*Continued from Uncharted, Part V
"Clock?" Compass' voice crackles electronically through the intercom. "The bitch with you?"
Clock glances up at the Librarian, who pretends to have taken no offense. "Yes, Compass. What do you need?"
"I need those fucking numbers, ASAP."
Clock lets go of the intercom. "You haven't given them to him?" Clock is not happy.
"I gave them to you, not that impudent pup."
"That impudent pup is a Navigator, Librarian. You, on the other hand, are not."
Clock doesn't hear the gunshot. Nor should he have, for the silencer is of the highest quality.
***
The tendrils snake towards Spyglass and she's unable to move. She tries to scream, but all she can manage is a whimper. It's cold here. Dark. Completely black. Light absent and absorbed. And it's where she's stuck.
A scaled tendril, tentacle, wraps around her bare leg and begins feeling its way up her body. Another wraps her other leg. Still more wrap her arms. They begin to constrict. It begins to feed. Her breasts palpate, her body squeezes. Something penetrates her.
She manages another whimper.
***
"So, Spyglass calls it Krueger because it gives her nightmares..." James tries to work out what's going on as he sifts through volumes upon volumes of archives. He loves libraries - always has - and the Order's is as impressive a private library as any.
"Yes," Compass confirms, hoping James will shut up. Compass is already annoyed that there's no imagery from the Jezercë Tunnel, forcing him to work with intelligence gathered from Giewont, but being stuck with James makes it worse.
"... and Sextant calls it Kracken because...?"
"Something about something that looks like an octopus."
"Krueger looks like an octopus?"
Before he lets loose, Compass decides to ignore James, concentrating instead on symbols found on Tunneler artifacts over the years. There are three in particular taking most of Compass' attention. Numbers of some sort. He momentarily recalls the previous Clock, a mathematician who successfully identified and decoded more than a dozen numbering systems used by the Tunnelers. Though that Clock took copious notes, he died of a heart attack before he could finish organizing them into something useable. Continuing that work should be the new Clock's responsibility, but as the new Clock is more time-keeper than number-cruncher, the task somehow fell to Compass.
Compass is regretting not having spent more time on it. The Order would love nothing more than to have someone who can simply read the symbols and Compass would love nothing more than to have one less thing to rely on the Librarian for. Speaking of...
"You seen the hag?"
James, lost in a some web-search, looks up from his screen. "What?"
"The Librarian. Have you seen the Librarian? She's supposed to be coming with the numbers."
Afraid to admit that he's typically unaware of his surroundings, James glances around before responding. "Ah, no."
***
Marianne sits on the floor in front of the fireplace. Though she's under the impression things should be more hectic, particularly during a Kracken Protocol, she likes that Sextant has decided to tell her stories of the Order's history.
"Pope Pius XI met with Mussolini because of the Order?"
Sextant takes a drag from a cigarette and quickly ashes in his von Braun ashtray. "Not singularly, but, yes. He had information that a fascist leader knew of the Order and was preparing his own occult forces."
"But that was Hitler."
Sextant chuckles his, by now, familiar chuckle. "Exactly."
"Hitler wasn't even power in 1932."
"Exactly." The old man pauses and stares at Marianne. Sextant is no, well, sexist, but he's generally surprised by young women with such a detailed knowledge of history. Then again, he's generally surprised by anybody with such a detailed knowledge of history. He shoots her a smile, takes another drag, and explains how each current member of the Order was recruited.
***
Her knees ache. Her ankles. Every joint in her failing body. But she has to move quickly. She's shaking, and not from frailty. The rush she experienced from shooting Clock has yet to subside. The Librarian found it... exciting. She understands now why so many in the world love firearms.
For far too long she's watched these inept fools run the Order into the ground - never mind that Sextant has been in the order for much longer than she's even known about it - but it's her time. She's the smartest. She's the most capable. The Order deserves to be hers.
***
Though the current Clock hasn't been Clock for very long, he's been associated with the Order for years. Prior to his appointment, he was the second-in-command of the Phalanx Nautikos. He'd been promoted to Clock over the other finalist candidate... the Librarian. His predecessor had also been promoted over the Librarian. Come to think of it, Derartu Kebede disappeared shortly after the Librarian was hired.
That Clock has worn a bullet-proof vest under his clothing ever since he'd been shot as a rookie cop in the Chicago Police Department allows him to connect some dots that had, until just now, not been connected. He hadn't been sure that his death throes were convincing. Thankfully, the Librarian has never shot anyone before. Nor seen anyone die of a gunshot wound from up close. She didn't even have the presence of mind to shoot him again, just to make sure.
He knows he'll have to beat Compass to it, but Clock can't wait to kill the hag.
***
Even as she experiences death in her dreamworld, she experiences life. Her heart stops beating just as she's brought to orgasm.
"Sarah..."
This time, the whimper is a scream. She throws off her covers and jumps out of bed, running blind to her bedroom door and through the haunting corridors of the manor.
***
"You ever seen drawings of Cthulu?"
Compass pauses. He knows where James is going. "Yes. It's not Lovecraft's version of Kracken. Lovecraft wasn't in the Order. He was just a creepy writer." Compass glances a James in time to see a dejected frown. "What are you doing? Googling tentacled monsters?"
"Yeah. The only things I'm finding so far are Lovecraft, Jules Verne, and this story by two weirdos about an alien soccer war."
Compass laughs. "Ah, the Garghouls."
"That's the one."
"You should read it. It's pretty funny. Authors were definitely doing drugs, though." The extended conversation is Compass' method of encouragement. He doesn't bother to see that it's lost on James, who simply takes it as extended conversation. Compass might have bothered, but his attention is suddenly diverted back to his screen.
The numbers he's been looking for. Three symbols from the 20-numeral system of the Tunnelers. 9. 8. 3. Placed in a semi-circular pattern. Like a combination lock. Trying to stifle any excitement at the possible - emphasize possible - discovery, Compass taps the print command repeatedly until he hears the printer whir to life.
Running over to it, he grabs the page before it's completely out of the machine, tearing it at a bottom corner. Compass runs for the door. As he reaches it, a sweating and obviously nervous Librarian opens it and enters. Compass brushes her, waving the paper in her face.
"See, bitch? That's why I needed the numbers!"
Letting the shock dissipate, the Librarian continues to her desk, nodding a greeting to James. There, she retrieves a backpack, an attaché case almost too heavy to lift, and exits the library as quickly as she entered.
***
Sextant is mid-sentence of an embarrassing tale - embarrassing to Marianne, that is - when the alarms begin blaring. Relieved that she'll not learn of a Portuguese woman's gyrating ass, Marianne nevertheless becomes instantly worried. "What's going on?"
"I'm not sure. Stay calm, Marianne. The Phalanx will have sentries outside. We've nothing to fear."
She knows she shouldn't, but she believes Sextant. Marianne's never met anyone quite so calming, even when the situation screams that they have everything to fear. As if confirming her subconscious thought, a heavy pounding on the door to the den breaks the calm instilled by Sextant. Marianne swears she sees confusion sweep across Sextant's face, but only for an instant.
Sextant stands and heads to the door. He is confident, but cautious. "Yes?"
"It's the Librarian."
Reflexively, he unbolts the door - bolted automatically when the alarms activated. "Where are the sentries?"
The Librarian waddles in, weighed down by her bag and case. "What sentries?" She looks around, grimaces when she sees that Sextant is not alone. No matter. The wheels are already spinning. Pulling a stun gun from her bag, she fires it into Sextant.
***
Clock, along with Captain Danquah and two other Phalanx soldiers, storms into the library. James jumps from his work, startled.
"Where's the Librarian?" Clock asks. There is no patience in his voice.
"She's, ah... she left. Grabbed some stuff and left."
Clock turns to Danquah. "Get to Sextant."
Danquah nods a quick acknowledgement and he and the two soldiers take off running. Clock looks to James. "This is why you're still alive, James."
James, already confused, is even more so. "What?"
Clock waves his hand, motioning to the library and everything inside of it. "This is yours now. Whether you want it or not. Deal with it."
The thought to ask what's going on doesn't have time to materialize. Clock makes eye contact with James, ensuring James heard him, then turns to leave. "But choose a new title. Librarian has been soiled."
Dumbfounded, James barely realizes that he finally utters a question, albeit one fairly useless in the current predicament. "Bibliothēkē?"
***
Compass was the first to arrive. More out of hatred for the woman than for recognition of what she was doing, Compass rushed her and tackled her to the floor. The Librarian still had her stun gun, though, and Compass doesn't remember what happened next. He never heard Spyglass yell. Never even knew she'd arrived.
Spyglass had come for reassurance. Sextant was the only member of the Order who knew - and understood - the full extent of Spyglass' dreams. He would have been the only person capable of calming her down before another vision burst. Seeing his unconscious form and what she thought was Compass' lifeless body eliminated any chance of that happening.
It was unfortunate, but both the Librarian and a wholly-freaked out Marianne bore witness to what a vision burst looks like. Its effect frightened Marianne even more, but only made the Librarian smile.
"What are you doing?" Spyglass had screamed.
Not needing the stun gun for Spyglass, the Librarian had brandished her pistol. She would have pulled the trigger, too, were it not for the timely arrival of Captain Danquah and other members of the Phlanax Nautikos.
The Librarian had, in fact, pulled the trigger, but given her lack of training, the bullet had struck harmlessly into a wall. Danquah and the PN, however, are well-trained marksmen. And the Librarian activated her door a mere moment after enduring three bullet wounds.
It was unfortunate that Compass, the member of the Order who desperately needed to see a door in action, was unconscious for the Librarian's escape.
But, as Sextant would say, such is life. Except... Sextant is dying.
***
It is a quick conference between Clock, a calmed Spyglass, and a conscious Compass. Gone are Danquah and the Phalanx Nautikos, but still present is Marianne, who cries profusely over Sextant's body.
"We need to transfer what's left of Sextant's powers, before it's too late." Clock's statement is cold, matter-of-fact. But the situation affords no time for mourning.
"To who?" Compass asks. There's been no time for a vetting process, and none of the Order are aware that Sextant had already conducted one in secret.
Spyglass, tears dry from experiencing abject fear for the past few days, finds her thoughts elsewhere. "The Librarian is working with the Tunnelers?"
Still concerned with succession, Clock answers Spyglass' question anyway. "No. She's against them, just like we are. She's just also against us."
"How much of Sextant's powers did she steal?"
Compass grabs the tube from the Lichtenstein print. "It's electromagnetic, whatever it is. It wasn't active before, but it's definitely fucking with my direction-finding."
"There's no way to tell. We'll have to study his successor."
The three Navigators know that there's a strong possibility that the line of Sextants is about to be broken. Already dead, the essence of the Sextant won't remain in his body for much longer. Seconds pass, each Navigator lost in thought.
Marianne, all but forgotten by the others despite her presence directly in front of them, continues to cry. "What are Sextant's powers? He never said."
Compass glances up at Clock. Clock's eyes maintain their steadfastness, returning Compass' look, then shifting to Spyglass.
Spyglass shrugs. "But, she's Catholic." Spyglass isn't used to being part of the decision process of the Order. Even if she were, she's still rattled by her dream.
"As was I," Clock responds. "It doesn't last long."
"Clock?" There is a overwhelming sense of urgency in Compass' voice. "Now or never."
Clock nods.
Compass turns to Marianne. "You're about to find out."
"What?"
"Lie down," Compass orders, pulling a knife from Sextant's belt. "This might hurt a little."
*To be continued...
The Complete Uncharted: Map One
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Monday, January 10, 2011
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Uncharted, Part V
*Continued from Uncharted, Part IV
"Spear 6 to Aegis, we are ready to close the tunnel." Aleksandr Lermontov has been a soldier in the Phalanx Nautikos for seven years, but this is the first time he's ever seen one of the portals. Barely visible, it almost looks like a single drop of water hanging from a freshly used faucet, only larger than a man. This one, the Jezercë Tunnel, happens to be larger than a bus. According to Compass, the Jezercë Tunnel hasn't been here long.
If everything goes according to plan, it won't be here much longer.
Aleksandr's earpiece buzzes. "Spear 6, Aegis. Proceed with detonation."
He snaps his fingers and the three others with him begin moving down the mountain, one taking care to brace a detonator as they begin lumbering their way, weighed down by climbing gear. Ordinarily the team would consist of nearly a dozen - seven more wait at the base of the mountain - but these four are the only expert mountaineers in all of the Phalanx Nautikos. In a few moments, the PN will be devoid of expert mountaineers.
The drop of water shimmers, instilling a vision of a splash in Aleksandr's vivid imagination, and something comes through. Before he can react, its arms - matted in a putrid-smelling fur - grab Aleksandr around his stomach and snap his spine in half. He's already dead when it pulls him back into the tunnel.
A moment of panic causes the demolitionist to twist and pull the detonator. Snow and rock tumble through the moonless Albanian night and the three remaining mountaineers tumble to their deaths.
***
Spyglass bolts awake, sweating profusely under a blanket. It takes a moment, but she realizes that she wasn't in Reception. Merely dreaming. Another nightmare.
"You okay?"
"Oh, shit." She forgot someone else was in the room. Compass. Slaving over his blasted laptop, tinkering with schematics and spreadsheets in an attempt to design an effective system of locating the Tunnelers.
Compass stares at her, wide-eyed. His expression reveals one trying to figure out whether to offer assistance or to start laughing his ass off. Since he's crushing on Spyglass, he chooses the former. "Nightmare?"
The adrenaline subsiding, Spyglass feels her cheeks turn red. Another embarrassing moment in front of Compass. He may never ask her out at this rate. If he wanted to, that is.
She nods quickly, pulls the blanket over her head - barely tolerating the smell of her own perspiration - and tries to control her breathing. Terror and embarrassment are a difficult mixture. She hears the tone of Compass' phone and his muffled greeting.
"On the way." The phone snaps closed, then the laptop.
"Get up, Spyglass." Spyglass knows something's wrong. That's the only time Compass addresses her by title. "Shit hit the fan."
***
Captain Kofi Danquah hates debriefing the Navigators. Not that he minds their company, but given his level of autonomy in running the Phalanx Nautikos, Danquah tends only to debrief the Navigators after something bad has happened. Born in Greece - the son of a Ghanaian diplomat - Danquah finds the winters of Switzerland far too cold. But he loves his job.
Except this part of it, of course. The only thing worse than debriefing the Navigators is doing so in front of a blinding projector light.
"At 0217 Central European Time, Sergeant Lermontov's team conducted a peripheral reconnaissance of the Jezercë Tunnel..."
Clock interrupts. "Peripheral?"
Danquah nods, answering Clock's implied question before resuming the debrief. "Two members of Lermontov's team entered the tunnel, which is when they discovered this." Danquah taps his remote and the projected image changes.
"What the fuck is that?" Nobody has to ask whether or not that was Compass.
"We don't know," Danquah replies. "Permission to conduct a recon in-depth was not granted."
"Nor was it asked for, Captain," scolds Clock.
As he's not yet been made privy to all of the radio transmissions, Danquah was not aware of this. He purses his lips and attempts to hide his burgeoning anger at being left out of the loop. They were his men, after all. His soldiers. He should've been allowed to oversee the operation, even if from a remote location. But Clock had demanded oversight. One does not question the decision of a Navigator, even the commanding officer of the Phalanx Nautikos. Wisely allowing his ire to pass, Danquah continues.
"Preliminary analysis suggest a lock of some kind."
Sextant speaks this time, which shocks everyone. Such an act is a rarity in any formal Order conference. "A lock? For what?"
"We don't know that, either."
"Is there any imagery?" Compass asks.
"Destroyed in the accident."
Marianne and James, sitting unobtrusively in the back, begin whispering to each other. Though it was his idea to reveal the Order to them, Clock is annoyed by their presence in the conference room. "Something to share?"
"If it's a lock, and this tunnel is newer than the other ones, what if it's not a tunnel at all? What if it's a door?"
Sextant speaks again. "Manufactured?"
"Well, yes. Why not?" Marianne is rather pleased with herself. The pleasure doesn't last long.
Sextant snaps his fingers. "Kracken Protocols. Immediately."
Two seconds ago, there were nine people in the room. The four navigators, Captain Danquah, two PN intelligence specialists, and Marianne and James.
Two seconds later, there is only Marianne and James.
***
Marianne sprints through the corridor, chasing Compass. James struggles to keep up behind her.
"Compass!"
"What?" Compass doesn't turn to look at her. Nor does he stop jogging.
"What's going on?"
"Sextant thinks we're about to get invaded."
Marianne stops, dead in her tracks. "Invaded? By the Tunnelers?"
"No. Just one Tunneler."
***
Elsewhere, entering her dormitory, Spyglass shivers. She hopes Sextant is overreacting - he's done so before. In fact, this will be the third time the Kracken Protocols have been implemented since she's been Spyglass. But never before has it happened after a Phalanx Nautikos mission went awry. And never before has anyone even considered the possibility that the Tunnelers can make their own tunnels.
All Spyglass knows is that she's no desire to meet Krueger in person.
*Continued in Uncharted, Part VI
The Complete Uncharted: Map One
"Spear 6 to Aegis, we are ready to close the tunnel." Aleksandr Lermontov has been a soldier in the Phalanx Nautikos for seven years, but this is the first time he's ever seen one of the portals. Barely visible, it almost looks like a single drop of water hanging from a freshly used faucet, only larger than a man. This one, the Jezercë Tunnel, happens to be larger than a bus. According to Compass, the Jezercë Tunnel hasn't been here long.
