So cheesoning saw this, and decided I should post an entry. In the 600+ long list. Between me writing this draft and saving it yesterday, and me thinking about finishing this post, the contest has reached 850. Ergh. Chances of winning, vanishingly small.
But I like having these arbitrary limits, it gives shape to my writing.
Anyhoo, this is my entry. It's steampunky, because cheesoning DEMANDED it:
The electro-transmogrifying-intransigent-polychine came alive. Rattling brass pipes, enormous thrumming copper kettle drums all deafened Frank to the tiny alarm he had set up. Too quiet, it turns out. Almost too late.
With an embarassed shuffle perfected by all Continental Engineers, Frank shimmied down the jury-rigged ladders to the belly of the beast. The financial backers and politicians watched with restrained alarm.
"It's moved, hasn't it?" shouted someone.
Frank hit the alarm twice. Nothing doing. It kept pealing away.
"Ah, no. Never will, I'm afraid." He waved vaguely to the North Sea. "Something found, in space."
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Friday, March 06, 2009
Fiction : Clockwork Pirates Part 2
A nearly imperceptible whir filled the air; a noise that spoke of invisible gears and infinitesimally small valves opening and hissing and spinning at tremendous rates. The air was filled with a light steam and the smell of oil. The Analytical Engine. A massive room with a single catwalk running through the centre, various ladders and ropes leading to the walls and ground and ceiling, where, through the faint orange light, the gears and switches of the massive machine worked on and on.
Breaking into places like this made Will feel uneasy. The room was too dignified. The security was perfunctory, like the base act of being burgulared was above it. The locks were simple, the guard automata were easy to bypass. Most thiefs would only get angry at the presumption. Will just felt he was in a place he wasn't good enough to trespass.
At the end of the catwalk stood a rolling sheet of paper across which several inked needles printed output. In front of the roll was a large brass and wood keyboard, a beast of a thing, that looked heavy enough to crush a small child and still leave a mark in the floor. The wood was lustrous, dark, something that would be used in a fine coach or dirigible, and then only decoratively. On either side small gaslights cast a flickering glow. Will suddenly worried if his shirt was tucked in properly.
Ann walked straight to the keyboard, and without a moment's hesitation, started typing, as if she wasn't wielding the power of one of the most advanced pieces machinery in the entire high city. She slid the Will's sheet of paper onto a well worn, gilded metal tray. Taking a match from underneath, she lit a phosphorous flash. Something deep in the bowels of the Analytical Engine churned awake, and the entire room shifted from its even chugging to a new task.
Will swallowed hard.
The room shuddered. No doubt this problem was nothing like what it usually worked with. Ann gave him a look that she had given him once too many times: What the hell have you got me into? Will made himself busy looking at the indecipherable printout.
Ann rolled her eyes and bumped him out of the way to read it herself.
"This isn't normal manifest stuff, Will. They don't encrypt it this much if it's run of the mill." She paused, and tried to catch his gaze. "There isn't anything you want to tell me about this, is there? Say, murderous thugs wanting to keep it out of prying eyes? Undue attention from the Concern? Please don't tell me this has anything to do with the Concern."
"What? No, no, of course I'd never bring you into anything that dangerous. I'd have told you if it was that. No, this is just a bit of graymarket stuff." He lowered his voice, as if an attentive teacher was within earshot, "It's this particular airship dock I've been staking. I think they supply some pretty interesting people. People the Concern doesn't bother with, yet they themselves are very... intriguing."
"Oh, no, you got that look in your eye."
"What look?" Will did his best impression of innocence. Which he was terrible at.
"You know I'm totally behind what you've been trying to do all this time, noble and heartbreaking and all that. But it always gets you into really bad situations." She put her hand on his arm, he tried to act like he didn't notice. "Be careful. More careful this time."
The output finished. She ripped off the sheet and read it.
Will felt two massive caterpillars crawl around his stomach, apparently in a fight to the death. The uneasiness of being in the Machine for so long, and the excitement that he had found them. Finally. The Clockwork Pirates. He clenched his sweaty hands.
"This is a list of times when CP docks. CP... What's that?"
"It's nothing, nothing. Don't even worry about." His stomach turned on itself. He grabbed the sheet and stuffed it inside his shoulder bag. "Let's go."
A thud sounded near the exit from the Machine. A deep, authoritative thud, like whatever made it was large and lethal and didn't particularly care if you were a student at the Academy, or if you had strenuous objections to being made dead.
They both froze. The caterpillars that had been fighting in Will's stomach turned into frenzied pythons and a rather panicked deer. His knees locked.
He tried to get out what was screaming in his head, in the quietest voice he could manage, he said, "A construct."
Ann let out an "Oh", one that was a little too scared and a little too high. Will saw her flinch slightly at it.
"We'll be fine. I'm sure it's just on patrol. No reason to.. to be worried. Must be on patrol, supplementing the toher automata we got past."
Ann nodded. Lies were always better when shared with a willingly ignorant partner.
There was no way they'd waste a construct on a routine patrol. Automata was one thing; clockworks, relatively speaking, were cheap. Clockworks and thaumaturgy together -- a construct -- that was no small feat, and not cheap.
They had gone too far. They had made some very serious people very upset.
The construct had thumped to the ground from an unseen hatch high above and stood between them and the exit. It hissed and clanked as it operated its three legs quicker and quicker, until it was hurtling at them, faster than any automata could manage. Plumes of steam pushed out from a stove-pipe on its body and the chorded, piercing sound of runes activating were the only evidence of the thaumaturgy imbued deep inside its clockworks. It thrust three prong-like spears in front of it. Most worrying, though, was the gigantic memory gem in the centre of its body, which glowed with a light deep inside, getting brighter and brighter.
"Uh, Will..."
"If we can just make it past before it can charge that gem."
Ann shot him a sarcastic look. "And the three jabbing spears of murder, those aren't going to be a problem then?"
He grabbed Ann's arm and pulled her towards the exit, and the construct.
"It's made for throngs of angry citizens, not two students about to escape without a scratch." He flashed a smile he hoped showed endearing confidence, and not terrified, forced bravado.
They picked up speed, their legs and arms pumping. The three weapons perfectly suitable for skewering teenagers became larger and jabbier with each step. At the last moment Will ducked down and slid between the three legs, pulling Ann down with him. He was right under it, and she, still in front, when a bright flash shot from the gem, and a surprisingly lurid curse came from Ann.
They pulled themselves up and ran for the door, the construct scrabbling, trying to turn around and stop at the same time.
They sat atop a squat building that housed a grocer and a small machine shop. The smell of cheap oil was cut, occasionally and not with much success, by a slightly mouldy scent of citrus. They looked across the high city of Travence, and watched the sun set and the streets come to life for the night. Stalls closed and drinking parlours opened. The hum and buzz of small coke engines played background noise to the celebratory bustle of twilight.
Will and Ann ate a small picnic of half stale bread and something that might have been cheese. It was a few hours before curfew, but only Ann really worried about that.
"So. That's it then. I've been completely had. That construct has my picture. Things have just gotten from hope-I-don't-get-expelled to please-don't-take-me-in-the-dark-of-night-to-some-heretofore-secret-gallows. God."
"We don't know it got your picture."
"Will, I was looking right at the gem when it went off."
They were both quiet for a time. She jabbed at her bread and his mind raced with how he could have gotten Ann in so much trouble. The sort that could get her expelled, thrown in jail. Or worse. Another part of him wondered how he could have gotten himself in so much trouble. Nearly, anyways.
"Well, I think... I think I've found them, finally." Will exhaled.
Ann looked up at him, momentarily shaking herself out of deep thought.
"Well, one of them," Will said. "The Clockwork Pirates keep off the map pretty well. But even they need to resupply sometimes. There are enough of them that it was a good bet at least one of their ships would dock at Travance." He flashed her a grin, hoping she'd be distracted by the mention of the Clockwork Pirates.
She started at the name. "So what are you going to do now? You just going to go aboard and ask them where they took your mother? Is that how it works? I think you're about six inches shy and a hundred pounds light to even try something like that."
The way she appraised his build made him want to puff out his chest and suck in his gut, like a middle aged man asking directions from a wildly disproportionate shop girl with limited modesty.
"I'm going to try and find some records aboard one of their ships."
"You really think they keep slave records?" She arched an eyebrow.
"I'm not the first one to think that they have someone else organizing them. Their raids and attacks have been, at times, highly coordinated, for specific effects. The Clarion has mentioned it more than once in their editorials."
"Oh right, news hound." She chuckled. He couldn't figure out if it was a 'I chuckle because I know you so well, since we are dear dear friends that might be something more', or 'I chuckle because you sir, are a dork.'.
"And, so... What are you going to do? Head back to the Academy before curfew, I'm sure." said Will.
"Not everyone has a taste for disorder and thievery, you know. Some of us want to graduate, get an apprenticeship. Some of us want to go onto collegium." She bit her lip and twisted her bread.
"Listen, they have a shipment being delivered tonight. Maybe you'd like to go on a little excursion? I mean, you've already gone this far. You could stay on the cargo ship."
"Get close to a Clockwork Pirate ship? It's one thing to break into the Analytical Machine. Well, at least, that's what I thought before I found out they had a construct protecting it. But to... to even get close to those, those things." She shuddered.
"For someone who wants to do graduate work in thaumaturgy, you have a pretty strong case of cowardice."
She looked up sharply. Jutting her jaw, she said, "Listen, I'm not scared of things that I'll have to... confront in thaumaturgy. I know the stories, I know the dangers that await me later. That's all part of the training, of learning the best bits. But to put myself in the way of the Pirates? That's a whole new level of stupid."
"Even for you?"
She punched him on the arm, which didn't hurt as much as it should've.
"How about this," Ann said, "maybe we could swing by the Academy. Scout it out, if everything seems fine, you can drop me off on your way to accomplish breathtaking feats of stupidity."
"And if things have gone south?"
"I will join you in your suicidal attempt to reunite with your mother. Maybe."
Breaking into places like this made Will feel uneasy. The room was too dignified. The security was perfunctory, like the base act of being burgulared was above it. The locks were simple, the guard automata were easy to bypass. Most thiefs would only get angry at the presumption. Will just felt he was in a place he wasn't good enough to trespass.
At the end of the catwalk stood a rolling sheet of paper across which several inked needles printed output. In front of the roll was a large brass and wood keyboard, a beast of a thing, that looked heavy enough to crush a small child and still leave a mark in the floor. The wood was lustrous, dark, something that would be used in a fine coach or dirigible, and then only decoratively. On either side small gaslights cast a flickering glow. Will suddenly worried if his shirt was tucked in properly.
Ann walked straight to the keyboard, and without a moment's hesitation, started typing, as if she wasn't wielding the power of one of the most advanced pieces machinery in the entire high city. She slid the Will's sheet of paper onto a well worn, gilded metal tray. Taking a match from underneath, she lit a phosphorous flash. Something deep in the bowels of the Analytical Engine churned awake, and the entire room shifted from its even chugging to a new task.
Will swallowed hard.
The room shuddered. No doubt this problem was nothing like what it usually worked with. Ann gave him a look that she had given him once too many times: What the hell have you got me into? Will made himself busy looking at the indecipherable printout.
Ann rolled her eyes and bumped him out of the way to read it herself.
"This isn't normal manifest stuff, Will. They don't encrypt it this much if it's run of the mill." She paused, and tried to catch his gaze. "There isn't anything you want to tell me about this, is there? Say, murderous thugs wanting to keep it out of prying eyes? Undue attention from the Concern? Please don't tell me this has anything to do with the Concern."
"What? No, no, of course I'd never bring you into anything that dangerous. I'd have told you if it was that. No, this is just a bit of graymarket stuff." He lowered his voice, as if an attentive teacher was within earshot, "It's this particular airship dock I've been staking. I think they supply some pretty interesting people. People the Concern doesn't bother with, yet they themselves are very... intriguing."
"Oh, no, you got that look in your eye."
"What look?" Will did his best impression of innocence. Which he was terrible at.
"You know I'm totally behind what you've been trying to do all this time, noble and heartbreaking and all that. But it always gets you into really bad situations." She put her hand on his arm, he tried to act like he didn't notice. "Be careful. More careful this time."
The output finished. She ripped off the sheet and read it.
Will felt two massive caterpillars crawl around his stomach, apparently in a fight to the death. The uneasiness of being in the Machine for so long, and the excitement that he had found them. Finally. The Clockwork Pirates. He clenched his sweaty hands.
"This is a list of times when CP docks. CP... What's that?"
"It's nothing, nothing. Don't even worry about." His stomach turned on itself. He grabbed the sheet and stuffed it inside his shoulder bag. "Let's go."
A thud sounded near the exit from the Machine. A deep, authoritative thud, like whatever made it was large and lethal and didn't particularly care if you were a student at the Academy, or if you had strenuous objections to being made dead.
They both froze. The caterpillars that had been fighting in Will's stomach turned into frenzied pythons and a rather panicked deer. His knees locked.
He tried to get out what was screaming in his head, in the quietest voice he could manage, he said, "A construct."
Ann let out an "Oh", one that was a little too scared and a little too high. Will saw her flinch slightly at it.
"We'll be fine. I'm sure it's just on patrol. No reason to.. to be worried. Must be on patrol, supplementing the toher automata we got past."
Ann nodded. Lies were always better when shared with a willingly ignorant partner.
There was no way they'd waste a construct on a routine patrol. Automata was one thing; clockworks, relatively speaking, were cheap. Clockworks and thaumaturgy together -- a construct -- that was no small feat, and not cheap.
They had gone too far. They had made some very serious people very upset.
The construct had thumped to the ground from an unseen hatch high above and stood between them and the exit. It hissed and clanked as it operated its three legs quicker and quicker, until it was hurtling at them, faster than any automata could manage. Plumes of steam pushed out from a stove-pipe on its body and the chorded, piercing sound of runes activating were the only evidence of the thaumaturgy imbued deep inside its clockworks. It thrust three prong-like spears in front of it. Most worrying, though, was the gigantic memory gem in the centre of its body, which glowed with a light deep inside, getting brighter and brighter.
"Uh, Will..."
"If we can just make it past before it can charge that gem."
Ann shot him a sarcastic look. "And the three jabbing spears of murder, those aren't going to be a problem then?"
He grabbed Ann's arm and pulled her towards the exit, and the construct.
"It's made for throngs of angry citizens, not two students about to escape without a scratch." He flashed a smile he hoped showed endearing confidence, and not terrified, forced bravado.
They picked up speed, their legs and arms pumping. The three weapons perfectly suitable for skewering teenagers became larger and jabbier with each step. At the last moment Will ducked down and slid between the three legs, pulling Ann down with him. He was right under it, and she, still in front, when a bright flash shot from the gem, and a surprisingly lurid curse came from Ann.
They pulled themselves up and ran for the door, the construct scrabbling, trying to turn around and stop at the same time.
They sat atop a squat building that housed a grocer and a small machine shop. The smell of cheap oil was cut, occasionally and not with much success, by a slightly mouldy scent of citrus. They looked across the high city of Travence, and watched the sun set and the streets come to life for the night. Stalls closed and drinking parlours opened. The hum and buzz of small coke engines played background noise to the celebratory bustle of twilight.
Will and Ann ate a small picnic of half stale bread and something that might have been cheese. It was a few hours before curfew, but only Ann really worried about that.
"So. That's it then. I've been completely had. That construct has my picture. Things have just gotten from hope-I-don't-get-expelled to please-don't-take-me-in-the-dark-of-night-to-some-heretofore-secret-gallows. God."
"We don't know it got your picture."
"Will, I was looking right at the gem when it went off."
They were both quiet for a time. She jabbed at her bread and his mind raced with how he could have gotten Ann in so much trouble. The sort that could get her expelled, thrown in jail. Or worse. Another part of him wondered how he could have gotten himself in so much trouble. Nearly, anyways.
"Well, I think... I think I've found them, finally." Will exhaled.
Ann looked up at him, momentarily shaking herself out of deep thought.
"Well, one of them," Will said. "The Clockwork Pirates keep off the map pretty well. But even they need to resupply sometimes. There are enough of them that it was a good bet at least one of their ships would dock at Travance." He flashed her a grin, hoping she'd be distracted by the mention of the Clockwork Pirates.
She started at the name. "So what are you going to do now? You just going to go aboard and ask them where they took your mother? Is that how it works? I think you're about six inches shy and a hundred pounds light to even try something like that."
The way she appraised his build made him want to puff out his chest and suck in his gut, like a middle aged man asking directions from a wildly disproportionate shop girl with limited modesty.
"I'm going to try and find some records aboard one of their ships."
"You really think they keep slave records?" She arched an eyebrow.
"I'm not the first one to think that they have someone else organizing them. Their raids and attacks have been, at times, highly coordinated, for specific effects. The Clarion has mentioned it more than once in their editorials."
"Oh right, news hound." She chuckled. He couldn't figure out if it was a 'I chuckle because I know you so well, since we are dear dear friends that might be something more', or 'I chuckle because you sir, are a dork.'.
"And, so... What are you going to do? Head back to the Academy before curfew, I'm sure." said Will.
"Not everyone has a taste for disorder and thievery, you know. Some of us want to graduate, get an apprenticeship. Some of us want to go onto collegium." She bit her lip and twisted her bread.
"Listen, they have a shipment being delivered tonight. Maybe you'd like to go on a little excursion? I mean, you've already gone this far. You could stay on the cargo ship."
"Get close to a Clockwork Pirate ship? It's one thing to break into the Analytical Machine. Well, at least, that's what I thought before I found out they had a construct protecting it. But to... to even get close to those, those things." She shuddered.
"For someone who wants to do graduate work in thaumaturgy, you have a pretty strong case of cowardice."
She looked up sharply. Jutting her jaw, she said, "Listen, I'm not scared of things that I'll have to... confront in thaumaturgy. I know the stories, I know the dangers that await me later. That's all part of the training, of learning the best bits. But to put myself in the way of the Pirates? That's a whole new level of stupid."
"Even for you?"
She punched him on the arm, which didn't hurt as much as it should've.
