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...
Showing posts with label science fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label science fiction. Show all posts
Thursday, December 30, 2010
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
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.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
In the Wind
The vortex tears through the landscape, ripping apart everything in its unspoken need to feed oblivion. Objects passing by mere blurs in peripheral vision, though the roar in the air remains a deafening constant. Occasionally, there's a momentary scream, piercing and mercifully brief. He's labeled the ones higher in pitch as "children," and he'd be pained to learn how accurate the connection is. His muscles are exhausted; there are no calories left to burn. But he's holding on with fingers locked. He's no idea what foundation the metal bar is attached to, but he's certain it will not hold forever. For the life of him, he can't figure out why he just doesn't let go. Are seconds of life that precious?
Reality turns inside out. Winds, usually invisible, paint themselves with remnants of dust and water. He can only look down, towards the gaping maw that wants to swallow him. Breathing is almost as difficult as hanging on, and each inhalation feels strangely like a lung has collapsed. He's always wanted to fly, but now only wants to kiss the Earth, even with pieces of it stuck in his throat. There's a chorus of screams, passing marginally slower, and below his feet he sees the bus disappear into the nothingness. A fleeting impression of pity gives way to the realization that, unlike him, they didn't die alone. Perhaps that's what he's waiting for. A companion to travel with to the other side.
The pursuit of knowledge is destroying existence, and the irony is laughable, but the fear of asphyxiation prevents the joke from being enjoyed. There's another joke in watching one's life flash before their eyes, but it's lost its humor in light of everyone's life flashing before his eyes. Density increases under rapidly strengthening gravity, compacting the whole of human history into one small molecule. He can feel his fingers about to snap, the bones fracturing and the ligaments stretching beyond recovery. Hearing more screams, he forces himself to look up. The shape of a body rapidly approaches and he lets go metal in order to grasp flesh.
He doesn't know who the body belongs to and doesn't really care. Eyes stay closed under the sensation of falling. Their embrace is tight, passionate, and cognitive of their ultimate fate. Giving in, he finally appreciates the wind. He's never been in love, doesn't know what it looks like, or even where it lives. Maybe it'll take him there.
Reality turns inside out. Winds, usually invisible, paint themselves with remnants of dust and water. He can only look down, towards the gaping maw that wants to swallow him. Breathing is almost as difficult as hanging on, and each inhalation feels strangely like a lung has collapsed. He's always wanted to fly, but now only wants to kiss the Earth, even with pieces of it stuck in his throat. There's a chorus of screams, passing marginally slower, and below his feet he sees the bus disappear into the nothingness. A fleeting impression of pity gives way to the realization that, unlike him, they didn't die alone. Perhaps that's what he's waiting for. A companion to travel with to the other side.
The pursuit of knowledge is destroying existence, and the irony is laughable, but the fear of asphyxiation prevents the joke from being enjoyed. There's another joke in watching one's life flash before their eyes, but it's lost its humor in light of everyone's life flashing before his eyes. Density increases under rapidly strengthening gravity, compacting the whole of human history into one small molecule. He can feel his fingers about to snap, the bones fracturing and the ligaments stretching beyond recovery. Hearing more screams, he forces himself to look up. The shape of a body rapidly approaches and he lets go metal in order to grasp flesh.
He doesn't know who the body belongs to and doesn't really care. Eyes stay closed under the sensation of falling. Their embrace is tight, passionate, and cognitive of their ultimate fate. Giving in, he finally appreciates the wind. He's never been in love, doesn't know what it looks like, or even where it lives. Maybe it'll take him there.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Gods Playing Poker: Post Mortem
*Continued from Gods Playing Poker: A Bold Bluff
"The other side? Of what? Indiana?"
Silver laughs. Not because he finds his partner funny, but because he feels sorry for him. Silver stands in close to East, reaching up to put a hand on East's shoulder. "The other side, dude. There's another world out there. I know it, buddy. I've seen it... felt it."
East won't look into his face. "You were assaulted, Gary. You felt an attack." He can't bring himself to use the word. It seems totally inconsistent.
Suddenly, Silver angers, pushing East to the floor. "No, you asshole. I felt awesome. Then you came in and fucked it all up."
Brushing himself down, East stands back up. He needs to change the subject again. "They in the bedroom?"
The anger gone, Silver returns to the re-reflector. "Nobody's in the bedroom."
East keeps his eyes on Silver, who gradually feels the gaze.
"Seriously," Silver points to the room with a spanwrench. "Go look."
"Put the wrench down." East doesn't move.
"Oh, for fuck's sake. I've got a gun, Steve. Go look."
Mentally shrugging - crazy as he is, Silver has a point - East enters the bedroom and turns on the light. Pristine. Nothing touched, nothing moved. Bed hasn't even been sat on. The door to the bathroom is wide open. Nobody inside.
"SWAT dogs say they saw two people."
"I'm putting up mirrors. They saw me. And me."
East has no response. He simply watches Silver work and listens to the whirl-whine of the velocicopters passing by outside. East doesn't know what to do. There's no protocol for this. No field manual depicting a similar situation. He's got to figure out a way to get Silver off-balance.
"You're crazy," East starts, hoping not to arouse more anger. "All this existential religious hocus-focus is junk."
No anger, but another pitying laugh. "Oh, it's not junk. It's real."
"You're crazy."
Silver pulls out his short-round. Less to threaten East and more to remove the discomfort. One of the reasons Silver - well, sane Silver - never wears one in his trousers. That and everyone's heard an "accidental discharge" story. Even with the new body heat and hand print safeties, those things can be ridiculous.
East lets out a hidden sigh of relief when Silver places the weapon on an improvised work table, which is just a stack of instruction manuals that came with the tools, lenses, and mirrors Silver acquired to build his doohicky with. Still, East starts sliding slowly toward it. A few centimeters at a time. Subtle, smooth. Nothing too fast to garner Silver's attention.
"You'll see, my friend. You'll see."
"What is this?" East is exasperated. Exacerbated, even. "You find God or something?"
Silver laughs yet again. But this laugh is unlike any East has ever heard from his partner. "Or something."
East suddenly wishes he'd kept his own sidearm. Or, at least, accepted the surveillance radio.
"What happened here? Before." If progress can't be made, back up and reevaluate.
Silver shifts locations, temporarily placing himself between East and the weapon. "I had a moment of purity."
"A what?"
"I saw everything. I felt everything. I understand it now. So will you."
"Understand what?"
Silver gestures his arms around the room. "What this is all about, man. Emily wasn't raped. She was elevated. I would have been, too, if you hadn't have interrupted."
East can't help it. His tone crescendos in abject surprise. "What?"
"Think about it, East. A virgin? By all rights, so was her cousin."
"You're not a virgin. And we don't know squat about her cousin."
Silver nods. "I do."
"You're still not a virgin."
A smirk. "Technicality."
Sensing defeat and sorrow at the realization of what's going to happen to his friend, East waves his hand at Silver. "I'm gonna go. You're crazy."
Silver frowns, steps to the firearm and reaches for it. East notices the expression just as he starts to turn for the door, then changes direction and rushes his partner, knocking Silver to the ground. Silver, always the one in better fighting shape, uses East's momentum against him and throws East to the wall. The vibration knocks a few mirrors loose. Silver stands, firearm in hand, and glares at the shattered glass. East has never seen his partner so angry.
Silver has the short-round in his right hand, jammed into East's kidney.
East elbows his partner and knocks him off center, and they struggle with the gun, finally coming to a standstill against the wall. In the corner where it all began. They are close enough to give the wrong impression, but the gun tells the truth.
"It's real, Steve. I'll show you."
"Don't..."
"Moments of purity fuel the universe, my friend." A small but distinguished pop ends the sentence, and Steven East shrugs to the floor, his life sloughing away in a drab room, with wide, wild eyes.
***
***
A louder discharge permeates the room, this one accompanied by a blast and a flying door. The door and reverb concussion shatters what's left of the re-reflector, sending Silver into a frenzy. Screaming in horror, he starts shooting at the invading SWAT dogs. He hits a few, but their EmflectionTM armor is more than enough to protect them from the small caliber ammunition. Silver never did acquire the larger gun.
Marquitez is in the room; drops to a knee and fires more than a dozen ballistic shockers into Silver's torso. Silver seizures and convulses violently before flopping to the ground in a sizzling slump.
The team Tac-Nurse rushes to East and checks his pulse. "He's gone."
Marquitez' head turns. "No," quietly escapes his lips.
The alpha SWAT dog shakes his head. East was a good cop. Then again, so was Silver. "Get Scene Control in here." He motions to Silver's body. "Put this asshole in a lock-jacket."
***
Detective-Captain Amanda Normandy arrives on-site just in time to see an unconscious Silver tossed into a Vault Wagon. He's been lock-jacketed and cuffed. The SWAT dogs don't even waste time strapping Silver into a mobile bed. They just sling him into the back of the truck and lock the door.