If everything goes according to plan, it won't be here much longer.
Aleksandr's earpiece buzzes. "Spear 6, Aegis. Proceed with detonation."
He snaps his fingers and the three others with him begin moving down the mountain, one taking care to brace a detonator as they begin lumbering their way, weighed down by climbing gear. Ordinarily the team would consist of nearly a dozen - seven more wait at the base of the mountain - but these four are the only expert mountaineers in all of the Phalanx Nautikos. In a few moments, the PN will be devoid of expert mountaineers.
The drop of water shimmers, instilling a vision of a splash in Aleksandr's vivid imagination, and something comes through. Before he can react, its arms - matted in a putrid-smelling fur - grab Aleksandr around his stomach and snap his spine in half. He's already dead when it pulls him back into the tunnel.
A moment of panic causes the demolitionist to twist and pull the detonator. Snow and rock tumble through the moonless Albanian night and the three remaining mountaineers tumble to their deaths.
***
Spyglass bolts awake, sweating profusely under a blanket. It takes a moment, but she realizes that she wasn't in Reception. Merely dreaming. Another nightmare.
"You okay?"
"Oh, shit." She forgot someone else was in the room. Compass. Slaving over his blasted laptop, tinkering with schematics and spreadsheets in an attempt to design an effective system of locating the Tunnelers.
Compass stares at her, wide-eyed. His expression reveals one trying to figure out whether to offer assistance or to start laughing his ass off. Since he's crushing on Spyglass, he chooses the former. "Nightmare?"
The adrenaline subsiding, Spyglass feels her cheeks turn red. Another embarrassing moment in front of Compass. He may never ask her out at this rate. If he wanted to, that is.
She nods quickly, pulls the blanket over her head - barely tolerating the smell of her own perspiration - and tries to control her breathing. Terror and embarrassment are a difficult mixture. She hears the tone of Compass' phone and his muffled greeting.
"On the way." The phone snaps closed, then the laptop.
"Get up, Spyglass." Spyglass knows something's wrong. That's the only time Compass addresses her by title. "Shit hit the fan."
***
Captain Kofi Danquah hates debriefing the Navigators. Not that he minds their company, but given his level of autonomy in running the Phalanx Nautikos, Danquah tends only to debrief the Navigators after something bad has happened. Born in Greece - the son of a Ghanaian diplomat - Danquah finds the winters of Switzerland far too cold. But he loves his job.
Except this part of it, of course. The only thing worse than debriefing the Navigators is doing so in front of a blinding projector light.
"At 0217 Central European Time, Sergeant Lermontov's team conducted a peripheral reconnaissance of the Jezercë Tunnel..."
Clock interrupts. "Peripheral?"
Danquah nods, answering Clock's implied question before resuming the debrief. "Two members of Lermontov's team entered the tunnel, which is when they discovered this." Danquah taps his remote and the projected image changes.
"What the fuck is that?" Nobody has to ask whether or not that was Compass.
"We don't know," Danquah replies. "Permission to conduct a recon in-depth was not granted."
"Nor was it asked for, Captain," scolds Clock.
As he's not yet been made privy to all of the radio transmissions, Danquah was not aware of this. He purses his lips and attempts to hide his burgeoning anger at being left out of the loop. They were his men, after all. His soldiers. He should've been allowed to oversee the operation, even if from a remote location. But Clock had demanded oversight. One does not question the decision of a Navigator, even the commanding officer of the Phalanx Nautikos. Wisely allowing his ire to pass, Danquah continues.
"Preliminary analysis suggest a lock of some kind."
Sextant speaks this time, which shocks everyone. Such an act is a rarity in any formal Order conference. "A lock? For what?"
"We don't know that, either."
"Is there any imagery?" Compass asks.
"Destroyed in the accident."
Marianne and James, sitting unobtrusively in the back, begin whispering to each other. Though it was his idea to reveal the Order to them, Clock is annoyed by their presence in the conference room. "Something to share?"
"If it's a lock, and this tunnel is newer than the other ones, what if it's not a tunnel at all? What if it's a door?"
Sextant speaks again. "Manufactured?"
"Well, yes. Why not?" Marianne is rather pleased with herself. The pleasure doesn't last long.
Sextant snaps his fingers. "Kracken Protocols. Immediately."
Two seconds ago, there were nine people in the room. The four navigators, Captain Danquah, two PN intelligence specialists, and Marianne and James.
Two seconds later, there is only Marianne and James.
***
Marianne sprints through the corridor, chasing Compass. James struggles to keep up behind her.
"Compass!"
"What?" Compass doesn't turn to look at her. Nor does he stop jogging.
"What's going on?"
"Sextant thinks we're about to get invaded."
Marianne stops, dead in her tracks. "Invaded? By the Tunnelers?"
"No. Just one Tunneler."
***
Elsewhere, entering her dormitory, Spyglass shivers. She hopes Sextant is overreacting - he's done so before. In fact, this will be the third time the Kracken Protocols have been implemented since she's been Spyglass. But never before has it happened after a Phalanx Nautikos mission went awry. And never before has anyone even considered the possibility that the Tunnelers can make their own tunnels.
All Spyglass knows is that she's no desire to meet Krueger in person.
*Continued in Uncharted, Part VI
The Complete Uncharted: Map One
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Uncharted, Part IV
*Continued from Uncharted, Part III
The beast is a familiar one. Spyglass has seen it many times before. It spoke to her once, even as it stuffed its maw with the flesh and tissue of Leonard Cayce. Spyglass hadn't known it at the time, but Leonard was once a candidate to be Compass. Not that it mattered. The image of his devouring sort of ended any speculation that the current Compass could be replaced.
Its wings aren't feathered, but scaled. At least they look scaled, for even during Reception, Spyglass is too afraid to take a closer look. Some of these Tunnelers are reported to be psychic, after all. Proximity in dreams may be as dangerous as proximity in body. Though young, Spyglass has never been one for taking unnecessary risk.
She remembers what it said to her: "You will understand my tongue." The obvious interpretations were clear, given Leonard's body as a meal and the fact that it communicated in English, but Sextant assured her that neither was what it meant. Spyglass has taken to calling it Krueger - after the horror film antagonist - and often finds herself combating it in her own dreamworlds.
Its fingers, like its film counterpart, are blades. Its skin, depending on the angle, appears charred. But there the similarities end, for there is nothing human about this Krueger. Its mouth is tentacled, replete with toothed suckers like a giant squid and barbed tips like stingers on scorpions. And its eyes... not terrifying in their appearance... but terrifying in that they always seem to be looking at her, whether during Reception or dream.
It finishes killing someone. She's not sure who... or what gender... but that's not what terrifies her this time. What terrifies her is that it speaks to her again...
"Sarah..."
***
Compass is in a bad mood. It's enough that he has to ask the Librarian for some assistance; it's worse that Marianne tags along. Yes, she's kinda cute and, he must admit, her voice has a lusciously sultry tone to it, but the fact that she has a boyfriend obviates any dirty thoughts for her body that Compass might have. He may be a jerk, but he's got scruples.
Thankfully, he's either walking too fast or has too intense an expression on his face for Marianne to try to make smalltalk. She just follows him through the Karl Moser-designed manor, taking turns staring at him and glancing at some of the paintings and artifacts on display throughout. She's never actually been to the Library and doesn't know where it is, but when Compass pauses in front of a large set of oak double doors, inhales, then exhales, she knows they've arrived.
Compass pushes open the doors, as quickly as their weight will allow, and without even knowing if the Librarian is inside, calls out.
"You get those numbers I asked for?"
The Librarian appears behind a stack of shelves in the northwest corner. She fumes subtly. "I'm a librarian, Compass. Not a researcher. You may get them yourself."
"You gave them to Clock. He lost them. I need them."
"No."
"Pardon me?"
"I did the work once. I need not do it again."
Compass secretly wishes the Librarian were a man. He'd love to break her jaw. "He said you pulled them up on your computer. How hard would it be to, I don't know, just bring them up again?"
The Librarian returns to whatever it is she was doing. Compass' expression makes Marianne wonder if he's going to beat the old woman to death with a heavy book. That there's a dictionary on a reading lectern a few feet from where Compass currently stands makes Marianne worry.
"You do realize we're in the middle of something important, don't you?" Compass asks, a final polite gesture before, no doubt, things get ugly.
The Librarian continues her work as if neither Compass nor Marianne are in the room.
"Fine, bitch. I'll check Clock's office again." Compass bolts out, brushing by Marianne. How an order so seemingly dysfunctional manages to save the world on a near-daily basis is beyond her.
After Marianne is gone, the Librarian walks to the lectern and brushes her fingers on the dictionary. It's a vintage American Webster's, dated 1900. She flips through the pages with her eyes closed, blindly pointing at a random word. Petulant. Insolent or rude in speech or behavior. The Librarian laughs and takes a closer look. The preceding word is petunia. She laughs again.
"That'll do nicely." Closing the dictionary, she returns to the shelves.
***
The four men and two women standing before Cardinal Grant are obviously soldiers. Elite ones, at that. Their leader, a man who identified himself only as Corporal, holds out a hand. In his palm, innocently placed, are two white tablets.
"I cannot commit suicide. Such an act would consign me to Hell."
"The alternative is painful, Cardinal," Corporal replies.
"God would never forgive me."
"I don't believe in your god. I couldn't care less."
"Child." It is a defiant tone with which Cardinal Grant speaks. He looks at the other five soldiers. "Children. It matters not what you believe. Only what He believes."
Corporal fights back a smile. Despite appearances, he doesn't enjoy this part of his work, and it's merely a nervous reaction. The Phalanx Nautikos were formed to combat the Tunnelers, not conduct assassinations. The unfortunate revelation that several species of Tunnelers were telepathic made the secrecy of the Order of Navigators tantamount to the survival of the Human race. The survival of Earth, as well, for that matter. Given the incident of 1489, in which Martin Truchseß von Wetzhausen - then the Grand Master of the Teutonic Knights - was almost compromised by the Tunnelers a second time, the tradition of assassinating those outside of the order who knew of the order began.
"He believes, Cardinal," Corporal begins, replacing his almost-smile with as grim a look as possible, "that if you do not consume these pills, you will suffer worse pain than your Lord and Savior did at Golgotha."
Corporal lets that sink in, then continues in a softer tone. "I can assure you that your god does not wish that upon you."
The Cardinal looks into Corporal's eyes and takes a breath. Regardless of choice, it is time for belief to be tested.
***
Clock sits across from Sextant, who is currently regaling Clock with tales of Derartu Kebede, the Ethiopian princess who was Clock prior to his own predecessor. It is obvious that, despite all that Kebede instructed Sextant, Sextant wanted nothing more than to bed her. It is also obvious that Sextant never did.
A buzzing noise interrupts Sextant's story and Clock reaches into his pocket, retrieving his cellular phone. He answers it, slowly nods, and hangs up.
"It's done."
Sextant frowns. Both men's curiosities try to determine if the pills were taken, but both men have too much respect for Cardinal Grant to ever ask. Besides, if God is real, they'll find out soon enough.
*Continued in Uncharted, Part V
The Complete Uncharted: Map One
The beast is a familiar one. Spyglass has seen it many times before. It spoke to her once, even as it stuffed its maw with the flesh and tissue of Leonard Cayce. Spyglass hadn't known it at the time, but Leonard was once a candidate to be Compass. Not that it mattered. The image of his devouring sort of ended any speculation that the current Compass could be replaced.
Its wings aren't feathered, but scaled. At least they look scaled, for even during Reception, Spyglass is too afraid to take a closer look. Some of these Tunnelers are reported to be psychic, after all. Proximity in dreams may be as dangerous as proximity in body. Though young, Spyglass has never been one for taking unnecessary risk.
She remembers what it said to her: "You will understand my tongue." The obvious interpretations were clear, given Leonard's body as a meal and the fact that it communicated in English, but Sextant assured her that neither was what it meant. Spyglass has taken to calling it Krueger - after the horror film antagonist - and often finds herself combating it in her own dreamworlds.
Its fingers, like its film counterpart, are blades. Its skin, depending on the angle, appears charred. But there the similarities end, for there is nothing human about this Krueger. Its mouth is tentacled, replete with toothed suckers like a giant squid and barbed tips like stingers on scorpions. And its eyes... not terrifying in their appearance... but terrifying in that they always seem to be looking at her, whether during Reception or dream.
It finishes killing someone. She's not sure who... or what gender... but that's not what terrifies her this time. What terrifies her is that it speaks to her again...
"Sarah..."
***
Compass is in a bad mood. It's enough that he has to ask the Librarian for some assistance; it's worse that Marianne tags along. Yes, she's kinda cute and, he must admit, her voice has a lusciously sultry tone to it, but the fact that she has a boyfriend obviates any dirty thoughts for her body that Compass might have. He may be a jerk, but he's got scruples.
Thankfully, he's either walking too fast or has too intense an expression on his face for Marianne to try to make smalltalk. She just follows him through the Karl Moser-designed manor, taking turns staring at him and glancing at some of the paintings and artifacts on display throughout. She's never actually been to the Library and doesn't know where it is, but when Compass pauses in front of a large set of oak double doors, inhales, then exhales, she knows they've arrived.
Compass pushes open the doors, as quickly as their weight will allow, and without even knowing if the Librarian is inside, calls out.
"You get those numbers I asked for?"
The Librarian appears behind a stack of shelves in the northwest corner. She fumes subtly. "I'm a librarian, Compass. Not a researcher. You may get them yourself."
"You gave them to Clock. He lost them. I need them."
"No."
"Pardon me?"
"I did the work once. I need not do it again."
Compass secretly wishes the Librarian were a man. He'd love to break her jaw. "He said you pulled them up on your computer. How hard would it be to, I don't know, just bring them up again?"
The Librarian returns to whatever it is she was doing. Compass' expression makes Marianne wonder if he's going to beat the old woman to death with a heavy book. That there's a dictionary on a reading lectern a few feet from where Compass currently stands makes Marianne worry.
"You do realize we're in the middle of something important, don't you?" Compass asks, a final polite gesture before, no doubt, things get ugly.
The Librarian continues her work as if neither Compass nor Marianne are in the room.
"Fine, bitch. I'll check Clock's office again." Compass bolts out, brushing by Marianne. How an order so seemingly dysfunctional manages to save the world on a near-daily basis is beyond her.
After Marianne is gone, the Librarian walks to the lectern and brushes her fingers on the dictionary. It's a vintage American Webster's, dated 1900. She flips through the pages with her eyes closed, blindly pointing at a random word. Petulant. Insolent or rude in speech or behavior. The Librarian laughs and takes a closer look. The preceding word is petunia. She laughs again.
"That'll do nicely." Closing the dictionary, she returns to the shelves.
***
The four men and two women standing before Cardinal Grant are obviously soldiers. Elite ones, at that. Their leader, a man who identified himself only as Corporal, holds out a hand. In his palm, innocently placed, are two white tablets.
"I cannot commit suicide. Such an act would consign me to Hell."
"The alternative is painful, Cardinal," Corporal replies.
"God would never forgive me."
"I don't believe in your god. I couldn't care less."
"Child." It is a defiant tone with which Cardinal Grant speaks. He looks at the other five soldiers. "Children. It matters not what you believe. Only what He believes."
Corporal fights back a smile. Despite appearances, he doesn't enjoy this part of his work, and it's merely a nervous reaction. The Phalanx Nautikos were formed to combat the Tunnelers, not conduct assassinations. The unfortunate revelation that several species of Tunnelers were telepathic made the secrecy of the Order of Navigators tantamount to the survival of the Human race. The survival of Earth, as well, for that matter. Given the incident of 1489, in which Martin Truchseß von Wetzhausen - then the Grand Master of the Teutonic Knights - was almost compromised by the Tunnelers a second time, the tradition of assassinating those outside of the order who knew of the order began.
"He believes, Cardinal," Corporal begins, replacing his almost-smile with as grim a look as possible, "that if you do not consume these pills, you will suffer worse pain than your Lord and Savior did at Golgotha."
Corporal lets that sink in, then continues in a softer tone. "I can assure you that your god does not wish that upon you."
The Cardinal looks into Corporal's eyes and takes a breath. Regardless of choice, it is time for belief to be tested.
***
Clock sits across from Sextant, who is currently regaling Clock with tales of Derartu Kebede, the Ethiopian princess who was Clock prior to his own predecessor. It is obvious that, despite all that Kebede instructed Sextant, Sextant wanted nothing more than to bed her. It is also obvious that Sextant never did.
A buzzing noise interrupts Sextant's story and Clock reaches into his pocket, retrieving his cellular phone. He answers it, slowly nods, and hangs up.
"It's done."
Sextant frowns. Both men's curiosities try to determine if the pills were taken, but both men have too much respect for Cardinal Grant to ever ask. Besides, if God is real, they'll find out soon enough.