"How about this," Ann said, "maybe we could swing by the Academy. Scout it out, if everything seems fine, you can drop me off on your way to accomplish breathtaking feats of stupidity."
"And if things have gone south?"
"I will join you in your suicidal attempt to reunite with your mother. Maybe."
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
Fiction : Clockwork Pirates Part 1
So, here is a bit of the work I'll be bringing to my class tommorrow, to be critiqued by hip 20-somethings with sharp eyes for grammar and story-arcs and other shit I heard I'm supposed to put in stories.
They are a great, smart bunch. I feel out of my depth frequently, which I suppose, is a good thing. This is my stab at Young Adult (YA) fiction. I'm not sure if it works. I'm trying to combine a China Mieville like world of steampunk with a bit of outrageous asides of Terry Pratchett. Actually, now that I type that out, I'm sure it doesn't work at all, but, come on, the deadline is tommorrow, so this is what I'm handing in. Part of it, anyways.
Chapter 1
Secret # 47 Constables always bludgeon thieves younger than 15. Kids are easy to drop, but mainly, if they aren't dealt mild brain trauma, they give one hell of a chase.
Secret #98 Constables hate chases.
They had told Will many secrets; by fires of airship yard refuse, they'd huddle and whisper their stories and Law. Dirty hands and fast fingers and eyes that missed nothing. There were some great ones, as Will remembered. Sly ones, ones that gave you an edge, ones that required grace and speed but made you a ghost.
Many useful ones.
And yet #47 and #98 were the only ones in his head, equally useless and terrifying. They repeated themselves like an apothecary explaining the usage of an explosively effective laxative to an old woman who had all the hearing ability of a half-eaten cucumber. Over and over again, with muted urgency.
Damnit.
Will focussed his apparently useless mind on remembering the best escape route.
Behind him the constable pounded after him, his flintlock bashing passerbys, even the ones not particularly in his way. They muttered quiet oaths. He was a big one, thought Will. A hulking mass of indiscriminate, grossly unbalanced law enforcement. The sort that didn't arrest that many criminals, since most were dead by the time he was done.
Saved on paperwork, so, there's that.
He grinned, if they had a bruiser like that guarding paper he knicked, he must've gotten the right one.
He sprinted down a dead-end alley, and jumped against one wall, then kicked himself from one to the other until he stood, one leg on either wall, looking over the high barrier that blocked the end of the alley.
The shaven ox walking disguised as a constable rounded the corner and stopped.
"Don't even think it."
"Too late."
Will jumped over the end barrier and into the crisp, violent wind of the Slipstream.
Mr. Oansley's voice droned like a drugged beetle trapped in a bottle, a dead, drugged beetle. Will fought to keep his eyes open, or, failing that, ensure his head didn't hit his desk too loudly. It was an epic battle. He was pretty sure he was winning, then he realized he was dreaming about being attentive in Mr. Oansley's class.
Ann woke him with a hard elbow to his side. Such a good lab partner.
"Snuh."
She kept here eyes forward, like she had not just done blunt trauma to his ribs and possibly burst his spleen. "Insightful, Will, keep it down." She whispered, which wasn't entirely necessary since their class had 30 foot ceilings. All the better to experiment; less likelihood of setting the entire Academy on fire, anyways.
Mr. Oansley didn't seem to notice them talk. His voice made a wall of white noise, thought Will. It neither rose nor fell nor varied in pacing or inflection. A small coke fired engine might have provided as much instruction. More, even.
"And now class, you may reveal your problem on your workbenches. You have thirty minutes to compl.."
Will's attention drifted from Mr. Oansley. His eyes, bright, he ripped off the heavy linen sheet covering their latest project.
Around him his classmates took chalk to their boards and scribbled furiously.
"You already know what this is too, don't you?" Ann didn't show an ounce of annoyance, she had passed that phase months ago. She had already reached 'tired acceptance'.
"Maybe I haven't impressed upon you how utterly devoted my mother was to making me work on clockworking. Fine motor movements, counterweights and springs and zzzzzzzzzzzzz"
"It stands you in good stead here, I wouldn't complain, Mr. Genius."
"Except that, you know, my childhood was utterly devoid of life ."
"Your mother should have been born with more money, because you whine like a rich kid. Shouldn't you have a salt-of-the-earth, respectable demeanour? Hard working yet with a deep sense of common sense?"
"I used to, but it got beaten out of me by clockworking."
"You two seem to have this entire problem under control," said Mr. Oansley. His drone came ahead of him, like an expeditionary army of boredom.
"Yes sir, it's the mind of an automata, small mammal based, I think." Will gave the weak smile of someone who tried desperately not to be a teacher's favourite.
Mr. Oansley returned a small smile of surprise, as if a baboon had written the first three letters of the alphabet, but in feces, and not quite gotten "B". Even if to his classmates, Will was gifted, he apparently had a long way to go before impressing his teachers. "That's right William. A badger, in point of fact."
Will nodded in a noncommital way, as if that would get the teacher to move on. To Will's relief, he did.
Will dug into his pack and pulled out the sheet of paper.
Ann raised an eyebrow. "Another lost item you've recovered in your nightly excursions?" In a blur she snapped the paper from him. Will started, damn if she didn't have the speed for work much more physical than thaumaturgy.
"What is it? Some clockwork engineer dropped it while rushing to his shift? A wayward sheet fluttering from--" she stopped mid-sentence as she read the characters on the sheet. "Well, this is interesting."
Her brow knitted, then she tapped the sheet excitedly, "It's from the dock. It's a listing isn't it? What's coming in? What's going out?
"Whatever it is, it's no code I've ever seen before. I'd have to run it through an analytical engine, Ms. Janus, my teacher for Advanced Logic Theory, has access to the school Engine." She looked up at him, "you got it from the dock?"
"Well, yeah. It was very lightly guarded, they were practically giving it away."
She smirked at one of his most repeated jokes. He particularly enjoyed making her smile, even if he had to go to the old stand-bys. She had a way of making his insides do a few turns, like a pleasant form of food-poisoning.
She fixed her attention back to the sheet. "It looks like a list, anyways. A lot of these markings are trans-city. We learned about them last term. A pidgin language for docks across high cities."
"Huh." Will tried his best not to glaze over, again. How could anyone be interested in signs and language. You couldn't make an automata go with it, you couldn't power an airship. There was no language involved in making a rider cut the SlipStream better. It was a mystery to him what others found interesting.
"So you think you'll be able to get access to the Engine?"
She smirked, "With a little help."
They are a great, smart bunch. I feel out of my depth frequently, which I suppose, is a good thing. This is my stab at Young Adult (YA) fiction. I'm not sure if it works. I'm trying to combine a China Mieville like world of steampunk with a bit of outrageous asides of Terry Pratchett. Actually, now that I type that out, I'm sure it doesn't work at all, but, come on, the deadline is tommorrow, so this is what I'm handing in. Part of it, anyways.
Chapter 1
Secret # 47 Constables always bludgeon thieves younger than 15. Kids are easy to drop, but mainly, if they aren't dealt mild brain trauma, they give one hell of a chase.
Secret #98 Constables hate chases.
They had told Will many secrets; by fires of airship yard refuse, they'd huddle and whisper their stories and Law. Dirty hands and fast fingers and eyes that missed nothing. There were some great ones, as Will remembered. Sly ones, ones that gave you an edge, ones that required grace and speed but made you a ghost.
Many useful ones.
And yet #47 and #98 were the only ones in his head, equally useless and terrifying. They repeated themselves like an apothecary explaining the usage of an explosively effective laxative to an old woman who had all the hearing ability of a half-eaten cucumber. Over and over again, with muted urgency.
Damnit.
Will focussed his apparently useless mind on remembering the best escape route.
Behind him the constable pounded after him, his flintlock bashing passerbys, even the ones not particularly in his way. They muttered quiet oaths. He was a big one, thought Will. A hulking mass of indiscriminate, grossly unbalanced law enforcement. The sort that didn't arrest that many criminals, since most were dead by the time he was done.
Saved on paperwork, so, there's that.
He grinned, if they had a bruiser like that guarding paper he knicked, he must've gotten the right one.
He sprinted down a dead-end alley, and jumped against one wall, then kicked himself from one to the other until he stood, one leg on either wall, looking over the high barrier that blocked the end of the alley.
The shaven ox walking disguised as a constable rounded the corner and stopped.
"Don't even think it."
"Too late."
Will jumped over the end barrier and into the crisp, violent wind of the Slipstream.
Mr. Oansley's voice droned like a drugged beetle trapped in a bottle, a dead, drugged beetle. Will fought to keep his eyes open, or, failing that, ensure his head didn't hit his desk too loudly. It was an epic battle. He was pretty sure he was winning, then he realized he was dreaming about being attentive in Mr. Oansley's class.
Ann woke him with a hard elbow to his side. Such a good lab partner.
"Snuh."
She kept here eyes forward, like she had not just done blunt trauma to his ribs and possibly burst his spleen. "Insightful, Will, keep it down." She whispered, which wasn't entirely necessary since their class had 30 foot ceilings. All the better to experiment; less likelihood of setting the entire Academy on fire, anyways.
Mr. Oansley didn't seem to notice them talk. His voice made a wall of white noise, thought Will. It neither rose nor fell nor varied in pacing or inflection. A small coke fired engine might have provided as much instruction. More, even.
"And now class, you may reveal your problem on your workbenches. You have thirty minutes to compl.."
Will's attention drifted from Mr. Oansley. His eyes, bright, he ripped off the heavy linen sheet covering their latest project.
Around him his classmates took chalk to their boards and scribbled furiously.
"You already know what this is too, don't you?" Ann didn't show an ounce of annoyance, she had passed that phase months ago. She had already reached 'tired acceptance'.
"Maybe I haven't impressed upon you how utterly devoted my mother was to making me work on clockworking. Fine motor movements, counterweights and springs and zzzzzzzzzzzzz"
"It stands you in good stead here, I wouldn't complain, Mr. Genius."
"Except that, you know, my childhood was utterly devoid of life ."
"Your mother should have been born with more money, because you whine like a rich kid. Shouldn't you have a salt-of-the-earth, respectable demeanour? Hard working yet with a deep sense of common sense?"
"I used to, but it got beaten out of me by clockworking."
"You two seem to have this entire problem under control," said Mr. Oansley. His drone came ahead of him, like an expeditionary army of boredom.
"Yes sir, it's the mind of an automata, small mammal based, I think." Will gave the weak smile of someone who tried desperately not to be a teacher's favourite.
Mr. Oansley returned a small smile of surprise, as if a baboon had written the first three letters of the alphabet, but in feces, and not quite gotten "B". Even if to his classmates, Will was gifted, he apparently had a long way to go before impressing his teachers. "That's right William. A badger, in point of fact."
Will nodded in a noncommital way, as if that would get the teacher to move on. To Will's relief, he did.
Will dug into his pack and pulled out the sheet of paper.
Ann raised an eyebrow. "Another lost item you've recovered in your nightly excursions?" In a blur she snapped the paper from him. Will started, damn if she didn't have the speed for work much more physical than thaumaturgy.
"What is it? Some clockwork engineer dropped it while rushing to his shift? A wayward sheet fluttering from--" she stopped mid-sentence as she read the characters on the sheet. "Well, this is interesting."
Her brow knitted, then she tapped the sheet excitedly, "It's from the dock. It's a listing isn't it? What's coming in? What's going out?
"Whatever it is, it's no code I've ever seen before. I'd have to run it through an analytical engine, Ms. Janus, my teacher for Advanced Logic Theory, has access to the school Engine." She looked up at him, "you got it from the dock?"
"Well, yeah. It was very lightly guarded, they were practically giving it away."
She smirked at one of his most repeated jokes. He particularly enjoyed making her smile, even if he had to go to the old stand-bys. She had a way of making his insides do a few turns, like a pleasant form of food-poisoning.
She fixed her attention back to the sheet. "It looks like a list, anyways. A lot of these markings are trans-city. We learned about them last term. A pidgin language for docks across high cities."
"Huh." Will tried his best not to glaze over, again. How could anyone be interested in signs and language. You couldn't make an automata go with it, you couldn't power an airship. There was no language involved in making a rider cut the SlipStream better. It was a mystery to him what others found interesting.
"So you think you'll be able to get access to the Engine?"
She smirked, "With a little help."
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Something Found In The Park Part 5
“Oh, let's give the little dears some company on their first and final performance with the Kannibal Krowes! We found they had a little pet!' Rick craned his neck over to see her hand make a flourishing movement towards a door. A burly man who smelled of onions and smoke pushed in their Fang-Monger.
It sat in its water, bobbing, its eyes cast about the crowd with the disinterest that only wild animals can muster. The crowd oohed, then went back to betting, which changed only slightly with the addition of this unknown floating... thing.
The music came on again, and like a switch, the pigeons became much more agitated. Some started flying from perch to perch, from skull to skull. Rick could smell them musty: covered over by a thick blanket of rotting ground beef.
Mary screamed. Rick whipped his head around to look at her. A trick of blood was starting down her cheek. A flurry of feathers, and then another pinprick of blood started out from her forehead. This was going to take much longer than Rick first thought. A sharp prick came from his arm. He closed his eyes tight. The flurries came quicker. Mary's whimpering started to become a scream. Rick, feeling pain from every direction and blood trickling everywhere, started to moan. The pain kept at him, new pain, old pain. shallow cuts, deeper plunges of hungry beaks.
Then something bumped the Fang Monger, Rick heard the gentle sloshing of water. The flurries stopped.
He opened his eyes. He tried to focus through the tears.
The birds had all went back to their skulls. Many with bright red flecks on their beaks and breast feathers. The Fang Monger was no longer lazing about in his water. The glass capsule had faded away, and he hovered, suspended, with his water still wrapped around him as if the glass was still there.
The water spread out in a disc. Little rivers coursed through the air, searching for something. They found a spectator, ripped him from his seat, and pulled him towards the gaping mouth of the Fang Monger, which became grossly large. Covering the inside of the mouth were thin needle teeth, and as far as Rick could see, that's all there was. The man was tossed into the mouth. His screams were soon joined by the rest of the spectators scrambling to get off the bleachers with their lives. The water tendrils shot out, now innumerable to count, grabbing spectators, and now pigeons, and throwing them into an ever widening maw. The gnashing of bone and muscle was barely heard above the frantic screams and wild-eyed cursing.
Rick almost didn't recognize Mary as she came over, off the board. “The pigeons got as much rope as they did me,” she whispered with those inscrutable eyes. Blood streaked down her face and arms, and formed little rivulets down her legs. She managed a grin. All around was chaos, but Rick knew it was now or never. He was pulled by Mary off the board and they ran for the stairs.
Not a single spectator had made it to the stairs, the Fang Monger was thorough. Rick fought the urge to look back, to make sure that Ms. Krenshaw was among the many pulled into the Fang Monger's gullet. But he knew they had to go. Get out of there before the cops came, took them away, and put them with who knew what sort of foster care.
They burst into their apartment. Wouldn't take too long to pack, thought Rick. He glanced around the kitchen, where there wasn't dirt was a dark olive green that did its best to rob you of whatever appetite you dared possess. He just started to smile at that something heavy and hard crashed over his head. He blacked out for a split second. When he looked up, there was Ms. Krenshaw, a twisted, wild look on her face. She raised the cast iron pan again. Rick searched for Mary, she had bolted. “Run Mary, don't look back!” he called after what was most likely empty rooms. It was what he would have said anyways, but it didn't make it any less surprising that she actually did it.
Ms. Krenshaw took another heavy step forward. Rick scrambled back. The oil and grit of the linoleum digging into his hands. The room faded in and out. There was little to be done. Little to hope fore now.
A loud crash.
Ms. Krenshaw toppled over, landing on the ground like so much raw ground beef. Rick winced in spite of himself. Over her stood Mary, in her hand was a fair sized chest, heavy iron with a padlock that didn't look entirely functioning.
“She didn't keep it in a mattress after all,” she waved the chest at him, “come on, lets get out of here.”
It sat in its water, bobbing, its eyes cast about the crowd with the disinterest that only wild animals can muster. The crowd oohed, then went back to betting, which changed only slightly with the addition of this unknown floating... thing.
The music came on again, and like a switch, the pigeons became much more agitated. Some started flying from perch to perch, from skull to skull. Rick could smell them musty: covered over by a thick blanket of rotting ground beef.
Mary screamed. Rick whipped his head around to look at her. A trick of blood was starting down her cheek. A flurry of feathers, and then another pinprick of blood started out from her forehead. This was going to take much longer than Rick first thought. A sharp prick came from his arm. He closed his eyes tight. The flurries came quicker. Mary's whimpering started to become a scream. Rick, feeling pain from every direction and blood trickling everywhere, started to moan. The pain kept at him, new pain, old pain. shallow cuts, deeper plunges of hungry beaks.
Then something bumped the Fang Monger, Rick heard the gentle sloshing of water. The flurries stopped.
He opened his eyes. He tried to focus through the tears.
The birds had all went back to their skulls. Many with bright red flecks on their beaks and breast feathers. The Fang Monger was no longer lazing about in his water. The glass capsule had faded away, and he hovered, suspended, with his water still wrapped around him as if the glass was still there.
The water spread out in a disc. Little rivers coursed through the air, searching for something. They found a spectator, ripped him from his seat, and pulled him towards the gaping mouth of the Fang Monger, which became grossly large. Covering the inside of the mouth were thin needle teeth, and as far as Rick could see, that's all there was. The man was tossed into the mouth. His screams were soon joined by the rest of the spectators scrambling to get off the bleachers with their lives. The water tendrils shot out, now innumerable to count, grabbing spectators, and now pigeons, and throwing them into an ever widening maw. The gnashing of bone and muscle was barely heard above the frantic screams and wild-eyed cursing.
Rick almost didn't recognize Mary as she came over, off the board. “The pigeons got as much rope as they did me,” she whispered with those inscrutable eyes. Blood streaked down her face and arms, and formed little rivulets down her legs. She managed a grin. All around was chaos, but Rick knew it was now or never. He was pulled by Mary off the board and they ran for the stairs.