"Belay that truck," she screams as she rushes to the command and control vehicle. "What the Hell happened?" she asks Jimmy-Jim.
He doesn't have time for this. It's been a fucked up enough day already. "Your dick killed your other dick."
She holds back the urge to break down. Forces another pertinent question. "And the hostages?"
"There was nobody else up there. Just that gadget Silver was building. Your man Marquitez is cataloging it now."
***
Silver fades in and out of consciousness in the penitentiary's loony barn. He's lost in a dream world that might not be a dream. He expects a visitor. And a journey.
Finally, she comes to him. She's smiling.
"Hi, Emily." He thinks the words, at least. No one is sure he actually spoke them.
Her smile never leaves her face, but her tone is upset. "Hello, Gary."
"You here to take me? I'm ready to go."
She shakes her head. "No, you're not coming. You're headed elsewhere."
The meaning is clear. Even though nothing is explained.
"What did I do wrong?" asks Silver.
"You figured it out."
The meaning is unclear. And everything is explained. In a rush, sanity returns to Silver's mind.
"I... I'm a detective. I'm supposed to figure it out."
"Not this. This was none of your concern."
FADE TO BLACK
The Complete Gods Playing Poker
"The other side? Of what? Indiana?"
Silver laughs. Not because he finds his partner funny, but because he feels sorry for him. Silver stands in close to East, reaching up to put a hand on East's shoulder. "The other side, dude. There's another world out there. I know it, buddy. I've seen it... felt it."
East won't look into his face. "You were assaulted, Gary. You felt an attack." He can't bring himself to use the word. It seems totally inconsistent.
Suddenly, Silver angers, pushing East to the floor. "No, you asshole. I felt awesome. Then you came in and fucked it all up."
Brushing himself down, East stands back up. He needs to change the subject again. "They in the bedroom?"
The anger gone, Silver returns to the re-reflector. "Nobody's in the bedroom."
East keeps his eyes on Silver, who gradually feels the gaze.
"Seriously," Silver points to the room with a spanwrench. "Go look."
"Put the wrench down." East doesn't move.
"Oh, for fuck's sake. I've got a gun, Steve. Go look."
Mentally shrugging - crazy as he is, Silver has a point - East enters the bedroom and turns on the light. Pristine. Nothing touched, nothing moved. Bed hasn't even been sat on. The door to the bathroom is wide open. Nobody inside.
"SWAT dogs say they saw two people."
"I'm putting up mirrors. They saw me. And me."
East has no response. He simply watches Silver work and listens to the whirl-whine of the velocicopters passing by outside. East doesn't know what to do. There's no protocol for this. No field manual depicting a similar situation. He's got to figure out a way to get Silver off-balance.
"You're crazy," East starts, hoping not to arouse more anger. "All this existential religious hocus-focus is junk."
No anger, but another pitying laugh. "Oh, it's not junk. It's real."
"You're crazy."
Silver pulls out his short-round. Less to threaten East and more to remove the discomfort. One of the reasons Silver - well, sane Silver - never wears one in his trousers. That and everyone's heard an "accidental discharge" story. Even with the new body heat and hand print safeties, those things can be ridiculous.
East lets out a hidden sigh of relief when Silver places the weapon on an improvised work table, which is just a stack of instruction manuals that came with the tools, lenses, and mirrors Silver acquired to build his doohicky with. Still, East starts sliding slowly toward it. A few centimeters at a time. Subtle, smooth. Nothing too fast to garner Silver's attention.
"You'll see, my friend. You'll see."
"What is this?" East is exasperated. Exacerbated, even. "You find God or something?"
Silver laughs yet again. But this laugh is unlike any East has ever heard from his partner. "Or something."
East suddenly wishes he'd kept his own sidearm. Or, at least, accepted the surveillance radio.
"What happened here? Before." If progress can't be made, back up and reevaluate.
Silver shifts locations, temporarily placing himself between East and the weapon. "I had a moment of purity."
"A what?"
"I saw everything. I felt everything. I understand it now. So will you."
"Understand what?"
Silver gestures his arms around the room. "What this is all about, man. Emily wasn't raped. She was elevated. I would have been, too, if you hadn't have interrupted."
East can't help it. His tone crescendos in abject surprise. "What?"
"Think about it, East. A virgin? By all rights, so was her cousin."
"You're not a virgin. And we don't know squat about her cousin."
Silver nods. "I do."
"You're still not a virgin."
A smirk. "Technicality."
Sensing defeat and sorrow at the realization of what's going to happen to his friend, East waves his hand at Silver. "I'm gonna go. You're crazy."
Silver frowns, steps to the firearm and reaches for it. East notices the expression just as he starts to turn for the door, then changes direction and rushes his partner, knocking Silver to the ground. Silver, always the one in better fighting shape, uses East's momentum against him and throws East to the wall. The vibration knocks a few mirrors loose. Silver stands, firearm in hand, and glares at the shattered glass. East has never seen his partner so angry.
Silver has the short-round in his right hand, jammed into East's kidney.
East elbows his partner and knocks him off center, and they struggle with the gun, finally coming to a standstill against the wall. In the corner where it all began. They are close enough to give the wrong impression, but the gun tells the truth.
"It's real, Steve. I'll show you."
"Don't..."
"Moments of purity fuel the universe, my friend." A small but distinguished pop ends the sentence, and Steven East shrugs to the floor, his life sloughing away in a drab room, with wide, wild eyes.
***
***
A louder discharge permeates the room, this one accompanied by a blast and a flying door. The door and reverb concussion shatters what's left of the re-reflector, sending Silver into a frenzy. Screaming in horror, he starts shooting at the invading SWAT dogs. He hits a few, but their EmflectionTM armor is more than enough to protect them from the small caliber ammunition. Silver never did acquire the larger gun.
Marquitez is in the room; drops to a knee and fires more than a dozen ballistic shockers into Silver's torso. Silver seizures and convulses violently before flopping to the ground in a sizzling slump.
The team Tac-Nurse rushes to East and checks his pulse. "He's gone."
Marquitez' head turns. "No," quietly escapes his lips.
The alpha SWAT dog shakes his head. East was a good cop. Then again, so was Silver. "Get Scene Control in here." He motions to Silver's body. "Put this asshole in a lock-jacket."
***
Detective-Captain Amanda Normandy arrives on-site just in time to see an unconscious Silver tossed into a Vault Wagon. He's been lock-jacketed and cuffed. The SWAT dogs don't even waste time strapping Silver into a mobile bed. They just sling him into the back of the truck and lock the door.
"Belay that truck," she screams as she rushes to the command and control vehicle. "What the Hell happened?" she asks Jimmy-Jim.
He doesn't have time for this. It's been a fucked up enough day already. "Your dick killed your other dick."
She holds back the urge to break down. Forces another pertinent question. "And the hostages?"
"There was nobody else up there. Just that gadget Silver was building. Your man Marquitez is cataloging it now."
***
Silver fades in and out of consciousness in the penitentiary's loony barn. He's lost in a dream world that might not be a dream. He expects a visitor. And a journey.
Finally, she comes to him. She's smiling.
"Hi, Emily." He thinks the words, at least. No one is sure he actually spoke them.
Her smile never leaves her face, but her tone is upset. "Hello, Gary."
"You here to take me? I'm ready to go."
She shakes her head. "No, you're not coming. You're headed elsewhere."
The meaning is clear. Even though nothing is explained.
"What did I do wrong?" asks Silver.
"You figured it out."
The meaning is unclear. And everything is explained. In a rush, sanity returns to Silver's mind.
"I... I'm a detective. I'm supposed to figure it out."
"Not this. This was none of your concern."
FADE TO BLACK
The Complete Gods Playing Poker
- Part 1: A Friend in Need
- Part 2: Pinched With Four Aces
- Part 3: Stranger in Camp
- Part 4: Sitting Up With a Sick Friend
- Part 5: A Bold Bluff
- Part 6: Post Mortem
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Gods Playing Poker: Sitting Up With a Sick Friend
*Continued from Gods Playing Poker: Stranger in Camp
Silver lies unconscious in the recovery-recuperator. He's not comatose, but he's not opened his eyes or said anything intelligible since East found him. East watches, loyal partner that he is, from the other side of the plexiform viewscreen. Captain Normandy is beside him.
"You don't know what he was doing there?" Normandy is pissed. Silver's often gone off the reservation, so to speak, but never into a dangerous situation before. He's foolish; not stupid.
"No clue, Captain." East sips his coffee. He answers Normandy's questions on auto-pilot.
"How did you know he was there?"
"He didn't answer my calls. Ran his ping."
It's a curious matter. PDP locator apps are typically turned off if an officer thinks he needs to be subtle. Normandy smiles inwardly at the realization. At the very least, Silver hadn't been expecting trouble. Maybe he wasn't being foolish, after all. She doesn't like thinking her best are idiots. Especially when she personally tags them for a case.
Switching off her concern, she toggles on her professionalism. "Any other leads?"
"Just an obscure connection with another rapist."