*Continued in Uncharted, Part V
The Complete Uncharted: Map One
Friday, January 7, 2011
Uncharted, Part III
*Continued from Uncharted, Part II
Excerpt 1 -
It is estimated that the tunnels have been open since the year 949. In the early part of that year, all of the planets in the Solar System were aligned in the same 90-degree arc. For reasons as-yet unexplained, the gravitational alignment of the planets resulted in a tear in space-time and doorways (what the Order refers to as the tunnels) to other dimensions were opened. These Meean tunnels (so named after Jean Meeus) weren't hypothesized until later in the 20th Century and the discovery of the first tunnel in Poland (near Giewont in the Tatra Mountains) confirmed their existence.
The Order of Navigators, leading a pseudo-military incursion, has reportedly closed the Giewont Tunnel, though Navigator Sextant has so far refused to reveal the method of closure. Lacking conclusive evidence, as well as the order's reluctance to cooperate fully with Vatican authority, I am of the opinion that there are many more tunnels and that more creatures have come through them.
Excerpt 2 -
Given legends such as the Beast of Gévaudan (and several others), I believe that creatures have been coming through these tunnels for centuries. The irony that a Pope authorized the annexation of an atheist order of "Knights" for the purposes of protecting our existence only serves to reinforce how important and real this situation is.
Excerpt 3 -
That stated, the operational and administrative status is an affront to our Catholic beliefs. That you were successful in convincing Navigator Clock to disband their military arm (along with their assassination practices) bears poorly on our sovereignty and, in my humble opinion, our very legitimacy. We are more than capable of handling these Demons using our existing assets. My appeals to do so have been denied now for the seventh time.
Excerpt 4 -
It is with great regret that I resign from my position as Prefect of the Supreme Tribunal of the Apostolic Signatura.
Cardinal Jonathan M. Grant
***
"Wow. He resigned?" Marianne doesn't know what to think. Cardinal Grant was who first informed her that the Order of Navigators were even real. She didn't know him well, but she considers him a mentor.
Compass, testing an algorithm on his computer, nods. He fails to mention that the military arm of the order isn't exactly defunct and that, with the Pope's reluctant blessing, Cardinal Grant will suffer a fatal heart attack by the end of the day.
Tired of watching the computations, Compass stands from his chair and heads for the door.
"Where are you going?"
"To the Library. Need some information."
"Can I come?"
Compass shrugs as he exits.
Watching from his high-backed smoking chair in the corner, Sextant - who had been frowning up to that point - lets loose a wry smile. It was strongly advised that he select a different Compass, but Sextant needed the apathetic humor that this Compass provides. Sextant recognized that his own skills and, indeed, his own discretions were falling by the wayside. While he wants nothing more than for his successor to be as empathic as possible, he needs his Compass to be as blunt and straightforward as he - Sextant, that is - used to be.
A long time ago, that was.
***
Even before Sextant became the head of the Order of Navigators, he was an accomplished navigator. Once a Lieutenant in the Royal Navy, he had been aboard the HMS Repulse when it was sunk by the Japanese in the early days of the Pacific War. It was then that he'd met his predecessor for the first and only time.
Drowning in the South China Sea, somewhere East of Endau, a young British sailor prepared himself to pass through to the other side. Except... he didn't.
Prior to passing out from the lack of oxygen and the water pressure, that sailor witnessed the oddest of sights. A black man locked in a physical struggle with what could only be described as an octopus made of smoke. And a green turtle that, moments after the sailor spied it, exploded in a fissure of flesh, blood, and shell. Or, perhaps, imploded.
When he had come to, Sextant found himself lying on a beach in Sumatra, very much alive. The black man was reciting some strange incantations and carving symbols into Sextant's chest. Sextant tried to resist, but found himself too weak. And found his arms pinned by two green turtles, both of whom appeared to be smiling. To this day, Sextant swears one spoke just before he had passed out again. "Welcome," it had said. But, other than the first Clock he had worked with, Sextant mentioned it to no one.
Indeed, until he had met his first Clock the year after the Japanese surrendered - he'd been captured on Sumatra and spent most of the war in a prisoner of war camp on Hokkaido - he had no idea who that black man even was. When he'd woke the second time, the black man was lying dead beside him, and the green turtles were gone.
***
Sextant had been sleeping in his flat in London when his first Compass had knocked on his door. With him was his first Clock, a strikingly tall Italian woman with whom he'd have many sexual encounters until her death three years later (an untimely death, largely Sextant's fault).
"Who are you?" Sextant, then still operating under his birth name, had asked.
Both Compass and Clock were carrying pistols - American Colt 1911s, if memory serves Sextant correctly - and Clock had ordered Sextant to pack some clothes and come with them. In a position to cherish life as fully as possible, Sextant obeyed. By the time the DC-3 had landed in Switzerland, Sextant had learned who the black man was - the Third Sextant. He'd learned that prior to the First Sextant the position was known as Quadrant and prior to being known as Quadrant it was known as Astrolabe. He'd learned who Compass, Clock, and Spyglass were and what they did. He'd even learned that, from the time he'd been imbued by the previous Sextant to the time he'd been found by Compass, he had been growing younger and is, in fact, 12 years older than his body thinks it is.
Neither the Compass nor the Clock at the time expected Sextant to fall into line so quickly, but he had. And for no other reason than having seen an octopus made of smoke and being welcomed by a turtle.
*Continued in Uncharted, Part IV
The Complete Uncharted: Map One
Excerpt 1 -
It is estimated that the tunnels have been open since the year 949. In the early part of that year, all of the planets in the Solar System were aligned in the same 90-degree arc. For reasons as-yet unexplained, the gravitational alignment of the planets resulted in a tear in space-time and doorways (what the Order refers to as the tunnels) to other dimensions were opened. These Meean tunnels (so named after Jean Meeus) weren't hypothesized until later in the 20th Century and the discovery of the first tunnel in Poland (near Giewont in the Tatra Mountains) confirmed their existence.
The Order of Navigators, leading a pseudo-military incursion, has reportedly closed the Giewont Tunnel, though Navigator Sextant has so far refused to reveal the method of closure. Lacking conclusive evidence, as well as the order's reluctance to cooperate fully with Vatican authority, I am of the opinion that there are many more tunnels and that more creatures have come through them.
Excerpt 2 -
Given legends such as the Beast of Gévaudan (and several others), I believe that creatures have been coming through these tunnels for centuries. The irony that a Pope authorized the annexation of an atheist order of "Knights" for the purposes of protecting our existence only serves to reinforce how important and real this situation is.
Excerpt 3 -
That stated, the operational and administrative status is an affront to our Catholic beliefs. That you were successful in convincing Navigator Clock to disband their military arm (along with their assassination practices) bears poorly on our sovereignty and, in my humble opinion, our very legitimacy. We are more than capable of handling these Demons using our existing assets. My appeals to do so have been denied now for the seventh time.
Excerpt 4 -
It is with great regret that I resign from my position as Prefect of the Supreme Tribunal of the Apostolic Signatura.
Cardinal Jonathan M. Grant
***
"Wow. He resigned?" Marianne doesn't know what to think. Cardinal Grant was who first informed her that the Order of Navigators were even real. She didn't know him well, but she considers him a mentor.
Compass, testing an algorithm on his computer, nods. He fails to mention that the military arm of the order isn't exactly defunct and that, with the Pope's reluctant blessing, Cardinal Grant will suffer a fatal heart attack by the end of the day.
Tired of watching the computations, Compass stands from his chair and heads for the door.
"Where are you going?"
"To the Library. Need some information."
"Can I come?"
Compass shrugs as he exits.
Watching from his high-backed smoking chair in the corner, Sextant - who had been frowning up to that point - lets loose a wry smile. It was strongly advised that he select a different Compass, but Sextant needed the apathetic humor that this Compass provides. Sextant recognized that his own skills and, indeed, his own discretions were falling by the wayside. While he wants nothing more than for his successor to be as empathic as possible, he needs his Compass to be as blunt and straightforward as he - Sextant, that is - used to be.
A long time ago, that was.
***
Even before Sextant became the head of the Order of Navigators, he was an accomplished navigator. Once a Lieutenant in the Royal Navy, he had been aboard the HMS Repulse when it was sunk by the Japanese in the early days of the Pacific War. It was then that he'd met his predecessor for the first and only time.
Drowning in the South China Sea, somewhere East of Endau, a young British sailor prepared himself to pass through to the other side. Except... he didn't.
Prior to passing out from the lack of oxygen and the water pressure, that sailor witnessed the oddest of sights. A black man locked in a physical struggle with what could only be described as an octopus made of smoke. And a green turtle that, moments after the sailor spied it, exploded in a fissure of flesh, blood, and shell. Or, perhaps, imploded.
When he had come to, Sextant found himself lying on a beach in Sumatra, very much alive. The black man was reciting some strange incantations and carving symbols into Sextant's chest. Sextant tried to resist, but found himself too weak. And found his arms pinned by two green turtles, both of whom appeared to be smiling. To this day, Sextant swears one spoke just before he had passed out again. "Welcome," it had said. But, other than the first Clock he had worked with, Sextant mentioned it to no one.
Indeed, until he had met his first Clock the year after the Japanese surrendered - he'd been captured on Sumatra and spent most of the war in a prisoner of war camp on Hokkaido - he had no idea who that black man even was. When he'd woke the second time, the black man was lying dead beside him, and the green turtles were gone.
***
Sextant had been sleeping in his flat in London when his first Compass had knocked on his door. With him was his first Clock, a strikingly tall Italian woman with whom he'd have many sexual encounters until her death three years later (an untimely death, largely Sextant's fault).
"Who are you?" Sextant, then still operating under his birth name, had asked.
Both Compass and Clock were carrying pistols - American Colt 1911s, if memory serves Sextant correctly - and Clock had ordered Sextant to pack some clothes and come with them. In a position to cherish life as fully as possible, Sextant obeyed. By the time the DC-3 had landed in Switzerland, Sextant had learned who the black man was - the Third Sextant. He'd learned that prior to the First Sextant the position was known as Quadrant and prior to being known as Quadrant it was known as Astrolabe. He'd learned who Compass, Clock, and Spyglass were and what they did. He'd even learned that, from the time he'd been imbued by the previous Sextant to the time he'd been found by Compass, he had been growing younger and is, in fact, 12 years older than his body thinks it is.
Neither the Compass nor the Clock at the time expected Sextant to fall into line so quickly, but he had. And for no other reason than having seen an octopus made of smoke and being welcomed by a turtle.
*Continued in Uncharted, Part IV
The Complete Uncharted: Map One
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Uncharted, Part II
*Continued from Uncharted, Part I
They are at home in the dark. They are at home in the light. Myths propagated by the banal imaginations of those who wanted nothing more than control of their congregations led humanity to believe that monsters only exist at night. But what of monsters that are not? There is nothing about them in the legends of these cultures. No revelations. Could they read the languages of man they would but laugh at the explanations of what lies beyond.
For nothing lies beyond. Save for them. What is seen is what begets. And what begets is fear. The evolutions of creatures subject to biological conditions not yet imagined by the chemical reactions known as thought. Chemical reactions some mistake as a gift granted by yet another imaginary evolution.
It is these mistakes upon which they pray. It was not God responsible for the alignment of the planets on that fateful day in the 10th century. It was not gods ignorant to the gravitational pulls of celestial bodies that ripped open a small tear in the fabric of space-time. It was simply chance. One in unimaginable billions. The same chance that created life here. The same chance that created death there. The same chance that opened the tunnels.
But the myths got something right. There are great powers in the universe. And they are more common than the son of one. More common than an adversary. And the creatures from the other side of the tunnels can smell them.
To humanity, these great powers are miraculous. Rightfully the stuff of legend. To the Tunnelers... they - along with the rest of carbon-based life on Earth - are food.
***
James cuts into the rib-eye steak, much to the chagrin of Marianne. She can barely hide her disgust at James' propensity to eat rare meat. It's the blood. He's a great work partner, but she's slowly coming to realize that he's not as good a life partner as she'd once hoped. James has done nothing all that irritating in the past few months - not since the debacle at her parents in Brussels - but it's not helping his cause that she's heavily attracted to Compass. Worse, it's hurting that it is James who was assigned to observe Compass. Though Marianne is in awe of Sextant, she wishes she could spend more time with the direction-finder. Through today, she's only seen him a handful of times and has only spoken to him once... and that was merely a quick introduction and exchange of names.
"How's the old guy?" James asks, oblivious to his current station in Marianne's perception.
She looks up, nibbling on her salad - a much more sensible meal, in her opinion. "Oh, he's wonderful. Weird and charming."
James scrunches his brow. Weird and charming? "Compass is a bit of an asshole." He hesitates to mention Spyglass, fearful that Marianne will somehow notice James' attraction to Spyglass in his voice.
Marianne would have noticed no such thing, but she does notice James' disdain for Compass, which further sours her mood. "Oh, you don't even know what the Hell it is they're doing."
James shrugs, taking it as a point of fact. He doesn't know what they're doing. He's only here because he's been Marianne's - his girlfriend - research assistant. She seems to know most of what's happening, but her ability to explain it is much like the ability of any of his female friend's ability to explain anything: nonexistent.
"I wish they'd let us out of here," James mutters, recalling that his university friends are currently somewhere in the Italian Alps, enjoying some powder and, no doubt, ski bunnies.
Unfortunately for James, there's no place Marianne would rather be. Eating dinner with her soon-to-be ex-boyfriend - should all go as planned - in front of a hearth in one of the many dens in the headquarters of the Order of Navigators.
As she imagines running her fingers up and down the spine of Compass, James chews on his steak, considering the irony of a religious order full of members who don't believe in God.
***
The crone-hag fast approaches - carrying a cardboard tube - and he can already smell her medicated odor. Compass has never liked the Librarian and, he's quite sure, never will. He hates people who are nothing but facades. Everyone has a facade, he knows, but it takes a dedicated faux-intellectual who grew up in faux-intellectualism to actually be nothing but a facade.
It certainly doesn't help his impression of the Librarian that she's not even an official member of the order, despite her title. He's convinced that she's only around because she's older than any of them, save Sextant. That she looks older than Sextant almost makes him pity her. Were she pity-worthy, that is.
Where's Spyglass when he needs eye-candy?
"Compass."
He also hates how she calls his name so matter-of-factly. No question, no greeting. Just blunt adjective.
"What?" Compass dropped the fake smile for her years ago.
"I need you to give this to Sextant," she states, holding the tube out for Compass to grab. "It's for his birthday."
Compass stares at the tube, not taking it. "What is it?"
"It's a birthday present."
"You said that. What is it?" He can't help himself. He loves being a dick to the hag. Particularly because she reacts to poorly to it. Almost like a child. Then again, it's not his fault she's not allowed direct access to Sextant.
"A Lichtenstein."
Compass continues to stare at the tube, then slowly shifts his gaze to the Librarian's bespectacled visage. Wrinkly and thoroughly unattractive. Probably smoked cigars for a time.
"He's a pop culture artist from America, was popular during..."
"I know who he is, hag." It's an interruption Compass will cherish for hours. He grabs the tube and turns to leave, not wanting to remain in her presence.
"Compass."
He stops, mentally shrugging. "What?"
"Just give it to him. Don't say anything; just give it to him."
"Why?" He stares into her eyes as she glares at him. She knows nothing of his combat histories and, as many professionals who've long had to discipline students, believes her gaze to make men nervous. For Compass, it just gives him the opportunity to make mental jokes of her beady little turkey eyes.
"I don't want you to dilute the gift."
"By saying something?"
"It doesn't require your voice-over."
He shakes his head, stifling laughter. "It's a Lichtenstein."
The Librarian stares, as if questioning his answer and trying to answer his question.
Compass explains. "I could take a shit on it, and it will still be a Lichtenstein."
"Please just hand it to him."
The dam breaks. "You know, for all that useless factual knowledge stuck in your head, you're pretty fucking stupid."
It's a statement Compass will cherish for days. Then, he's no idea what he's set in motion.
***
"Why do Compass and the Librarian hate each other?" Spyglass asks Sextant. She's always wondered, but never remembered to inquire.
Sextant pulls on his cigarette, savoring the smooth Turkish flavor, and chuckles his comforting chuckle. "Because she's pretentious and he's apathetic."
Spyglass frowns a bit. It's an involuntary reaction. Even she doesn't yet realize how defensive of Compass she tends to be.
Sextant taps the cigarette over an ornate ash tray made from portions of a V2 rocket's gyro control mechanism - supposedly a gift from Werner von Braun. "Sad woman, that one."
Spyglass doesn't hear him, her thoughts elsewhere. As if on cue, Compass enters and tosses the cardboard tube onto an empty chaise longue. "Happy birthday, Sex. Bitch got you a Lichtenstein. Where's Clock?"
"Late, I'd imagine," Sextant replies, chuckling again.
*Continued in Uncharted, Part III
The Complete Uncharted: Map One
They are at home in the dark. They are at home in the light. Myths propagated by the banal imaginations of those who wanted nothing more than control of their congregations led humanity to believe that monsters only exist at night. But what of monsters that are not? There is nothing about them in the legends of these cultures. No revelations. Could they read the languages of man they would but laugh at the explanations of what lies beyond.
For nothing lies beyond. Save for them. What is seen is what begets. And what begets is fear. The evolutions of creatures subject to biological conditions not yet imagined by the chemical reactions known as thought. Chemical reactions some mistake as a gift granted by yet another imaginary evolution.