Not a single spectator had made it to the stairs, the Fang Monger was thorough. Rick fought the urge to look back, to make sure that Ms. Krenshaw was among the many pulled into the Fang Monger's gullet. But he knew they had to go. Get out of there before the cops came, took them away, and put them with who knew what sort of foster care.
They burst into their apartment. Wouldn't take too long to pack, thought Rick. He glanced around the kitchen, where there wasn't dirt was a dark olive green that did its best to rob you of whatever appetite you dared possess. He just started to smile at that something heavy and hard crashed over his head. He blacked out for a split second. When he looked up, there was Ms. Krenshaw, a twisted, wild look on her face. She raised the cast iron pan again. Rick searched for Mary, she had bolted. “Run Mary, don't look back!” he called after what was most likely empty rooms. It was what he would have said anyways, but it didn't make it any less surprising that she actually did it.
Ms. Krenshaw took another heavy step forward. Rick scrambled back. The oil and grit of the linoleum digging into his hands. The room faded in and out. There was little to be done. Little to hope fore now.
A loud crash.
Ms. Krenshaw toppled over, landing on the ground like so much raw ground beef. Rick winced in spite of himself. Over her stood Mary, in her hand was a fair sized chest, heavy iron with a padlock that didn't look entirely functioning.
“She didn't keep it in a mattress after all,” she waved the chest at him, “come on, lets get out of here.”
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Something Found In The Park Part 4
“Lord Gloom's Ever Frightening Kannibal Krowes!!” read the banner. It was bright yellow with dark red lettering. The words were plastered sloppily, almost gleefully, thought Rick. It looked like it had been made a long time ago, and had been raised many times.
It was pretty easy to focus on the banner, what with both him and Mary being tied down, and all. Rick could still smell something sharp and acrid on his mouth, on his nose. Seems they took extra steps to make sure neither of them woke up while they were bound in their sleep. He looked over at Mary, who was strapped to a long flat board set at an angle, like he was. There were streaks of dried tears down her face, and he tried not to show he saw it. She gave him a flutter of a look, then resumed to looking all around her, trying to take in the entire scene.
There was a lot to take in.
They were on the roof. The pigeons were out of their cage, perched on various paper mache skulls. The air smelled of smoke from pipes, cigarettes and things that were lit in dark alleys. Ringed around the edge of the roof were crude bleachers, with the types of people who haunt casinos daily: they had a quick and desperate look about them, forever thirsty. Circling around the entire roof, and behind the bleachers were strung cheap Chinese lanterns that looked as genuine as the pigeons looked like crows. They barely lit the scene in slow, furtive multicoloured light.
Over the various chatter and yells (taking and giving odds, cursing) came a halting voice. It lurched in fits and starts. The show was about to begin, it said, can everyone please take their seats and hold onto their tickets.
The pigeons began to growl.
Rick's body was starting to shake from cold sweat. Everything around him was something from a nightmare circus. It was like the cock fighting club he had always imagined, except this was much bigger, much stranger. The crowd became quiet.
He was almost relieved to see Ms. Krenshaw show up; she wore a stiff black dress and a fancy hat that had fed a few generations of moths. It's various bits waved in the still air like beauty queens in a parade that happened to cross a hurricane. She didn't look at them. Straight to the biggest pigeon she went, a real bruiser of a bird that Rick had heard Ms. Krenshaw call 'King'.
She cooed to King, smoothed his feathers. Then she started whispering to it. Her eyes darted every so once and a while at Rick and Mary, both of them stiff as the boards they were lashed to. Fear shone in his eyes, and Rick bit down on his tongue, trying to stifle a scream he could feel rumbling through his stomach; it bore down through his body, and he bore down on his tongue. He tasted coppery rust in his mouth. Ms. Krenshaw kept whispering to King, her eyes darting again, her whispering becoming more urgent, frantic. There was rage in that whispering, a barely bottled fire that flared now and again as she spoke to the bird.
The other birds shuffled along their perches, shook themselves, preened their feathers hungrily. Some cooed a raspy, stringent call. The crowd started murmuring, then gurgling, like something held just beneath the washing machine's water level.
The birds were skittish, as Rick knew them to be. Offput, they always were. In recent months they had just started to be comfortable around Rick and Mary. Maybe that was the entire point of their employment. To get to know the birds.
Music blared out of unseen speakers in a questionable state of repair. It was some sort of marching band music. The chatter from the crowd and even further agitation from the birds hinted that maybe this was it. This was what the show was for.
A voice cut into the music. It was Ms. Krenshaw.
It was pretty easy to focus on the banner, what with both him and Mary being tied down, and all. Rick could still smell something sharp and acrid on his mouth, on his nose. Seems they took extra steps to make sure neither of them woke up while they were bound in their sleep. He looked over at Mary, who was strapped to a long flat board set at an angle, like he was. There were streaks of dried tears down her face, and he tried not to show he saw it. She gave him a flutter of a look, then resumed to looking all around her, trying to take in the entire scene.
There was a lot to take in.
They were on the roof. The pigeons were out of their cage, perched on various paper mache skulls. The air smelled of smoke from pipes, cigarettes and things that were lit in dark alleys. Ringed around the edge of the roof were crude bleachers, with the types of people who haunt casinos daily: they had a quick and desperate look about them, forever thirsty. Circling around the entire roof, and behind the bleachers were strung cheap Chinese lanterns that looked as genuine as the pigeons looked like crows. They barely lit the scene in slow, furtive multicoloured light.
Over the various chatter and yells (taking and giving odds, cursing) came a halting voice. It lurched in fits and starts. The show was about to begin, it said, can everyone please take their seats and hold onto their tickets.
The pigeons began to growl.
Rick's body was starting to shake from cold sweat. Everything around him was something from a nightmare circus. It was like the cock fighting club he had always imagined, except this was much bigger, much stranger. The crowd became quiet.
He was almost relieved to see Ms. Krenshaw show up; she wore a stiff black dress and a fancy hat that had fed a few generations of moths. It's various bits waved in the still air like beauty queens in a parade that happened to cross a hurricane. She didn't look at them. Straight to the biggest pigeon she went, a real bruiser of a bird that Rick had heard Ms. Krenshaw call 'King'.
She cooed to King, smoothed his feathers. Then she started whispering to it. Her eyes darted every so once and a while at Rick and Mary, both of them stiff as the boards they were lashed to. Fear shone in his eyes, and Rick bit down on his tongue, trying to stifle a scream he could feel rumbling through his stomach; it bore down through his body, and he bore down on his tongue. He tasted coppery rust in his mouth. Ms. Krenshaw kept whispering to King, her eyes darting again, her whispering becoming more urgent, frantic. There was rage in that whispering, a barely bottled fire that flared now and again as she spoke to the bird.
The other birds shuffled along their perches, shook themselves, preened their feathers hungrily. Some cooed a raspy, stringent call. The crowd started murmuring, then gurgling, like something held just beneath the washing machine's water level.
The birds were skittish, as Rick knew them to be. Offput, they always were. In recent months they had just started to be comfortable around Rick and Mary. Maybe that was the entire point of their employment. To get to know the birds.
Music blared out of unseen speakers in a questionable state of repair. It was some sort of marching band music. The chatter from the crowd and even further agitation from the birds hinted that maybe this was it. This was what the show was for.
A voice cut into the music. It was Ms. Krenshaw.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Something Found In The Park Part 3
The package sat on his grubby knees. It had the suspicious air of the Tooth Fairy just as older sibling explained quite matter of factly the truth. Open it now and face disappointment? What did he have to lose? Rick considered all the thoughts criss crossing his mind, like a migration of manta rays gone mad. He looked over at Mary. She looked at the package, with an almost inscrutable expression on her face. She bit her lip.
Rick tried to remind himself to breathe, it couldn't get any worse. That was the problem with hope: it offered as more pain in disappointment than it did joy in relief.
He ripped open the package with shaking hands. Underneath a few cotton balls, a few more styro-foam popcorns, was a green piece of paper. It looked like it had been folded and refolded hundreds of times. It had the air of something stuffed and restuffed into someone's jeans as a lucky charm. On it was written:
“Look below you.”
Rick and Mary both looked at it. Mary, in a flurry of speed, snatched up the piece of paper and read it again, once under her breath, once out loud, like it was the warning label on rat poison. Rick looked at the paper, then under it.
Nothing.
The park swam. The sick feeling of being let down from such, admittedly unreasonable, hope wasn't entirely unlike running full speed into a cement wall. He couldn't breathe.
Then the ground rumbled. A great roiling burp of a rumble. Rick remained perfectly still. He was pretty sure he'd been poisoned or something from whatever was in that box.
The ground churned. For a good five seconds it churned, buckled over like a drunk being mugged in a dark side alley by a hood with too much follow through. Mary sprang to her feet. This was probably a sign it wasn't poison, thought Rick. Or, that they had BOTH been poisoned.
Yellowy and sad, the park lamps gave one last sputter, and went out.
A thin sheen of cold sweat slicked on Rick's neck. He couldn't look at Mary, worried that fear was finally showing on her ever stoic face, and light reflecting glasses.
The ground beneath the park bench thrust up, the lawn beneath them turned into a cascading fountain of dirt and dead grass. They were thrown like kittens off a hand grenade. Rick banged his shoulder then his head, a high pitch rang in his ear.
He scrambled to all fours and looked over to where the bench was. In it's place floated, hovered -- whatever it was doing, it wasn't touching the ground -- a six foot tall glass ovoid. Tall and thin. It hummed a low rumble, sounding like a car with a large engine and outrageous insurance premiums. Then the rumbling stopped, and a high whine slide through the air and was gone, just as the whine faded, a light came on inside. The capsule was filled about halfway with a clear, deep blue liquid. And sitting in that improbable sea, personal pond, was what could only be the '#34 Dark-Lighted Penumbrian Fang Monger'.
It was covered with a deep green fur, and had the shape of a pear with a head at one end and a lazy, undulating flipper at the other. Around its neck was a fringe of white fur. As if there wasn't enough oddness about it, it also had a yellowing moustache. Its eyes were gigantic, and placid, it looked at the two, then flashed the widest, most terrifying grin Rick had ever seen.
Mary only sat and stared. Rick slowly got to his feet and walked towards it. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mary start slightly, as if she wanted to stop him, but suddenly decided the better of it.
The Fang Monger and its capsule cast a blue haze over the darkened park. The sounds from the streets seemed very far away as Rick approached it. It kept looking at him with its placid eyes and drooping yellow moustache. It seemed to be holding its breath, but its eyes looked like it was a hiding a knowing, deathly mischievous secret.
Rick kept walking towards it.
He pulled his eyes away from the Fang Monger and noticed that the floating capsule had glass handles on either side; as if it was meant to be pushed around. He motioned to Mary to grab one side. She hesitated. He grabbed a handle and looked back to her as if to say “see, nothing wrong here.”. She get up, dusted off her threadbare dress, and walk over.
They pushed the large, glowing capsule back home. No one was on the streets. They lived in the sort of neighbourhood where no one was on the streets after a certain time. Not even the hoodlums.
That night Rick heard a familiar voice in the hallway. It was Mr. Simons. It was a clean name he had, a last name that belonged to a shopkeeper that let you keep a tab, or a principal that was tough but fair. Mr. Simons, in a fit of cosmic confusion, was anything but. Rick had caught sight of him once, coming out of the apartment. He had the face of a mortician who was terrified of corpses. It was sunken and slow, and his entire body slumped along with it. He drawled all his words, taking as long as it took to say what he had to say. Between each phrase of importance sat a massive pause. Far too long to be a normal conversational pause, almost long enough to be a conversation ender.
Ms. Krenshaw, from what Rick could hear, never complained, she suffered the stop and stuttering, the galloping and limping pace of Mr. Simons conversation as if he was the most natural chatter in the world.
That night, that voice had echoed into their bedroom. There was some discussion. Haggling,by the tone and banter of it. Ms. Krenshaw had gotten shrill. By the end of it, even Mary was up. They both pretended to be asleep, though, when soft creak of the door cut the air, and a head poked in, seemed to survey the room and its occupants for a little too long, then disappeared.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Something Found In The Park Part 2
She kept pigeons on the roof. Hundreds of them. They cooed and gurgled like underwater engines, burbling delight from being given too much food and attention. This, naturally, was a bad thing for Mary and Rick; seven days a week they cleaned and brought up seeds.
What worried Rick is that they also had to bring ground beef. Pounds of it, raw, swimming in blood. They left it to the side for Ms. Krenshaw to deal with. There was never any left the next day.
They also had to clean her apartment, and the seven other apartments she was in charge of; or had squatted. They were always dirty. Great mounds of dirty dishes, questionable pools of liquid on the linoleum, and always the scurry of the small things that fed in that filth. The mystery tenants were never there, thankfully.
Ms. Krenshaw grudgingly let them go to school. Probably, Rick thought, because a truant officer would bring unwanted attention.
At school they heard whispers about Ms. Krenshaw. That she had had past wards. That she had never had children. That she always had wards. That she ate them all. That she did have children, but they ran away, were sold to Turkish slave traders, eaten. Of all the stories, they all seemed to disappear on the same day, January 13th.
“All your cares taken care of... just send..” The bold letterings still burned in Rick's mind. It was from an ad in a comic book left by one of the elusive tenants. It shouted 'fraud' and snickered 'sucker'. The fonts were bold, the colouring garish, and the claims were a few shades past hyperbole. Rick thought he was a sensible kid who would never fall for that sort of thing. But they had spent almost a year with Ms. Krenshaw.
It was already January 7th.
“How, though.” Mary gave him her usual cautious air. A tight lipped thoughtfulness that had learned not let on how much it knew. She stared at the ad.
Rick smiled. It was good of her not to blurt how stupid his idea was. “Who knows? What have we got to lose?”
“Your self-respect?”
He looked at her, both of them covered in pigeon droppings, their hair plastered with sweat. “Oh, I think we are well beyond that, don't you?”
Friday, August 22, 2008
Something Found In The Park (or 3 UPC Coupons and 50 cents Worth of Hope) Part 1
This is a pretty irregular feature I do on this blog, post fiction I've been working on. This came about mainly from reading a bit of Roald Dahl on vacation. He is one of my mostest favourite authors. He's a bit subversive, a bit dark, but in the end, entirely wholesome.
This is sort of my stab at something in his style. In a way. Inspired by, maybe. It's also inspired by a Dr. Seuss book, which I'll talk about later. This will be in a few parts, as it's on the longish side. It's quite a departure from my usual blog postings, which will resume in a week or so.
Hope you enjoy it.
“One #34 Dark-Lighted Penumbrian Fang Monger” read the small soiled box. It smelled of oatmeal, and it seemed hardly likely it had anything except mold. Rick frowned, life had more disappointment in store for him, it seemed. Not content to kick a kid when he was down, it was bringing out the tire iron and calling over friends. He prodded the box with a finger grimy from mustard and pigeon droppings.
“So that's it. I mean, nothing else?” said Mary. She blew a lick of dirty hair out of her eyes. The lights had just come on in the park and reflected off her glasses, making her look more unreadable than usual.
Rick shivered, night was just falling. In Bennings Park, the trees cast sad dry shadows and the flower beds looked like smudged paint. Some of the yellow park lamp light reached the bench where they both sat, staring at the box.
Rick ran his thumb over the writing
“Doesn't hardly seem, you know, professional.” said Rick.
“You can't expect much for 3 UPC coupons and fifty cents.” Mary bent down to inspect the hand scrawled label. It looked like someone had written it while riding a palsied bull during an earthquake.
“So you think this is just some con-man on the job trying to get some money out of little kids...”
“I never said that.”
“I quote 'Like that is going to work.'”
Mary turned her unreadable glasses to him. “Doesn't sound anything like me. I find it highly unlikely that this,” she peered closer at the label, “Fang Monger, is going to help us in any way.”
“Can't hurt.”
“Well, true.” She looked back at the box, “things couldn't get worse.”
Ms. Krenshaw scraped what was most likely an egg from the frying pan. Little sprays of old, murky oil landed onto her well-splattered bathrobe. At one point it had been the colour of teal, something given to an unfortunate flavour of salt-water taffy; it drooped off her body like a discarded clown suit on a hobo.
“You ever going to cook yourselves dinner?” She waved the egg-scraping spatula at them. It was never clear who she was talking to. “This fridge is yours, you know. You get here at the time dinner is made, you can go ahead and make yourselves anything you like.” She gave them a sharp look, “You were both late. Again.”
She reached under her bathrobe and produced a thick iron key, then locked the chains that hugged the fridge like a garrotte. She didn't need to. Both Rick and Mary had skipped out of school early, once, just once, to see that if there would be anything worth making if they did come in at the appointed time. Some bread covered evenly in green fuzz. One or two eggs that Ms. Krenshaw invariably had cooked up for herself. A few bottles of murky liquid that were probably flammable under the right conditions.
Late at night, in the attic, they'd toss back ideas what she did with the Ministry money she was supposed use to take care of them. Rick thought she ran a cock-fighting ring on the side, and used the money to shore up finances when the law got tough. He had wild theories of frightened, slightly mad poultry strapped with home made weapons: razors and re-dismantled forks, their tines shining under a swinging bare bulb. Rick could almost hear the yells for more blood, the wet cries of triumph, the soft curses from the losers.
Mary was of the opinion that Ms. Krenshaw hid the money away. Stockpiled it in some dirty mattress. Great dog-eared blocks of cash wound together tight with old rubber bands, dirty, barely legible paper, faded from being handled and re-handled (in Rick's mind, they'd be re-handled from all the bettors and bookies). It wasn't an implausible theory, argued Mary; Ms. Krenshaw did have a closed face, a squinting way to her walk and dress that made her look like an over wound clockworks piggy bank.
They both suspected Ms. Krenshaw hated children, and having wards of the state was her perfect excuse to starve and neglect kids.
Wards of the State. Rick at first found it odd that a whole government: bureaucrats, clerks, secretaries, janitors and all, would take care of children. At one point he heard that the people who cleaned the outside of parliament were government employees. Were they supposed to take care of kids too? Seemed an exercise in cruelty. Then he found out that the government had other people take care of kids, not strictly government employees. This turned out to be, in his experience, a far worse affair. Give him a parliament cleaner -- filthy hands and overalls, hands blistered from safety ropes, body tired from being suspended above a particularly inspired tower -- over Ms. Krenshaw any day.
