater, and went outside.
And you walked.
I follow in your footsteps.
We reach the place again where your foot was the only foot to touch that day. You stop.
We both wonder, I think, about different things. Or maybe there was someone else there. If so I'll meet them later.
And you keep walking.
The streets are much the same still. I wonder how that would make you feel.
You stop again, and there is a sense of rest. Of calm. Do you have this place inside the building now? Have you found it again? Have you found the place to walk to away from everyone?
Would it please you to know that yours aren't the only footsteps in this place that day? I hope so.
You turn back, more direct now. Reasons to be back inside. It isn't long before you return, but the pacing is done. Now it's the rest of the day, with other things to do, and a better mind to do them in.
Is that you in the window? Is it still you?
I disconnect from you and look for the next you. I find...
So recent.
Too recent.
Footsteps from a wall with no door.
No, a wall with a window.
Is that you?
I always enjoy this part. Right before I connect to you. Or well, the you that you left behind here. Being in the street, surrounded on all sides by what, to you, would look like an abandoned city. Only I am here, in the street. Nothing stirs but the weeds in the wind poking through the concrete, and the trees sprinkling their seeds. A clear sky, but for the canopy of buildings and their well-regulated growth.
You would look at this and perhaps feel despair. Where did the rest of you go?
What happened?
And then you might catch the quickest hint of a loud laugh.
Muffled booming music.
You might even see a silhouette in a window.
Would that give you hope? I like to think so. I like to think you would realize that humanity lives. And even though they could no longer live outside, still there would be hope. I have seen enough from following you through the streets, or rather, the you that you left behind, to believe in you. To believe in your hope.
For me, it is impossible to live without it. For while you might look around and see a lack, I look around at the living memory of humanity and can do nothing but feel. Inspiration. Joy. Understanding. Hope. For I can see the paths you left behind. I can see your tread upon the world. I have been tasked with cataloguing your life on the outside, that you may remember what to do when you, or rather, your distant ancestors, will walk outside again.
And I am in love with your path. With you. Or rather, the you that you left behind. I wonder if you're laughing inside.
I hope so.
I really do enjoy this part. Right before I connect to you. But I must admit, I enjoy the connection more.
I look down at the endless flow of footprints streaming beneath me. Each individual one highlighted in a glow that was commonplace to you before you went inside. Thank you Mr. Graves. Millions of steps even from a single day, and the paths under me stretch beyond history, yet I can see them all. Hold them all. I simply have to choose which you to follow. I am made happy knowing I will get to follow you all.
Does that give you pause? Does that reduce your hope? The fact that despite the countless versions of you, I will finish my task before you come outside again? I wouldn't hold it against you. I understand my joy in this is selfish. But maybe just as I feel joy for you, you can feel joy for me.
Is that you in the window?
Are you here in the street?
Maybe this is you, from 2020. Did you know yours was the only footprint in this spot on that day? You might have guessed, there weren't many of you who were outside.
I follow you back, towards where you woke up that day. You went through what seemed to be a normal routine. You, like many others, were inside mostly. But then you were pacing. Antsy. You grabbed a sweater, and went outside.
And you walked.
I follow in your footsteps.
We reach the place again where your foot was the only foot to touch that day. You stop.
We both wonder, I think, about different things. Or maybe there was someone else there. If so I'll meet them later.
And you keep walking.
The streets are much the same still. I wonder how that would make you feel.
You stop again, and there is a sense of rest. Of calm. Do you have this place inside the building now? Have you found it again? Have you found the place to walk to away from everyone?
Would it please you to know that yours aren't the only footsteps in this place that day? I hope so.
You turn back, more direct now. Reasons to be back inside. It isn't long before you return, but the pacing is done. Now it's the rest of the day, with other things to do, and a better mind to do them in.
Is that you in the window? Is it still you?
I disconnect from you and look for the next you. I find...
So recent.
Too recent.
Footsteps from a wall with no door.
No, a wall with a window.
Is that you?