It is these mistakes upon which they pray. It was not God responsible for the alignment of the planets on that fateful day in the 10th century. It was not gods ignorant to the gravitational pulls of celestial bodies that ripped open a small tear in the fabric of space-time. It was simply chance. One in unimaginable billions. The same chance that created life here. The same chance that created death there. The same chance that opened the tunnels.
But the myths got something right. There are great powers in the universe. And they are more common than the son of one. More common than an adversary. And the creatures from the other side of the tunnels can smell them.
To humanity, these great powers are miraculous. Rightfully the stuff of legend. To the Tunnelers... they - along with the rest of carbon-based life on Earth - are food.
***
James cuts into the rib-eye steak, much to the chagrin of Marianne. She can barely hide her disgust at James' propensity to eat rare meat. It's the blood. He's a great work partner, but she's slowly coming to realize that he's not as good a life partner as she'd once hoped. James has done nothing all that irritating in the past few months - not since the debacle at her parents in Brussels - but it's not helping his cause that she's heavily attracted to Compass. Worse, it's hurting that it is James who was assigned to observe Compass. Though Marianne is in awe of Sextant, she wishes she could spend more time with the direction-finder. Through today, she's only seen him a handful of times and has only spoken to him once... and that was merely a quick introduction and exchange of names.
"How's the old guy?" James asks, oblivious to his current station in Marianne's perception.
She looks up, nibbling on her salad - a much more sensible meal, in her opinion. "Oh, he's wonderful. Weird and charming."
James scrunches his brow. Weird and charming? "Compass is a bit of an asshole." He hesitates to mention Spyglass, fearful that Marianne will somehow notice James' attraction to Spyglass in his voice.
Marianne would have noticed no such thing, but she does notice James' disdain for Compass, which further sours her mood. "Oh, you don't even know what the Hell it is they're doing."
James shrugs, taking it as a point of fact. He doesn't know what they're doing. He's only here because he's been Marianne's - his girlfriend - research assistant. She seems to know most of what's happening, but her ability to explain it is much like the ability of any of his female friend's ability to explain anything: nonexistent.
"I wish they'd let us out of here," James mutters, recalling that his university friends are currently somewhere in the Italian Alps, enjoying some powder and, no doubt, ski bunnies.
Unfortunately for James, there's no place Marianne would rather be. Eating dinner with her soon-to-be ex-boyfriend - should all go as planned - in front of a hearth in one of the many dens in the headquarters of the Order of Navigators.
As she imagines running her fingers up and down the spine of Compass, James chews on his steak, considering the irony of a religious order full of members who don't believe in God.
***
The crone-hag fast approaches - carrying a cardboard tube - and he can already smell her medicated odor. Compass has never liked the Librarian and, he's quite sure, never will. He hates people who are nothing but facades. Everyone has a facade, he knows, but it takes a dedicated faux-intellectual who grew up in faux-intellectualism to actually be nothing but a facade.
It certainly doesn't help his impression of the Librarian that she's not even an official member of the order, despite her title. He's convinced that she's only around because she's older than any of them, save Sextant. That she looks older than Sextant almost makes him pity her. Were she pity-worthy, that is.
Where's Spyglass when he needs eye-candy?
"Compass."
He also hates how she calls his name so matter-of-factly. No question, no greeting. Just blunt adjective.
"What?" Compass dropped the fake smile for her years ago.
"I need you to give this to Sextant," she states, holding the tube out for Compass to grab. "It's for his birthday."
Compass stares at the tube, not taking it. "What is it?"
"It's a birthday present."
"You said that. What is it?" He can't help himself. He loves being a dick to the hag. Particularly because she reacts to poorly to it. Almost like a child. Then again, it's not his fault she's not allowed direct access to Sextant.
"A Lichtenstein."
Compass continues to stare at the tube, then slowly shifts his gaze to the Librarian's bespectacled visage. Wrinkly and thoroughly unattractive. Probably smoked cigars for a time.
"He's a pop culture artist from America, was popular during..."
"I know who he is, hag." It's an interruption Compass will cherish for hours. He grabs the tube and turns to leave, not wanting to remain in her presence.
"Compass."
He stops, mentally shrugging. "What?"
"Just give it to him. Don't say anything; just give it to him."
"Why?" He stares into her eyes as she glares at him. She knows nothing of his combat histories and, as many professionals who've long had to discipline students, believes her gaze to make men nervous. For Compass, it just gives him the opportunity to make mental jokes of her beady little turkey eyes.
"I don't want you to dilute the gift."
"By saying something?"
"It doesn't require your voice-over."
He shakes his head, stifling laughter. "It's a Lichtenstein."
The Librarian stares, as if questioning his answer and trying to answer his question.
Compass explains. "I could take a shit on it, and it will still be a Lichtenstein."
"Please just hand it to him."
The dam breaks. "You know, for all that useless factual knowledge stuck in your head, you're pretty fucking stupid."
It's a statement Compass will cherish for days. Then, he's no idea what he's set in motion.
***
"Why do Compass and the Librarian hate each other?" Spyglass asks Sextant. She's always wondered, but never remembered to inquire.
Sextant pulls on his cigarette, savoring the smooth Turkish flavor, and chuckles his comforting chuckle. "Because she's pretentious and he's apathetic."
Spyglass frowns a bit. It's an involuntary reaction. Even she doesn't yet realize how defensive of Compass she tends to be.
Sextant taps the cigarette over an ornate ash tray made from portions of a V2 rocket's gyro control mechanism - supposedly a gift from Werner von Braun. "Sad woman, that one."
Spyglass doesn't hear him, her thoughts elsewhere. As if on cue, Compass enters and tosses the cardboard tube onto an empty chaise longue. "Happy birthday, Sex. Bitch got you a Lichtenstein. Where's Clock?"
"Late, I'd imagine," Sextant replies, chuckling again.
*Continued in Uncharted, Part III
The Complete Uncharted: Map One
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Uncharted, Part I
Black. The absence of light. The absorption of it. And it's where she's stuck.
Her breath is amplified. Deafening. Despite her best efforts to remain quiet and, by proxy, perfectly still. She's being too loud. She knows it can hear her.
She also knows it can see her.
She's breathing too loud.
Too loud. Much too loud. She can't hear it approaching, but she knows it's coming.
Were there any light, she'd have seen the tendrils, wafting in the still air amid dust particles that found their place places based on density, like oil and water. Air settled only by her unwillingness to move. Were there any light, she'd have seen that the tendrils created no wind, offered no disturbance.
Were there any light, she'd have not felt the vertigo. Not been confused as to whether or not she was underwater, in spite of her deafening respiration.
But there is no light. She sees nothing. Feels nothing.
Until it rips her apart.
Oil and water. And blood.
***
Spyglass' eyes open. She wasn't sleeping, but the effect still disorients. "Damn." It's all she can mutter.
"What?"
"They got another one." Spyglass curls up, propping herself with her elbows behind her back. She winces for a moment as a lock of her hair gets caught under arm. There's a futile hopping gesture - hard to do when one is still essentially lying down - and a flinch of the neck. It's unnecessary - and, indeed, unnoticed - but she's hit by a twinge of embarrassment, thinking her clumsiness makes her appear unattractive.
"That's not good." Compass doesn't notice her stuck hair as he busily types notes into his archaic laptop computer. Not that he would've cared; he probably would've enjoyed the sight of her pert breasts jiggling atop her nubile form. As it is, he's caught up in data entry of a most unusual kind on a computer he berates under his breath. Still, he's not one to pass up an opportunity to ogle Spyglass.
Fortunately, for the both of them, there are more important matters at hand.
"Which one?" Compass asks.
"Da Silva, I think," Spyglass replies, kicking her legs to the side of the leather couch and sitting up properly. She blows some loose hair away from her eyes - probably from the same lock she caught herself on - and rubs her eyes. She's barely 25, but worry lines are starting to draw her in her 30s. "It was definitely a woman."
"Which one?" Compass is not repeating the earlier question. It's apparent to the third person in the room, James Lüpertz, that these two have done this many times already. It is not a good revelation. Even more so since he doesn't even know what's going on.
Spyglass scrunches her brow and looks to the ceiling. She pauses on the faux-Gothic chandelier - replete with ceiling fan attachment - and wonders for a moment if anything as romantic as the Phantom of the Opera could ever be real. The blades batter the air and Spyglass shivers at the reluctant memory of... whatever it was.
"Which one, Sarah?" He is repeating, this time.
She shrugs, blindly noting his use of her real name. She'd return the favor, but rumor has it Compass had his name legally changed to Compass upon his assignment. "I don't know. I've never felt that one before."
Compass frowns and taps more keys in rapid succession. Between Spyglass' admission and the outdated CPU in the laptop, Compass' frustration boils over. "Well, that's fucking wonderful."
"What does that mean?" James isn't supposed to say anything - he's merely there as an observer - but he can't help it. Confusion is rapidly disappearing into layers of more confusion.
Spyglass lies back down on the couch. Compass keeps typing. James look to one, then the other, then back to the first. It is Compass who finally answers. "It means shit's still coming through."
"How? The tunnel in Poland was closed."
"Fuck if I know, dude." Compass speaks as if a teenager, though he's well into his 30s. His lengthening hair effectively disguises nearly two decades of military service, and people often take him less seriously than they should. Then again, Compass wouldn't have it any other way. "Maybe there's another tunnel? Hello?"
James turns to look behind him - a reflex - but no one is there. It takes him a moment to realize that Compass' greeting was American sarcasm. Why can't the bastards ever give straight answers?
"Am I next?" Spyglass lazily asks, about ready to fall asleep. Reception is exhausting.
Compass shrugs. She pouts and almost begs for reassurance, but he beats her to it. "I doubt it. You're pretty low on the totem pole."
That's not very reassuring, she thinks, as she lets herself slide into a dreamworld... her own, this time.
***
Marianne Dequenne stares in awe of the two men seated in front of her. Well, one of them, anyway. The elder one. Nearly 80 years old, he is a man who has - quite literally - seen everything. Everything the stars have seen.
The stars looking at Earth, anyway.
He is Sextant. A position he's held for 67 years, longer than any previous Sextant by more than two decades. He came into the title by pure accident, the wrong place at the right time, and has held it professionally ever since. Even though his first few years with the responsibility were disastrous - the Earth was almost destroyed twice - the woman who was Clock guided him well. As did her successor, a would-be Ethiopian princess once known as Derartu Kebede.
The other man in front of Dequenne is the new Clock. He's only been Clock for two years, which is why Marianne isn't in awe of him. As of yet, he's accomplished little of note.
Publicly, that is.
She's no idea that it is this new Clock who has granted Marianne Dequenne and James Lüpertz direct access to the Navigators.
It is a gesture unprecedented in the history of their order. Previously, when the existence of their order was discovered - or strongly suspected - "accidents" were arranged. An unfortunate side effect necessitated by the enemy they face.
But there would be no accident, not this time. The reasons for their disclosure are few, but important. Marianne has no idea what any of them are.
Or how close she and James were to being erased from existence. Fortunately, for her and for James, Clock identified something useful in the two of them.
And, besides... existence is still young.
*Continued in Uncharted, Part II
The Complete Uncharted: Map One
Her breath is amplified. Deafening. Despite her best efforts to remain quiet and, by proxy, perfectly still. She's being too loud. She knows it can hear her.
She also knows it can see her.
She's breathing too loud.
Too loud. Much too loud. She can't hear it approaching, but she knows it's coming.
Were there any light, she'd have seen the tendrils, wafting in the still air amid dust particles that found their place places based on density, like oil and water. Air settled only by her unwillingness to move. Were there any light, she'd have seen that the tendrils created no wind, offered no disturbance.
Were there any light, she'd have not felt the vertigo. Not been confused as to whether or not she was underwater, in spite of her deafening respiration.
But there is no light. She sees nothing. Feels nothing.
Until it rips her apart.
Oil and water. And blood.
***
Spyglass' eyes open. She wasn't sleeping, but the effect still disorients. "Damn." It's all she can mutter.
"What?"
"They got another one." Spyglass curls up, propping herself with her elbows behind her back. She winces for a moment as a lock of her hair gets caught under arm. There's a futile hopping gesture - hard to do when one is still essentially lying down - and a flinch of the neck. It's unnecessary - and, indeed, unnoticed - but she's hit by a twinge of embarrassment, thinking her clumsiness makes her appear unattractive.
"That's not good." Compass doesn't notice her stuck hair as he busily types notes into his archaic laptop computer. Not that he would've cared; he probably would've enjoyed the sight of her pert breasts jiggling atop her nubile form. As it is, he's caught up in data entry of a most unusual kind on a computer he berates under his breath. Still, he's not one to pass up an opportunity to ogle Spyglass.
Fortunately, for the both of them, there are more important matters at hand.
"Which one?" Compass asks.
"Da Silva, I think," Spyglass replies, kicking her legs to the side of the leather couch and sitting up properly. She blows some loose hair away from her eyes - probably from the same lock she caught herself on - and rubs her eyes. She's barely 25, but worry lines are starting to draw her in her 30s. "It was definitely a woman."
"Which one?" Compass is not repeating the earlier question. It's apparent to the third person in the room, James Lüpertz, that these two have done this many times already. It is not a good revelation. Even more so since he doesn't even know what's going on.
Spyglass scrunches her brow and looks to the ceiling. She pauses on the faux-Gothic chandelier - replete with ceiling fan attachment - and wonders for a moment if anything as romantic as the Phantom of the Opera could ever be real. The blades batter the air and Spyglass shivers at the reluctant memory of... whatever it was.
"Which one, Sarah?" He is repeating, this time.
She shrugs, blindly noting his use of her real name. She'd return the favor, but rumor has it Compass had his name legally changed to Compass upon his assignment. "I don't know. I've never felt that one before."
Compass frowns and taps more keys in rapid succession. Between Spyglass' admission and the outdated CPU in the laptop, Compass' frustration boils over. "Well, that's fucking wonderful."
"What does that mean?" James isn't supposed to say anything - he's merely there as an observer - but he can't help it. Confusion is rapidly disappearing into layers of more confusion.
Spyglass lies back down on the couch. Compass keeps typing. James look to one, then the other, then back to the first. It is Compass who finally answers. "It means shit's still coming through."
"How? The tunnel in Poland was closed."
"Fuck if I know, dude." Compass speaks as if a teenager, though he's well into his 30s. His lengthening hair effectively disguises nearly two decades of military service, and people often take him less seriously than they should. Then again, Compass wouldn't have it any other way. "Maybe there's another tunnel? Hello?"
James turns to look behind him - a reflex - but no one is there. It takes him a moment to realize that Compass' greeting was American sarcasm. Why can't the bastards ever give straight answers?
"Am I next?" Spyglass lazily asks, about ready to fall asleep. Reception is exhausting.
Compass shrugs. She pouts and almost begs for reassurance, but he beats her to it. "I doubt it. You're pretty low on the totem pole."
That's not very reassuring, she thinks, as she lets herself slide into a dreamworld... her own, this time.
***
Marianne Dequenne stares in awe of the two men seated in front of her. Well, one of them, anyway. The elder one. Nearly 80 years old, he is a man who has - quite literally - seen everything. Everything the stars have seen.
The stars looking at Earth, anyway.
He is Sextant. A position he's held for 67 years, longer than any previous Sextant by more than two decades. He came into the title by pure accident, the wrong place at the right time, and has held it professionally ever since. Even though his first few years with the responsibility were disastrous - the Earth was almost destroyed twice - the woman who was Clock guided him well. As did her successor, a would-be Ethiopian princess once known as Derartu Kebede.
The other man in front of Dequenne is the new Clock. He's only been Clock for two years, which is why Marianne isn't in awe of him. As of yet, he's accomplished little of note.
Publicly, that is.
She's no idea that it is this new Clock who has granted Marianne Dequenne and James Lüpertz direct access to the Navigators.
It is a gesture unprecedented in the history of their order. Previously, when the existence of their order was discovered - or strongly suspected - "accidents" were arranged. An unfortunate side effect necessitated by the enemy they face.
But there would be no accident, not this time. The reasons for their disclosure are few, but important. Marianne has no idea what any of them are.
Or how close she and James were to being erased from existence. Fortunately, for her and for James, Clock identified something useful in the two of them.
And, besides... existence is still young.
*Continued in Uncharted, Part II
The Complete Uncharted: Map One
Monday, January 3, 2011
33
Numbers. Numbers. There's a secret in the numbers. How do I get to it? Nah, I'm not crazy. Not like all those other number freaks. They make up meanings because they want to find some. I've already seen the meaning. I just want to know the why. Seen the who. The what. The where. The when. The how. Even the which. But I don't know the why.
Numbers. Numbers.
***
"He's gonna figure it out." Twist's face shows genuine concern. She's been hiding in the shadows for a while. Hiding behind Shadow. But if she's revealed, then, well, the game's over.
"Figure what out? There's nothing to figure out." The cigarette smoke disappears in the steam. Mother likes to talk about how he never smokes inside the house. Apparently he doesn't count the shower as being inside the house.
"That's what he's going to figure out." Foil shares Twist's concern. He learned long ago to follow the lead of his sister. Her eyes are always looking, always seeing. Always perceiving. Foil's never been the sharpest tool in the shed, he knows this. It's this knowledge that prevents him from sharing his theory. Mother wants the game to be over.
"He already knows. That's why there's nothing to figure out." Both children hate that Mother smokes.