Friday, December 21, 2007
"Debt" Part 4 of 4
Freddy, their Met Police contact, turned out to be both their police contact and the right underworld contact. The bar was so smoky the patrons were never sure if they were with their friends or just high-backed chairs with some listening ability.
Hank focussed on his drink. He didn't want to let it sink in that he had gotten involved with Sneezly. If there was one thing you wanted to avoid, it was getting on Sneezly's radar, because once you were on it, the only way to get under it was to go six feet down. And now he was at odds with Sneezly, it wasn't as if his Debt wasn’t a problem enough.
The broad and her case were bringing all sorts of trouble Hank's way, the fact that he had predicted just this situation was as comforting watching a firing squad slowly load their weapons.
Across the table, Freddy wiggled .
"I don't know what that is, I don't know why she would want it."
"She?" Hank gave an evil eye to the blur across the table.
"I didn't say she, I meant, you know, he, she, doesn't matter."
The raisin shaped head jittered as it talked. He looked around, as if waiting for someone to end the meeting suddenly, possibly by the use of small arms fire.
Hank took out his sizeable if questionably functional gun and thumped it on the table.
"You know, Freddy, I'm not a usually violent man."
"He has only killed or maimed 23% of his contacts in the past quarter," offered Greg.
"See? I'm not usually. But when a trusted friend and confidante -- such as yourself -- starts lying to me, then tries to cover it up...” Hank paused, ”Well."
"23%." repeated Greg. Hank wasn't quite sure if Greg knew how menacing he could be with statistics.
Freddy, or the shadow that was Freddy, stopped, as if considering which dangerous and probably lethal option to take. It was an agonized silence.
"Alright, alright. A lady, she was wrapped up, she came by and offered me triple what you guys usually do. She went in. Honest, I had no idea what she was after."
"What did she sound like? What did she look like?"
"I don't know, it was all via text to my Desktop. She didn't say anything. She smelled like violets though."
Hank's mobile transmit went off. He checked the display, it was Him. Hank answered it, his voice went low, and his eyes stuck to the ground.
"We gotta go Greg."
"Just when things were getting interesting? We are walking away from our lead in this case just because you received an unsettling phone call? Honestly, this is a bellwether of where your career is heading."
"It was from Him, who I owe the debt to."
"The Debt?"
Hank nodded as if any sudden movements might set off a heretofore unseen bomb.
************
They walked out of the bar and into a large robot that smelled of expensive oil. It grabbed both Hank and Greg and walked into waiting ship. The ship lurched as it shot into the skyway.
It was dark. A speaker somewhere above crackled on.
"It seems, Mr. Pirelli, that we have a friend in common. Say hello to, oh I suppose you call her Jane or some similarly dreadful name."
"Hello." the voice was sultry, and almost too close; it sounded like silk being drawn under duress, too tight.
"You okay Jane?"
"I'm fine, for now."
"You had the pendant all along didn't you?"
"I... I did."
"Then--"
"I had to have someone distract other people who might have been interested in it. I’m kind of important."
"Right." Hank tried not to breathe in her smell too deep, warm violets. He put his brain to thinking of some sensible plan that didn't involve him screaming and possibly fainting. He grimaced. Trying to save yourself from almost certain death and looking cool was nearly impossible.
The lights came on, and Sneezly Simpernel strolled into the cargo bay. The floor rumbled, the ship was going an appreciable speed down the skyway. He had come to gloat, thought Hank. Sneezly held the Perma-Ice pendant on his fingers, playing with it.
"So.." he began.
Jane's hands flashed and out flew throwing knives, long thin and silver. They skewered his hand, he screamed, the pendant fell to the floor. In a fluid motion she dove, caught it in the air and rolled to a crouch. She looked back at Hank then up, her eyes widening.
The very large robot with the expensive smelling oil whirred to life. Greg in the confusion had already made his way to the back of the larger robot. When turned on, he lept up onto it's back, snapped a few tools from his wrist, removed the robot's head panel, and rewired a good portion of it before it could take single step forward.
"Old robots are old and tired, it's true. But we learn a fair bit along the way. Lady, and gentleman, shall we depart?"
Sneezly had activated a not so silent alarm, and suddenly the sound of running boots echoed down the hall. He screamed, drew a long sleek gun and leveled it at Jane as she ran towards Hank. Without thinking about the possibilities of a terribly disfiguring misfire, Hank drew and shot. The weapon made a sound like crashing metal. Sneezly dropped to the ground, from fear and shock. A sizable hole was in the opposite wall, quite far from anywhere Sneezly might have been.
Hank and Jane clambered on the large robot, and Greg drove. First he made it rip a good hole in the bay.
"This is the sort of robot that has thrusters, isn't it?" yelled Hank over the howl of the outside wind.
"I do hope so."
The large robot jumped out of the ship, and they free fell. The repeat of laser weapons roared behind them. Hank's eyes streamed tears from the ripping wind and he tried to focus on the worst problem. The fear from the shooting goons was replaced by the terror of dropping at terminal velocity at an Earth that could not be dodged. An explosion like TNT being detonated with a few hand-grenades went off. The robot had finally fired it's rockets. Hank and Jane held on and Greg maneuvered the robot to safety.
************
The Debt was being called. In a small dark oak paneled room with darker carpeting Hank waited. Greg waited with him, quiet, almost non-plussed. Hank had not gotten the money, or enough money. He hoped his death would be quick.
The Mayor, as he was known, walked in. He was a tall thin man, wore the same grey suit, and spoke quickly, cutting every word with the precision of a particularly high achieving surgeon.
"It's come to my attention that there is a Debt to be paid."
"Yes, Mayor."
"A very serious one, in fact."
"Ye--"
"Don't interrupt me." The Mayor motioned towards the door and in walked Jane.
"My daughter is the most important thing in my life, Mr. Pirelli. When I heard that she had been taken by Mr. Simpernel, there was no telling what destruction and wrath I was prepared to unleash upon the city. He's man who would like nothing better than find an excuse to kidnap my daughter, and excise some blood from me and my territories. Imagine, he said my daughter had stolen a pendant.”
Jane fluttered her eyes down. She was a delicate flower to her father. A victim in this whole ordeal, Hank kept quiet.
“ Something one of his men had been transporting when he had been, uh, liquidated. Naturally he needed an excuse to hold her hostage, to maintain face in front of the other Families.
"I was stuck, Mr. Pirelli. I couldn't challenge his honour. It was his word against mine. And I couldn't launch an all out rescue attempt, not without bringing the wrath of all the Families upon me. And then there you are, suddenly, saving her, delivering her to my doorstep.”
He gave a brief appraising look at Hank.
"In short, Mr. Pirelli, your Debt is paid."
Hank focussed on his drink. He didn't want to let it sink in that he had gotten involved with Sneezly. If there was one thing you wanted to avoid, it was getting on Sneezly's radar, because once you were on it, the only way to get under it was to go six feet down. And now he was at odds with Sneezly, it wasn't as if his Debt wasn’t a problem enough.
The broad and her case were bringing all sorts of trouble Hank's way, the fact that he had predicted just this situation was as comforting watching a firing squad slowly load their weapons.
Across the table, Freddy wiggled .
"I don't know what that is, I don't know why she would want it."
"She?" Hank gave an evil eye to the blur across the table.
"I didn't say she, I meant, you know, he, she, doesn't matter."
The raisin shaped head jittered as it talked. He looked around, as if waiting for someone to end the meeting suddenly, possibly by the use of small arms fire.
Hank took out his sizeable if questionably functional gun and thumped it on the table.
"You know, Freddy, I'm not a usually violent man."
"He has only killed or maimed 23% of his contacts in the past quarter," offered Greg.
"See? I'm not usually. But when a trusted friend and confidante -- such as yourself -- starts lying to me, then tries to cover it up...” Hank paused, ”Well."
"23%." repeated Greg. Hank wasn't quite sure if Greg knew how menacing he could be with statistics.
Freddy, or the shadow that was Freddy, stopped, as if considering which dangerous and probably lethal option to take. It was an agonized silence.
"Alright, alright. A lady, she was wrapped up, she came by and offered me triple what you guys usually do. She went in. Honest, I had no idea what she was after."
"What did she sound like? What did she look like?"
"I don't know, it was all via text to my Desktop. She didn't say anything. She smelled like violets though."
Hank's mobile transmit went off. He checked the display, it was Him. Hank answered it, his voice went low, and his eyes stuck to the ground.
"We gotta go Greg."
"Just when things were getting interesting? We are walking away from our lead in this case just because you received an unsettling phone call? Honestly, this is a bellwether of where your career is heading."
"It was from Him, who I owe the debt to."
"The Debt?"
Hank nodded as if any sudden movements might set off a heretofore unseen bomb.
************
They walked out of the bar and into a large robot that smelled of expensive oil. It grabbed both Hank and Greg and walked into waiting ship. The ship lurched as it shot into the skyway.
It was dark. A speaker somewhere above crackled on.
"It seems, Mr. Pirelli, that we have a friend in common. Say hello to, oh I suppose you call her Jane or some similarly dreadful name."
"Hello." the voice was sultry, and almost too close; it sounded like silk being drawn under duress, too tight.
"You okay Jane?"
"I'm fine, for now."
"You had the pendant all along didn't you?"
"I... I did."
"Then--"
"I had to have someone distract other people who might have been interested in it. I’m kind of important."
"Right." Hank tried not to breathe in her smell too deep, warm violets. He put his brain to thinking of some sensible plan that didn't involve him screaming and possibly fainting. He grimaced. Trying to save yourself from almost certain death and looking cool was nearly impossible.
The lights came on, and Sneezly Simpernel strolled into the cargo bay. The floor rumbled, the ship was going an appreciable speed down the skyway. He had come to gloat, thought Hank. Sneezly held the Perma-Ice pendant on his fingers, playing with it.
"So.." he began.
Jane's hands flashed and out flew throwing knives, long thin and silver. They skewered his hand, he screamed, the pendant fell to the floor. In a fluid motion she dove, caught it in the air and rolled to a crouch. She looked back at Hank then up, her eyes widening.
The very large robot with the expensive smelling oil whirred to life. Greg in the confusion had already made his way to the back of the larger robot. When turned on, he lept up onto it's back, snapped a few tools from his wrist, removed the robot's head panel, and rewired a good portion of it before it could take single step forward.
"Old robots are old and tired, it's true. But we learn a fair bit along the way. Lady, and gentleman, shall we depart?"
Sneezly had activated a not so silent alarm, and suddenly the sound of running boots echoed down the hall. He screamed, drew a long sleek gun and leveled it at Jane as she ran towards Hank. Without thinking about the possibilities of a terribly disfiguring misfire, Hank drew and shot. The weapon made a sound like crashing metal. Sneezly dropped to the ground, from fear and shock. A sizable hole was in the opposite wall, quite far from anywhere Sneezly might have been.
Hank and Jane clambered on the large robot, and Greg drove. First he made it rip a good hole in the bay.
"This is the sort of robot that has thrusters, isn't it?" yelled Hank over the howl of the outside wind.
"I do hope so."
The large robot jumped out of the ship, and they free fell. The repeat of laser weapons roared behind them. Hank's eyes streamed tears from the ripping wind and he tried to focus on the worst problem. The fear from the shooting goons was replaced by the terror of dropping at terminal velocity at an Earth that could not be dodged. An explosion like TNT being detonated with a few hand-grenades went off. The robot had finally fired it's rockets. Hank and Jane held on and Greg maneuvered the robot to safety.
************
The Debt was being called. In a small dark oak paneled room with darker carpeting Hank waited. Greg waited with him, quiet, almost non-plussed. Hank had not gotten the money, or enough money. He hoped his death would be quick.
The Mayor, as he was known, walked in. He was a tall thin man, wore the same grey suit, and spoke quickly, cutting every word with the precision of a particularly high achieving surgeon.
"It's come to my attention that there is a Debt to be paid."
"Yes, Mayor."
"A very serious one, in fact."
"Ye--"
"Don't interrupt me." The Mayor motioned towards the door and in walked Jane.
"My daughter is the most important thing in my life, Mr. Pirelli. When I heard that she had been taken by Mr. Simpernel, there was no telling what destruction and wrath I was prepared to unleash upon the city. He's man who would like nothing better than find an excuse to kidnap my daughter, and excise some blood from me and my territories. Imagine, he said my daughter had stolen a pendant.”
Jane fluttered her eyes down. She was a delicate flower to her father. A victim in this whole ordeal, Hank kept quiet.
“ Something one of his men had been transporting when he had been, uh, liquidated. Naturally he needed an excuse to hold her hostage, to maintain face in front of the other Families.
"I was stuck, Mr. Pirelli. I couldn't challenge his honour. It was his word against mine. And I couldn't launch an all out rescue attempt, not without bringing the wrath of all the Families upon me. And then there you are, suddenly, saving her, delivering her to my doorstep.”
He gave a brief appraising look at Hank.
"In short, Mr. Pirelli, your Debt is paid."
"Debt" Part 3 of 4
Hank's office looked like it had gotten in a scrap with a small bulldozer; and had lost badly - several times. His only two chairs smashed to pieces, taken apart in a frenzy of overzealous discovery.
The air smelled of robot oil. The expensive kind you bought for large robots with impressive strength and limited morality subroutines. A robot that might have been able to leave a dent in a magtronic arcanium shelf.
Sneezly Simpernel leaned against the desk. His robot goon sat on the ground, great big robot head sized holes in the ceiling were clues as to why. Sneezly looked at Hank and Greg with large watery eyes. In another life, those eyes might have looked at you evenly while the owner of said eyes muttered irregular income declarations and forensic accounting. But this wasn't another life.
Hank took a slow breath. He had many ways to play this, but only one wouldn't get him killed immediately. He met Sneezly's gaze square, "Look here Mr. Simpernel, I've done nothing wrong, you can't just come up here and rough up my joint."
"On the contrary, Mr. Pirelli, you've done a grave injustice!" Sneezly looked him over, then slowly smoothed out his suit. It shimmered as only things that are sold by old finicky European men shimmered.
Greg took a step forward slightly in front of Hank. "My employer is in the wrong here, no need to vociferate so, Mr. Simpernel." Hank could hear the low thrum of Greg's main power unit spinning up.
Sneezly sneered. "I don’t need to do anything. Especially when your employer has been snooping around places he shouldn't, looking for things that don’t belong to him."
Hank spoke up, "I do what my client asks of me, Mr. Simpernel." He squeezed his left arm to his side, re-assuring himself that he still had his gun there. A sizeable piece of machinery that was dangerous only because since was so old, no one was quite sure what would happen if he fired it.
"Alright, you want to play it that way. That's fine. We've looked for it here, and, " he motioned to the robot, who crouch walked over to Hank, turned him upside-down and shook him. Change, his previously comforting gun, and a few embarrassing play cards dropped to the ground. "Now we are done. If we ever find out that you had it, we'll be back for a visit." Sneezly gave the half-smile of someone who didn't often smile, but had practiced a reasonable facsimile for the right occasion.
************
Hank and Greg both sat on the ground, both looking at the same non-descript spot on the floor.
"So he doesn't have it then."
"And we certainly don't have it." offered Greg helpfully.
Hank wondered briefly how much it would cost to upgrade his logic chip. "So... someone else has it? Crap.”. He added a little too quickly, “Not because I'm scared of Mr. Simpernel." He glanced at Greg, who of course, didn't care either way if Hank was a blubbering coward, "Ok, I am, but that's not what’s really worrying me. What’s worrying me is need to solve this case for the money. I owe money."
"You mean you Owe Money."
"Well, yes. Yes, I suppose it's that serious." It was eerie how robots could capitalize speech, but you didn't get a few quadrillion transistors without having some advantage in voice synthesis, he supposed.
"And let's not forget the client. You seem to be deeply concerned with the outcome of our work when there is a client is of proper age who exhibits appropriate phenotypic fertility characteristics."
The transmit buzzed. Hank ignored Greg's comment.
"Hi." said Hank. Somewhere in the ceiling a few directional speakers and mics found him and initiated the call.
"You've found my trinket?" the voice steamed with something that made Hanks voice go furry.
"Uh."
"You've reached a roadblock?"
"Some nasty people are after it."
"Oh, did I forget to mention that?" she purred. Why did women always feel the need to purr when they were about to put Hank into more than likely fatal situations. Never mind that it worked every time.
"Yeah. A little." Hank hoped the complete shut down of his verbal capacities was interpreted as raw sexuality and manly reticence.
"Well, that's why I hired you. You were the man for the job, they said."
"They are always saying that."
"You _are_ the man for the job, aren't you?
Hank started wondering if he was.
"So, what would you suggest now, then, Miss... uh... I never did get your name."
"Jane, if you please."
"Right."
"I suggest you start hitting your underworld contacts, and get back on the trail. I paid you, and expect my money's worth."
"We aren't a cliche, Jane, we don't have 'underworld contacts', but I'll see what we can do." He signaled to the transmit to hang-up.
He turned to the robot.
"So Greg, which of our underworld contacts would know what's going on?"
The air smelled of robot oil. The expensive kind you bought for large robots with impressive strength and limited morality subroutines. A robot that might have been able to leave a dent in a magtronic arcanium shelf.
Sneezly Simpernel leaned against the desk. His robot goon sat on the ground, great big robot head sized holes in the ceiling were clues as to why. Sneezly looked at Hank and Greg with large watery eyes. In another life, those eyes might have looked at you evenly while the owner of said eyes muttered irregular income declarations and forensic accounting. But this wasn't another life.
Hank took a slow breath. He had many ways to play this, but only one wouldn't get him killed immediately. He met Sneezly's gaze square, "Look here Mr. Simpernel, I've done nothing wrong, you can't just come up here and rough up my joint."
"On the contrary, Mr. Pirelli, you've done a grave injustice!" Sneezly looked him over, then slowly smoothed out his suit. It shimmered as only things that are sold by old finicky European men shimmered.