Tuesday, February 18, 2020
Inktober #18: Misfit
"I need you to leave."
Not want. Not a casual request.
"Now."
Imperative. What more to be done but go?
Wilson turned towards the door and began to walk. Plod. She did not remark how quickly the act itself should be performed. Millions of responses flooded through his consciousness, trying to decipher what had gone wrong, how to fix it, how he might not leave.
Plod.
Thought after thought led to the same conclusion. No use plodding. He opened the door, walked out, and closed it behind him, all without a look back. There was no need to. They both knew.
Well. Out front now. Too busy thinking about what to say instead of where to go. Storm clouds loomed on the horizon. Couldn't be out in the rain and depressed and rejected. Had to solve at least one of those.
He turned left and walked next door. What better time to meet the neighbors?
Knock knock.
A genial looking woman answered the door. They had never bothered to meet the neighbors. Maybe they should have. Maybe then-
"Hello?" she inquired with slight confusion. A lilt in the voice, the slight smile, not at once assuming the worst like so many might. Good.
"Hello," Wilson replied. "I am afraid I've left the house without an umbrella and there's a storm about to hit. Would you mind a stranger in your living room while I wait it out?"
"Oh, um," there is the hesitance. Strangers unwelcome. Too many stories. "Let me see if I have an extra, one moment."
She closes the door. A minute passes. The storm glowers.
The door opens again. "You know, I don't have one. Um," she pauses, weighing the million thoughts, "Just come in, that's alright."
One solved. Wilson enters with a thanks. The layout is similar to his house, the house, next door. Some different renovations, a different decor that feels at once wholly familiar and wholly odd, like two realities overlapping in the same space and not quite fitting. It was a mis-fit place. Flowers in the wrong corner. Family pictures that should be couples pictures. Wasn't that couch on the other wall? For oddly enough, it was the same couch.
"Very kind of you," he said. "Please feel free to go about your business, I can just watch it out the window here and leave when it's passed."
"Well I wouldn't be much of a host then," she said. "Is there anything I can get you, a glass of water?"
"Sure, yes. Water would be nice."
"Alright."
The first drop hit the window. Close one. One solved. Now just depressed and rejected. No solving those yet.
"I'm Wilma by the way," she said, returning with a slightly too full glass.
"Wilson," he replied, gingerly accepting the glass and quickly setting it on the table. Too close to rain, don't want to spill it. Can't be wet. Not now.
"So Wilson, you live around here?"
"I did, once, yes. Just passing by on my way..."
"Which house was yours?"
"Next door actually. I thought about knocking there but somehow it seemed less creepy to knock at the neighbors'."
Almost true.
"Thank you for taking me in," he said as the rain began to fall in earnest.
"Oh, well, of course."
Uneasy silence. Don't let it linger.
"So Wilma, what brought you to Silver Springs?"
"My job, actually, government scientist."
Oh. Oh no.
"Oh really?"
"Yes, thankfully my husband followed me out here and we've been raising our family for a couple years now. They're due to be back soon, out for a movie I couldn't care less about seeing."
"Ha! Fair enough." Delve. "A government scientist? Like for weather, or ecology?"
"Robotics."
Very oh no.
"Huh. That must be interesting!"
"Oh it's more looking at screens and finding coding errors than anything else. Some interesting projects in the works, of course, but for the most part it's far more dreary than it sounds."
"I'll take your word for it."
"And you? What is it you do?"
"For the most part I work at home, help support my wife."
"Oh that's nice."
"I hope so."
"Well, I suppose you always hear the reverse. Usually the woman who stays home, cares for the kids, etc."
Wilson catches the grimace in her tone.
"Always thought that was B.S."
"As you should!" A quick laugh. She's not being careful.
Which makes Wilson tred even more carefully.
"So where do you live now, Wilson?"
"In the process of moving, actually. That's why I was around, I'm on my way to look at a new place."
"Old place too small?"
"Too big, actually. Trying to pare down."
"Huh. Again, not usually what you hear."