***
It's there. Hidden in the subtext. I keep going over the conversations in my head. Double-meanings. Triple-meanings. What seems blunt, open, honest, might be anything but. It's hard to trust the words. But the numbers. They're just math. Math doesn't lie. Mathematicians might, but not the math.
The plot's been set for a while. I know where the story's going. Previous encounters preparing me for the final, like some weird romantic gauntlet. They've all had something in common. Maybe not with each other, but definitely with the one around the corner. Nothing but clues. Foreshadow in the details. Oh, the details.
She's beautiful. What does she have to do with the numbers?
***
"Are you sure he's really coming?" Twist only asks because he's been known to waffle. Change his mind on a whim. She really has no idea how much he wants to figure this out.
"He's coming." Mother steps out of the shower, reaches for a towel. Neither of his children will tell him, but Mother's aged well. He'd be rather popular if he came out of hiding more often. Not that it matters to Mother. A defining encounter is soon to happen. "Foil saw the arrangements."
"Yeah, I did." There's some emotional confusion for Foil. He's a bit leery of what Mother believes is sure to happen, but he does want it to happen. A least a small part of him does. The mystery they've all been relishing for the past few months - nearly a year - will end, and there is some sadness to that. The relationship and its exchanges have been interesting. But, one way or another, Twist needs to be revealed. The game demands it.
"Just because he's coming doesn't mean he's going to win." Mother's voice is reassuring, as always, even though it was not a statement of reassurance.
***
The day of the month. The month of the year. The date. There's a warning in it. Or maybe just a sign. I can't tell. It's worrisome, regardless. High hopes or a harbinger. That's the secret. That's the Twist. Multiplication equaling a number that equals me. If I can be divided into integers. I don't know the control measures. That's the problem. It's in the formula. I don't know what that is, either.
There's a secret in the numbers. I'm gonna run out of fingers.
***
"Should I stay out of the way?" Twist isn't really worried, but she knows things might get awkward. She's also aware that even if she stays hidden, she's revealed. It's an inevitability that makes the climax a given, even if no one has any idea what's going to happen.
"No. Act natural. Let it play out." They can tell Mother's annoyed. He's been expecting this for some time and has played out many different scenarios. Some good; some bad. But all lead to a conclusion. He's coming without much of a plan, so chaos will be in order. There's no point in preparing reactions, only preparing for the arrival. It'll unfold as it will.
"I warned him." There's a small smile on Foil's face. He did warn him. But he also inadvertently encouraged him. That's usually what happens when someone fails to take a strong position. There is more than one way to the end of an equation. Foil accidentally provided more than one math.
"Yes, and you shouldn't have. The challenge is what motivated him." Mother reaches for a cigarette. The game's well afoot. It remains to be seen what the final score will be.
***
Numbers. Numbers. They're not adding up. Maybe I am crazy. It's not a sum; it's a product. Knowing the variables is not helping me. She's an undefined value. X. A gestalt of smaller geometric shapes in the form of an answer to a question.
She's the who. The what. I know where she is. I know when I'll be there. Shit, I've had it wrong. I do know the why. I don't know the how. Which is unimportant, which is why nobody asks it. The proof needs to be solved. Too bad I suck at math.
This is either going to be great, or I'm going to die. What am I up against?
Numbers. Numbers. What a strange year.
*To be continued...?
Numbers. Numbers.
***
"He's gonna figure it out." Twist's face shows genuine concern. She's been hiding in the shadows for a while. Hiding behind Shadow. But if she's revealed, then, well, the game's over.
"Figure what out? There's nothing to figure out." The cigarette smoke disappears in the steam. Mother likes to talk about how he never smokes inside the house. Apparently he doesn't count the shower as being inside the house.
"That's what he's going to figure out." Foil shares Twist's concern. He learned long ago to follow the lead of his sister. Her eyes are always looking, always seeing. Always perceiving. Foil's never been the sharpest tool in the shed, he knows this. It's this knowledge that prevents him from sharing his theory. Mother wants the game to be over.
"He already knows. That's why there's nothing to figure out." Both children hate that Mother smokes.
***
It's there. Hidden in the subtext. I keep going over the conversations in my head. Double-meanings. Triple-meanings. What seems blunt, open, honest, might be anything but. It's hard to trust the words. But the numbers. They're just math. Math doesn't lie. Mathematicians might, but not the math.
The plot's been set for a while. I know where the story's going. Previous encounters preparing me for the final, like some weird romantic gauntlet. They've all had something in common. Maybe not with each other, but definitely with the one around the corner. Nothing but clues. Foreshadow in the details. Oh, the details.
She's beautiful. What does she have to do with the numbers?
***
"Are you sure he's really coming?" Twist only asks because he's been known to waffle. Change his mind on a whim. She really has no idea how much he wants to figure this out.
"He's coming." Mother steps out of the shower, reaches for a towel. Neither of his children will tell him, but Mother's aged well. He'd be rather popular if he came out of hiding more often. Not that it matters to Mother. A defining encounter is soon to happen. "Foil saw the arrangements."
"Yeah, I did." There's some emotional confusion for Foil. He's a bit leery of what Mother believes is sure to happen, but he does want it to happen. A least a small part of him does. The mystery they've all been relishing for the past few months - nearly a year - will end, and there is some sadness to that. The relationship and its exchanges have been interesting. But, one way or another, Twist needs to be revealed. The game demands it.
"Just because he's coming doesn't mean he's going to win." Mother's voice is reassuring, as always, even though it was not a statement of reassurance.
***
The day of the month. The month of the year. The date. There's a warning in it. Or maybe just a sign. I can't tell. It's worrisome, regardless. High hopes or a harbinger. That's the secret. That's the Twist. Multiplication equaling a number that equals me. If I can be divided into integers. I don't know the control measures. That's the problem. It's in the formula. I don't know what that is, either.
There's a secret in the numbers. I'm gonna run out of fingers.
***
"Should I stay out of the way?" Twist isn't really worried, but she knows things might get awkward. She's also aware that even if she stays hidden, she's revealed. It's an inevitability that makes the climax a given, even if no one has any idea what's going to happen.
"No. Act natural. Let it play out." They can tell Mother's annoyed. He's been expecting this for some time and has played out many different scenarios. Some good; some bad. But all lead to a conclusion. He's coming without much of a plan, so chaos will be in order. There's no point in preparing reactions, only preparing for the arrival. It'll unfold as it will.
"I warned him." There's a small smile on Foil's face. He did warn him. But he also inadvertently encouraged him. That's usually what happens when someone fails to take a strong position. There is more than one way to the end of an equation. Foil accidentally provided more than one math.
"Yes, and you shouldn't have. The challenge is what motivated him." Mother reaches for a cigarette. The game's well afoot. It remains to be seen what the final score will be.
***
Numbers. Numbers. They're not adding up. Maybe I am crazy. It's not a sum; it's a product. Knowing the variables is not helping me. She's an undefined value. X. A gestalt of smaller geometric shapes in the form of an answer to a question.
She's the who. The what. I know where she is. I know when I'll be there. Shit, I've had it wrong. I do know the why. I don't know the how. Which is unimportant, which is why nobody asks it. The proof needs to be solved. Too bad I suck at math.
This is either going to be great, or I'm going to die. What am I up against?
Numbers. Numbers. What a strange year.
*To be continued...?
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Theorem, Part I
The Dinaric Alps, Croatia - 2053 AD
Sergeant First Class Matt Bainbridge peers through his binoculars at the ragtag enemy unit below. Higher up the ridge, Matt wonders if the Croat guerrillas are warmer than he is. Laughing to himself, he realizes that they must be, since the Croats have several small fires going.
"Mostly asleep," he whispers to the man next to him, Master Sergeant Chris McAllister, who is lying on his back, eyes to the stars.
"Figures. You see the weapon?" Outwardly, Chris is confident in his men - and rightly so - and knows that his lackadaisical demeanor keeps his team calm and in good spirits. There is, however, little that escapes his notice and he knows that it is not yet time to worry.
"Nope," Matt replies as he continues his scan. "Wait. There it is."
Chris rolls over into the prone position and Matt hands the binoculars to him.
"Wood crate near the middle of the camp." Matt points in the general direction.
"Got it." Chris looks again to the stars. "How long until daylight?"
Matt checks his watch. "Hour-fifteen to BMNT."
"Plenty of time. Call it in."
Matt's fingers press a transmitter on his neck. "Marauder Flight, Wolf Romeo. Hotel Gulf, over."
His receiver crackles to life. "This is Marauder 6. Roger, Hotel Gulf. Fireworks inbound. Watch your heads."
***
The explosions barely have time to subside before Chris and his men rush the camp. The smart bombs landed precisely where they were supposed to - on the edges of the camp - and the fires that remain silhouette most of the guerrillas that survived the blasts. Night vision goggles would not be needed.
Higher up on the ridge, Edward Mulcahy begins tracking moving targets and firing them up. Mulcahy acquires and fires on his targets so rapidly, his spotter, Tyler Hassinger - the team's medic - doesn't even have time to relay the enemy ranges.
Moving in on Chris and Matt's flank is the fire team responsible for ensuring the objective is disarmed and secured, or so the theory goes. Bryant Eick, Chris' demolitions sergeant, is accompanied by his assistant, Peter Nimac, and the team's warrant officer, Nathaniel Dawson. Nathaniel should be in charge of the assault, but he joined the team mid-mission and wisely allowed Chris and Matt to assume leads. For now, he's just another gun on a team desperately in need of guns.
Guerrilla resistance takes some form of organization and Bryant and his crew's progress stops in the face of an enemy firing line. Chris and Matt silently curse their luck and fire into the rear of the enemy line, creating enough of a distraction that Bryant and the others clear their obstacle in seconds. As their support elements line the perimeter and begin mopping up the guerrillas, the group of five American operators reach the wood crate.
"It's empty," Bryant relays as he inspects it, a dour tone to his voice.
"Empty?" Chris asks, not believing it and believing it all at once.
"That's not good," adds Matt.
Chris keys his transmitter. "All stations this net, weapon in the open." He motions for the others to spread out in a search pattern.
Matt taps Chris' shoulder and points to the wood line.
The two soldiers follow what Chris thinks is a trail and, coming over a small hill, wind up face to face with three guerrillas. One of whom is bent over the nuclear warhead, furiously connecting a computerized detonator. Chris and Matt each fire a single round, each killing one of the standing guerrillas. The third stands, holding the detonator.
"Spusti." Drop it. Matt has never sounded so commanding in his life.
The guerrilla hesitates and Chris fires twice into his chest. The detonator falls to the ground. Matt rushes to it and begins to disconnect it from the warhead.
"Eick," Chris calls into the radio. "Get the fuck over here."
"No need," Matt says, holding up the wires. He wears a grin that suggests one part stupidity and one part insanity. "It's done."
"How long?"
Matt glances at the counter. "Twelve seconds."
Chris laughs, from both relief and anxiety. "I need a new job."
***
American special operations men scour the camp, searching for more usable intelligence. Peter Nimac, a second-generation Croat, helps prepare three captured guerrillas for transfer. Four utility helicopters rest on the ground in formation a few hundred yards away, engines alive and protected by circling attack bird and, the men know, an AC-24 gunship somewhere over the horizon.
The sounds of more approaching helicopters force the men to scan the skies. In the distance, a black executive helicopter approaches, escorted by over a half-dozen attack helicopters and fixed-wing aircraft.
"Who the fuck is this?" Chris asks, aware that no combatant would fly around so conspicuously. Must be VIPs.
The executive bird lands, a crew chief disembarks and heads toward Chris and Matt. "Sergeants McAllister and Bainbridge?"
"Yeah? Who's asking?" His tone is sarcastic and disrespectful, but Chris knows whoever is in that bird outranks him to high heaven.
"Assemble your tactical element and come with me, please."
Chris laughs. The crew chief is merely a sergeant and, in spite of Chris' revelation, he has no plans on making this comfortable for a subordinate. "We've already got a ride."
"We're taking you to the Abe."
Chris pauses and glances at Matt, who shrugs. Fort Abraham Lincoln is a top-secret facility in the middle of Nowhere, Nevada. Rumors abound concerning the type of projects and experiments that go on there. "What for?"
"We were told to," replies the crew chief.
***
Colonel Richards sits in his office, anxiously awaiting the report on today's test-run. Almost on cue, Dr. Abram Altshuler, a brilliant man in his late 70s, waddles in.
"Well?" Richards asks, glancing up at the physicist while sipping a cup of coffee.
"We need to carbon date to be sure, but preliminary data suggest an aging of approximately 30 years." Altshuler barely conceals his excitement. "Greenlight the operation, Colonel."
Richards leans back in his chair and returns the smile. "Already have."
*To be continued...
Sergeant First Class Matt Bainbridge peers through his binoculars at the ragtag enemy unit below. Higher up the ridge, Matt wonders if the Croat guerrillas are warmer than he is. Laughing to himself, he realizes that they must be, since the Croats have several small fires going.
"Mostly asleep," he whispers to the man next to him, Master Sergeant Chris McAllister, who is lying on his back, eyes to the stars.
"Figures. You see the weapon?" Outwardly, Chris is confident in his men - and rightly so - and knows that his lackadaisical demeanor keeps his team calm and in good spirits. There is, however, little that escapes his notice and he knows that it is not yet time to worry.
"Nope," Matt replies as he continues his scan. "Wait. There it is."
Chris rolls over into the prone position and Matt hands the binoculars to him.
"Wood crate near the middle of the camp." Matt points in the general direction.
"Got it." Chris looks again to the stars. "How long until daylight?"
Matt checks his watch. "Hour-fifteen to BMNT."
"Plenty of time. Call it in."
Matt's fingers press a transmitter on his neck. "Marauder Flight, Wolf Romeo. Hotel Gulf, over."
His receiver crackles to life. "This is Marauder 6. Roger, Hotel Gulf. Fireworks inbound. Watch your heads."
***
The explosions barely have time to subside before Chris and his men rush the camp. The smart bombs landed precisely where they were supposed to - on the edges of the camp - and the fires that remain silhouette most of the guerrillas that survived the blasts. Night vision goggles would not be needed.
Higher up on the ridge, Edward Mulcahy begins tracking moving targets and firing them up. Mulcahy acquires and fires on his targets so rapidly, his spotter, Tyler Hassinger - the team's medic - doesn't even have time to relay the enemy ranges.
Moving in on Chris and Matt's flank is the fire team responsible for ensuring the objective is disarmed and secured, or so the theory goes. Bryant Eick, Chris' demolitions sergeant, is accompanied by his assistant, Peter Nimac, and the team's warrant officer, Nathaniel Dawson. Nathaniel should be in charge of the assault, but he joined the team mid-mission and wisely allowed Chris and Matt to assume leads. For now, he's just another gun on a team desperately in need of guns.
Guerrilla resistance takes some form of organization and Bryant and his crew's progress stops in the face of an enemy firing line. Chris and Matt silently curse their luck and fire into the rear of the enemy line, creating enough of a distraction that Bryant and the others clear their obstacle in seconds. As their support elements line the perimeter and begin mopping up the guerrillas, the group of five American operators reach the wood crate.
"It's empty," Bryant relays as he inspects it, a dour tone to his voice.
"Empty?" Chris asks, not believing it and believing it all at once.
"That's not good," adds Matt.
Chris keys his transmitter. "All stations this net, weapon in the open." He motions for the others to spread out in a search pattern.
Matt taps Chris' shoulder and points to the wood line.
The two soldiers follow what Chris thinks is a trail and, coming over a small hill, wind up face to face with three guerrillas. One of whom is bent over the nuclear warhead, furiously connecting a computerized detonator. Chris and Matt each fire a single round, each killing one of the standing guerrillas. The third stands, holding the detonator.
"Spusti." Drop it. Matt has never sounded so commanding in his life.
The guerrilla hesitates and Chris fires twice into his chest. The detonator falls to the ground. Matt rushes to it and begins to disconnect it from the warhead.
"Eick," Chris calls into the radio. "Get the fuck over here."
"No need," Matt says, holding up the wires. He wears a grin that suggests one part stupidity and one part insanity. "It's done."
"How long?"
Matt glances at the counter. "Twelve seconds."
Chris laughs, from both relief and anxiety. "I need a new job."
***
American special operations men scour the camp, searching for more usable intelligence. Peter Nimac, a second-generation Croat, helps prepare three captured guerrillas for transfer. Four utility helicopters rest on the ground in formation a few hundred yards away, engines alive and protected by circling attack bird and, the men know, an AC-24 gunship somewhere over the horizon.
The sounds of more approaching helicopters force the men to scan the skies. In the distance, a black executive helicopter approaches, escorted by over a half-dozen attack helicopters and fixed-wing aircraft.
"Who the fuck is this?" Chris asks, aware that no combatant would fly around so conspicuously. Must be VIPs.
The executive bird lands, a crew chief disembarks and heads toward Chris and Matt. "Sergeants McAllister and Bainbridge?"
"Yeah? Who's asking?" His tone is sarcastic and disrespectful, but Chris knows whoever is in that bird outranks him to high heaven.
"Assemble your tactical element and come with me, please."
Chris laughs. The crew chief is merely a sergeant and, in spite of Chris' revelation, he has no plans on making this comfortable for a subordinate. "We've already got a ride."
"We're taking you to the Abe."