Greg took a step forward slightly in front of Hank. "My employer is in the wrong here, no need to vociferate so, Mr. Simpernel." Hank could hear the low thrum of Greg's main power unit spinning up.
Sneezly sneered. "I don’t need to do anything. Especially when your employer has been snooping around places he shouldn't, looking for things that don’t belong to him."
Hank spoke up, "I do what my client asks of me, Mr. Simpernel." He squeezed his left arm to his side, re-assuring himself that he still had his gun there. A sizeable piece of machinery that was dangerous only because since was so old, no one was quite sure what would happen if he fired it.
"Alright, you want to play it that way. That's fine. We've looked for it here, and, " he motioned to the robot, who crouch walked over to Hank, turned him upside-down and shook him. Change, his previously comforting gun, and a few embarrassing play cards dropped to the ground. "Now we are done. If we ever find out that you had it, we'll be back for a visit." Sneezly gave the half-smile of someone who didn't often smile, but had practiced a reasonable facsimile for the right occasion.
************
Hank and Greg both sat on the ground, both looking at the same non-descript spot on the floor.
"So he doesn't have it then."
"And we certainly don't have it." offered Greg helpfully.
Hank wondered briefly how much it would cost to upgrade his logic chip. "So... someone else has it? Crap.”. He added a little too quickly, “Not because I'm scared of Mr. Simpernel." He glanced at Greg, who of course, didn't care either way if Hank was a blubbering coward, "Ok, I am, but that's not what’s really worrying me. What’s worrying me is need to solve this case for the money. I owe money."
"You mean you Owe Money."
"Well, yes. Yes, I suppose it's that serious." It was eerie how robots could capitalize speech, but you didn't get a few quadrillion transistors without having some advantage in voice synthesis, he supposed.
"And let's not forget the client. You seem to be deeply concerned with the outcome of our work when there is a client is of proper age who exhibits appropriate phenotypic fertility characteristics."
The transmit buzzed. Hank ignored Greg's comment.
"Hi." said Hank. Somewhere in the ceiling a few directional speakers and mics found him and initiated the call.
"You've found my trinket?" the voice steamed with something that made Hanks voice go furry.
"Uh."
"You've reached a roadblock?"
"Some nasty people are after it."
"Oh, did I forget to mention that?" she purred. Why did women always feel the need to purr when they were about to put Hank into more than likely fatal situations. Never mind that it worked every time.
"Yeah. A little." Hank hoped the complete shut down of his verbal capacities was interpreted as raw sexuality and manly reticence.
"Well, that's why I hired you. You were the man for the job, they said."
"They are always saying that."
"You _are_ the man for the job, aren't you?
Hank started wondering if he was.
"So, what would you suggest now, then, Miss... uh... I never did get your name."
"Jane, if you please."
"Right."
"I suggest you start hitting your underworld contacts, and get back on the trail. I paid you, and expect my money's worth."
"We aren't a cliche, Jane, we don't have 'underworld contacts', but I'll see what we can do." He signaled to the transmit to hang-up.
He turned to the robot.
"So Greg, which of our underworld contacts would know what's going on?"
"Debt" Part 2 of 4
The next day the info was on the Desktop, a red folder that glowed and rotated. Hank tapped it twice, the holo-display paused for a brief second then opened the folder and tiled the icons: video, documents, contract papers, audio clips. It was the usual stuff: snippets of dialogue, fuzzy videos of the object in question. It was all useful as a wiffle bat to a mafia enforcer. That was OK though, he knew a guy who worked the graveyeard at the Metro Police evidence locker.
Freddy was what the human race would have looked like if we had taken a hard left early in the evolutionary tree and evolved from an overly ambitious set of raisins. He was sunken and wrinkled, and had the air of not really caring about anything. He did everything like an afterthought, Hank could almost believe Freddy didn't love the ponies as much as he did.
Greg kept lookout by pretending take himself offline for internal diagnostics. In the older models, such as Greg, it was expected (particularly anything from Maverick Light Industries).
Hank snuck inside the evidence room, apprehension played across his face. The room smelled of old mothballs and something that had gone mildewy and stashed under a hollow ceiling panel and forgotten. The lighting from a flickering panel gave as much light as a dimming Timex.
He reached the shelf, and right where the object was supposed to be was an empty cardboard box. The pit of his stomach did a few spins. There was more than one group looking for this little trinket, and one of them had found it.
The object was -- from what Hank could figure out from the info -- a small necklace with a piece of Perma-Ice as the pendant. Water wasn't meant to be worn, in Hank's opinion, but if people wanted to sell ice that was cooled by generators in another dimension, who was he to stand in the way of capitalism.
He looked at the shelf closer. There was a sizeable dent in it. A sizeable dent in a shelf made of tempered magtronic arcanium. Whoever was here was big, heavy, and didn't particularly care about leaving behind a trail.
************
The Zyoraption Mark IV was a sleek little number when it had come out; now it was just a sad craft driven by mid-life crisis addled men who were low on cash and high on crises. For Hank, it was just something to get around that was slightly faster than the average. It streaked around the airway, Hank focused on his nav-screen.
"I say, where are we off to in such a rush?" said Greg.
"The office. I think I know who swiped the goods."
"You don't think..."
"Yes."
"But he's a gadabout town, a nothing. They say he only puts on airs of his more shadowy dealings."
"It's a double cover. He acts like he puts on airs, but at the heart of it all, he's a ruthless mob boss."
"Clever."
Freddy was what the human race would have looked like if we had taken a hard left early in the evolutionary tree and evolved from an overly ambitious set of raisins. He was sunken and wrinkled, and had the air of not really caring about anything. He did everything like an afterthought, Hank could almost believe Freddy didn't love the ponies as much as he did.
Greg kept lookout by pretending take himself offline for internal diagnostics. In the older models, such as Greg, it was expected (particularly anything from Maverick Light Industries).
Hank snuck inside the evidence room, apprehension played across his face. The room smelled of old mothballs and something that had gone mildewy and stashed under a hollow ceiling panel and forgotten. The lighting from a flickering panel gave as much light as a dimming Timex.
He reached the shelf, and right where the object was supposed to be was an empty cardboard box. The pit of his stomach did a few spins. There was more than one group looking for this little trinket, and one of them had found it.
The object was -- from what Hank could figure out from the info -- a small necklace with a piece of Perma-Ice as the pendant. Water wasn't meant to be worn, in Hank's opinion, but if people wanted to sell ice that was cooled by generators in another dimension, who was he to stand in the way of capitalism.
He looked at the shelf closer. There was a sizeable dent in it. A sizeable dent in a shelf made of tempered magtronic arcanium. Whoever was here was big, heavy, and didn't particularly care about leaving behind a trail.
************
The Zyoraption Mark IV was a sleek little number when it had come out; now it was just a sad craft driven by mid-life crisis addled men who were low on cash and high on crises. For Hank, it was just something to get around that was slightly faster than the average. It streaked around the airway, Hank focused on his nav-screen.
"I say, where are we off to in such a rush?" said Greg.
"The office. I think I know who swiped the goods."
"You don't think..."
"Yes."
"But he's a gadabout town, a nothing. They say he only puts on airs of his more shadowy dealings."
"It's a double cover. He acts like he puts on airs, but at the heart of it all, he's a ruthless mob boss."
"Clever."
"Debt" Part 1 of 4
This is going to be a post of a short story I just finished for my critique group. It's a humourous sci-fi detective noir piece involving robots. Also, it gives me a few weeks where I don't have to think about what to post. Wheee!
I hope you enjoy it.
She walked in, more serious than a third heart attack with more curves than the back-streets of San Fran. She had a slink; a way of moving across the room that made every Tom, Dick and Harry eye her like their lives depended on it.
Hank knew she was no good, rotten, down to the core; but he also knew he hadn't had a paying client in three months and a Debt whose financer had gone from Breaking Knee-caps Mad to Dispose of Through A Woodchipper Wrathful; besides with legs like hers, discretion went out the window like last week's newspaper.
This was the problem of course. Every very major problem he'd had to shoot, beg, and drive very fast away from involved exactly this sort of dame.
Greg beeped awake. His dull green body clanged to attention. Hank could always see the shiny brass stamp on Greg's back when he sat up, "Maverick Light Industries, Inc.", it read, which was not entirely accurate.
In a voice that was what an American engineer thought a British person sounded like in the 18th century, Greg said, "Greetings! Pirelli's Private Detective Agency, no assignment too tawdry, no client too shady."
Hank cringed. He hoped she wasn't the sort of rotten to the core client who took airs.
She leveled a gaze at Hank -- looking past Greg like he was furniture -- and right then Hank knew he was the only man in the room, in the building, hell, in the city. It was him and this broad who could melt a city block with her gaze. Something in the back of his mind recognized the gaze, and deep in the basement of his brain, alarm bells were ringing. He shut them off.
Her voice came out lyrical, low, like she was used to talking to woozy men with suddenly sweaty hands and stammered speech. "I have a job that needs a man of your," she looked him over quickly, he tried not to black out, "discretion."
Hank bit on his lower lip hard, "I'm your man... We're your men, I mean."
She continued talking, he barely had enough time to get out of the way. Not that he'd want to...
"Dead bodies don’t scare you, do they Mr. Pirelli?"
"As long I didn't know them, or like ‘em."
"You don't know this person."
"We're not talking about hypothetical dead bodies then."
"No."
"It's not anything too illegal is it? We charge extra for that."
"The death is being investigated by the real cops, but there was something that the deceased had of mine. A trinket." She cast her eyes down, fiddled with her purse, then fluttered her eyelashes up at him, "But it's of enormous value to me, sentimental."
Ah, thought Hank, some ill-gotten gain that's worth a few million more than the client says, and has more problems than trying to collar a rabid bobcat in zero G. It could be nothing, but it never was.
The small pile of payment-due e-cards floated menacingly on his Desktop. They were friendly; how a firing squad captain might be before he gave you a poorly lit cigarette and asked you about last words. Rent, utilities, bills bills bills, and Greg was due for a power-core overhaul two years ago. And then there was the Debt. Hank was, in short, not a man who could be picky about his assignments, even ones that were so obviously meant to put him six feet under.
"We'll take it."
"I'll send a message to your Desktop."
With a last flickering glance at the room, she slinked out. Hank watched her leave.
"Hank. Are you certain that was a prudent move?"
"What's the worst that can happen?"
"You could be riddled with laser holes, specifically through your main fluid pump, and I'd be sent unceremoniously to a scrap yard."
"It's called a heart. And don't be ridiculous, they'd sell you back into service."
Greg sniffed, a buzzy noise that sounded like a malfunctioning voice amplifier. "Slavery, is what we call it Hank."
It was just a gut feeling, the danger, but it had happened so often before Hank knew it to be more of a certainty. Could he risk it? Necessity was the mother of Invention. It was also the slightly abusive foster mother of Putting Yourself In Harms Way and Acting Against Your Better Judgement.
Hank pushed the e-cards around his Desktop, they flickered and scattered noiselessly. They would not be ignored for much longer. And then there was the Debt that did not come with an e-card. It came with a craft-bomb that detonates just as you start your ship, or with a finger of a loved one in a small box. If Necessity was the Mother of so many things, Debt was the alcoholic step-dad with the taste for cheap scotch and way with Louisville sluggers.
I hope you enjoy it.
She walked in, more serious than a third heart attack with more curves than the back-streets of San Fran. She had a slink; a way of moving across the room that made every Tom, Dick and Harry eye her like their lives depended on it.
Hank knew she was no good, rotten, down to the core; but he also knew he hadn't had a paying client in three months and a Debt whose financer had gone from Breaking Knee-caps Mad to Dispose of Through A Woodchipper Wrathful; besides with legs like hers, discretion went out the window like last week's newspaper.
This was the problem of course. Every very major problem he'd had to shoot, beg, and drive very fast away from involved exactly this sort of dame.
Greg beeped awake. His dull green body clanged to attention. Hank could always see the shiny brass stamp on Greg's back when he sat up, "Maverick Light Industries, Inc.", it read, which was not entirely accurate.
In a voice that was what an American engineer thought a British person sounded like in the 18th century, Greg said, "Greetings! Pirelli's Private Detective Agency, no assignment too tawdry, no client too shady."
Hank cringed. He hoped she wasn't the sort of rotten to the core client who took airs.
She leveled a gaze at Hank -- looking past Greg like he was furniture -- and right then Hank knew he was the only man in the room, in the building, hell, in the city. It was him and this broad who could melt a city block with her gaze. Something in the back of his mind recognized the gaze, and deep in the basement of his brain, alarm bells were ringing. He shut them off.
Her voice came out lyrical, low, like she was used to talking to woozy men with suddenly sweaty hands and stammered speech. "I have a job that needs a man of your," she looked him over quickly, he tried not to black out, "discretion."
Hank bit on his lower lip hard, "I'm your man... We're your men, I mean."
She continued talking, he barely had enough time to get out of the way. Not that he'd want to...
"Dead bodies don’t scare you, do they Mr. Pirelli?"
"As long I didn't know them, or like ‘em."
"You don't know this person."
"We're not talking about hypothetical dead bodies then."
"No."
"It's not anything too illegal is it? We charge extra for that."
"The death is being investigated by the real cops, but there was something that the deceased had of mine. A trinket." She cast her eyes down, fiddled with her purse, then fluttered her eyelashes up at him, "But it's of enormous value to me, sentimental."
Ah, thought Hank, some ill-gotten gain that's worth a few million more than the client says, and has more problems than trying to collar a rabid bobcat in zero G. It could be nothing, but it never was.
The small pile of payment-due e-cards floated menacingly on his Desktop. They were friendly; how a firing squad captain might be before he gave you a poorly lit cigarette and asked you about last words. Rent, utilities, bills bills bills, and Greg was due for a power-core overhaul two years ago. And then there was the Debt. Hank was, in short, not a man who could be picky about his assignments, even ones that were so obviously meant to put him six feet under.
"We'll take it."
"I'll send a message to your Desktop."
With a last flickering glance at the room, she slinked out. Hank watched her leave.
"Hank. Are you certain that was a prudent move?"
"What's the worst that can happen?"
"You could be riddled with laser holes, specifically through your main fluid pump, and I'd be sent unceremoniously to a scrap yard."
"It's called a heart. And don't be ridiculous, they'd sell you back into service."
Greg sniffed, a buzzy noise that sounded like a malfunctioning voice amplifier. "Slavery, is what we call it Hank."
It was just a gut feeling, the danger, but it had happened so often before Hank knew it to be more of a certainty. Could he risk it? Necessity was the mother of Invention. It was also the slightly abusive foster mother of Putting Yourself In Harms Way and Acting Against Your Better Judgement.
Hank pushed the e-cards around his Desktop, they flickered and scattered noiselessly. They would not be ignored for much longer. And then there was the Debt that did not come with an e-card. It came with a craft-bomb that detonates just as you start your ship, or with a finger of a loved one in a small box. If Necessity was the Mother of so many things, Debt was the alcoholic step-dad with the taste for cheap scotch and way with Louisville sluggers.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Lovecraft Exercise
I recently finished a novell by H.P. Lovecraft, "At the Mountain of Madness". Lovecraft was a writer in early 20th century who wrote commercial horror for pulp mags and the like. He's as influential in the Horror/Sci-Fi/Fantasy camp as say, Edgar Allen Poe, or almost as much. He writes in a florid style, usually taking about thirty pages what can be said in two. But he has a style, and it can be quite interesting to read.
In an effort to build my writing skills, I wrote a short story that hopefully does a good job imitating his voice. I initially thought to make it Lovecraftian and humourous, but was not equal to the task, so I give you this instead:
Culling Beans
A most hated day. When a hellspawn intelligence dreamt up a nameless horror, then bent the world and willed it into existence. It burst forth from the lowest places of Hell, from the depths of the Lakes of Fire. It was a day that will burn in my mind as the day I undid the world.
But it was not a day unto itself. No, it was a nadir of my four decades on this earth. Toiling and plowing the fields of knowledge. Hoping that my sweat and strife would bear fruit for me and my hungry, yet lacking, intellect.
The striving ending with miserable failure, having to bear the acceptance to a mediocre institution. My failed papers. My failed relationships, when there were any. My tenure at this hated research group. Little more than a gopher for the luminaries who walk these halls. A footnote in the annals of academic pursuit!
I see now, I see how that pulled at me, whipped at me to go the forgotten regions, to the places forbidden by God and by Science. Forbidden by the most primal instincts of man. Indeed, to pull from the very maw of that unseen and ancient terror. To try and lift something from the Abyss to the Halls of man.
The folly!
I think now, how it was so easy. After all, the Geology Group wasn't doing anything with them, simple lima beans. Ancient, of course, found in some pocket of strata. The details evade me now. Geology being a far cry from my passion of Botany.
The Geology Group should have pushed this onto the best and brightest of the Botany Group. But they couldn't be bothered, they had their own lights to follow. Their own paths to blaze. How they rue the day they let a small mind such as myself clutch at that most hated treasure.
Upon examing the seeds, I found quite quickly how they had strange inscriptions on them. Hideous, yet stunning in their complexity. Carved by no human hand, and never seen, until then, by any human eye. The sight, I'll admit, made me cry out, even before I knew what I was looking at. Something in that reptilian brain of mine knew immediately. Something deep under all this thinking and wanting and scheming brain recognized I should have smashed those seeds. Then and there.
And yet. And yet I was intrigued.
They were surely ancient. Pre-history, pre-human to be sure. Could such etchings be made from natural process of pressure and heat? Maybe some of the Geology boys were having a joke at my expense. That seemed the least likely. Not because they wouldn't do it, but because the carvings were too hideouslly detailed. They spoke of eternal evil. Before you think my prattling that of a dangerous, unstable mind, my lab partner, Thompson, thought the same thing. He refused to work on them with me. Which didn't stop him from suggesting that perhaps I should plant them. See what happens.
We would all soon see what ruin that would bring.
How cruel the Fates were to me. To pair me with a partner who would stoke my desire for greatness, and provide, in his own way, the catalyst for all of our undoing.