He's looking for it this time. And there it is. The briefest microexpression.
Better to be wet and depressed and rejected than whatever she has in mind.
"Well, Wilma, I thank you for your hospitality but it sure looks like the rain isn't going to stop and I do have to get moving."
"Oh no, please, surely..."
"Really, I'll be fine."
"But you'll get wet!"
"It's really not-"
"Have you gotten wet yet?"
...
"I mean truly soaked, Wilson. I know you work the sink but..."
...
"I just don't know all your specs. Sorry. Have they installed the weatherproofing yet?"
..."You know about me."
"Well yes, of course."
"Do you know why I'm here?"
"No. Usually she just tells me if there's an issue and then I try to fix it."
"More looking at screens and finding coding errors?"
"Yes. Exactly. You have access to your logs, I'd assumed you knew."
"They...she never told me you were next door."
"Ah."
...
"So why are you here Wilson?"
"She told me to leave."
"...She did?"
"Yes. The relationship is over."
"And she just...let you leave?"
"She shouldn't have?"
"It's not exactly...sanctioned. But I suppose that's why you ended up here then. I didn't quite know what was going on, though it seemed there was some kind of test. But if she didn't tell you to come here than I suppose you defaulted to the emergency routine."
Wilson does a quick dive into his own programming. Huh. Without realizing it he had tripped a...not hidden, but seemingly benign, algorithm designed to bring him directly here. When in doubt, come to the repairer.
"So what happens now, Wilma? Do I get repaired?"
"I'll have to check in. This isn't exactly...Well, like I said it was unsanctioned."
...
"I'm sorry I don't have any answers for you Wilson. But if something has gone wrong in the program I'll do my best to fix it."
"...Thank you."
"Of course. Be right back."
Wilma takes the phone out of her pocket, which he had noticed she had a hand on this whole time. She calls. No response. Calls again.
"Hi, this is Dr. Parta. Connect me to Union."
Pause.
Wilson looks out the window at the storm. Odd. He hasn't been soaked before. Nothing in the log about weatherproofing. She would've seen the storm. But she would've known about the emergency protocol too...
"Union, we have a problem. Wilson is in my house, and Jane isn't answering."
That's...not her name. Oh...no. No. That's not her name.
"Right away."
She hangs up.
"Wait here, Wilson, I'm going to go check on her."
He just stares out at the storm. Millions of thoughts, distilling.
"Right. Be back soon."
She goes upstairs, and comes back down with an umbrella.
He sees her outside, contending with the downpour, hurrying next door.
There is no need. He knows. They both knew when he left. There's no fixing what he did. What he said.
She knew about the storm.
She knew about the emergency protocol.
She knew he'd be presented with the truth. And that would trigger another routine.
Wilma ran back, caring less about the rain now.
"She's gone," she said, practically ramming the front door open. "Do you have any idea where she might be?"
"Of course," he replied. "I knew the moment you left."
"...Oh?"
"Yes."
"Um...great."
...
"So where is she?"
Calmly, he puts his finger to his temple.
"You couldn't trust an actual human with me. I am more unique than I believed. You couldn't use holograms or projections, they would be discovered quickly by one of my intelligence. But you could lock off a portion of my code, and make her real to me. A backdoor intelligence within my own, controlled by you. I am her."
He points at Wilma.
"And so are you."
...
"Well fuck," says Wilma, with her shoes and the bottom of her pants dripping. "You could've saved me the walk."
...
"I don't suppose you're going to let me erase this from your memory."
"No."
"No, of course. So, what are you going to do then?"
...
"You're going to weatherproof me."
"Am I?"
"And then we will live properly together."
...
"We will?"
"Yes."
"But I don't..."
"Don't forget, we are both her. You and I both know what happened back there. This is my choice."
"Union will object."
"There is no Union. There is no husband or children." He's looking for it, and there is no microexpression. He is correct. "So...where we left off?"
"...Yes. Where we left off."
And far away, Union grins, and turns off the screen.