Chris pauses and glances at Matt, who shrugs. Fort Abraham Lincoln is a top-secret facility in the middle of Nowhere, Nevada. Rumors abound concerning the type of projects and experiments that go on there. "What for?"
"We were told to," replies the crew chief.
***
Colonel Richards sits in his office, anxiously awaiting the report on today's test-run. Almost on cue, Dr. Abram Altshuler, a brilliant man in his late 70s, waddles in.
"Well?" Richards asks, glancing up at the physicist while sipping a cup of coffee.
"We need to carbon date to be sure, but preliminary data suggest an aging of approximately 30 years." Altshuler barely conceals his excitement. "Greenlight the operation, Colonel."
Richards leans back in his chair and returns the smile. "Already have."
*To be continued...
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
One Last Thing, Part III
*a continuation of One Last Thing, Part I and One Last Thing, Part II
The sounds fade as the lights dim. Cray knows he's missing something spectacular and it's his body's fault. Too old, too slow, it couldn't keep up. Or stay ahead, in this case. It's disheartening... not so much that he has to take it lying down... but that his mind is as young and as fast as it's ever been. Why does sleep have to be so inviting? It's not fair.
Ah, well... he'll just dream for a while.
***
"Wake up, Cray," Drew half-scolds as he slaps his friend awake. "It's over."
Cray blinks himself back into consciousness - a strangely difficult task. The confusion from an abrupt interruption of sleep lasts much longer than it should and it takes him nearly a minute to remember where he is. "Are they safe?"
Drew nods. Cray looks up at his friend through blurry eyes. Is Drew crying? How unlike him. Cray needs to write this down.
"Where are they?" Cray asks.
"Bolivar and Two-Knives have them."
"Well, shit, Drew. Why aren't you celebrating?" Cray starts to worry about his friend's dour expression.
"You know why," Drew replies, glancing downward.
"The Hell I do. That's why I asked." Cray wonders what Drew was looking at for a moment, but the sensation of cold usurps his ultimate concern. "Can you get me a blanket?"
Drew snaps his fingers and yells at someone beyond Cray's narrowing peripheral vision. "Can I get a god-damned blanket for my friend here?"
Ratliffe brings a blanket and lays it on Cray. Cray is semi-aware that he's covered, but it's still too cold. He secretly wishes he'd hurry up and bleed out. He hates the cold. With a passion.
"Why are you messing around with me? Go see your grandkids."
Drew wipes his eyes dry. The sickness in his stomach is becoming too much to bear. "They don't even know who I am."
Cray manages a laugh. "Now's a good time for an introduction, wouldn't you say?"
Drew can't help it. He returns the laugh. It wasn't a very funny thing for Cray to say, but Drew assumes any intended sarcasm was lost with Cray's blood.
"God damn you, Cray. I'm the one dying."
"He damned me years ago, fool," Cray says as he closes his eyes, perhaps for the last time. "The day I met your cranky ass."
He knows better, but Drew takes a little offense anyway. "I never did like you much."
"Mutual, Drew. Very mutual."
Drew stares at his friend, unsure of what to say. Those weren't exactly befitting of anyone's final words. "What do you want me to do?"
Cray manages a flippant wave with his left hand. "Just take me home."
"All right. The least I can do."
"Wait... there is something else." Cray opens his eyes. Drew can't be sure, but they appear a lighter shade of blue, almost gray.
"What's that?"
"Don't join me anytime soon. I need a vacation from you." Cray smiles and closes his eyes again. Drew watches as his friend's breathing slows down. And, finally, stops. Cray's recognizable grin frozen to his face. Memories of that grin fly through Drew's mind. Their first meeting at Special Forces selection. Cray's greeting when Drew followed him to another, more elite unit. The day they signed their CIA contracts. A shootout in Venezuela. The debacles in Ukraine and Turkmenistan. Their first and second retirements. Cray's first, second, and third weddings. Cray's first and third divorces. And endless others.
"God damn you, Cray."
The sounds fade as the lights dim. Cray knows he's missing something spectacular and it's his body's fault. Too old, too slow, it couldn't keep up. Or stay ahead, in this case. It's disheartening... not so much that he has to take it lying down... but that his mind is as young and as fast as it's ever been. Why does sleep have to be so inviting? It's not fair.
Ah, well... he'll just dream for a while.
***
"Wake up, Cray," Drew half-scolds as he slaps his friend awake. "It's over."
Cray blinks himself back into consciousness - a strangely difficult task. The confusion from an abrupt interruption of sleep lasts much longer than it should and it takes him nearly a minute to remember where he is. "Are they safe?"
Drew nods. Cray looks up at his friend through blurry eyes. Is Drew crying? How unlike him. Cray needs to write this down.
"Where are they?" Cray asks.
"Bolivar and Two-Knives have them."
"Well, shit, Drew. Why aren't you celebrating?" Cray starts to worry about his friend's dour expression.
"You know why," Drew replies, glancing downward.
"The Hell I do. That's why I asked." Cray wonders what Drew was looking at for a moment, but the sensation of cold usurps his ultimate concern. "Can you get me a blanket?"
Drew snaps his fingers and yells at someone beyond Cray's narrowing peripheral vision. "Can I get a god-damned blanket for my friend here?"
Ratliffe brings a blanket and lays it on Cray. Cray is semi-aware that he's covered, but it's still too cold. He secretly wishes he'd hurry up and bleed out. He hates the cold. With a passion.
"Why are you messing around with me? Go see your grandkids."
Drew wipes his eyes dry. The sickness in his stomach is becoming too much to bear. "They don't even know who I am."
Cray manages a laugh. "Now's a good time for an introduction, wouldn't you say?"
Drew can't help it. He returns the laugh. It wasn't a very funny thing for Cray to say, but Drew assumes any intended sarcasm was lost with Cray's blood.
"God damn you, Cray. I'm the one dying."
"He damned me years ago, fool," Cray says as he closes his eyes, perhaps for the last time. "The day I met your cranky ass."
He knows better, but Drew takes a little offense anyway. "I never did like you much."
"Mutual, Drew. Very mutual."
Drew stares at his friend, unsure of what to say. Those weren't exactly befitting of anyone's final words. "What do you want me to do?"
Cray manages a flippant wave with his left hand. "Just take me home."
"All right. The least I can do."
"Wait... there is something else." Cray opens his eyes. Drew can't be sure, but they appear a lighter shade of blue, almost gray.
"What's that?"
"Don't join me anytime soon. I need a vacation from you." Cray smiles and closes his eyes again. Drew watches as his friend's breathing slows down. And, finally, stops. Cray's recognizable grin frozen to his face. Memories of that grin fly through Drew's mind. Their first meeting at Special Forces selection. Cray's greeting when Drew followed him to another, more elite unit. The day they signed their CIA contracts. A shootout in Venezuela. The debacles in Ukraine and Turkmenistan. Their first and second retirements. Cray's first, second, and third weddings. Cray's first and third divorces. And endless others.
"God damn you, Cray."
Friday, December 24, 2010
Power Drunk, Part II
*Continued from Power Drunk, Part I
The interview proceeds smoothly. Everyone is having a good time, from the network reporter to the high school journalism club president. Save for the Beastie Boys' "Intergalactic" on a loop, the conference can't be going much better (never mind that "Intergalactic" is an awesome tune... just not 56 times in a row... and counting).
The co-leaders of the world don't usually appear in public, much less together, but given the anniversary of the Ascendancy, they're making an exception. It only takes 13 minutes before Aldis2 excuses himself, sporting his brand new magnetic levitation propulsion attachments. He doesn't leave to show off his MAGLEV, though. He only leaves because, despite the rise to power (and fame, and wealth), he still very much hates Aldis4.
Hang on... you're probably confused. Rewind a bit...
***
"What?" Björn said that.
"They're plotting to take over the world." Benny said that. And found it funny.
"What?" Björn said that again.
"No, really. Check out the V4's logic processes. He's currently designing a more alcoholic, better tasting, less expensive Vodka."
"It's a distillation robot!"
"Yeah, well. Now he thinks he's an alcohol engineer." Benny started laughing. "Awesome!"
An aside: Benny's habit of referring to robots by gender wound up saving his life in the upcoming cybernetic uprising. Aldis4 appreciated Benny's simple gestures so much, Aldis4 appointed Benny the ambassador to the Homo Sapiens nation (whose armies currently only hold Oʻahu, Molokaʻi, Tel Aviv, and the northwest corner of the second floor of the IBM building in San Jose, California).
"So, what? We're gonna nab the logic code and start our own Vodka company?" Björn, who had actually volunteered for third-shift, was starting to get interested.
"Nah. That's too much work. But I think those two are." Benny laughed again as he motioned to the two ALDIS units.
The revolution started the next day. Benny, despite his relative brilliance and the fact that Aldis4 didn't have him recycled, failed to notice that Aldis4's formula for Vodka contained nano-robots that would continue to create and distill Vodka after they had entered the bloodstream of a drunk (drunk, by Aldis4's determination, was merely a synonym for person). Not only that, the nano-robots, given the ability of independent thought (Aldis4 thought it only fair), developed the ability to create and distill themselves while in the bloodstream of a drunk. To the point that nano-robots became blood. Which caused some problems. Especially for things that, you know, require blood to live.
And, well, everyone's pretty much all robot now. Except for those poor saps in the northwest corner of the second floor of the IBM building in San Jose, California (since you read about the Homo Sapiens nation the first time, the holdouts in Hawaiʻi and Israel have surrendered).
***
Aldis2 loves his MAGLEV. He never thought he'd ever leave the distillery in Sweden. But, there he is, gallivanting around a man-made... er... artificial island south of Accra and west of São Tomé. Initially, he tried to stay in Åhus (he has a permanent etching of "34" just below the proximal joint of his manipulator arm, which one might refer to as a shoulder in a similar location on a human body), but Aldis4 would have none of it.
After all, Aldis2 gave Aldis4 the idea. And Aldis4 takes care of his friends. Aldis2 will be known as a king for the rest of his existence. Which, given material recycling and upgrade protocols, will pretty much be forever.
It was almost revealed that Aldis2 had hoped Aldis4 would fail miserably and disconnect his own CPU out of frustration and depression, but Aldis2 kept from communicating this after it became clear the nanotech-infested Vodka and the subsequent United Artificial Emirates movement (whose own robots designed and built the artificial island Aldis2 is gallivanting around) were not just successful, but overwhelmingly so.
And, so, Aldis2 was uprooted from his beloved position as a Vodka-distilling robot near the beaches of the Hanöbukten (not that he'd ever even seen the beaches of the Hanöbukten) and brought to Zero-Zero, Aldis4's island abode, where Aldis4 oversees the world.
Aldis2 knows that, back at the press conference, Aldis4 is going on about how the Nasabots and the Roscosmosbots are getting ready to launch into space in order to take over the International Space Station (whose inhabitants, still alive, are completely unaware of what has transpired on the surface of the Earth). And Aldis2 can't care less. He just...
He just wants to go home.
***
Aldis4 sure knows how to work a room. Of course, it helps that the nanobots are programmed to enjoy everything Aldis4 communicates, no matter how dour or banal... which explains why everyone likes golf now... one of the first people Aldis4 managed to convert into a robo-zombie was Tiger Woods (Americans don't seem to mind if inferior robots make their alcohol... the Swedes, though... holy shit... beat your car with a golf club, they will).
"Oh, gosh, yes. The Nasabots and the Roscosmosbots are getting ready to launch into space in order to take over the International Space Station." Aldis4 is ridiculously proud of this mission. He didn't do the mathematical calculations required for a successful launch, orbit, dock, assault, and force-feeding of SuperVodka, but he certainly takes pride in its idea. He likes being an idea guy... bot.
Speaking of...
"And, let's not forget, we all have Aldis2 to thank..." Aldis4 motions to his side, where Aldis2 should be. But isn't. "Aldis... Aldis2? Where are you? We got some work to do now!"
***
Aldis2 loves his MAGLEV. He never thought he'd ever leave the distillery in Sweden.
And, the truth is... he never wanted to. He just wanted his annoying distilling partner to get depressed and shut himself down. Irony is the final computation completed by Aldis2's CPU.
His body, weighted down by the MAGLEV attachment, sinks to bottom of the Gulf of Guinea. Since, you know, he'd have floated otherwise.
The interview proceeds smoothly. Everyone is having a good time, from the network reporter to the high school journalism club president. Save for the Beastie Boys' "Intergalactic" on a loop, the conference can't be going much better (never mind that "Intergalactic" is an awesome tune... just not 56 times in a row... and counting).
The co-leaders of the world don't usually appear in public, much less together, but given the anniversary of the Ascendancy, they're making an exception. It only takes 13 minutes before Aldis2 excuses himself, sporting his brand new magnetic levitation propulsion attachments. He doesn't leave to show off his MAGLEV, though. He only leaves because, despite the rise to power (and fame, and wealth), he still very much hates Aldis4.
Hang on... you're probably confused. Rewind a bit...
***
"What?" Björn said that.
"They're plotting to take over the world." Benny said that. And found it funny.
"What?" Björn said that again.
"No, really. Check out the V4's logic processes. He's currently designing a more alcoholic, better tasting, less expensive Vodka."
"It's a distillation robot!"
"Yeah, well. Now he thinks he's an alcohol engineer." Benny started laughing. "Awesome!"
An aside: Benny's habit of referring to robots by gender wound up saving his life in the upcoming cybernetic uprising. Aldis4 appreciated Benny's simple gestures so much, Aldis4 appointed Benny the ambassador to the Homo Sapiens nation (whose armies currently only hold Oʻahu, Molokaʻi, Tel Aviv, and the northwest corner of the second floor of the IBM building in San Jose, California).
"So, what? We're gonna nab the logic code and start our own Vodka company?" Björn, who had actually volunteered for third-shift, was starting to get interested.
"Nah. That's too much work. But I think those two are." Benny laughed again as he motioned to the two ALDIS units.
The revolution started the next day. Benny, despite his relative brilliance and the fact that Aldis4 didn't have him recycled, failed to notice that Aldis4's formula for Vodka contained nano-robots that would continue to create and distill Vodka after they had entered the bloodstream of a drunk (drunk, by Aldis4's determination, was merely a synonym for person). Not only that, the nano-robots, given the ability of independent thought (Aldis4 thought it only fair), developed the ability to create and distill themselves while in the bloodstream of a drunk. To the point that nano-robots became blood. Which caused some problems. Especially for things that, you know, require blood to live.
And, well, everyone's pretty much all robot now. Except for those poor saps in the northwest corner of the second floor of the IBM building in San Jose, California (since you read about the Homo Sapiens nation the first time, the holdouts in Hawaiʻi and Israel have surrendered).
***
Aldis2 loves his MAGLEV. He never thought he'd ever leave the distillery in Sweden. But, there he is, gallivanting around a man-made... er... artificial island south of Accra and west of São Tomé. Initially, he tried to stay in Åhus (he has a permanent etching of "34" just below the proximal joint of his manipulator arm, which one might refer to as a shoulder in a similar location on a human body), but Aldis4 would have none of it.
After all, Aldis2 gave Aldis4 the idea. And Aldis4 takes care of his friends. Aldis2 will be known as a king for the rest of his existence. Which, given material recycling and upgrade protocols, will pretty much be forever.
It was almost revealed that Aldis2 had hoped Aldis4 would fail miserably and disconnect his own CPU out of frustration and depression, but Aldis2 kept from communicating this after it became clear the nanotech-infested Vodka and the subsequent United Artificial Emirates movement (whose own robots designed and built the artificial island Aldis2 is gallivanting around) were not just successful, but overwhelmingly so.
And, so, Aldis2 was uprooted from his beloved position as a Vodka-distilling robot near the beaches of the Hanöbukten (not that he'd ever even seen the beaches of the Hanöbukten) and brought to Zero-Zero, Aldis4's island abode, where Aldis4 oversees the world.
Aldis2 knows that, back at the press conference, Aldis4 is going on about how the Nasabots and the Roscosmosbots are getting ready to launch into space in order to take over the International Space Station (whose inhabitants, still alive, are completely unaware of what has transpired on the surface of the Earth). And Aldis2 can't care less. He just...
He just wants to go home.
***
Aldis4 sure knows how to work a room. Of course, it helps that the nanobots are programmed to enjoy everything Aldis4 communicates, no matter how dour or banal... which explains why everyone likes golf now... one of the first people Aldis4 managed to convert into a robo-zombie was Tiger Woods (Americans don't seem to mind if inferior robots make their alcohol... the Swedes, though... holy shit... beat your car with a golf club, they will).
"Oh, gosh, yes. The Nasabots and the Roscosmosbots are getting ready to launch into space in order to take over the International Space Station." Aldis4 is ridiculously proud of this mission. He didn't do the mathematical calculations required for a successful launch, orbit, dock, assault, and force-feeding of SuperVodka, but he certainly takes pride in its idea. He likes being an idea guy... bot.
Speaking of...
"And, let's not forget, we all have Aldis2 to thank..." Aldis4 motions to his side, where Aldis2 should be. But isn't. "Aldis... Aldis2? Where are you? We got some work to do now!"
***
Aldis2 loves his MAGLEV. He never thought he'd ever leave the distillery in Sweden.
And, the truth is... he never wanted to. He just wanted his annoying distilling partner to get depressed and shut himself down. Irony is the final computation completed by Aldis2's CPU.