"That in the report?" Normandy is almost embarrassed she hadn't read their last v-mail yet.
East nods. An ad for prescription micro-endoscopy flashes on the plex in front of him, but before he can step around the obstruction it fades.
"You want me to bump Phillips and Naifeh?" She already knows the answer, but Normandy's long-believed in professional courtesy. Even with her dictatorial tendencies.
East shakes his head.
"You'll stay on?"
East nods. He hates answering questions twice.
"All right. Just don't play bedside manner for too long."
"I'm on it." He also hates being patronized.
Normandy stares at East for a few moments - he doesn't return her gaze, instead takes another sip. She's a tough one, but not heartless. Accepting her detective's detached mood, she leaves.
***
***
The wind is not wind, but it whips as violently as a hurricane in the mid-Atlantic. Or a tornado in the American Midwest. There are hundreds of shapes, all vaguely human. It is a dream world that may not be a dream. Time and speed mean nothing here. Only patience.
A blur of a fedora dons what should be the head of one man. One thing. One it. No clue is revealed as to what it is. But it speaks.
"Why was this man attempted?" It does not seem pleased.
Another blur beside him, slightly behind. Or in front. Space and velocity mean nothing here. Only existence.
"He found us. It seemed appropriate." A mistake is realized, but it changes nothing.
"You've risked it all."
"No." The defiance is an unusual tone, for defiance is a rarity here.
The shapes stare at nothing in particular, and everything in particular. Their wards have long been a nuisance and most secretly wish the time was not yet near.
Still, a curiosity remains. "Why did you give him the prism?"
"We had to break the other out."
It nods. Understanding. They don't like not understanding, the concept being more rare than defiance. "Did you?"
There is another nod in return, though it doesn't answer the question asked. Instead, it answers a question implied. "Transcendence will occur soon."
***
East sleeps in a chair outside of Silver's room, his shirt wet and an empty coffee cup on the floor beside him. East stirs, something's amiss. He opens his eyes to a shadow in the viewscreen. It's Silver. Screaming.
East bursts up and activates the vovomitter.
"Let me out of here!" Silver's voice is deafening as the vovomitter automatically adjusts its line level. "I need to go!"
"What the Hell, Gary? Get back in bed." East doesn't notice the spilled coffee.
Silver glares at his partner. It is a murderous look. Just this side of hatred. "You ruined it. You. Fucking. Ruined it."
Without taking his eyes off of his friend, East calls for a nurse. The nutrichemo feed line taut in Silver's arm, East sees the pumps activate. Silver's eyes go blank and he collapses to the floor.
A nurse, clearly startled from a nap, runs up behind East. "What happened?"
East shakes his head. "He's lost his mind." He isn't speaking to her.
The nurse types her access code in the lock and she and two attendants enter the room. They pick Silver up and place him back in the bed. A few checks. Vitals are good. The attendants and the nurse exit; she locks the door behind her.
"He'll be fine. It was just a reaction to..."
"To what?" East immediately feels bad for his terse response. He knows she's just trying to make him feel better.
She takes the offense, but years of hardening in an oft-thankless job maintain their collective professionalism. "To whatever it is he's reacting to."
East grimaces, then smirks. "Sorry. Long night." He catches her name-pin. "Clare."
The nurse nods and smiles. She catches his coffee stain. "I'll get you a towel."
He nods, but doesn't know what she's talking about. When she returns, she hands a towel to him, but he doesn't take it, still confused.
"Definitely a long night," Clare says, patting down the coffee stain for him.
Dumbfounded and embarrassed, he taps her shoulder and takes the towel. "Thank you."
East needs to sleep. In his own bed.
***
Silver dreams. The nitrate soporafol does its job well, coursing through his circulatory system like flushed trash on its way to a sewage recycle-return purification unit. He's lost in the dream world that may not be a dream. So lost, he might even be awake. Which should be impossible given how much nitrate soporafol they're pumping into him.
His feed lines disconnect and the patient alarms shut off. He's given clothes and dons them quickly. Nobody seems to notice the well-dressed sleep-walking man leave via the Emergency Ward exit.
***
The convoy commander has done this dozens of times. Load the prisoner into the Vault Wagon, file in behind the lead vehicle, file in front of the trail vehicle, slow down before intersections while the autobikes run interference. It's run of the mill, and no one at the FBI/E thinks this prisoner - one Dario Ganganelli - is any different.
But that was before not one, not two, but three drunk drivers plowed into the convoy, taking out the lead and trail vehicles and tipping the Vault Wagon onto its left side. All three drunk drivers were killed instantly - each identified as local criminals. One pedophile, one murderer, and one bank robber. None of the FBI/E operators or agents were injured in the crashes, save for a cut of glass along the convoy commander's cheek. The incident seems to be both boon and bane.
Boon because three of Marion County's most-wanted are dead. Bane because Ganganelli is nowhere to be found.
***
It's almost 3 AM. East's vo-comm starts ringing incessantly, startling him awake. He considers ripping it out of the wall panel and chucking it through his window - a difficult task with a window made of ImpervaglassTM - but stops just short when he sees the ID flash.
It's Marquitez. "Silver's gone."
East bolts into a sitting position. "What do you mean he's gone?"
"Relax, East," Marquitez knows his SIS colleagues well. "Dunno. Feed shows him walking out of the emergency room."
"What?" East toes on his wurby slippers, disconnects the handset from the hang-up, and rushes to his closet.
"Oh, it gets better. The rapist in Fed custody?"
"Ganganelli?"
"Disappeared in transit."
***
*Continued in Gods Playing Poker: A Bold Bluff
The Complete Gods Playing Poker
Silver lies unconscious in the recovery-recuperator. He's not comatose, but he's not opened his eyes or said anything intelligible since East found him. East watches, loyal partner that he is, from the other side of the plexiform viewscreen. Captain Normandy is beside him.
"You don't know what he was doing there?" Normandy is pissed. Silver's often gone off the reservation, so to speak, but never into a dangerous situation before. He's foolish; not stupid.
"No clue, Captain." East sips his coffee. He answers Normandy's questions on auto-pilot.
"How did you know he was there?"
"He didn't answer my calls. Ran his ping."
It's a curious matter. PDP locator apps are typically turned off if an officer thinks he needs to be subtle. Normandy smiles inwardly at the realization. At the very least, Silver hadn't been expecting trouble. Maybe he wasn't being foolish, after all. She doesn't like thinking her best are idiots. Especially when she personally tags them for a case.
Switching off her concern, she toggles on her professionalism. "Any other leads?"
"Just an obscure connection with another rapist."
"That in the report?" Normandy is almost embarrassed she hadn't read their last v-mail yet.
East nods. An ad for prescription micro-endoscopy flashes on the plex in front of him, but before he can step around the obstruction it fades.
"You want me to bump Phillips and Naifeh?" She already knows the answer, but Normandy's long-believed in professional courtesy. Even with her dictatorial tendencies.
East shakes his head.
"You'll stay on?"
East nods. He hates answering questions twice.
"All right. Just don't play bedside manner for too long."
"I'm on it." He also hates being patronized.
Normandy stares at East for a few moments - he doesn't return her gaze, instead takes another sip. She's a tough one, but not heartless. Accepting her detective's detached mood, she leaves.
***
***
The wind is not wind, but it whips as violently as a hurricane in the mid-Atlantic. Or a tornado in the American Midwest. There are hundreds of shapes, all vaguely human. It is a dream world that may not be a dream. Time and speed mean nothing here. Only patience.
A blur of a fedora dons what should be the head of one man. One thing. One it. No clue is revealed as to what it is. But it speaks.
"Why was this man attempted?" It does not seem pleased.
Another blur beside him, slightly behind. Or in front. Space and velocity mean nothing here. Only existence.
"He found us. It seemed appropriate." A mistake is realized, but it changes nothing.
"You've risked it all."
"No." The defiance is an unusual tone, for defiance is a rarity here.
The shapes stare at nothing in particular, and everything in particular. Their wards have long been a nuisance and most secretly wish the time was not yet near.
Still, a curiosity remains. "Why did you give him the prism?"
"We had to break the other out."
It nods. Understanding. They don't like not understanding, the concept being more rare than defiance. "Did you?"
There is another nod in return, though it doesn't answer the question asked. Instead, it answers a question implied. "Transcendence will occur soon."
***
East sleeps in a chair outside of Silver's room, his shirt wet and an empty coffee cup on the floor beside him. East stirs, something's amiss. He opens his eyes to a shadow in the viewscreen. It's Silver. Screaming.
East bursts up and activates the vovomitter.
"Let me out of here!" Silver's voice is deafening as the vovomitter automatically adjusts its line level. "I need to go!"
"What the Hell, Gary? Get back in bed." East doesn't notice the spilled coffee.
Silver glares at his partner. It is a murderous look. Just this side of hatred. "You ruined it. You. Fucking. Ruined it."