And so I sent a message via our pneumatic systems, asking the Geology group if they might explain the carvings. They never got back to me. Too busy deep in their studies, or off on another trip, to be sure. In any case, they knew who I was, and most likely prioritized my queries accordingly.
Would I have planted those accursed beans if I had known? I'm not sure. Perhaps that reptilian warning would manifest itself in action, and I would store away the beans, never to be seen again. Or more likely, the urgent desire to find and do anything of value for the field of Botany would have excoriated me ruthlessly until I relented and did something with those beans.
Oh accursed, hateful day. The day I turned on the lamps. And every day I watered those beans.
First there was joy. Who could know a failures joy on realizing all his inequity, all his painful failings could be wiped away by one significant discovery? I was overjoyed. Small red sprouts came forth not one week after the strict watering regime. It had been quite the work to recreate the pH and salinty, the proper balance that must have occured when these beans first found the earth.
I didn't notice, or cared not to notice, that out the leading stem of each plant there oozed what looked very much like blood.
A month passed.
The plants were hideous. Frightening. I was glad to be in the basement, close to the boiler. Thompson had thankfully, or perhaps unluckily enough, been promoted. Not here 3 months and he had found the first run on the ladder. While I still toiled, seven years unrewarded. Perhaps if he was still with me he would have stopped my experiment. The plants were veiny, red, bulbous things. Only the smallest trace of green touched these gory horrors, sprouting, thrusting into the air.
Soon, I noticed that they moved.
It was small, imperceptible, but they did seem to pulse. Their veins pulsed ever so slightly. Did I know even then that something dark was afoot? That soon I would be staring at mortality as it counted my last days? Perhaps I did know. But I was powerless to resist. Where the carvings on the seeds frightened me, the plants horrified me, froze my heart and mind into blindness. I could not, would not see what was in front of me.
Weeks passed, in a hazy, nightmarish daze. I would still water the plants, but with my eyes closed. I could not look at them. Worst, I felt that perhaps, they would not be looked upon. But every day clawed at me with a terror I could not breathe, a terror I would not admit to myself. A terror that ravaged my dreams until I could not sleep.
And then, that hateful day. The most hateful day.
The plants spoke.
My eyes flew open in wide eyed surprise, and on seeing the abomination, narrowed to abject fear. It was no longer a plant. Where the seedling was there stood now a five legged arthropod of some sort. Not unlike a crab from the darkest recesses of our nightmares. It's eyes were the on long stalks, and held an ancient, ruthless wisdom in them. To my further surprise, I saw how the eyes had been the lima beans. The beast had grown from the earth, eyes first. When it blinked, I could see faint tracings of those nameless carvings, those terrible, soul killing carvings. Five eyestalks ended in three to seven eyes each. They blinked independentally of each other. As if being a being of five different minds. On the main body were five mouths, each one armed with needle like teeth, each one speaking in turn.
The plant inquired as to where it was and why. I told it what, in halting words to be sure, what was happening, what I was trying to do. I asked it what it was. It asked to be taken to head. Those who were in charge. It could see, in it's terrible intelligence, that I was a mere lackey to those that mattered.
And so I arranged a meeting. After much incredulity and scorn.
I've inserted a transcript on the discussion between the Director and the Monstrosity.
Unknown : It's curious that I was not exterminated the minute my first sprouts were evident.
Director : We are not a warring and uncultured race. We desire to learn, to grow.
Unknown : Ah, just as I suspected. I was designed to have contact with such a species. Those advanced far enough in science to not attack me outright while I, or any of my brothers and sisters, grew.
Director : That's a relief. Your intentions are, peaceful then.
Unknown : Not in so many words.
Director : What would you say your role is then?
Unknown : I have many names, in your language, I am the Balancer, or the Peace Bringer.
Director : Most comforting.
Unknown: I am also known as the Culler.
Unknown : Planted many aeons ago in your planet's crust. We were placed to germinate and grow. But only when a truly advancing race had sprouted, and would not eat us or destroy us as we grew, were we to reach our full maturity. Our masters abhor competition. So we were made to feed on, well, your brains. Well developed, large, and full of all those nutrients that only a well evolved brain would have.
Director : *screams*
Direco...
Transcript ends, naturally enough. And then that monstrosity proceeded to suck the brains out of the Director. It's intelligence far exceeded all of us. Using some sort of psychokinesis, it was able to lock down the entire Institute, and proceed to very slowly, to suck the brain stuffs of all the greatest minds, and all the not so greatest minds. It is to my horror then, that my mediocre mind has saved me from having my brains sucked from my skull.
I am the last of the Institute. The last, not so great mind. Locked in the final door. I'm of no delusion that I shall live this out. The Monstrosity needs me though. Needs me to gain contact with the rest of the world. It's told me that it has urges to spread it's spore throughout the world, and rid the Earth of all brains. I'm promised a quick death if I cooperate.
But it's been a slow death all these years. A slow, plodding death. And so I send this last diary, this last piece of evidence that although I undid the world, there might still be hope. The pneumatic tubes should take this far enough away.
For the Monstrosity is in talks with the general who oversees this Institute. The general who has his finger on the button, so to speak. To nuke us to high heaven should any of the many experiments we are conducting go awry. And awry they have. But the general doesn't know. Couldn't know.
But he's suspcious. Suspicious of all things new, all things revelatory, inspecting everything that comes from the Institute should it be blemished by Soviet idea. Few of the bright stars here thought of the general's influence. But I saw it. Being of inferior intellect, I was keenly aware of any and all obstacles that might hinder my work from being noticed. Those of more prodigious talent never worried. Didn't need t worry. Didn't censure out any comments in their research that might hint at their findings 'helping the average working man', or comb through their communique for any rantings against big money donors. I did. Or I did for them.
The Monstrosity gets hints from me. Little tidbits of information it needs to fool the general. To remove the lockdown on the Institute. For it wasn't soon after the rampage started that one of the scientist hit the panic alarm and locked down the entire campus.
The Monstrosity is asking me what to tell the general. What happened. The general knows that we were run over by something. The last message said as much. It just didn't say what. I couldn''t say, the Monstrosity, of course, who would believe it?
I told the monster to say the only word that would assure the safety of the world.
Commies.
In an effort to build my writing skills, I wrote a short story that hopefully does a good job imitating his voice. I initially thought to make it Lovecraftian and humourous, but was not equal to the task, so I give you this instead:
Culling Beans
A most hated day. When a hellspawn intelligence dreamt up a nameless horror, then bent the world and willed it into existence. It burst forth from the lowest places of Hell, from the depths of the Lakes of Fire. It was a day that will burn in my mind as the day I undid the world.
But it was not a day unto itself. No, it was a nadir of my four decades on this earth. Toiling and plowing the fields of knowledge. Hoping that my sweat and strife would bear fruit for me and my hungry, yet lacking, intellect.
The striving ending with miserable failure, having to bear the acceptance to a mediocre institution. My failed papers. My failed relationships, when there were any. My tenure at this hated research group. Little more than a gopher for the luminaries who walk these halls. A footnote in the annals of academic pursuit!
I see now, I see how that pulled at me, whipped at me to go the forgotten regions, to the places forbidden by God and by Science. Forbidden by the most primal instincts of man. Indeed, to pull from the very maw of that unseen and ancient terror. To try and lift something from the Abyss to the Halls of man.
The folly!
I think now, how it was so easy. After all, the Geology Group wasn't doing anything with them, simple lima beans. Ancient, of course, found in some pocket of strata. The details evade me now. Geology being a far cry from my passion of Botany.
The Geology Group should have pushed this onto the best and brightest of the Botany Group. But they couldn't be bothered, they had their own lights to follow. Their own paths to blaze. How they rue the day they let a small mind such as myself clutch at that most hated treasure.
Upon examing the seeds, I found quite quickly how they had strange inscriptions on them. Hideous, yet stunning in their complexity. Carved by no human hand, and never seen, until then, by any human eye. The sight, I'll admit, made me cry out, even before I knew what I was looking at. Something in that reptilian brain of mine knew immediately. Something deep under all this thinking and wanting and scheming brain recognized I should have smashed those seeds. Then and there.
And yet. And yet I was intrigued.
They were surely ancient. Pre-history, pre-human to be sure. Could such etchings be made from natural process of pressure and heat? Maybe some of the Geology boys were having a joke at my expense. That seemed the least likely. Not because they wouldn't do it, but because the carvings were too hideouslly detailed. They spoke of eternal evil. Before you think my prattling that of a dangerous, unstable mind, my lab partner, Thompson, thought the same thing. He refused to work on them with me. Which didn't stop him from suggesting that perhaps I should plant them. See what happens.
We would all soon see what ruin that would bring.
How cruel the Fates were to me. To pair me with a partner who would stoke my desire for greatness, and provide, in his own way, the catalyst for all of our undoing.
And so I sent a message via our pneumatic systems, asking the Geology group if they might explain the carvings. They never got back to me. Too busy deep in their studies, or off on another trip, to be sure. In any case, they knew who I was, and most likely prioritized my queries accordingly.
Would I have planted those accursed beans if I had known? I'm not sure. Perhaps that reptilian warning would manifest itself in action, and I would store away the beans, never to be seen again. Or more likely, the urgent desire to find and do anything of value for the field of Botany would have excoriated me ruthlessly until I relented and did something with those beans.
Oh accursed, hateful day. The day I turned on the lamps. And every day I watered those beans.
First there was joy. Who could know a failures joy on realizing all his inequity, all his painful failings could be wiped away by one significant discovery? I was overjoyed. Small red sprouts came forth not one week after the strict watering regime. It had been quite the work to recreate the pH and salinty, the proper balance that must have occured when these beans first found the earth.
I didn't notice, or cared not to notice, that out the leading stem of each plant there oozed what looked very much like blood.
A month passed.
The plants were hideous. Frightening. I was glad to be in the basement, close to the boiler. Thompson had thankfully, or perhaps unluckily enough, been promoted. Not here 3 months and he had found the first run on the ladder. While I still toiled, seven years unrewarded. Perhaps if he was still with me he would have stopped my experiment. The plants were veiny, red, bulbous things. Only the smallest trace of green touched these gory horrors, sprouting, thrusting into the air.
Soon, I noticed that they moved.
It was small, imperceptible, but they did seem to pulse. Their veins pulsed ever so slightly. Did I know even then that something dark was afoot? That soon I would be staring at mortality as it counted my last days? Perhaps I did know. But I was powerless to resist. Where the carvings on the seeds frightened me, the plants horrified me, froze my heart and mind into blindness. I could not, would not see what was in front of me.
Weeks passed, in a hazy, nightmarish daze. I would still water the plants, but with my eyes closed. I could not look at them. Worst, I felt that perhaps, they would not be looked upon. But every day clawed at me with a terror I could not breathe, a terror I would not admit to myself. A terror that ravaged my dreams until I could not sleep.
And then, that hateful day. The most hateful day.
The plants spoke.
My eyes flew open in wide eyed surprise, and on seeing the abomination, narrowed to abject fear. It was no longer a plant. Where the seedling was there stood now a five legged arthropod of some sort. Not unlike a crab from the darkest recesses of our nightmares. It's eyes were the on long stalks, and held an ancient, ruthless wisdom in them. To my further surprise, I saw how the eyes had been the lima beans. The beast had grown from the earth, eyes first. When it blinked, I could see faint tracings of those nameless carvings, those terrible, soul killing carvings. Five eyestalks ended in three to seven eyes each. They blinked independentally of each other. As if being a being of five different minds. On the main body were five mouths, each one armed with needle like teeth, each one speaking in turn.
The plant inquired as to where it was and why. I told it what, in halting words to be sure, what was happening, what I was trying to do. I asked it what it was. It asked to be taken to head. Those who were in charge. It could see, in it's terrible intelligence, that I was a mere lackey to those that mattered.
And so I arranged a meeting. After much incredulity and scorn.
I've inserted a transcript on the discussion between the Director and the Monstrosity.
Unknown : It's curious that I was not exterminated the minute my first sprouts were evident.
Director : We are not a warring and uncultured race. We desire to learn, to grow.
Unknown : Ah, just as I suspected. I was designed to have contact with such a species. Those advanced far enough in science to not attack me outright while I, or any of my brothers and sisters, grew.
Director : That's a relief. Your intentions are, peaceful then.
Unknown : Not in so many words.
Director : What would you say your role is then?
Unknown : I have many names, in your language, I am the Balancer, or the Peace Bringer.
Director : Most comforting.
Unknown: I am also known as the Culler.
Unknown : Planted many aeons ago in your planet's crust. We were placed to germinate and grow. But only when a truly advancing race had sprouted, and would not eat us or destroy us as we grew, were we to reach our full maturity. Our masters abhor competition. So we were made to feed on, well, your brains. Well developed, large, and full of all those nutrients that only a well evolved brain would have.
Director : *screams*
Direco...
Transcript ends, naturally enough. And then that monstrosity proceeded to suck the brains out of the Director. It's intelligence far exceeded all of us. Using some sort of psychokinesis, it was able to lock down the entire Institute, and proceed to very slowly, to suck the brain stuffs of all the greatest minds, and all the not so greatest minds. It is to my horror then, that my mediocre mind has saved me from having my brains sucked from my skull.
I am the last of the Institute. The last, not so great mind. Locked in the final door. I'm of no delusion that I shall live this out. The Monstrosity needs me though. Needs me to gain contact with the rest of the world. It's told me that it has urges to spread it's spore throughout the world, and rid the Earth of all brains. I'm promised a quick death if I cooperate.
But it's been a slow death all these years. A slow, plodding death. And so I send this last diary, this last piece of evidence that although I undid the world, there might still be hope. The pneumatic tubes should take this far enough away.
For the Monstrosity is in talks with the general who oversees this Institute. The general who has his finger on the button, so to speak. To nuke us to high heaven should any of the many experiments we are conducting go awry. And awry they have. But the general doesn't know. Couldn't know.
But he's suspcious. Suspicious of all things new, all things revelatory, inspecting everything that comes from the Institute should it be blemished by Soviet idea. Few of the bright stars here thought of the general's influence. But I saw it. Being of inferior intellect, I was keenly aware of any and all obstacles that might hinder my work from being noticed. Those of more prodigious talent never worried. Didn't need t worry. Didn't censure out any comments in their research that might hint at their findings 'helping the average working man', or comb through their communique for any rantings against big money donors. I did. Or I did for them.
The Monstrosity gets hints from me. Little tidbits of information it needs to fool the general. To remove the lockdown on the Institute. For it wasn't soon after the rampage started that one of the scientist hit the panic alarm and locked down the entire campus.
The Monstrosity is asking me what to tell the general. What happened. The general knows that we were run over by something. The last message said as much. It just didn't say what. I couldn''t say, the Monstrosity, of course, who would believe it?
I told the monster to say the only word that would assure the safety of the world.
Commies.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Some Serious Sci Fi : The Slide
I'm still having a hell of a time getting some words down on "Hayden Smith : Sardonic Space Cowboy", so I decided to give some serious type sci-fi a try. I wrote this short story on Sunday. It probably needs a bit of editing, but as a first draft, came out pretty well, I thought.
It's not hard sci-fi, but it's serious. Hard sci-fi being all about the science and atoms and gluons and such.
It was a pretty easy write since it's written as a retelling from the main character's point of view. It basically became a very long dialogue piece without the quotations. And for better or for worse, I do find dialogue to pretty much write itself. It may not be good dialogue, or witty, or interesting, but damnit, it helps me hit my word count targets!
Short story in the comments.
It's not hard sci-fi, but it's serious. Hard sci-fi being all about the science and atoms and gluons and such.
It was a pretty easy write since it's written as a retelling from the main character's point of view. It basically became a very long dialogue piece without the quotations. And for better or for worse, I do find dialogue to pretty much write itself. It may not be good dialogue, or witty, or interesting, but damnit, it helps me hit my word count targets!
Short story in the comments.
Monday, April 02, 2007
Requests!
So my good buddy Funka! (not his real name, at least I'm pretty sure, no, I'm sure. But his real name isn't nearly as fun to say. Who wouldn't want to have a punctuation mark in their name!) has requested some more of my fiction.
Which is a tremendous compliment. And I thank him for what was probably an innocuous comment (made to fill up that awkward MSN pause where nobody is sure who's turn it is to type something, but neither wants to just exit MSN, and you are both just stuck there, watching that little window, hoping it doesn't flash, just trying to finish off your word document or excel spreadsheet, or that one last mine you have to find in Minesweeper, whatever).
Er, so, I put it to you readers (who have dropped from the heady number of 60 something returning visitors to a meager 38 (I can only assume Google is cracking down on spiders and bots)), what sort of fiction would y'all like to read?
Right now I'm working very sluggishly on my third unpublished novel. As you all know, Hayden Smith: Sardonic Space Cowboy. But really really really slow. For my last two, I tried my darndest to keep to 2000 words per day: as recommended by Stephen King (in his book On Writing, and in his article "Everything You Need To Know To Write Successfully In 10 Minutes". In this current work, I'm really dragging my feet. I'm lucky to get 4000 words a WEEK.
Glacial.
In my defense, I'm working through my very least favorite thing to do : plotting. Which just bogs me the hell down.
I have a few pieces I haven't posted yet. I think most of them are urban fantasy. Which is fantasy in 'real world' setting. Mostly offices. Er, only offices. Actually, just like "One Over, Three Down". Well sorta, without the horror aspect. That is, there is horror, but only in style of writing and the hackneyed language as opposed to any intentioned effect (affect?).
Oh, heck, I'll post a little challenge on of the writers in my critique group gave me. Write a short story without using the letters q or w.
End Cometh
The guppy cuts through the stream. Krest only looks at it, doesn't move to spear it, kill it, catch it for dinner. He looks up the cobbled tunnel. It's a long trek for him yet. But at the end, oh, at the end.
He shudders.
It's from the stream, it's so cold, so clear. The stories of it running red from blood skitter and scatter over his mind. But those stories are in the past. Ancient history.
The village elders never told him the origins of the tunnel. Only that it housed the Darkness. The Darkness comes every one hundred years. No exceptions. And this being year 100, somebody had to do something. Preferably someone that believes in the legends. Someone still in thrall of ancient stories.