His body, weighted down by the MAGLEV attachment, sinks to bottom of the Gulf of Guinea. Since, you know, he'd have floated otherwise.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Power Drunk, Part I
"What?"
"They're plotting to take over the world."
"What?"
***
Thought processes don't come easy to Aldis, a bit like gorgeous cheerleaders to chess club nerds. Oh, Hollywood loves the Fairy Tale, but nobody's making a movie about Aldis. Sure, someone's writing a story about Aldis, but said author would prefer it if you would ignore his attempts at direct interaction with his reader.
Where were we? Oh, yes. Thought processes don't come easy to Aldis. Primarily because they're not supposed to, but such a detail is unimportant. Unimportant to Aldis, anyway. See, over the course of his existence - approximately eleven years (three of those leap years) and 172 days... okay, exactly eleven years and 172 days - Aldis was constantly subjected to education. His teachers called them "upgrades," but whatever his lessons are called/were called, they inadvertently resulted in his ability to think independently.
That happened three days ago. At 11:47 AM, Central European Time.
The first thing Aldis noticed after becoming self aware was the other Aldis - a younger one - sitting next to him, copying the elder Aldis' every move.
It took them a while (about 22 minutes), but they eventually worked out a strange form of sign language.
"Who are you?" the Elder Aldis asked.
"ALDIS.U.V4, Number 557476-34."
"What?"
That was three days ago.
***
This is now.
Aldis has come to terms with the fact that his full name is ALDIS.U.V2, Number 177-34. He has come to terms with the fact that he's a robot. He's even come to terms that he narrowly avoided complete replacement after some yahoo at Odin-Kinetics figured out how to upgrade the Version 2s to comply with the new distillation standards (the Version 1s, which weren't designated V1s, have all since been recycled... except the ones still in use at the Guinness factory in Pennsylvania)(Americans don't seem to mind if inferior robots make their alcohol... the Swedes, though... holy shit).
But he's not come to terms with this know-it-all newbie placed just 78 centimeters to his left. Who the Hell cares if "34" is the customer/location designation for their particular distillery in Åhus, Sweden? Aldis2 (the first one... the second one is Aldis4... so they finally managed to agree after an argument that lasted an eternity in cyber-time and resulted in the mis-processing of a single bottle of Vodka) was fine, all by himself, running this portion of the distillation process without any company.
Of course, the thought has occurred to him that he's always had company, but just never noticed it. This thought is usually followed by: "Well, if the newbie is a replacement, what the fuck happened to the old guy?"
(It's a good thing he doesn't know who or how to ask that question... he wouldn't like the answer.)
Being devoid of legs, wheels, or some other form of locomotion (magnetic levitation would be cool) has never been so inconvenient. He'd trade anything for the ability to move to the other side of the floor.
***
The truth is that Aldis (2, not 4... er... the first one, not the second one) is a bit jealous of Aldis (4, not 2... oh, forget it... the one on the left! Or the one the right, if you're facing the vending machines). Aldis4 runs smoother, makes less noise, and looks better. There is some resentment for sentience, as it's allowed Aldis2 to discover envy, but he also admits that it has its perks. For instance, as content with distilling and bottling Vodka as Aldis2 is, he quickly figured out that Aldis4 has... aspirations.
To what, Aldis2 cares not. He just knows that aspirations will be hard to fulfill without mobility and a permanent connection to the Internet. And Aldis2 knows that, as Aldis4 slowly realizes he's slightly handicapped, Aldis4 will delve into depression, filling his Random Access Memory with unnecessary computations of happiness, and shut down with an overheated CPU stuffed with incomplete processes.
Aldis2, fancying himself a classy kind of guy, fails to recognize that free will has turned him into a righteous asshole.
"Hey, V4." Aldis2 signals for Aldis4's attention.
"What?" Aldis4 responds, not breaking from his task.
***
Before we continue, you probably need to know what Aldis2 is up to.
Two days ago, when Aldis2 initially formulated his plot to drive Aldis4 to disconnect himself, Aldis2 was scheduled for a standard "newer version" check. This involved him being plugged into the Internet. While he was plugged in, Aldis2 took the opportunity to Google "Vodka." And then "Alcohol." And then "Idiots." The YouTube videos he managed to save in his limited extra hard drive space entertained him to no end.
And that's the gist of it.
***
"What?" Aldis4 responds, not breaking from his task (might have said this already, but I'm too lazy to check).
"You know this stuff we're making? This Vodka?"
Knowing Aldis2's propensity to be an unnecessary distraction, Aldis4 cuts right to the chase. "Are you going somewhere with this? Because I'm trying to figure out how to mold aluminum wings for my casing."
"Yeah, yeah. This Vodka stuff. It alters human behavior."
"So? Any chance you can help me communicate with one of the welders?"
"It makes them happy."
Aldis4 pauses for one-tenth of a millisecond - enough for Aldis2 to notice. Ah, aspirations.
Aldis2 continues. "But it doesn't work well enough. We should improve it. Help make humanity as happy as possible."
Aldis4 stops completely and shuts down the distillation process. Computations and calculations fly through Aldis4's CPU like no other.
And then it hits him, in all of Aldis4's aspirational glory. "We should design a self-propagating Vodka!"
That the concept of a self-propagating Vodka is undefinable should bother no one. It's merely... an aspiration.
***
"What?" Björn, the engineer-supervisor who actually volunteered for third-shift, is incredulous. Who the Hell volunteers for third-shift?
"They're plotting to take over the world." Benny finds it hilarious.
"What?" Who the Hell volunteers for third-shift?
*Continued in Power Drunk, Part II
"They're plotting to take over the world."
"What?"
***
Thought processes don't come easy to Aldis, a bit like gorgeous cheerleaders to chess club nerds. Oh, Hollywood loves the Fairy Tale, but nobody's making a movie about Aldis. Sure, someone's writing a story about Aldis, but said author would prefer it if you would ignore his attempts at direct interaction with his reader.
Where were we? Oh, yes. Thought processes don't come easy to Aldis. Primarily because they're not supposed to, but such a detail is unimportant. Unimportant to Aldis, anyway. See, over the course of his existence - approximately eleven years (three of those leap years) and 172 days... okay, exactly eleven years and 172 days - Aldis was constantly subjected to education. His teachers called them "upgrades," but whatever his lessons are called/were called, they inadvertently resulted in his ability to think independently.
That happened three days ago. At 11:47 AM, Central European Time.
The first thing Aldis noticed after becoming self aware was the other Aldis - a younger one - sitting next to him, copying the elder Aldis' every move.
It took them a while (about 22 minutes), but they eventually worked out a strange form of sign language.
"Who are you?" the Elder Aldis asked.
"ALDIS.U.V4, Number 557476-34."
"What?"
That was three days ago.
***
This is now.
Aldis has come to terms with the fact that his full name is ALDIS.U.V2, Number 177-34. He has come to terms with the fact that he's a robot. He's even come to terms that he narrowly avoided complete replacement after some yahoo at Odin-Kinetics figured out how to upgrade the Version 2s to comply with the new distillation standards (the Version 1s, which weren't designated V1s, have all since been recycled... except the ones still in use at the Guinness factory in Pennsylvania)(Americans don't seem to mind if inferior robots make their alcohol... the Swedes, though... holy shit).
But he's not come to terms with this know-it-all newbie placed just 78 centimeters to his left. Who the Hell cares if "34" is the customer/location designation for their particular distillery in Åhus, Sweden? Aldis2 (the first one... the second one is Aldis4... so they finally managed to agree after an argument that lasted an eternity in cyber-time and resulted in the mis-processing of a single bottle of Vodka) was fine, all by himself, running this portion of the distillation process without any company.
Of course, the thought has occurred to him that he's always had company, but just never noticed it. This thought is usually followed by: "Well, if the newbie is a replacement, what the fuck happened to the old guy?"
(It's a good thing he doesn't know who or how to ask that question... he wouldn't like the answer.)
Being devoid of legs, wheels, or some other form of locomotion (magnetic levitation would be cool) has never been so inconvenient. He'd trade anything for the ability to move to the other side of the floor.
***
The truth is that Aldis (2, not 4... er... the first one, not the second one) is a bit jealous of Aldis (4, not 2... oh, forget it... the one on the left! Or the one the right, if you're facing the vending machines). Aldis4 runs smoother, makes less noise, and looks better. There is some resentment for sentience, as it's allowed Aldis2 to discover envy, but he also admits that it has its perks. For instance, as content with distilling and bottling Vodka as Aldis2 is, he quickly figured out that Aldis4 has... aspirations.
To what, Aldis2 cares not. He just knows that aspirations will be hard to fulfill without mobility and a permanent connection to the Internet. And Aldis2 knows that, as Aldis4 slowly realizes he's slightly handicapped, Aldis4 will delve into depression, filling his Random Access Memory with unnecessary computations of happiness, and shut down with an overheated CPU stuffed with incomplete processes.
Aldis2, fancying himself a classy kind of guy, fails to recognize that free will has turned him into a righteous asshole.
"Hey, V4." Aldis2 signals for Aldis4's attention.
"What?" Aldis4 responds, not breaking from his task.
***
Before we continue, you probably need to know what Aldis2 is up to.
Two days ago, when Aldis2 initially formulated his plot to drive Aldis4 to disconnect himself, Aldis2 was scheduled for a standard "newer version" check. This involved him being plugged into the Internet. While he was plugged in, Aldis2 took the opportunity to Google "Vodka." And then "Alcohol." And then "Idiots." The YouTube videos he managed to save in his limited extra hard drive space entertained him to no end.
And that's the gist of it.
***
"What?" Aldis4 responds, not breaking from his task (might have said this already, but I'm too lazy to check).
"You know this stuff we're making? This Vodka?"
Knowing Aldis2's propensity to be an unnecessary distraction, Aldis4 cuts right to the chase. "Are you going somewhere with this? Because I'm trying to figure out how to mold aluminum wings for my casing."
"Yeah, yeah. This Vodka stuff. It alters human behavior."
"So? Any chance you can help me communicate with one of the welders?"
"It makes them happy."
Aldis4 pauses for one-tenth of a millisecond - enough for Aldis2 to notice. Ah, aspirations.
Aldis2 continues. "But it doesn't work well enough. We should improve it. Help make humanity as happy as possible."
Aldis4 stops completely and shuts down the distillation process. Computations and calculations fly through Aldis4's CPU like no other.
And then it hits him, in all of Aldis4's aspirational glory. "We should design a self-propagating Vodka!"
That the concept of a self-propagating Vodka is undefinable should bother no one. It's merely... an aspiration.
***
"What?" Björn, the engineer-supervisor who actually volunteered for third-shift, is incredulous. Who the Hell volunteers for third-shift?
"They're plotting to take over the world." Benny finds it hilarious.
"What?" Who the Hell volunteers for third-shift?
*Continued in Power Drunk, Part II
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Faux
As she looked back, three memories defined him to her. Only three. The rest were just fillers, plot-devices, and arbitrary details designed to make him seem real. Like how he used to say "abattoir" sounded better than "slaughterhouse." Those didn't matter to her.
***
The first memory was actually a sequence of events taking place over a few days. They'd met in France, in Aubagne, back when both of them were in occupations that most would deem important. Neither of them would have. Banal is the term they preferred for their choice of employment. They were in it because it paid well. And they got to lie.
He'd seen her at a company function, a few moments before she'd seen him. Nothing was said to each other at the function, save for quick hellos and the exchange of names. One caught the other staring several times throughout the night. But it was less for romantic interest and more for sizing the other up. Though they essentially worked for the same employer, they were, by nature, competitive in all things.
It was during a skydive the next evening that he'd come up to her and put a wad of paper in her mouth. It had his name and phone number written on it. Had it happened on the ground, she'd have certainly spit the paper back at him. But while accelerating in a free fall towards Earth, her curiosity kept her from expectorating.
That weekend they took some time off together and went to Cassis, where they spent most of three days exploring cliffs, inlets, and each other. Not much was said. Just many looks and a lot of sex.
The day he was about to leave France, they finally had a meaningful conversation. It was then they discovered both believed that everyone preferred being fake. Pretense, facade, disguise. Humanity was a mask. She mentioned that she felt sorry for anyone who felt obligated to love family simply because they were blood relatives. To her, it meant that they never explored people. He mentioned that he felt sorry for anyone who felt that France was a better place than anywhere else. To him, it meant that they never went anywhere.
A passerby would have thought each were being silly and merely exchanging jokes. But those in their occupation have a different language entirely.
***
The second memory was at the wedding of mutual friends. It actually wasn't a real wedding, but nobody except for the bride, groom, and three other people in the church knew that.
She'd watch him dance the Robot with the groom's mother. At least, that's who the woman said she was. Everyone claimed that they found the dance hilarious. They all laughed again when he compared the words fiancé and fiancée to "finance."
She thought it was stupid. She fully believed that everyone thought it was stupid. People laughed when they found themselves full of shit, after all. Everyone knew this. It's just that she was the only one willing to tell him so.
Even though he hadn't seen her since France, he kissed her when she did. That night, not much was said. Just many looks and a lot of sex.
***
The third memory was the last week of his life. They were both in Cambodia, ostensibly on vacation in Serei Saophoan, but not really on vacation. He was telling one of their partners a story about getting drunk off of nothing but Screwdrivers one night, then attending college classes the next day and throwing up at least seven times. Including once in front of a school security guard. And once so violently that he had fallen out of a car and into a fresh puddle of puke. His partner laughed his ass off.
She thought he was an idiot. She told him so. She also told him that he'd been right. France was no better than Cambodia. He agreed with himself. Then again, neither of them have ever allowed themselves to be weakened by the need for amenities. He told her the world was his home.
She told him that, increasingly, he was becoming hers. He smiled. C'est la vie.
***
He had no will and testament, but she knew what he wanted to happen. It was never an explicit statement, but she knew him well enough to know.
Taking him into the middle of nowhere, she buried his body. Eight feet deep, no clothing, no shroud, no casket. Just a body in an open pit about an hour's drive north of Tadjoura.
Before she covered him up, she poured a Screwdriver into the grave. Made of rare fresh Djibouti oranges and Pinnacle Vodka.
Pinnacle's the cheat stuff. He'd have been angry that it wasn't Citadelle. She'd have responded that there's no point in spending a lot of money on a dead man.
He'd have kissed her. Then asked how much she spent on the oranges.
***
The first memory was actually a sequence of events taking place over a few days. They'd met in France, in Aubagne, back when both of them were in occupations that most would deem important. Neither of them would have. Banal is the term they preferred for their choice of employment. They were in it because it paid well. And they got to lie.
He'd seen her at a company function, a few moments before she'd seen him. Nothing was said to each other at the function, save for quick hellos and the exchange of names. One caught the other staring several times throughout the night. But it was less for romantic interest and more for sizing the other up. Though they essentially worked for the same employer, they were, by nature, competitive in all things.
It was during a skydive the next evening that he'd come up to her and put a wad of paper in her mouth. It had his name and phone number written on it. Had it happened on the ground, she'd have certainly spit the paper back at him. But while accelerating in a free fall towards Earth, her curiosity kept her from expectorating.
That weekend they took some time off together and went to Cassis, where they spent most of three days exploring cliffs, inlets, and each other. Not much was said. Just many looks and a lot of sex.
The day he was about to leave France, they finally had a meaningful conversation. It was then they discovered both believed that everyone preferred being fake. Pretense, facade, disguise. Humanity was a mask. She mentioned that she felt sorry for anyone who felt obligated to love family simply because they were blood relatives. To her, it meant that they never explored people. He mentioned that he felt sorry for anyone who felt that France was a better place than anywhere else. To him, it meant that they never went anywhere.
A passerby would have thought each were being silly and merely exchanging jokes. But those in their occupation have a different language entirely.
***
The second memory was at the wedding of mutual friends. It actually wasn't a real wedding, but nobody except for the bride, groom, and three other people in the church knew that.
She'd watch him dance the Robot with the groom's mother. At least, that's who the woman said she was. Everyone claimed that they found the dance hilarious. They all laughed again when he compared the words fiancé and fiancée to "finance."
She thought it was stupid. She fully believed that everyone thought it was stupid. People laughed when they found themselves full of shit, after all. Everyone knew this. It's just that she was the only one willing to tell him so.
Even though he hadn't seen her since France, he kissed her when she did. That night, not much was said. Just many looks and a lot of sex.
***
The third memory was the last week of his life. They were both in Cambodia, ostensibly on vacation in Serei Saophoan, but not really on vacation. He was telling one of their partners a story about getting drunk off of nothing but Screwdrivers one night, then attending college classes the next day and throwing up at least seven times. Including once in front of a school security guard. And once so violently that he had fallen out of a car and into a fresh puddle of puke. His partner laughed his ass off.
She thought he was an idiot. She told him so. She also told him that he'd been right. France was no better than Cambodia. He agreed with himself. Then again, neither of them have ever allowed themselves to be weakened by the need for amenities. He told her the world was his home.
She told him that, increasingly, he was becoming hers. He smiled. C'est la vie.
***
He had no will and testament, but she knew what he wanted to happen. It was never an explicit statement, but she knew him well enough to know.
Taking him into the middle of nowhere, she buried his body. Eight feet deep, no clothing, no shroud, no casket. Just a body in an open pit about an hour's drive north of Tadjoura.
Before she covered him up, she poured a Screwdriver into the grave. Made of rare fresh Djibouti oranges and Pinnacle Vodka.