Without taking his eyes off of his friend, East calls for a nurse. The nutrichemo feed line taut in Silver's arm, East sees the pumps activate. Silver's eyes go blank and he collapses to the floor.
A nurse, clearly startled from a nap, runs up behind East. "What happened?"
East shakes his head. "He's lost his mind." He isn't speaking to her.
The nurse types her access code in the lock and she and two attendants enter the room. They pick Silver up and place him back in the bed. A few checks. Vitals are good. The attendants and the nurse exit; she locks the door behind her.
"He'll be fine. It was just a reaction to..."
"To what?" East immediately feels bad for his terse response. He knows she's just trying to make him feel better.
She takes the offense, but years of hardening in an oft-thankless job maintain their collective professionalism. "To whatever it is he's reacting to."
East grimaces, then smirks. "Sorry. Long night." He catches her name-pin. "Clare."
The nurse nods and smiles. She catches his coffee stain. "I'll get you a towel."
He nods, but doesn't know what she's talking about. When she returns, she hands a towel to him, but he doesn't take it, still confused.
"Definitely a long night," Clare says, patting down the coffee stain for him.
Dumbfounded and embarrassed, he taps her shoulder and takes the towel. "Thank you."
East needs to sleep. In his own bed.
***
Silver dreams. The nitrate soporafol does its job well, coursing through his circulatory system like flushed trash on its way to a sewage recycle-return purification unit. He's lost in the dream world that may not be a dream. So lost, he might even be awake. Which should be impossible given how much nitrate soporafol they're pumping into him.
His feed lines disconnect and the patient alarms shut off. He's given clothes and dons them quickly. Nobody seems to notice the well-dressed sleep-walking man leave via the Emergency Ward exit.
***
The convoy commander has done this dozens of times. Load the prisoner into the Vault Wagon, file in behind the lead vehicle, file in front of the trail vehicle, slow down before intersections while the autobikes run interference. It's run of the mill, and no one at the FBI/E thinks this prisoner - one Dario Ganganelli - is any different.
But that was before not one, not two, but three drunk drivers plowed into the convoy, taking out the lead and trail vehicles and tipping the Vault Wagon onto its left side. All three drunk drivers were killed instantly - each identified as local criminals. One pedophile, one murderer, and one bank robber. None of the FBI/E operators or agents were injured in the crashes, save for a cut of glass along the convoy commander's cheek. The incident seems to be both boon and bane.
Boon because three of Marion County's most-wanted are dead. Bane because Ganganelli is nowhere to be found.
***
It's almost 3 AM. East's vo-comm starts ringing incessantly, startling him awake. He considers ripping it out of the wall panel and chucking it through his window - a difficult task with a window made of ImpervaglassTM - but stops just short when he sees the ID flash.
It's Marquitez. "Silver's gone."
East bolts into a sitting position. "What do you mean he's gone?"
"Relax, East," Marquitez knows his SIS colleagues well. "Dunno. Feed shows him walking out of the emergency room."
"What?" East toes on his wurby slippers, disconnects the handset from the hang-up, and rushes to his closet.
"Oh, it gets better. The rapist in Fed custody?"
"Ganganelli?"
"Disappeared in transit."
***
*Continued in Gods Playing Poker: A Bold Bluff
The Complete Gods Playing Poker
- Part 1: A Friend in Need
- Part 2: Pinched With Four Aces
- Part 3: Stranger in Camp
- Part 4: Sitting Up With a Sick Friend
- Part 5: A Bold Bluff
- Part 6: Post Mortem
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Gods Playing Poker: Pinched With Four Aces
*Continued from Gods Playing Poker: A Friend in Need
"Boyfriend's a no-go." Silver jumps in the driver's seat, smirking at his partner who's wolfing down some chocolate.
"You sure?" East isn't surprised, except by the joke written on the inside of the goo-bar wrapper. He just asks out of habit.
"Yeah, jack in."
East whips his PDP out from his jacket pocket and touches it to Silver's. Transmit lights turn green and East starts reading the boyfriend's statement. Silver puts his thumb on the unmarked cruiser's ignition and the Generalized Mobile Machines CruTectorTM hums to life. He thinks of his father's car for a moment, remembering how loud those petroleum-eating vehicles were, then hits the reverse button on the go-panel.
"A virgin?" Now East is surprised. In this day and age? Surely not. Even priests and imams are handing out short-singe contraceptives now.
Silver bites his lower lip and pauses a moment. It wouldn't surprise anyone that he had an eye on Hyra himself. He's not shown it yet, and it's obvious that everyone in the SIS is taking it hard, but East knows Silver's particularly upset. It's partially a sexist reaction, but it's genuine sorrow. "That's what he said."
"There another boyfriend?"
"That's what I'm thinking." The cruiser accelerates through a traffic director blinking mad orange.
"You want me to check her phone logs again?"
"Yep." Silver pulls the cruiser to a curb and swings the door open, the brisk chill air rushes into the car. East pops open the glove compartment, and, of course, pulls out some gloves. Other passing vehicles have their drivers scream expletives at Silver, whose car door forces them to merge into the center lane.
East looks out the window. Silver's parked in front of the Marion County Main Public Library and Words Depository. It's a technologically advanced faux-gothic building, looking strangely ominous in the lightly falling late-winter snow. "What are we doing here?"
"Checking some angles."
"New data girl's working, right?"
Silver retrieves a personal groomer from his coat pocket and smooths out a crease, slightly irritated at the wet-spots forming from melting flakes. "Who? What?" He doesn't close the door.
***
***
East slides into the driver's seat of the CruTector and pulls the door shut. Even though Silver's ultimate goal is undoubtedly a phone number, East knows his partner will come back with some useful piece of information. East isn't always sure how Silver comes across stuff... he just does.
Not wanting to sit and twiddle his thumbs, East calls Marquitez. "What's going on, man?"
"Oh, shit, dude. Nothing." Marquitez clearly sounds depressed. "All those tech-perps are dead-ends. Except for maybe one. Mark April? You know him?"
"Yeah, one of Silver's old CIs, why?" East grabs another goo-bar from the scatter-boom mount, currently devoid of a scatter-boom in lieu of a tube of goo-bars.
"Ah, that explains it. He's acting like he knows something, but not like he knows something."
East looks up. Silver's approaching. East signals to go around and Silver gets in the passenger side. "Got her number." Silver smirks as he checks it against the PDP. It's an apparels-editor on the south side of town. "Ah, shit. She gave me a fake one."
East laughs. "Thanks, Juan," he says to Marquitez and hangs up. "I got something."
Silver hands East a tear of Flixon pad. "So do I."
"What is this?"
"Two things, actually. Baker called me. But that," Silver pauses a brief moment, tapping the Flixon note, " is Emily's ex-boyfriend. Another no-go. Might bring him in anyway."
East knows it'll be a waste of time, but shrugs it off. Silver doesn't like to be disagreed with so soon after being shot down. "You remember Mark April?"
Silver nods, brushing yesterday's bullsteak bun crumbs off the passenger seat. "Marquitez finger him?"
"Sort of."
Silver flicks the siren on with a fist. "Good enough."
***
East and Silver take turns beating the shit out of April. It is an old-school tactic in a department that doesn't even remember what old-school is. Neither East nor Silver like it very much, but April wants to play hard to get, so East and Silver take their time getting hard. That April sits comfortably in a plush Zwan-K fleather recliner and not a metal chair almost makes East laugh. Almost.
April bleeds from both nostrils and both lips. His left eye is definitely going black.
"This is getting old, Mark," Silver says, slightly more matter-of-fact than one would imagine. He doesn't let on that his fist is starting to hurt.
Mark gestures with his chin at East. "Let me see." East holds a mirror to April's face. April smiles. "Okay, okay. That looks good enough."
"You informants and your rites of passage," East forces a frown while stifling another almost-laugh. He slips April a self-applied swoosh-tube of sutures.
"That ain't no shift-suit, boys. It ain't no shift-suit, no light-suit, no bend-suit, no shape-suit. Nothing like. No kind of active camouflage. That idiot Marquitez don't know what the fuck he's doing. There's no digital distortion at all. Not a single fucking pixel."
"You saying that blur was natural?" Silver's question sounds just as stupid in Silver's head as it does vocalized.
April winces from a suture swoosh. "Not a single fucking pixel."
***
Colm Baker is an FBI/E agent and a good friend of Silver's. Baker used to work out of the Chicago office, but transferred to Indianapolis about seven years ago, just after Marion County decided to usurp executive control from city government.
Silver and East scoff at the lavish furniture and unnecessary decorations found in Federal offices. Who needs a replica pinball machine, anyway? Nobody carries coins anymore.
But the glory of envy is not why they're here.
A man in FBI/E custody, one Dario Ganganelli, is wanted for extradition in the disappearance of a woman named Anne Hyra in Rome two years ago.
"The kicker?" Baker lets the pause sink in. "Anne Hyra is Emily's cousin. Same age, even. A few months apart."
"But he's not our guy." East isn't surprised. Again.
"No, no. We've had him in custody for weeks. Waiting on the extradition."