His friends all laughed, they made fun relentlessly before he left. But the day came, he climbed aboard his raft, a simple leaf, and they did not laugh, they did not chatter, they did not jibe.
He hopes to hear their jibes again. They chatter about the oddness of a Darkness coming from The Patched Cave. The Tunnel. The Bringer of Darkness, as the elders called it.
Krest peered into the tunnel. Past the area that the boys dared one another. Go past there, go past there. Far past the touch of sunlight.
It looks almost inviting. There are thick pipes that run in the darkness. Not The Darkness, only the darkened recesses. No one can recall if those pipes are for the tribe, from the tribe, or from another, more ancient storied race. Nevertheless, the pipes, they zing and ping. They ting invitingly.
Krest approaches the cobbled sides. It's commonly thought that the safest, surest path is to climb the sides. Climb the sides into the cave, cavern, Tunnel, Bringer of Darkness. He's a sure climber, but the cobbled stones are massive, heavy things. Moved into place by a forgotten people for forgotten reasons.
The Tunnel echoes. Every slipped grip, every gasp of surprise, every grunt of strain is magnified to a giant. He hopes that The Darkness is scared of giants. He hopes he isn't too scared of the Darkness. But soon, the black mantle of Tunnel is about him. There are the dimmest of outlines of the cobbled stones. The rich heady smells of moss creeping on every surface.
It's a skeleton. A skeleton of a monster. Hell rending teeth, long terrible body bound to the earth. Krest jumps to the ground to look at it. It has a metal colllar around its neck. it reads, "Elvis the Croc".
Krest chuckles. A pet. A giant pet. Large enough to devour his entire village. But a pet nonetheless. A dead pet. Besides it rests a gigantic box not made of bark or cedar, paper or cotton. It's light, too light. "McDonald's" is emblazoned on it. Surely one of the ancients.
The elders are not pleased on Krest's report. It is not as prophecy had foretold. The Darkness is a cloud of death and teeth. It rains pain and misery upon the village. Every one hundred years. The end is nigh. The end is nigh. If legend had not informed the elders of anything, it had told them the end is nigh.
Krest leaves camp. Or Krest is exiled. His friends do not jibe him, chide is foolishness. They do laugh even louder to the proclamations of the elder. Loud forceful laughter.
Which is a tremendous compliment. And I thank him for what was probably an innocuous comment (made to fill up that awkward MSN pause where nobody is sure who's turn it is to type something, but neither wants to just exit MSN, and you are both just stuck there, watching that little window, hoping it doesn't flash, just trying to finish off your word document or excel spreadsheet, or that one last mine you have to find in Minesweeper, whatever).
Er, so, I put it to you readers (who have dropped from the heady number of 60 something returning visitors to a meager 38 (I can only assume Google is cracking down on spiders and bots)), what sort of fiction would y'all like to read?
Right now I'm working very sluggishly on my third unpublished novel. As you all know, Hayden Smith: Sardonic Space Cowboy. But really really really slow. For my last two, I tried my darndest to keep to 2000 words per day: as recommended by Stephen King (in his book On Writing, and in his article "Everything You Need To Know To Write Successfully In 10 Minutes". In this current work, I'm really dragging my feet. I'm lucky to get 4000 words a WEEK.
Glacial.
In my defense, I'm working through my very least favorite thing to do : plotting. Which just bogs me the hell down.
I have a few pieces I haven't posted yet. I think most of them are urban fantasy. Which is fantasy in 'real world' setting. Mostly offices. Er, only offices. Actually, just like "One Over, Three Down". Well sorta, without the horror aspect. That is, there is horror, but only in style of writing and the hackneyed language as opposed to any intentioned effect (affect?).
Oh, heck, I'll post a little challenge on of the writers in my critique group gave me. Write a short story without using the letters q or w.
End Cometh
The guppy cuts through the stream. Krest only looks at it, doesn't move to spear it, kill it, catch it for dinner. He looks up the cobbled tunnel. It's a long trek for him yet. But at the end, oh, at the end.
He shudders.
It's from the stream, it's so cold, so clear. The stories of it running red from blood skitter and scatter over his mind. But those stories are in the past. Ancient history.
The village elders never told him the origins of the tunnel. Only that it housed the Darkness. The Darkness comes every one hundred years. No exceptions. And this being year 100, somebody had to do something. Preferably someone that believes in the legends. Someone still in thrall of ancient stories.
His friends all laughed, they made fun relentlessly before he left. But the day came, he climbed aboard his raft, a simple leaf, and they did not laugh, they did not chatter, they did not jibe.
He hopes to hear their jibes again. They chatter about the oddness of a Darkness coming from The Patched Cave. The Tunnel. The Bringer of Darkness, as the elders called it.
Krest peered into the tunnel. Past the area that the boys dared one another. Go past there, go past there. Far past the touch of sunlight.
It looks almost inviting. There are thick pipes that run in the darkness. Not The Darkness, only the darkened recesses. No one can recall if those pipes are for the tribe, from the tribe, or from another, more ancient storied race. Nevertheless, the pipes, they zing and ping. They ting invitingly.
Krest approaches the cobbled sides. It's commonly thought that the safest, surest path is to climb the sides. Climb the sides into the cave, cavern, Tunnel, Bringer of Darkness. He's a sure climber, but the cobbled stones are massive, heavy things. Moved into place by a forgotten people for forgotten reasons.
The Tunnel echoes. Every slipped grip, every gasp of surprise, every grunt of strain is magnified to a giant. He hopes that The Darkness is scared of giants. He hopes he isn't too scared of the Darkness. But soon, the black mantle of Tunnel is about him. There are the dimmest of outlines of the cobbled stones. The rich heady smells of moss creeping on every surface.
It's a skeleton. A skeleton of a monster. Hell rending teeth, long terrible body bound to the earth. Krest jumps to the ground to look at it. It has a metal colllar around its neck. it reads, "Elvis the Croc".
Krest chuckles. A pet. A giant pet. Large enough to devour his entire village. But a pet nonetheless. A dead pet. Besides it rests a gigantic box not made of bark or cedar, paper or cotton. It's light, too light. "McDonald's" is emblazoned on it. Surely one of the ancients.
The elders are not pleased on Krest's report. It is not as prophecy had foretold. The Darkness is a cloud of death and teeth. It rains pain and misery upon the village. Every one hundred years. The end is nigh. The end is nigh. If legend had not informed the elders of anything, it had told them the end is nigh.
Krest leaves camp. Or Krest is exiled. His friends do not jibe him, chide is foolishness. They do laugh even louder to the proclamations of the elder. Loud forceful laughter.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Hayden Smith : Sardonic Space Cowboy
The following is short story I wrote for a contest. A piddling tiny contest that I'm sure to get a nice rejection letter from. But hey, it's the effort that counts goldurnit. It's actually a heavily heavily heavily modified excerpt from the latest novel I'm working on "Hayden Smith : Sardonic Space Cowboy". It's about a guy who works for The Beta Bank corporation. But only a few Earthlings even know that "They" are out there. "They" being space creatures and aliens and all that good pulp sci-fi stuff. It's kinda James Bond meets Men In Black crosses Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy. Kind of. Except less mysterious, less funny, and less actiony. The worst of all possible worlds, really.
Anyhoo, hope you enjoy it.
Hayden Smith, Sardonic Space Cowboy
The bomb had a nice display: green and black with a thin blue border. Hayden wasn't positive -- alien languages were indecipherable, by definition -- but he suspected it was counting down to a very fatal explosion.
He breathed deep. Everything's cool."So that's the way it's going to be?"
"I know your type, Mr. Smith -- all swagger and guns --I don't care for it. Tell your employer to stop trying to collect. Oh, and I'm keeping the package."
"Let's be reasonable life forms, Mr. Xerk. Disarm the bomb and pay for that package. No need for anyone to get hurt." Hayden clenched his jaw. This was not a conversation for a luxury interstellar hotel: persuading a shady client to, if he could, refrain from blowing you both into messy bits of gristle.
Mr. Xerk grinned, revealing long silver fangs, distinctly Ghederian. His smooth demeanor, expensive suit, and finely coiffed hair, made it easy to forget.
"Oh, don't worry, you're the only one in harm's way. And you almost won't feel a thing."
Hayden put his hand to his revolver.
"I could just shoot out that porthole and blow us into space."
Mr. Xerk's grin faltered.
"You wouldn't... be so, reckless!"
"As an employee of the Beta Bank Corporation, of course not. As an Earthling, absolutely, bravado's in our blood." Hayden's heart hammered faster.
A thin trickle of sweat ran down Mr. Xerk's face. His eyes darted between gun and bomb as he walked back slowly.
Hayden patted his right pocket. It was still there, good. He narrowed his eyes. "You're not really going to blow that bomb, are you? They don't make these luxury rooms _that_ sturdy. Overpriced mini bar and tasteful decor do not a blast-proof room make."
"Oh, it's just a small biological weapon. It would be in your best interests if you left now, Mr. Smith." Mr. Xerk's gills flared. His holofront must've been low on power.
Hayden could either run or dispatch Mr. Xerk. He knew which would lead to continued employment at Beta Bank; and which would lead to crappier and crappier assignments -- if not outright death (the on-shift manager was given quite a bit of latitude).
The bomb beeped higher and higher.
As a general rule, Hayden was not a fan of things that beeped higher and higher. They tended to precede a Really Bad Event. A malfunctioning robot, a microwave on the fritz, a biological weapon about to release its payload.
Mr. Xerk gave him one last fang filled smile, and took out his detonator. Damn, thought Hayden, can't pay for goods, can't even wait for a timer to count down.
Hayden blew the air out of his lungs, drew his gun, and fired at the porthole. The weapon roared. The first few shots starred the glass, the fourth shattered it.
Rushing air filled the hotel room. Mr. Xerk was knocked off his feet and pulled towards the porthole, the empty cold of space clawing at him. He let out a hollow scream, his hands scrabbling at the walls and floor, and was sucked out.
Hayden holstered his weapon, and laid flat on the ground. He reached into his right pocket and clicked on the transponder. He had high hopes for his Bob. He was pretty sure he had trained him well enough, but Bob had his quirks. Unpredictable, near catastrophic, quirks.
Space finally pulled him out of the room. To the right (or to some direction, everything was relative) he could see the blaze of a young star. The hotel was renown for finding breathtaking astral sights. And this one was a doozy. If not for the view, then for the cosmic rays, ultraviolet radiation, and nasty particles that were bombarding him. It was going to be a short mission if Bob didn't save him. A very short mission.
A half second later his ship flew by, its cargo doors opened and pulled him in.
It was a small, just big enough for him and a passenger, with a cockpit at one end and a footlocker at the other. It was sparse compared to the exterior, which Hayden had fitted with fancy body panels, a few pinstripes, and a flaming skull.
It looked far better than it ran.
He stumbled to the cockpit, fell into the pilot's seat and hit a worn yellow button labelled "Emergency Medi-Ray". It dealt with all sorts of ailments. Right now, those would be hypothermia, radiation poisoning, and a wicked case of the bends.
"Well pardner, that went smooth didn't it?"
Hayden got up and shook his head. Of all the upgrades he bought, getting a western drawl for Bob was the most regrettable.
"The client was... reticent."
"Can't win 'em all y'know. Always will be a faster draw, a younger gun edging in on yer steer."
Hayden punched in the coordinates for Beta Bank, deciding to not fly there manually. Experience had taught him that maintaining course in the blankness of space for hours on end was dangerously boring.
The LightScream 9800 spun up, and with a low kachunk, he was off.
***
"And that's your entire report?"
"It's all there High Manager 2nd Class Skornt. The client refused to comply with contractual obligations, so I dispatched him."
"Vented him into space."
"Yes." Hayden hated debriefings. They was always a lawyer listening, to ensure Beta Bank was clear of liability. The interview was invariably hostile, with the not so subtle threat of a pink slip driving the entire discussion.
Skornt looked up from the report scrolling by on his flexiscreen. Hayden tried to decide which of the three eyes to focus on. In the Bank, there were no niceties such as holofronts. You just dealt with whoever was in front of you. Even if it was a purple, three eyed furry behemoth with a deep authoritative voice. At least they kept their Translators on, there would be alot of screaming and pointing otherwise. Well, _more_ screaming and pointing.
"So, what, you have another assignment for me? Or can I return to my humdrum existence on Earth until such a time as you folks need me?"
"I'm glad the Bank can add some modicum of excitement to your life, Mr. Smith."
"It's certainly not for the paycheck."
"The Bank is not in the habit of paying more than it has to. And you Earthlings, Xorn bless you all, work for surprisingly little. Oh, and it says here you're two demerit points from a pay cut. Now that would be exciting, wouldn't it?"
Hayden changed the subject. "Earth can be pretty boring. Especially since most everyone is still debating your existence."
"_My_ existence?"
"Oh, you know, the existence of all you... non-Earthlings."
"Ah, yes. Yes. What an odd quandary you earthling agents are in. Odd, and distinctly unprofitable to discuss." Skornt got up from his desk, and glanced meaningfully at the door.
"So... right." Hayden left.
The Bank, or at least the part of it he saw, was actually quite boring. Lots of metal and plastics all in brain numbingly dull colours: beige, whites, off-whites, eggshell, off-white eggshell. They even had carpet. Or something like it.
Hayden had never thought he would ever have to report to a suit in an office. He wasn't the type. But he supposed an office in an interstellar space station for a multi-galactic banking corporation wasn't as mundane as all that.
***
Humans were alarmingly stupid. As soon as you were sure they couldn't get any stupider, as soon as you established an appallingly low baseline of stupidity, they did something to lower it.
It was disconcerting.
Mr. Xerk , of course, had a ship ready to phase him away when he was blown into space. It wasn't cheap, particularly for an independent businessman such as himself. But he had planned for it.
He didn't really think the human would do it. It created a perfect getaway for Mr. Xerk: no body and death assumed. He could walk away free and clear from the unfortunate business with Beta Bank, and with his package obtained at... reduced prices.
It was everything to Mr. Xerk. But for Beta Bank it was a bauble, nothing. But they were sticklers for rules: unpaid goods and loans had to be collected. Which was why they sent the cannon-fodder human after him.
Mr. Xerk poured himself a drink -- the sort one avoids before operating heavy machinery or high calibre weapons -- and leaned back in his chair. It was a nice chair, high-backed and covered with the leather of a recently extinct animal.
He unwrapped the package, slowly. It was an answer to a few of his more pressing... business issues.
The contents unwrapped, he blinked.
His drink clattered to the floor.
***
Crap, thought Hayden. He had forgotten to return Beta Bank's package. Double crap, he had also forgotten to retrieve his favourite Knight Rider lunch box he had used as a decoy. It was likely floating out in space, with the late Mr. Xerk.
Despite all the danger and bad treatment, he still loved his job. He really thought he was getting the hang of the whole space agent thing. And then he had to do something like this. A vain hope that this slip up wouldn't result in demerits crossed his mind, which reality shot down remorselessly.
Oh well, he thought, it was too late to do anything about it now. He'd return it after the show, one of the many westerns he loved. Where the gunslingers were quick, the women quicker, and death was rode on lead and fire.
A whiff of charred something wafted into his house. The neighbour was once again barbecuing mystery meat. Oswald was an annoying neighbour. The worst was that he was also nosy and had 911 on speed dial. Hayden could almost forgive Oswald's use of a bath robe, black socks and flip flops as suitable daily wear. But a neighbour on first name basis with the 911 operator was the worst sort for a Beta Bank agent.
Not that things happened in Hayden's neighbourhood. But if he slipped up once, he knew he'd have half the towns emergency response at his door. And if there was evidence of him with anything that linked to Beta Bank, there went his job.
***
Backwaters irked Mr. Xerk. He had been to the dune filled copper mine world of Rso, the barren moons of Eodm, and even the garbage planet Zephyr Regis 49. But the outer reaches of space where the inhabitants thought your existence was 'quaint' and 'pure fantasy' was the worst kind of wasteland.
He almost cursed his foresight in tagging the human. But he did need that package. Clients were so much harder to gouge when you didn't have their life-saving medicine. People could be quite cavalier about money when the spectre of death was at the door.
***
"I'm telling you Gladys, that man. That man doesn't look right at all." Oswald was agitated. It was one of those bouts when the 911 speed-dial was most likely to be hit. Repeatedly.
Gladys was sure the good folks at the Emergency Response Unit had long blocked their number. "Nonsense Oswald, and put on some shoes, for crying out loud, it's 4pm. "
Oswald waved her off.
"That boy. That boy. I know he served our country. But sometimes they come back not right in the head. He could be," his voice dropped to hoarse whisper, "a drug dealer!"
"Just step away from the window Oswald, you're dangerously near my daily quota for embarassment."
***
Hayden still had his gun on. It made him look like a war vet weirdo, but it made his movie marathons more authentic. The movie was getting to the good bit. Where the unshaven, ugly criminal faced the ruggedly handsome but in the end good-hearted outlaw. Hayden held his breath.
A flicker across the street caught his eye, it was Oswald's curtains. With Oswald it could be anything, but was most likely nothing.
A sound came from the door. He glanced over. The handle was turning slowly, which was odd -- it had been stuck for years. Which was why he used the backdoor (which in turn was one of the many reasons Oswald distrusted shim).
Hayden closed the curtains, and drew his gun. The door openly soundlessly.
***
Mr. Xerk reached into his suit coat and pulled out a massive handgun. It was almost too large to be real, and it wasn't, after a fashion. It was a ray gun.
He could just as well incinerate the entire house. But that might arise suspicion. And besides being a heavy blow to the local rodent population, it was unlikely his package would survive.
The Ghederian walked slowly into the house. Slowly, upright, so as not to arise suspicion.
***
Hayden hid in his crawl-space watching Mr. Xerk. That was one huge ray-gun.
Aliens with long fangs were one thing. Aliens with long fangs and over-sized rays guns who came back from the dead were worse.
Hayden swore under his breath.
It was one thing to blow this guy away. It was another to blow him away and avoid suspicion.
***
"Looks like Mr. Smith has a visitor."