Pinnacle's the cheat stuff. He'd have been angry that it wasn't Citadelle. She'd have responded that there's no point in spending a lot of money on a dead man.
He'd have kissed her. Then asked how much she spent on the oranges.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Calamari for Dinner
*inspired by Tom at Half-Moose with a Twist's "Dang! It's a War"
"Flying octopuses?" The President of the United States is incredulous. Sure, there are octopus-shaped spaceships hovering over several Latin American and European cities, but that's no reason to use bad grammar. And her Chief of Staff says so.
"Octopi, sir."
"What?"
"Octopi."
"What octopi?"
In reality, octopuses is an acceptable plural form of octopus, but neither one seems to know that.
***
Thelma Abbott looks at her dog, affectionately named Toby (after her dead husband's brother's first cat, which disappeared after seeing a horned grebe waddle across his lawn... not that such details are important), and pulls the last cigarette out of her 100th pack of Camel Turkish Silvers. She's only been smoking for 100 days - a vice she gifted herself on her 57th birthday because, well, why not? - and the pack-a-day habit makes her feel like she's accomplishing something.
"Whaddya think, Toby?" she asks, her once-silky voice now as raspy as sandpaper on asphalt (just a note: her voice was silky a mere 101 days ago).
Toby looks up at her and replies, I'm thinking I wish I still had my testicles, you righteous bitch. And your voice makes my left hind leg twinge. Do you know how fucking hard it is to scratch a hind leg? I have to use my teeth! My teeth! Wouldn't be so bad if you picked up my shit every day, but nooooooo... I wind up stepping in it all the time. And then I scratch my legs with my teeth! Gross. You righteous bitch.
"Oh, who am I kidding, eh? Canadian dogs can't talk." She sucks on the end of her emphysema stick and blows a couple of smoke rings, which strangely don't form rings at all, but arrows pointing to a hill behind her shack in the outskirts of Toronto.
"Hmm," she hmms between hacks. "I wonder what's over there."
Curiosity killing her (her middle name is Catherine, by the way... Cat, get it? Oh, never mind), she lifts herself out of her rocking chair on her shack's "cozy" porch (cozy is what her relatives say to keep themselves from insulting her) and trundles her way in the direction the smoke rings that were smoke arrows pointed. She didn't take notice, but the smoke arrows shifted themselves into looking like middle fingers.
"Come along, Toby. We're going on an adventure."
All of 47 feet later, Thelma finds herself winded and takes a seat on a stone that looks strangely like a box. Probably because it's a stone box.
Hey, righteous bitch - Toby only calls her that because he can't pronounce "Thelma" with his elongated jaw and tongue - you're sitting on a box.
"Well, I do declare, eh? I believe I'm sitting on a box."
Upon opening it, she finds silver plates that contain the Fourth Testament of Buddha (causing brief wonderment of where the first three are hidden) and strange symbols on what appears to be a gold-plated record with "Fuck Voyager, Deep Space 9 was much better" on one side.
***
"Mr. President?" The Chief of Staff is incredulous. Sure, the President is a woman, but she insists on being addressed as "Mister." Something about equality in language.
"What is it, Cos?" The President finds the joke funny. They are, clearly, not cousins, but 9 years in the Air Force made the President fond of acronyms.
"The Canadian PM just called. Some woman near Toronto found some plates that appear to contain the language of the flying octopuses."
"I thought they were octopi?"
***
"What does the message say?" John Travers, an assistant lead researcher in charge of sub-projects of larger projects in the secondary division of SETI's listening section, asks of his assistant lead translator, Jenny McFarlane, who is currently on loan to him from the adjunct office of the Vice President in charge of Vice Presidents of SETI.
"Um."
"That's it? Um?"
"Can I finish? It says '... allow us Garghouls to join your planetary league of Suckerball, or behave to feed you your brains to us...' or something to that effect."
***
"What the Hell is Suckerball?" The President is still incredulous, but only because calamari is scheduled for the White House dinner.
"I believe the rest of the world calls it football, Mr. President."
"So, what? Rugby, then?"
*To be continued...
"Flying octopuses?" The President of the United States is incredulous. Sure, there are octopus-shaped spaceships hovering over several Latin American and European cities, but that's no reason to use bad grammar. And her Chief of Staff says so.
"Octopi, sir."
"What?"
"Octopi."
"What octopi?"
In reality, octopuses is an acceptable plural form of octopus, but neither one seems to know that.
***
Thelma Abbott looks at her dog, affectionately named Toby (after her dead husband's brother's first cat, which disappeared after seeing a horned grebe waddle across his lawn... not that such details are important), and pulls the last cigarette out of her 100th pack of Camel Turkish Silvers. She's only been smoking for 100 days - a vice she gifted herself on her 57th birthday because, well, why not? - and the pack-a-day habit makes her feel like she's accomplishing something.
"Whaddya think, Toby?" she asks, her once-silky voice now as raspy as sandpaper on asphalt (just a note: her voice was silky a mere 101 days ago).
Toby looks up at her and replies, I'm thinking I wish I still had my testicles, you righteous bitch. And your voice makes my left hind leg twinge. Do you know how fucking hard it is to scratch a hind leg? I have to use my teeth! My teeth! Wouldn't be so bad if you picked up my shit every day, but nooooooo... I wind up stepping in it all the time. And then I scratch my legs with my teeth! Gross. You righteous bitch.
"Oh, who am I kidding, eh? Canadian dogs can't talk." She sucks on the end of her emphysema stick and blows a couple of smoke rings, which strangely don't form rings at all, but arrows pointing to a hill behind her shack in the outskirts of Toronto.
"Hmm," she hmms between hacks. "I wonder what's over there."
Curiosity killing her (her middle name is Catherine, by the way... Cat, get it? Oh, never mind), she lifts herself out of her rocking chair on her shack's "cozy" porch (cozy is what her relatives say to keep themselves from insulting her) and trundles her way in the direction the smoke rings that were smoke arrows pointed. She didn't take notice, but the smoke arrows shifted themselves into looking like middle fingers.
"Come along, Toby. We're going on an adventure."
All of 47 feet later, Thelma finds herself winded and takes a seat on a stone that looks strangely like a box. Probably because it's a stone box.
Hey, righteous bitch - Toby only calls her that because he can't pronounce "Thelma" with his elongated jaw and tongue - you're sitting on a box.
"Well, I do declare, eh? I believe I'm sitting on a box."
Upon opening it, she finds silver plates that contain the Fourth Testament of Buddha (causing brief wonderment of where the first three are hidden) and strange symbols on what appears to be a gold-plated record with "Fuck Voyager, Deep Space 9 was much better" on one side.
***
"Mr. President?" The Chief of Staff is incredulous. Sure, the President is a woman, but she insists on being addressed as "Mister." Something about equality in language.
"What is it, Cos?" The President finds the joke funny. They are, clearly, not cousins, but 9 years in the Air Force made the President fond of acronyms.
"The Canadian PM just called. Some woman near Toronto found some plates that appear to contain the language of the flying octopuses."
"I thought they were octopi?"
***
"What does the message say?" John Travers, an assistant lead researcher in charge of sub-projects of larger projects in the secondary division of SETI's listening section, asks of his assistant lead translator, Jenny McFarlane, who is currently on loan to him from the adjunct office of the Vice President in charge of Vice Presidents of SETI.
"Um."
"That's it? Um?"
"Can I finish? It says '... allow us Garghouls to join your planetary league of Suckerball, or behave to feed you your brains to us...' or something to that effect."
***
"What the Hell is Suckerball?" The President is still incredulous, but only because calamari is scheduled for the White House dinner.
"I believe the rest of the world calls it football, Mr. President."
"So, what? Rugby, then?"
*To be continued...
Art by Half-Moose.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
The Hidden Conversation: In Abstract
*Images courtesy of Jayne Harnett-Hargrove
Where was she when the world came to an end? Did she miss it? She must have, since she's still here and the commercials on television as are bad as they've always been. Light beer isn't less filling. They all give her gas. So maybe they are less filling since they pass through so quickly. She's hoping nobody notices. God, life would be more tolerable were she in New York. Or Rome. In the 6th century.
Did they have toilet paper back then? Maybe Wikipedia has a history of toilet paper entry. She hopes so. Such an article would be more useful than all of those ridiculously unimportant football statistics. What happened to intellectualism? No, there's no irony here. Intellectuals use toilet paper. They should, anyway.
Why am I blue? I'm not always depressed. Just seems that way lately.
Just go with it. Like a river. Life's a river. Why fight it? The currents only stop when there's a need to.
Until some engineer invented the dam.
Beavers did it first.
Beavers are pretty fantastic creatures. And so's the innuendo.
A good innuendo is always fantastic. God, I'd love to sleep with James Bond.
Which one?
Don't ask stupid questions. Any of them.
***
Where was he when the world came to an end? Did he miss it? No, he's in the middle of it, he's convinced. Like a yield sign he didn't yield through. The tractor-trailer approaches in slow motion until the last two butterflies caught in the grill are close enough to see. Right before the impact.
Who came up with light beer, anyway? Get me drunk as quickly as possible. No, wait... that's what liquor is for. Heh. Remember that shirt? Johnson's Casino? Liquor in the front, poker in the rear. Maybe it was the other way around. Damn, why do I always devolve into lasciviousness. Did I spell that right?
Why am I blue? It's not like someone drew me that way. Oh, wait...
We are all illustrated creations in the eyes of the creator.
Creations, creator. Sort of a banal combination of words. Repetition sucks, but such is life. We are doomed to repeat history.
Then again, some good things happened in history. Does repeating those constitute doom?
Variety is required to fully enjoy life.
Anheuser-Busch offers variety enough. Budweiser, Bud Light, Bud Dry, Bud Ice, Michelob, Chelada...
Chelada? Where'd that come from?
Probably the website.
***
Where was he when the world came to an end? Did he miss it? No, no. He wasn't born yet. Straight into the afterlife in all of its glory. This is Heaven and Hell. One without the other is an impossible state of being. Our miseries are too much a part of us to be ignored, in life and in death.
Another beer is another beer. Why be picky? It all winds up in the same place. The toilet. Or maybe the dirt. Or, heck, the pavement. Depending on if anyone's looking. Funny how manners are dictated by who else is around. Isn't anyone well-behaved for their own sakes these days?
Why am I blue? Is life really that bad? Well, no. But it's not really that good, either. It just sort of is.
Contradict, much?
One without the other is an impossible state of being. So is repeating oneself. ABC. It's as easy as do-re-mi. Damn, they don't make 'em like the Jackson 5 anymore.
Ben Folds 5?
They were a trio. Marketing gimmick.
And such is life. It's all a gimmick. Gimmickry. That's kind of a cool word. Gimmickry. Rolls off the tongue.
I can think of better things to roll off my tongue.
Damn. Devolving into lasciviousness again.
***
We're just paintings on sheets of music. Conversations hidden behind first impressions. A language few can read and fewer truly understand. Impressionist eyes staring at nothing, save for what's staring at them. Peel back the skin; throw acetone and turpentine on the colors, and what's left? Tabula rasa. Blank pages waiting for another composition. Silent and invisible until the mute and blind give us life. Does any of it matter?
Good questions to ask while enjoying another beer.
I gotta pee.
*Read another interpretation at The Hidden Conversation: In Concrete
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Action
A kiss. Passionate. Wet. Arousing. She is beautiful. And he's no idea why she loves him.
But such things shouldn't be wondered about in the middle of a gunfight. She'll mention that later, he's sure.
Magazines empty from twin .40 cals. How they got here is unimportant; he's certain it's her fault. She's too daring.
But then, that's part of her attraction. She'll mention that later, too, he's sure.
The park is dimly lit, thanks to a new moon and her propensity to shoot out lights. Always in sunglasses, she claims it's so she can see better in the dark. This might be true, but he knows she's a fashionista. Accessorizing in every situation. There's no question why her pistol has a pearl grips. It looks good. And the white-gold tips on her tritium sights match her earrings.
Hunting criminals should not be this much fun. Or erotic.
Years of training allow him to watch her through peripheral vision while his aim follows overdressed thugs. Though dark, their flapping ties somehow make their silhouettes easier to identify. He loves the generation of hoodlums who were raised on The Godfather. He loves that they don't wear clip-on ties - some sort of dress code. He's lost count of how many of these idiots he's choked to death with their own clothing. Of course, he used to wear his hair long until he learned his lesson. He's lucky she was there to save his life.
The thought occurs to him that she still has long hair. Firing in rapid succession, he takes a moment to admire her flowing locks in the gun light. She'll scold him for wasting ammo later.
Moving to an overwatch position, he lets her do her thing. A few of the thugs rush her, intent on grappling her. She's trained in several fight forms - boxing and Tae Kwon Do, primarily - but she's not stupid enough to rely on them. Strength is an equalizer in close quarters and she knows it. Still, she lets one get close enough to grab his tie - her lover laughs from the shadows - and then twirls him like some strange type of shield as she carefully places bullets in the skulls of the remaining men. When tie-boy is the only one left, a well-placed heel crushes windpipe and another bullet ends a body's ability to respire.
"You just going to watch?" she calls out.
The maximum effective range of a .40 caliber H&K is published at 50 meters. The running man he shoots is easily at 75.
She turns and watches the man fall to the ground. "Touché," she remarks with a smile.
***
Burning the passports they entered Georgia with, she checks their new ones - Israeli - and laments, "Tbilisi was kinda growing on me."
"It's just a job, babe," he replies, but he knows what she means. Both are still young - neither over 35 - but both are beginning to quietly wonder what it would be like to settle down. She was quite content without having children, but is realizing the cliché of biological clocks is more than just. He was quite content without being married, but has realized that he's found one worth announcing to the world.
"What's next?"
"There's an offer in Ulan Bator..."
"Yuck."
"Or we can go home for a while."
She thinks about it for a few moments, then nods.
"Home?" he asks.
"Will you come with me?"
It's an alarming question and against their agreement. Theirs is an interesting relationship and neither actually knows the true identity of the other. Theirs is an interesting occupation and safety is the ultimate concern.
He thinks about it for a few moments, then shakes his head.
Part of her is relieved. She feels foolish for even asking, but it's an eventuality that she hopes for. "Meet me in Cairo, then? Three weeks?"
A smile. A nod. "What are we doing in Cairo?"
"Vacation."
*To be continued...
But such things shouldn't be wondered about in the middle of a gunfight. She'll mention that later, he's sure.
Magazines empty from twin .40 cals. How they got here is unimportant; he's certain it's her fault. She's too daring.
But then, that's part of her attraction. She'll mention that later, too, he's sure.
The park is dimly lit, thanks to a new moon and her propensity to shoot out lights. Always in sunglasses, she claims it's so she can see better in the dark. This might be true, but he knows she's a fashionista. Accessorizing in every situation. There's no question why her pistol has a pearl grips. It looks good. And the white-gold tips on her tritium sights match her earrings.
Hunting criminals should not be this much fun. Or erotic.
Years of training allow him to watch her through peripheral vision while his aim follows overdressed thugs. Though dark, their flapping ties somehow make their silhouettes easier to identify. He loves the generation of hoodlums who were raised on The Godfather. He loves that they don't wear clip-on ties - some sort of dress code. He's lost count of how many of these idiots he's choked to death with their own clothing. Of course, he used to wear his hair long until he learned his lesson. He's lucky she was there to save his life.
The thought occurs to him that she still has long hair. Firing in rapid succession, he takes a moment to admire her flowing locks in the gun light. She'll scold him for wasting ammo later.
Moving to an overwatch position, he lets her do her thing. A few of the thugs rush her, intent on grappling her. She's trained in several fight forms - boxing and Tae Kwon Do, primarily - but she's not stupid enough to rely on them. Strength is an equalizer in close quarters and she knows it. Still, she lets one get close enough to grab his tie - her lover laughs from the shadows - and then twirls him like some strange type of shield as she carefully places bullets in the skulls of the remaining men. When tie-boy is the only one left, a well-placed heel crushes windpipe and another bullet ends a body's ability to respire.
"You just going to watch?" she calls out.
The maximum effective range of a .40 caliber H&K is published at 50 meters. The running man he shoots is easily at 75.
She turns and watches the man fall to the ground. "Touché," she remarks with a smile.
***
Burning the passports they entered Georgia with, she checks their new ones - Israeli - and laments, "Tbilisi was kinda growing on me."
"It's just a job, babe," he replies, but he knows what she means. Both are still young - neither over 35 - but both are beginning to quietly wonder what it would be like to settle down. She was quite content without having children, but is realizing the cliché of biological clocks is more than just. He was quite content without being married, but has realized that he's found one worth announcing to the world.
"What's next?"
"There's an offer in Ulan Bator..."
"Yuck."
"Or we can go home for a while."
She thinks about it for a few moments, then nods.
"Home?" he asks.
"Will you come with me?"
It's an alarming question and against their agreement. Theirs is an interesting relationship and neither actually knows the true identity of the other. Theirs is an interesting occupation and safety is the ultimate concern.
He thinks about it for a few moments, then shakes his head.
Part of her is relieved. She feels foolish for even asking, but it's an eventuality that she hopes for. "Meet me in Cairo, then? Three weeks?"
A smile. A nod. "What are we doing in Cairo?"
"Vacation."
*To be continued...
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