"Then why are we here?" Silver knew this was too good to be true. Too convenient, anyway. There's no way anyone already in custody could be their unsub.
"He spent a few months in New York City and Westchester County. Looking for somebody."
"So?"
"Jesus, man," Baker shakes his head. Maybe these locs aren't as good as their reps after all. "Emily Hyra grew up in Westchester County. She came to Indiana to attend Marian University... some Roman Catholic exchange program-scholarship deal. Switched to Purdue after her first semester."
"This dude rapes her cousin, then comes to the U.S. to rape her?"
Baker nods. "We picked him up after he was flagged boarding a train for Indianapolis at Penn Station."
Silver's eyes widen and East hangs his head. "There's two of these pricks?" Silver and East sometimes say things at the same time. Like just then.
***
Both partners are tired and East lets the auto-drive take them home. Their mouths stay silent even though their brains are running at full speed. The CruTector stops at Silver's apartment first.
Silver's even more confused, to the point of having to remember what floor he lives on. Plenty of dead ends today, and way too many living ends. None of which make any sense. He reaches his floor, exits the elevator, and heads to his apartment. There's something taped to the door. Too small for an explosive, maybe. Partially from exhaustion, partially from apathy, and partially from arrogance, he grabs the paper-wrapped object without further pre-inspection and tears it open.
It's a prism. Intricate. Hundreds, maybe thousands of angles. In the shape of a crucifix.
There's no note, but he knows it has everything to do with the case.
***
*Continued in Gods Playing Poker: Stranger in Camp
The Complete Gods Playing Poker
"Boyfriend's a no-go." Silver jumps in the driver's seat, smirking at his partner who's wolfing down some chocolate.
"You sure?" East isn't surprised, except by the joke written on the inside of the goo-bar wrapper. He just asks out of habit.
"Yeah, jack in."
East whips his PDP out from his jacket pocket and touches it to Silver's. Transmit lights turn green and East starts reading the boyfriend's statement. Silver puts his thumb on the unmarked cruiser's ignition and the Generalized Mobile Machines CruTectorTM hums to life. He thinks of his father's car for a moment, remembering how loud those petroleum-eating vehicles were, then hits the reverse button on the go-panel.
"A virgin?" Now East is surprised. In this day and age? Surely not. Even priests and imams are handing out short-singe contraceptives now.
Silver bites his lower lip and pauses a moment. It wouldn't surprise anyone that he had an eye on Hyra himself. He's not shown it yet, and it's obvious that everyone in the SIS is taking it hard, but East knows Silver's particularly upset. It's partially a sexist reaction, but it's genuine sorrow. "That's what he said."
"There another boyfriend?"
"That's what I'm thinking." The cruiser accelerates through a traffic director blinking mad orange.
"You want me to check her phone logs again?"
"Yep." Silver pulls the cruiser to a curb and swings the door open, the brisk chill air rushes into the car. East pops open the glove compartment, and, of course, pulls out some gloves. Other passing vehicles have their drivers scream expletives at Silver, whose car door forces them to merge into the center lane.
East looks out the window. Silver's parked in front of the Marion County Main Public Library and Words Depository. It's a technologically advanced faux-gothic building, looking strangely ominous in the lightly falling late-winter snow. "What are we doing here?"
"Checking some angles."
"New data girl's working, right?"
Silver retrieves a personal groomer from his coat pocket and smooths out a crease, slightly irritated at the wet-spots forming from melting flakes. "Who? What?" He doesn't close the door.
***
***
East slides into the driver's seat of the CruTector and pulls the door shut. Even though Silver's ultimate goal is undoubtedly a phone number, East knows his partner will come back with some useful piece of information. East isn't always sure how Silver comes across stuff... he just does.
Not wanting to sit and twiddle his thumbs, East calls Marquitez. "What's going on, man?"
"Oh, shit, dude. Nothing." Marquitez clearly sounds depressed. "All those tech-perps are dead-ends. Except for maybe one. Mark April? You know him?"
"Yeah, one of Silver's old CIs, why?" East grabs another goo-bar from the scatter-boom mount, currently devoid of a scatter-boom in lieu of a tube of goo-bars.
"Ah, that explains it. He's acting like he knows something, but not like he knows something."
East looks up. Silver's approaching. East signals to go around and Silver gets in the passenger side. "Got her number." Silver smirks as he checks it against the PDP. It's an apparels-editor on the south side of town. "Ah, shit. She gave me a fake one."
East laughs. "Thanks, Juan," he says to Marquitez and hangs up. "I got something."
Silver hands East a tear of Flixon pad. "So do I."
"What is this?"
"Two things, actually. Baker called me. But that," Silver pauses a brief moment, tapping the Flixon note, " is Emily's ex-boyfriend. Another no-go. Might bring him in anyway."
East knows it'll be a waste of time, but shrugs it off. Silver doesn't like to be disagreed with so soon after being shot down. "You remember Mark April?"
Silver nods, brushing yesterday's bullsteak bun crumbs off the passenger seat. "Marquitez finger him?"
"Sort of."
Silver flicks the siren on with a fist. "Good enough."
***
East and Silver take turns beating the shit out of April. It is an old-school tactic in a department that doesn't even remember what old-school is. Neither East nor Silver like it very much, but April wants to play hard to get, so East and Silver take their time getting hard. That April sits comfortably in a plush Zwan-K fleather recliner and not a metal chair almost makes East laugh. Almost.
April bleeds from both nostrils and both lips. His left eye is definitely going black.
"This is getting old, Mark," Silver says, slightly more matter-of-fact than one would imagine. He doesn't let on that his fist is starting to hurt.
Mark gestures with his chin at East. "Let me see." East holds a mirror to April's face. April smiles. "Okay, okay. That looks good enough."
"You informants and your rites of passage," East forces a frown while stifling another almost-laugh. He slips April a self-applied swoosh-tube of sutures.
"That ain't no shift-suit, boys. It ain't no shift-suit, no light-suit, no bend-suit, no shape-suit. Nothing like. No kind of active camouflage. That idiot Marquitez don't know what the fuck he's doing. There's no digital distortion at all. Not a single fucking pixel."
"You saying that blur was natural?" Silver's question sounds just as stupid in Silver's head as it does vocalized.
April winces from a suture swoosh. "Not a single fucking pixel."
***
Colm Baker is an FBI/E agent and a good friend of Silver's. Baker used to work out of the Chicago office, but transferred to Indianapolis about seven years ago, just after Marion County decided to usurp executive control from city government.
Silver and East scoff at the lavish furniture and unnecessary decorations found in Federal offices. Who needs a replica pinball machine, anyway? Nobody carries coins anymore.
But the glory of envy is not why they're here.
A man in FBI/E custody, one Dario Ganganelli, is wanted for extradition in the disappearance of a woman named Anne Hyra in Rome two years ago.
"The kicker?" Baker lets the pause sink in. "Anne Hyra is Emily's cousin. Same age, even. A few months apart."
"But he's not our guy." East isn't surprised. Again.
"No, no. We've had him in custody for weeks. Waiting on the extradition."
"Then why are we here?" Silver knew this was too good to be true. Too convenient, anyway. There's no way anyone already in custody could be their unsub.
"He spent a few months in New York City and Westchester County. Looking for somebody."
"So?"
"Jesus, man," Baker shakes his head. Maybe these locs aren't as good as their reps after all. "Emily Hyra grew up in Westchester County. She came to Indiana to attend Marian University... some Roman Catholic exchange program-scholarship deal. Switched to Purdue after her first semester."
"This dude rapes her cousin, then comes to the U.S. to rape her?"
Baker nods. "We picked him up after he was flagged boarding a train for Indianapolis at Penn Station."
Silver's eyes widen and East hangs his head. "There's two of these pricks?" Silver and East sometimes say things at the same time. Like just then.
***
Both partners are tired and East lets the auto-drive take them home. Their mouths stay silent even though their brains are running at full speed. The CruTector stops at Silver's apartment first.
Silver's even more confused, to the point of having to remember what floor he lives on. Plenty of dead ends today, and way too many living ends. None of which make any sense. He reaches his floor, exits the elevator, and heads to his apartment. There's something taped to the door. Too small for an explosive, maybe. Partially from exhaustion, partially from apathy, and partially from arrogance, he grabs the paper-wrapped object without further pre-inspection and tears it open.
It's a prism. Intricate. Hundreds, maybe thousands of angles. In the shape of a crucifix.
There's no note, but he knows it has everything to do with the case.
***
*Continued in Gods Playing Poker: Stranger in Camp
The Complete Gods Playing Poker
- Part 1: A Friend in Need
- Part 2: Pinched With Four Aces
- Part 3: Stranger in Camp
- Part 4: Sitting Up With a Sick Friend
- Part 5: A Bold Bluff
- Part 6: Post Mortem
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Through Limbo
"What's the plan?"
"Get to the West Coast, find a boat, and get my wife."