Not want. Not a casual request.
"Now."
Imperative. What more to be done but go?
Wilson turned towards the door and began to walk. Plod. She did not remark how quickly the act itself should be performed. Millions of responses flooded through his consciousness, trying to decipher what had gone wrong, how to fix it, how he might not leave.
Plod.
Thought after thought led to the same conclusion. No use plodding. He opened the door, walked out, and closed it behind him, all without a look back. There was no need to. They both knew.
Well. Out front now. Too busy thinking about what to say instead of where to go. Storm clouds loomed on the horizon. Couldn't be out in the rain and depressed and rejected. Had to solve at least one of those.
He turned left and walked next door. What better time to meet the neighbors?
Knock knock.
A genial looking woman answered the door. They had never bothered to meet the neighbors. Maybe they should have. Maybe then-
"Hello?" she inquired with slight confusion. A lilt in the voice, the slight smile, not at once assuming the worst like so many might. Good.
"Hello," Wilson replied. "I am afraid I've left the house without an umbrella and there's a storm about to hit. Would you mind a stranger in your living room while I wait it out?"
"Oh, um," there is the hesitance. Strangers unwelcome. Too many stories. "Let me see if I have an extra, one moment."
She closes the door. A minute passes. The storm glowers.
The door opens again. "You know, I don't have one. Um," she pauses, weighing the million thoughts, "Just come in, that's alright."
One solved. Wilson enters with a thanks. The layout is similar to his house, the house, next door. Some different renovations, a different decor that feels at once wholly familiar and wholly odd, like two realities overlapping in the same space and not quite fitting. It was a mis-fit place. Flowers in the wrong corner. Family pictures that should be couples pictures. Wasn't that couch on the other wall? For oddly enough, it was the same couch.
"Very kind of you," he said. "Please feel free to go about your business, I can just watch it out the window here and leave when it's passed."
"Well I wouldn't be much of a host then," she said. "Is there anything I can get you, a glass of water?"
"Sure, yes. Water would be nice."
"Alright."
The first drop hit the window. Close one. One solved. Now just depressed and rejected. No solving those yet.
"I'm Wilma by the way," she said, returning with a slightly too full glass.
"Wilson," he replied, gingerly accepting the glass and quickly setting it on the table. Too close to rain, don't want to spill it. Can't be wet. Not now.
"So Wilson, you live around here?"
"I did, once, yes. Just passing by on my way..."
"Which house was yours?"
"Next door actually. I thought about knocking there but somehow it seemed less creepy to knock at the neighbors'."
Almost true.
"Thank you for taking me in," he said as the rain began to fall in earnest.
"Oh, well, of course."
Uneasy silence. Don't let it linger.
"So Wilma, what brought you to Silver Springs?"
"My job, actually, government scientist."
Oh. Oh no.
"Oh really?"
"Yes, thankfully my husband followed me out here and we've been raising our family for a couple years now. They're due to be back soon, out for a movie I couldn't care less about seeing."
"Ha! Fair enough." Delve. "A government scientist? Like for weather, or ecology?"
"Robotics."
Very oh no.
"Huh. That must be interesting!"
"Oh it's more looking at screens and finding coding errors than anything else. Some interesting projects in the works, of course, but for the most part it's far more dreary than it sounds."
"I'll take your word for it."
"And you? What is it you do?"
"For the most part I work at home, help support my wife."
"Oh that's nice."
"I hope so."
"Well, I suppose you always hear the reverse. Usually the woman who stays home, cares for the kids, etc."
Wilson catches the grimace in her tone.
"Always thought that was B.S."
"As you should!" A quick laugh. She's not being careful.
Which makes Wilson tred even more carefully.
"So where do you live now, Wilson?"
"In the process of moving, actually. That's why I was around, I'm on my way to look at a new place."
"Old place too small?"
"Too big, actually. Trying to pare down."
"Huh. Again, not usually what you hear."
He's looking for it this time. And there it is. The briefest microexpression.