Gladys ignored him, and focussed even harder on her crossword. "English; Achtung! What on god's green earth could that be?"
"You know, unlike you Oswald, some people do have friends come and visit."
Oswald picked up his phone, his finger poised over the well worn key for 911.
"Quiet woman. You think I do this for my own health? It's for my family's protection. For the good of the neighbourhood."
"Our family, consists of us and two old, mildly senile cats. It's hardly worth the eternal vigilance Oswald."
Oswald only turned back to the house. It had gone quiet.
"Oh, danger. One word, Achtung! Right."
***
"Why don't you come out and show me where the package is. I don't hold any grudges."
"A Ghederian who doesn't hold a grudge? Please."
Mr. Xerk spun and fired. A soft beow sound betrayed the gun's deadliness, its ray cut a grapefruit-sized hole through three walls.
"That's just no way to start a peaceful negotiation is it?"
Hayden liked his home. He liked his home better without the ray gun burns and a bloodthirsty Ghederian in it. Unfortunately, he liked it even more when it wasn't surrounded by a S.W.A.T. team informing him to "Come out with his hands up."
He fingered the trigger. Ray guns were surprisingly quiet. But Oswald wasn't going to miss the repeat of Hayden's revolver.
He kept inching his way in the crawlspace, and dropped out of a hidden ceiling hatch behind Mr. Xerk. He put his gun against the back of Mr. Xerk's head, and pulled back the hammer with a solid click.
"Drop the toy gun."
Mr. Xerk dropped the weapon, it landed ground with a heavy thud. He chuckled.
"Oh we were just having a misunderstanding. I was just startled by your voice, so I shot. Please, lower that... weapon, and we can finish this like civilized life forms. After all, I'm sure you are not allowed to be found anywhere on Earth with a strange exotic alien in your home. Certainly your government has rules against this sort of thing. At the very least, your employer."
Hayden became a professional solider to avoid these sorts of quandaries. They made his trigger finger itch. He knew Oswald was waiting for even the slightest hint of trouble...
There was really only one option. He clubbed Mr. Xerk with the butt of gun, and the alien crumpled. Hayden shot twice at the ground.
And waited.
The sound of sirens sounded off, a few blocks away. Hayden got his escape hatch ready. A hidden narrow passage that went under the house thirty feet to a capsule launch pad, which would bring him to his ship.
He rummaged through his kitchen drawer, brought out a small spray canister labelled WAKE THE DEAD! He emptied the bullets from his revolver and placed it in Mr. Xerk's empty ray gun holster. He then gave the Ghederian a good spray, and slipped down into his passage.
***
Mr. Xerk woke with a snort.
There were so humans outside. He had never seen so many but would be damned if they would order him around. He felt for the lump in his coat pocket. This would be short work.
He strolled out, a smile on his face, the siren lights flashing across his bared fangs. A few of the officers gasped. The triggers of all fifteen weapons got itchier.
Mr. Xerk drew fast and aimed a weapon that was not a ray gun at the large armored car.
The S.W.A.T. team opened fire.
***
Skornt looked up slowly from his desk. Agent Smith looked a bit more spent than usual. Skornt put all three eyes back to his flexiscreen.
"Forget something, did you?."
"Yeah, well, I . Yeah."
Hayden handed over the parcel. Skornt brought out a small scanner and scanned it, without taking his eyes off his flexiscreen. He stopped for a second to check the scanner readings, then took the package, and shoved it in a large metal chute labelled "Incinerator".
"Thank you. And one more demerit for your permanent records. You're on.. thin ice, I think is the phrase."
Hayden groaned, and slinked back to his ship.
Anyhoo, hope you enjoy it.
Hayden Smith, Sardonic Space Cowboy
The bomb had a nice display: green and black with a thin blue border. Hayden wasn't positive -- alien languages were indecipherable, by definition -- but he suspected it was counting down to a very fatal explosion.
He breathed deep. Everything's cool."So that's the way it's going to be?"
"I know your type, Mr. Smith -- all swagger and guns --I don't care for it. Tell your employer to stop trying to collect. Oh, and I'm keeping the package."
"Let's be reasonable life forms, Mr. Xerk. Disarm the bomb and pay for that package. No need for anyone to get hurt." Hayden clenched his jaw. This was not a conversation for a luxury interstellar hotel: persuading a shady client to, if he could, refrain from blowing you both into messy bits of gristle.
Mr. Xerk grinned, revealing long silver fangs, distinctly Ghederian. His smooth demeanor, expensive suit, and finely coiffed hair, made it easy to forget.
"Oh, don't worry, you're the only one in harm's way. And you almost won't feel a thing."
Hayden put his hand to his revolver.
"I could just shoot out that porthole and blow us into space."
Mr. Xerk's grin faltered.
"You wouldn't... be so, reckless!"
"As an employee of the Beta Bank Corporation, of course not. As an Earthling, absolutely, bravado's in our blood." Hayden's heart hammered faster.
A thin trickle of sweat ran down Mr. Xerk's face. His eyes darted between gun and bomb as he walked back slowly.
Hayden patted his right pocket. It was still there, good. He narrowed his eyes. "You're not really going to blow that bomb, are you? They don't make these luxury rooms _that_ sturdy. Overpriced mini bar and tasteful decor do not a blast-proof room make."
"Oh, it's just a small biological weapon. It would be in your best interests if you left now, Mr. Smith." Mr. Xerk's gills flared. His holofront must've been low on power.
Hayden could either run or dispatch Mr. Xerk. He knew which would lead to continued employment at Beta Bank; and which would lead to crappier and crappier assignments -- if not outright death (the on-shift manager was given quite a bit of latitude).
The bomb beeped higher and higher.
As a general rule, Hayden was not a fan of things that beeped higher and higher. They tended to precede a Really Bad Event. A malfunctioning robot, a microwave on the fritz, a biological weapon about to release its payload.
Mr. Xerk gave him one last fang filled smile, and took out his detonator. Damn, thought Hayden, can't pay for goods, can't even wait for a timer to count down.
Hayden blew the air out of his lungs, drew his gun, and fired at the porthole. The weapon roared. The first few shots starred the glass, the fourth shattered it.
Rushing air filled the hotel room. Mr. Xerk was knocked off his feet and pulled towards the porthole, the empty cold of space clawing at him. He let out a hollow scream, his hands scrabbling at the walls and floor, and was sucked out.
Hayden holstered his weapon, and laid flat on the ground. He reached into his right pocket and clicked on the transponder. He had high hopes for his Bob. He was pretty sure he had trained him well enough, but Bob had his quirks. Unpredictable, near catastrophic, quirks.
Space finally pulled him out of the room. To the right (or to some direction, everything was relative) he could see the blaze of a young star. The hotel was renown for finding breathtaking astral sights. And this one was a doozy. If not for the view, then for the cosmic rays, ultraviolet radiation, and nasty particles that were bombarding him. It was going to be a short mission if Bob didn't save him. A very short mission.
A half second later his ship flew by, its cargo doors opened and pulled him in.
It was a small, just big enough for him and a passenger, with a cockpit at one end and a footlocker at the other. It was sparse compared to the exterior, which Hayden had fitted with fancy body panels, a few pinstripes, and a flaming skull.
It looked far better than it ran.
He stumbled to the cockpit, fell into the pilot's seat and hit a worn yellow button labelled "Emergency Medi-Ray". It dealt with all sorts of ailments. Right now, those would be hypothermia, radiation poisoning, and a wicked case of the bends.
"Well pardner, that went smooth didn't it?"
Hayden got up and shook his head. Of all the upgrades he bought, getting a western drawl for Bob was the most regrettable.
"The client was... reticent."
"Can't win 'em all y'know. Always will be a faster draw, a younger gun edging in on yer steer."
Hayden punched in the coordinates for Beta Bank, deciding to not fly there manually. Experience had taught him that maintaining course in the blankness of space for hours on end was dangerously boring.
The LightScream 9800 spun up, and with a low kachunk, he was off.
***
"And that's your entire report?"
"It's all there High Manager 2nd Class Skornt. The client refused to comply with contractual obligations, so I dispatched him."
"Vented him into space."
"Yes." Hayden hated debriefings. They was always a lawyer listening, to ensure Beta Bank was clear of liability. The interview was invariably hostile, with the not so subtle threat of a pink slip driving the entire discussion.
Skornt looked up from the report scrolling by on his flexiscreen. Hayden tried to decide which of the three eyes to focus on. In the Bank, there were no niceties such as holofronts. You just dealt with whoever was in front of you. Even if it was a purple, three eyed furry behemoth with a deep authoritative voice. At least they kept their Translators on, there would be alot of screaming and pointing otherwise. Well, _more_ screaming and pointing.
"So, what, you have another assignment for me? Or can I return to my humdrum existence on Earth until such a time as you folks need me?"
"I'm glad the Bank can add some modicum of excitement to your life, Mr. Smith."
"It's certainly not for the paycheck."
"The Bank is not in the habit of paying more than it has to. And you Earthlings, Xorn bless you all, work for surprisingly little. Oh, and it says here you're two demerit points from a pay cut. Now that would be exciting, wouldn't it?"
Hayden changed the subject. "Earth can be pretty boring. Especially since most everyone is still debating your existence."
"_My_ existence?"
"Oh, you know, the existence of all you... non-Earthlings."
"Ah, yes. Yes. What an odd quandary you earthling agents are in. Odd, and distinctly unprofitable to discuss." Skornt got up from his desk, and glanced meaningfully at the door.
"So... right." Hayden left.
The Bank, or at least the part of it he saw, was actually quite boring. Lots of metal and plastics all in brain numbingly dull colours: beige, whites, off-whites, eggshell, off-white eggshell. They even had carpet. Or something like it.
Hayden had never thought he would ever have to report to a suit in an office. He wasn't the type. But he supposed an office in an interstellar space station for a multi-galactic banking corporation wasn't as mundane as all that.
***
Humans were alarmingly stupid. As soon as you were sure they couldn't get any stupider, as soon as you established an appallingly low baseline of stupidity, they did something to lower it.
It was disconcerting.
Mr. Xerk , of course, had a ship ready to phase him away when he was blown into space. It wasn't cheap, particularly for an independent businessman such as himself. But he had planned for it.
He didn't really think the human would do it. It created a perfect getaway for Mr. Xerk: no body and death assumed. He could walk away free and clear from the unfortunate business with Beta Bank, and with his package obtained at... reduced prices.
It was everything to Mr. Xerk. But for Beta Bank it was a bauble, nothing. But they were sticklers for rules: unpaid goods and loans had to be collected. Which was why they sent the cannon-fodder human after him.
Mr. Xerk poured himself a drink -- the sort one avoids before operating heavy machinery or high calibre weapons -- and leaned back in his chair. It was a nice chair, high-backed and covered with the leather of a recently extinct animal.
He unwrapped the package, slowly. It was an answer to a few of his more pressing... business issues.
The contents unwrapped, he blinked.
His drink clattered to the floor.
***
Crap, thought Hayden. He had forgotten to return Beta Bank's package. Double crap, he had also forgotten to retrieve his favourite Knight Rider lunch box he had used as a decoy. It was likely floating out in space, with the late Mr. Xerk.
Despite all the danger and bad treatment, he still loved his job. He really thought he was getting the hang of the whole space agent thing. And then he had to do something like this. A vain hope that this slip up wouldn't result in demerits crossed his mind, which reality shot down remorselessly.
Oh well, he thought, it was too late to do anything about it now. He'd return it after the show, one of the many westerns he loved. Where the gunslingers were quick, the women quicker, and death was rode on lead and fire.
A whiff of charred something wafted into his house. The neighbour was once again barbecuing mystery meat. Oswald was an annoying neighbour. The worst was that he was also nosy and had 911 on speed dial. Hayden could almost forgive Oswald's use of a bath robe, black socks and flip flops as suitable daily wear. But a neighbour on first name basis with the 911 operator was the worst sort for a Beta Bank agent.
Not that things happened in Hayden's neighbourhood. But if he slipped up once, he knew he'd have half the towns emergency response at his door. And if there was evidence of him with anything that linked to Beta Bank, there went his job.
***
Backwaters irked Mr. Xerk. He had been to the dune filled copper mine world of Rso, the barren moons of Eodm, and even the garbage planet Zephyr Regis 49. But the outer reaches of space where the inhabitants thought your existence was 'quaint' and 'pure fantasy' was the worst kind of wasteland.
He almost cursed his foresight in tagging the human. But he did need that package. Clients were so much harder to gouge when you didn't have their life-saving medicine. People could be quite cavalier about money when the spectre of death was at the door.
***
"I'm telling you Gladys, that man. That man doesn't look right at all." Oswald was agitated. It was one of those bouts when the 911 speed-dial was most likely to be hit. Repeatedly.
Gladys was sure the good folks at the Emergency Response Unit had long blocked their number. "Nonsense Oswald, and put on some shoes, for crying out loud, it's 4pm. "
Oswald waved her off.
"That boy. That boy. I know he served our country. But sometimes they come back not right in the head. He could be," his voice dropped to hoarse whisper, "a drug dealer!"
"Just step away from the window Oswald, you're dangerously near my daily quota for embarassment."
***
Hayden still had his gun on. It made him look like a war vet weirdo, but it made his movie marathons more authentic. The movie was getting to the good bit. Where the unshaven, ugly criminal faced the ruggedly handsome but in the end good-hearted outlaw. Hayden held his breath.
A flicker across the street caught his eye, it was Oswald's curtains. With Oswald it could be anything, but was most likely nothing.
A sound came from the door. He glanced over. The handle was turning slowly, which was odd -- it had been stuck for years. Which was why he used the backdoor (which in turn was one of the many reasons Oswald distrusted shim).
Hayden closed the curtains, and drew his gun. The door openly soundlessly.
***
Mr. Xerk reached into his suit coat and pulled out a massive handgun. It was almost too large to be real, and it wasn't, after a fashion. It was a ray gun.
He could just as well incinerate the entire house. But that might arise suspicion. And besides being a heavy blow to the local rodent population, it was unlikely his package would survive.
The Ghederian walked slowly into the house. Slowly, upright, so as not to arise suspicion.
***
Hayden hid in his crawl-space watching Mr. Xerk. That was one huge ray-gun.
Aliens with long fangs were one thing. Aliens with long fangs and over-sized rays guns who came back from the dead were worse.
Hayden swore under his breath.
It was one thing to blow this guy away. It was another to blow him away and avoid suspicion.
***
"Looks like Mr. Smith has a visitor."
Gladys ignored him, and focussed even harder on her crossword. "English; Achtung! What on god's green earth could that be?"
"You know, unlike you Oswald, some people do have friends come and visit."
Oswald picked up his phone, his finger poised over the well worn key for 911.
"Quiet woman. You think I do this for my own health? It's for my family's protection. For the good of the neighbourhood."
"Our family, consists of us and two old, mildly senile cats. It's hardly worth the eternal vigilance Oswald."
Oswald only turned back to the house. It had gone quiet.
"Oh, danger. One word, Achtung! Right."
***
"Why don't you come out and show me where the package is. I don't hold any grudges."
"A Ghederian who doesn't hold a grudge? Please."
Mr. Xerk spun and fired. A soft beow sound betrayed the gun's deadliness, its ray cut a grapefruit-sized hole through three walls.
"That's just no way to start a peaceful negotiation is it?"
Hayden liked his home. He liked his home better without the ray gun burns and a bloodthirsty Ghederian in it. Unfortunately, he liked it even more when it wasn't surrounded by a S.W.A.T. team informing him to "Come out with his hands up."
He fingered the trigger. Ray guns were surprisingly quiet. But Oswald wasn't going to miss the repeat of Hayden's revolver.
He kept inching his way in the crawlspace, and dropped out of a hidden ceiling hatch behind Mr. Xerk. He put his gun against the back of Mr. Xerk's head, and pulled back the hammer with a solid click.
"Drop the toy gun."
Mr. Xerk dropped the weapon, it landed ground with a heavy thud. He chuckled.
"Oh we were just having a misunderstanding. I was just startled by your voice, so I shot. Please, lower that... weapon, and we can finish this like civilized life forms. After all, I'm sure you are not allowed to be found anywhere on Earth with a strange exotic alien in your home. Certainly your government has rules against this sort of thing. At the very least, your employer."
Hayden became a professional solider to avoid these sorts of quandaries. They made his trigger finger itch. He knew Oswald was waiting for even the slightest hint of trouble...
There was really only one option. He clubbed Mr. Xerk with the butt of gun, and the alien crumpled. Hayden shot twice at the ground.
And waited.
The sound of sirens sounded off, a few blocks away. Hayden got his escape hatch ready. A hidden narrow passage that went under the house thirty feet to a capsule launch pad, which would bring him to his ship.
He rummaged through his kitchen drawer, brought out a small spray canister labelled WAKE THE DEAD! He emptied the bullets from his revolver and placed it in Mr. Xerk's empty ray gun holster. He then gave the Ghederian a good spray, and slipped down into his passage.
***
Mr. Xerk woke with a snort.
There were so humans outside. He had never seen so many but would be damned if they would order him around. He felt for the lump in his coat pocket. This would be short work.
He strolled out, a smile on his face, the siren lights flashing across his bared fangs. A few of the officers gasped. The triggers of all fifteen weapons got itchier.
Mr. Xerk drew fast and aimed a weapon that was not a ray gun at the large armored car.
The S.W.A.T. team opened fire.
***
Skornt looked up slowly from his desk. Agent Smith looked a bit more spent than usual. Skornt put all three eyes back to his flexiscreen.
"Forget something, did you?."
"Yeah, well, I . Yeah."
Hayden handed over the parcel. Skornt brought out a small scanner and scanned it, without taking his eyes off his flexiscreen. He stopped for a second to check the scanner readings, then took the package, and shoved it in a large metal chute labelled "Incinerator".
"Thank you. And one more demerit for your permanent records. You're on.. thin ice, I think is the phrase."
Hayden groaned, and slinked back to his ship.
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Day 8 : 2025 07 06 : A last hurrah
Day 8, our last day in Scotland that didn't involve alot of catching various modes of transport to get back to Canada. This is the...