"You're fucking crazy. We've got to get somewhere we can hold."
"I'm going to California."
"California's going to be gone when you get there, brother. She's dead, anyway."
Keith Durant, despite nine years in the US Army - the last two attached to non-Department of Defense task forces - had never killed anybody before that moment.
***
The decision to travel more northern routes seems a bad one. Durant cannot afford to sleep so heavily. Traveling by night, struggling to stay warm, and killing his own food exhausted him far more than estimated. The two German Shepherds he rescued from the Blight occasionally bring him food, but much too infrequently. And he still had to skin and cook their kills himself. It is no surprise that, lately, he's been eating kills raw, hoping that his constitution adjusts quickly enough to keep him from falling too ill to travel. So far, so good. Regardless, he continues to cook most of his meals when fire can be readily concealed.
He often considers dumping some weapons. The consideration never lasts long. They are, to put it bluntly, more important than food or water. Without them he'd have been dead weeks and miles ago. It was sheer luck that his escape from Fort Bragg, North Carolina, had taken him through the post's ammo holding area. He'd have probably stayed there were it not for wanting to find his wife. But the AHA had no food stores to speak of. Which meant foraging parties. Which meant purposeful contact with the Blight. Which probably meant everyone at the AHA was dead by now. At least the man in charge was nice enough to let Keith leave with a few thousand rounds of ammunition. Carrying it had been a hassle, but in the first days following the invasion - or the revelation, depending on what one believes - he went through bullets like piss. He still has his Army-issue M4 carbine. The shotgun he found on a dead man. The pistol on a dead cop. Dead cops were gold mines for equipment these days.
According to some Canadians Keith briefly traveled with through West Virginia, the United States was holding out against the Blight better than every other nation. Everyone agreed that it was due to the high percentage of guns among the civilian populace, and that was the reason why the Canadians came south across the border. That boded well for Keith. It gives him a decent chance of making the Pacific Ocean. He has no idea how many guns are in Australia. He hopes his wife managed to find one. Or, at least, find people with guns. No one knows if the Blight are alien or demon - or, he'd heard one posit, man-made - but they can be killed. Keith killed one with his Bowie knife not long after leaving Fort Bragg. It was already wounded, but the brawl exhausted Keith. Far easier to shoot them.
He doesn't think about it much. There's too much guilt to deal with. If he lives through this, he'll spend more time trying to figure out what the Blight are. Though they seem more like rabid animals to him than intelligent life, he doesn't really care. Right now, he only knows one thing: westward. His only reason for living. And he'll have to kill a Hell of a lot of things to make it there. People included.
It is Lavinia - the female German Shepherd - who wakes Keith. A cold nose creeps its way around the holes of his ski mask. It is an effective alarm clock. Aeneas - the male - is usually responsible for the act. Today, something has Aeneas' attention. Keith's transition from drowsy to alert is nearly instantaneous.
The dogs never make a sound. During their struggle with the Blight their growls and whines were loud, rapid, and clear in meaning. Since then Keith hasn't heard either of them so much as bark. Perhaps survival instinct was gracious enough to teach the dogs that noises allow the Blight to locate them. Or perhaps they were just quiet dogs to begin with. Keith did find the matter curious. But the begging question will have to wait.
Aeneas locks his body in a stiff pose. It reminds Keith of a Pointer-mix he had when he was a boy. Lining himself up behind his companion, Keith gazes down Aeneas' sight line.
A Blight is searching the woods. There's no indication that it knows human and canine are nearby. Keith has come to call this version of the Blight "scouts." He's never obtained a good look at one, but Scouts appear to Keith as colored wind. From what he's heard, Scouts are notoriously hard to kill.
He hopes the shotgun will wound it enough for Lavinia and Aeneas to bring it down.
*To be continued...
"Get to the West Coast, find a boat, and get my wife."
"You're fucking crazy. We've got to get somewhere we can hold."
"I'm going to California."
"California's going to be gone when you get there, brother. She's dead, anyway."
Keith Durant, despite nine years in the US Army - the last two attached to non-Department of Defense task forces - had never killed anybody before that moment.
***
The decision to travel more northern routes seems a bad one. Durant cannot afford to sleep so heavily. Traveling by night, struggling to stay warm, and killing his own food exhausted him far more than estimated. The two German Shepherds he rescued from the Blight occasionally bring him food, but much too infrequently. And he still had to skin and cook their kills himself. It is no surprise that, lately, he's been eating kills raw, hoping that his constitution adjusts quickly enough to keep him from falling too ill to travel. So far, so good. Regardless, he continues to cook most of his meals when fire can be readily concealed.
He often considers dumping some weapons. The consideration never lasts long. They are, to put it bluntly, more important than food or water. Without them he'd have been dead weeks and miles ago. It was sheer luck that his escape from Fort Bragg, North Carolina, had taken him through the post's ammo holding area. He'd have probably stayed there were it not for wanting to find his wife. But the AHA had no food stores to speak of. Which meant foraging parties. Which meant purposeful contact with the Blight. Which probably meant everyone at the AHA was dead by now. At least the man in charge was nice enough to let Keith leave with a few thousand rounds of ammunition. Carrying it had been a hassle, but in the first days following the invasion - or the revelation, depending on what one believes - he went through bullets like piss. He still has his Army-issue M4 carbine. The shotgun he found on a dead man. The pistol on a dead cop. Dead cops were gold mines for equipment these days.
According to some Canadians Keith briefly traveled with through West Virginia, the United States was holding out against the Blight better than every other nation. Everyone agreed that it was due to the high percentage of guns among the civilian populace, and that was the reason why the Canadians came south across the border. That boded well for Keith. It gives him a decent chance of making the Pacific Ocean. He has no idea how many guns are in Australia. He hopes his wife managed to find one. Or, at least, find people with guns. No one knows if the Blight are alien or demon - or, he'd heard one posit, man-made - but they can be killed. Keith killed one with his Bowie knife not long after leaving Fort Bragg. It was already wounded, but the brawl exhausted Keith. Far easier to shoot them.
He doesn't think about it much. There's too much guilt to deal with. If he lives through this, he'll spend more time trying to figure out what the Blight are. Though they seem more like rabid animals to him than intelligent life, he doesn't really care. Right now, he only knows one thing: westward. His only reason for living. And he'll have to kill a Hell of a lot of things to make it there. People included.
It is Lavinia - the female German Shepherd - who wakes Keith. A cold nose creeps its way around the holes of his ski mask. It is an effective alarm clock. Aeneas - the male - is usually responsible for the act. Today, something has Aeneas' attention. Keith's transition from drowsy to alert is nearly instantaneous.
The dogs never make a sound. During their struggle with the Blight their growls and whines were loud, rapid, and clear in meaning. Since then Keith hasn't heard either of them so much as bark. Perhaps survival instinct was gracious enough to teach the dogs that noises allow the Blight to locate them. Or perhaps they were just quiet dogs to begin with. Keith did find the matter curious. But the begging question will have to wait.
Aeneas locks his body in a stiff pose. It reminds Keith of a Pointer-mix he had when he was a boy. Lining himself up behind his companion, Keith gazes down Aeneas' sight line.
A Blight is searching the woods. There's no indication that it knows human and canine are nearby. Keith has come to call this version of the Blight "scouts." He's never obtained a good look at one, but Scouts appear to Keith as colored wind. From what he's heard, Scouts are notoriously hard to kill.
He hopes the shotgun will wound it enough for Lavinia and Aeneas to bring it down.
*To be continued...
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Star Fall
There is a certain hardy professionalism involved with soldiers who volunteer for atmospheric assault units. Most military movies these days concern themselves with AAUs, despite the fact they make up less than five per cent of combat rolls. For decades, AAUs have had a reputation - earned or not - for being the best of the best. One thing's for sure, Humphries muses, they're the craziest of the crazy.
The fact that he's smiling as he plummets at terminal velocity towards the surface of an alien planet is more than enough proof of that.
Just let your fears go
You might find your way back home
Let your fears go
You might find that you’re not lost
For some reason, the ballistic personnel carrier fired his unit's pods at too shallow an angle and Humphries quickly recognized that he was in danger of taking a one-way trip into deep space. There was no time to determine what happened - the BPC probably came under orbital flak, panicking the pilot into firing his payload too early - so Humphries ejected from his pod, hoping his suit's jets were enough to carry him close enough to the planet's gravity well to bring him in. Once he got situated, a sensor check assured him that most of his unit made it into the atmosphere. Only a handful of transponders were silent, but those could have simply been out of range or already well into the ionization blackout.
At any rate, he has more pressing matters to worry about. Without the drag chutes on the pod, he might not be able to slow down enough for his suit's drag chutes to deploy successfully. Not to mention he's already burned some of his jet fuel.