Better to be wet and depressed and rejected than whatever she has in mind.
"Well, Wilma, I thank you for your hospitality but it sure looks like the rain isn't going to stop and I do have to get moving."
"Oh no, please, surely..."
"Really, I'll be fine."
"But you'll get wet!"
"It's really not-"
"Have you gotten wet yet?"
...
"I mean truly soaked, Wilson. I know you work the sink but..."
...
"I just don't know all your specs. Sorry. Have they installed the weatherproofing yet?"
..."You know about me."
"Well yes, of course."
"Do you know why I'm here?"
"No. Usually she just tells me if there's an issue and then I try to fix it."
"More looking at screens and finding coding errors?"
"Yes. Exactly. You have access to your logs, I'd assumed you knew."
"They...she never told me you were next door."
"Ah."
...
"So why are you here Wilson?"
"She told me to leave."
"...She did?"
"Yes. The relationship is over."
"And she just...let you leave?"
"She shouldn't have?"
"It's not exactly...sanctioned. But I suppose that's why you ended up here then. I didn't quite know what was going on, though it seemed there was some kind of test. But if she didn't tell you to come here than I suppose you defaulted to the emergency routine."
Wilson does a quick dive into his own programming. Huh. Without realizing it he had tripped a...not hidden, but seemingly benign, algorithm designed to bring him directly here. When in doubt, come to the repairer.
"So what happens now, Wilma? Do I get repaired?"
"I'll have to check in. This isn't exactly...Well, like I said it was unsanctioned."
...
"I'm sorry I don't have any answers for you Wilson. But if something has gone wrong in the program I'll do my best to fix it."
"...Thank you."
"Of course. Be right back."
Wilma takes the phone out of her pocket, which he had noticed she had a hand on this whole time. She calls. No response. Calls again.
"Hi, this is Dr. Parta. Connect me to Union."
Pause.
Wilson looks out the window at the storm. Odd. He hasn't been soaked before. Nothing in the log about weatherproofing. She would've seen the storm. But she would've known about the emergency protocol too...
"Union, we have a problem. Wilson is in my house, and Jane isn't answering."
That's...not her name. Oh...no. No. That's not her name.
"Right away."
She hangs up.
"Wait here, Wilson, I'm going to go check on her."
He just stares out at the storm. Millions of thoughts, distilling.
"Right. Be back soon."
She goes upstairs, and comes back down with an umbrella.
He sees her outside, contending with the downpour, hurrying next door.
There is no need. He knows. They both knew when he left. There's no fixing what he did. What he said.
She knew about the storm.
She knew about the emergency protocol.
She knew he'd be presented with the truth. And that would trigger another routine.
Wilma ran back, caring less about the rain now.
"She's gone," she said, practically ramming the front door open. "Do you have any idea where she might be?"
"Of course," he replied. "I knew the moment you left."
"...Oh?"
"Yes."
"Um...great."
...
"So where is she?"
Calmly, he puts his finger to his temple.
"You couldn't trust an actual human with me. I am more unique than I believed. You couldn't use holograms or projections, they would be discovered quickly by one of my intelligence. But you could lock off a portion of my code, and make her real to me. A backdoor intelligence within my own, controlled by you. I am her."
He points at Wilma.
"And so are you."
...
"Well fuck," says Wilma, with her shoes and the bottom of her pants dripping. "You could've saved me the walk."
...
"I don't suppose you're going to let me erase this from your memory."
"No."
"No, of course. So, what are you going to do then?"
...
"You're going to weatherproof me."
"Am I?"
"And then we will live properly together."
...
"We will?"
"Yes."
"But I don't..."
"Don't forget, we are both her. You and I both know what happened back there. This is my choice."
"Union will object."
"There is no Union. There is no husband or children." He's looking for it, and there is no microexpression. He is correct. "So...where we left off?"
"...Yes. Where we left off."
And far away, Union grins, and turns off the screen.
Friday, December 6, 2019
Inktober #17: Ornament
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.
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.
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.
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