Forget the peace inside
You’ve given way to the gods of destruction
Full of desire
You feel afraid that there’s nothing left
"Open net, Thorne 2-6, over." The radio call is probably futile, since there has never been a recorded incident of an AA trooper in uncontrolled descent - oddly referred to as a cigarette burn in some strange homage to the ancient days of paratroopers - being successfully saved from the inevitable splat. But, Humphries is a hopeless optimist, and futility has never been reason enough not to try. Besides, the thought of his drinking buddies haunted by being the last to hear Humphries' voice is strangely appealing. Selfish, he knows, but who's going to hold that against him in this moment?
"Open net, Thorne 2-6, over."
The ocean is dry
Do you feel hollow?
Nowhere to hide
And nothing to swallow
The wind pummels his suit and maintaining form during descent slowly becomes an exhaustive exercise. A man who once completed a military 30-kilometer march in just over three hours suddenly finds himself angry at the thought of lacking the endurance to fall properly. The irony only makes matters worse and Humphries' open net calls are soon laced with expletives.
And when you can’t recognize
Anything solid
Where do you turn?
When you can’t buy it?
Managing to calm himself down, Humphries tumbles into a fetal position then gradually extends limbs, gaining control of his spin. His suit has control surfaces, but he fears that deploying them will only result in them breaking off at these speeds. Entering the upper level of a thundercloud, he inhales deeply and slowly exhales. Zipping by multi-colored bolts of lightning, he notices how beautiful storms can be.
As a child who once spent countless hours finding shapes in masses of water vapor, he withdraws into his past and begins to create shapes in his mind. Though he is far too close - within, really - and moving far too fast, it is almost immediately that he begins to see her. His visor now riddled with drops of water, even an onlooker directly in front of him would not be able to tell that Humphries has started to cry.
What can you believe in now
With no love to follow?
Now that you have lost yourself
Oh, can anything help you now?
He fell in love with her upon first glance. Though she was dressed in a silly getup supposedly resembling a Middle Eastern princess, he recognized the subtle smile of one whose love of life was only matched by an unspoken loneliness. She learned to enjoy the small things as much as possible, for the large things seemed elusive. Having endured similar heartbreak, he knew that someone must have recently hurt her. At the time, she should've been far too young to be familiar with such pain. But the universe doesn't care to wait when teaching such lessons. Nor, it seemed, did it care to wait when alleviating them.
It would be months before he could get her to talk to him. An emotional eternity, entirely subjective to itself. A free fall into her embrace that seemed to last forever.
What did you learn?
What was it worth?
What did you yearn for?
Everything’s lost now
... and not alone
She finally agreed to spend significant time with him after, he lamented, he received his orders to deploy. It was a repetitive story, and sad, that everyone seemed to wait until he was leaving. But in her case, it was enough. Her initial resistance to him was due to nothing more than she knew he was a soldier and would often be absent from her life. She never told him that she loved him, even as he boarded the shuttle for orbit, but her kiss spoke more to him than anything he could remember. In spite of her pragmatic hesitance, her lips made no secret that they were aware she is loved in return. It was an impact upon both their psyches unlike any other.
Including, he's confident, the impact that will momentarily end his life. His smile returns as he imagines her hair violently whipping in the free fall. Though his desire is to spend the rest of her life at her side, he's content with having been a part of her journey. Perhaps that is the only reason he was born in the first place.
A foolish thought, he knows, as he lets his smile evolve into laughter. He hopes that she will remember a falling star that once wished upon her. And that the universe gets the joke.
Just let your fears go
You might find your way back home
Let your fears go
You might find that you’re not lost
*Lyrics from Sunlounger's "Lost"
The fact that he's smiling as he plummets at terminal velocity towards the surface of an alien planet is more than enough proof of that.
Just let your fears go
You might find your way back home
Let your fears go
You might find that you’re not lost
For some reason, the ballistic personnel carrier fired his unit's pods at too shallow an angle and Humphries quickly recognized that he was in danger of taking a one-way trip into deep space. There was no time to determine what happened - the BPC probably came under orbital flak, panicking the pilot into firing his payload too early - so Humphries ejected from his pod, hoping his suit's jets were enough to carry him close enough to the planet's gravity well to bring him in. Once he got situated, a sensor check assured him that most of his unit made it into the atmosphere. Only a handful of transponders were silent, but those could have simply been out of range or already well into the ionization blackout.
At any rate, he has more pressing matters to worry about. Without the drag chutes on the pod, he might not be able to slow down enough for his suit's drag chutes to deploy successfully. Not to mention he's already burned some of his jet fuel.
Forget the peace inside
You’ve given way to the gods of destruction
Full of desire
You feel afraid that there’s nothing left
"Open net, Thorne 2-6, over." The radio call is probably futile, since there has never been a recorded incident of an AA trooper in uncontrolled descent - oddly referred to as a cigarette burn in some strange homage to the ancient days of paratroopers - being successfully saved from the inevitable splat. But, Humphries is a hopeless optimist, and futility has never been reason enough not to try. Besides, the thought of his drinking buddies haunted by being the last to hear Humphries' voice is strangely appealing. Selfish, he knows, but who's going to hold that against him in this moment?
"Open net, Thorne 2-6, over."
The ocean is dry
Do you feel hollow?
Nowhere to hide
And nothing to swallow
The wind pummels his suit and maintaining form during descent slowly becomes an exhaustive exercise. A man who once completed a military 30-kilometer march in just over three hours suddenly finds himself angry at the thought of lacking the endurance to fall properly. The irony only makes matters worse and Humphries' open net calls are soon laced with expletives.
And when you can’t recognize
Anything solid
Where do you turn?
When you can’t buy it?
Managing to calm himself down, Humphries tumbles into a fetal position then gradually extends limbs, gaining control of his spin. His suit has control surfaces, but he fears that deploying them will only result in them breaking off at these speeds. Entering the upper level of a thundercloud, he inhales deeply and slowly exhales. Zipping by multi-colored bolts of lightning, he notices how beautiful storms can be.
As a child who once spent countless hours finding shapes in masses of water vapor, he withdraws into his past and begins to create shapes in his mind. Though he is far too close - within, really - and moving far too fast, it is almost immediately that he begins to see her. His visor now riddled with drops of water, even an onlooker directly in front of him would not be able to tell that Humphries has started to cry.
What can you believe in now
With no love to follow?
Now that you have lost yourself
Oh, can anything help you now?
He fell in love with her upon first glance. Though she was dressed in a silly getup supposedly resembling a Middle Eastern princess, he recognized the subtle smile of one whose love of life was only matched by an unspoken loneliness. She learned to enjoy the small things as much as possible, for the large things seemed elusive. Having endured similar heartbreak, he knew that someone must have recently hurt her. At the time, she should've been far too young to be familiar with such pain. But the universe doesn't care to wait when teaching such lessons. Nor, it seemed, did it care to wait when alleviating them.
It would be months before he could get her to talk to him. An emotional eternity, entirely subjective to itself. A free fall into her embrace that seemed to last forever.
What did you learn?
What was it worth?
What did you yearn for?
Everything’s lost now
... and not alone
She finally agreed to spend significant time with him after, he lamented, he received his orders to deploy. It was a repetitive story, and sad, that everyone seemed to wait until he was leaving. But in her case, it was enough. Her initial resistance to him was due to nothing more than she knew he was a soldier and would often be absent from her life. She never told him that she loved him, even as he boarded the shuttle for orbit, but her kiss spoke more to him than anything he could remember. In spite of her pragmatic hesitance, her lips made no secret that they were aware she is loved in return. It was an impact upon both their psyches unlike any other.
Including, he's confident, the impact that will momentarily end his life. His smile returns as he imagines her hair violently whipping in the free fall. Though his desire is to spend the rest of her life at her side, he's content with having been a part of her journey. Perhaps that is the only reason he was born in the first place.
A foolish thought, he knows, as he lets his smile evolve into laughter. He hopes that she will remember a falling star that once wished upon her. And that the universe gets the joke.
Just let your fears go
You might find your way back home
Let your fears go
You might find that you’re not lost
*Lyrics from Sunlounger's "Lost"
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
After Paris
He's from too young a generation to know who Bogart or Bergman are, but he knows the saying. It was, after all, once spoken to him. It is with this memory that he foolishly leads his squad into the ruins of the former capital of France. Paris fell nearly three months ago and, by all accounts, was annihilated. The intelligence reports - human, signal, and image - all agree that La Ville-Lumière is permanently and completely dark.
One light, however, does remain. And the image of a pendant and chain hanging from the neck of a woman lustfully and lovingly hovering above proves far too resilient to extinguish without irrefutable proof.
Master Sergeant Ocean is not a stupid man and his mission has been carefully planned and disguised as a legitimate reconnaissance op. Some of his promotions have been attributed to being the last man standing, so to speak, but an equal number have been granted due to competence and candor. Outside of this one indiscretion, he maintains a reputation for bluntness that those in offices far outranking his - indeed, offices of men and women he's likely to never meet - often give him extra rope with which to tie loose ends... or hang himself. There is a pang of guilt in taking advantage of this reputation for such a personal matter, but ever since the Coalition tore through the coastal European plains - stopped only by a desperate Alliance defense of the Pyrenees - he's been unable to sleep.
She is the last woman he's loved. His favorite. Given his hopeful hopeless romanticism, without her - or the idea of her - he fears his uselessness to the world at large. It is an arrogance to think the universe cares about one small heart wanting another, but such is the nature of men whose pulls of triggers have altered political landscapes.
"Two klick spread. Everything might look dead, chaps, but that doesn't make it so."
Three green lights appear on his VISOR display, signifying acknowledgment from elements Charlie Echo 2, 3, and 4.
"Verify active camo batteries above point-seven-five. We're going to need them," Ocean relays to the response of three more greens.
"Dissipators at full." And still three more. Parts of Paris are still burning, even after this much time, but Ocean is unsure if the fires are hot enough to cover his team's heat signatures. Bad enough that he could only acquire Talos suits for this recon - the Achilles were far more efficient at moving undetected - but many of their vents had been battle-damaged during whatever previous engagements they were a part of.
"Flares at ready." Only two green lights this time. Ocean is a millisecond away from inquiring of the third when a vocal response is received.
"We've done this before, Captain Obvious."
Ordinarily Ocean would berate such a blatant disregard for transmission protocol, but the response comes from Ioannis, his best soldier and one whose tactical reputation is Ocean's equal. Not only that, but the other two members of the recon come from Ioannis' unit, and their loyalty is clearly to Ioannis and not Ocean. As if driving the point home, the third green appears on Ocean's display.
Its proves too much.
Ocean deactivates his disippators and drops his active camo, utilizing all-too-hot and all-too-bright jump jets to close the distance between himself and Ioannis. He imagines three masked "uh ohs" as the two kilometer separation disappears in a matter of seconds.
Not wanting to exacerbate things, Ioannis' Talos maintains its position and he waits for Ocean to jack-in the direct line.
"This is not the time, Ioannis."
"You're not yourself," Ioannis replies, tone respectful of rank, if not of man. "We're heading to Aulnay-sous-Bois, which has no reconnaissance value whatsoever. Care to let me in on what the fuck we're really doing out here?"
Ocean sighs. His irritation subsides, giving way to a crescendo of guilt. There's no point in keeping it a secret at this point.
***
To Ioannis' credit, he says nothing to the other Talos-operators. Even when Ocean disengages from his Talos' cockpit with a DNA scanner and enters the ruins of what was once an upper-middle-class residence. Instead, Ioannis issues a simple order: "Triangle out, center-point here. Max limit."
The three other Talos' jump away, giving Ocean much-desired privacy under the auspices of a defensive formation. He waits until the others disappear from view, staring through a foyer window that somehow remained intact. When he's finally alone with his ghost, he begins the search.
Finding her body doesn't take as long as Ocean feared. Burnt and rotting, the smell is almost too much to bear. She is unrecognizable in her current state and Ocean cuts off a tissue sample, placing it into the scanner. Holding his breath for the few seconds it takes to analyze, the news is bad... and entirely expected.
What is unexpected is the second body. A man's. Possibly a brother, he hopes, but just as practicality dictates that Ocean returns to his Talos, curiosity results in another analyzed tissue sample. And another.
***
Ioannis catches up to Ocean back at FOB Azores and notes Ocean's dour expression.
"You find what you were looking for, Master Sergeant?"
"I did," Ocean mutters behind a slow nod.
Something's wrong, and Ioannis knows it. "I'll handle the debrief."
"Thank you."
***
Ocean stands on the banks of Lagoa das Sete Cidades, the charred necklace he found in the rubble of Paris in his hand. He's crying, an activity rare in his lifetime, and falls to his knees.
"We'll always have Paris." A whisper in memory; a scream in imagination.
Fear of being seen forces Ocean back to his feet. He takes a longing glance at the necklace before throwing it into the volcanic lake.
Conscience resolved, Ocean gives thanks that Paris is gone and heads back to the base.
In the months ahead, Ocean formally takes command of Ioannis' unit. It is the beginning of a beautiful friendship and what is recorded in combat reviews as the most effective fighting unit of the war.
One light, however, does remain. And the image of a pendant and chain hanging from the neck of a woman lustfully and lovingly hovering above proves far too resilient to extinguish without irrefutable proof.
Master Sergeant Ocean is not a stupid man and his mission has been carefully planned and disguised as a legitimate reconnaissance op. Some of his promotions have been attributed to being the last man standing, so to speak, but an equal number have been granted due to competence and candor. Outside of this one indiscretion, he maintains a reputation for bluntness that those in offices far outranking his - indeed, offices of men and women he's likely to never meet - often give him extra rope with which to tie loose ends... or hang himself. There is a pang of guilt in taking advantage of this reputation for such a personal matter, but ever since the Coalition tore through the coastal European plains - stopped only by a desperate Alliance defense of the Pyrenees - he's been unable to sleep.
She is the last woman he's loved. His favorite. Given his hopeful hopeless romanticism, without her - or the idea of her - he fears his uselessness to the world at large. It is an arrogance to think the universe cares about one small heart wanting another, but such is the nature of men whose pulls of triggers have altered political landscapes.
"Two klick spread. Everything might look dead, chaps, but that doesn't make it so."
Three green lights appear on his VISOR display, signifying acknowledgment from elements Charlie Echo 2, 3, and 4.
"Verify active camo batteries above point-seven-five. We're going to need them," Ocean relays to the response of three more greens.
"Dissipators at full." And still three more. Parts of Paris are still burning, even after this much time, but Ocean is unsure if the fires are hot enough to cover his team's heat signatures. Bad enough that he could only acquire Talos suits for this recon - the Achilles were far more efficient at moving undetected - but many of their vents had been battle-damaged during whatever previous engagements they were a part of.
"Flares at ready." Only two green lights this time. Ocean is a millisecond away from inquiring of the third when a vocal response is received.
"We've done this before, Captain Obvious."
Ordinarily Ocean would berate such a blatant disregard for transmission protocol, but the response comes from Ioannis, his best soldier and one whose tactical reputation is Ocean's equal. Not only that, but the other two members of the recon come from Ioannis' unit, and their loyalty is clearly to Ioannis and not Ocean. As if driving the point home, the third green appears on Ocean's display.
Its proves too much.
Ocean deactivates his disippators and drops his active camo, utilizing all-too-hot and all-too-bright jump jets to close the distance between himself and Ioannis. He imagines three masked "uh ohs" as the two kilometer separation disappears in a matter of seconds.
Not wanting to exacerbate things, Ioannis' Talos maintains its position and he waits for Ocean to jack-in the direct line.
"This is not the time, Ioannis."
"You're not yourself," Ioannis replies, tone respectful of rank, if not of man. "We're heading to Aulnay-sous-Bois, which has no reconnaissance value whatsoever. Care to let me in on what the fuck we're really doing out here?"
Ocean sighs. His irritation subsides, giving way to a crescendo of guilt. There's no point in keeping it a secret at this point.
***
To Ioannis' credit, he says nothing to the other Talos-operators. Even when Ocean disengages from his Talos' cockpit with a DNA scanner and enters the ruins of what was once an upper-middle-class residence. Instead, Ioannis issues a simple order: "Triangle out, center-point here. Max limit."
The three other Talos' jump away, giving Ocean much-desired privacy under the auspices of a defensive formation. He waits until the others disappear from view, staring through a foyer window that somehow remained intact. When he's finally alone with his ghost, he begins the search.
Finding her body doesn't take as long as Ocean feared. Burnt and rotting, the smell is almost too much to bear. She is unrecognizable in her current state and Ocean cuts off a tissue sample, placing it into the scanner. Holding his breath for the few seconds it takes to analyze, the news is bad... and entirely expected.
What is unexpected is the second body. A man's. Possibly a brother, he hopes, but just as practicality dictates that Ocean returns to his Talos, curiosity results in another analyzed tissue sample. And another.
***
Ioannis catches up to Ocean back at FOB Azores and notes Ocean's dour expression.
"You find what you were looking for, Master Sergeant?"
"I did," Ocean mutters behind a slow nod.
Something's wrong, and Ioannis knows it. "I'll handle the debrief."
"Thank you."
***
Ocean stands on the banks of Lagoa das Sete Cidades, the charred necklace he found in the rubble of Paris in his hand. He's crying, an activity rare in his lifetime, and falls to his knees.
"We'll always have Paris." A whisper in memory; a scream in imagination.
Fear of being seen forces Ocean back to his feet. He takes a longing glance at the necklace before throwing it into the volcanic lake.
Conscience resolved, Ocean gives thanks that Paris is gone and heads back to the base.
In the months ahead, Ocean formally takes command of Ioannis' unit. It is the beginning of a beautiful friendship and what is recorded in combat reviews as the most effective fighting unit of the war.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Sunset Girl
The setting sun. Bold in its heaven-stroked colors. Welcome in its fading warmth. Much has been written of sunset, but few have heard it sing. That it remains so powerful a muse to humanity is laughable. Saga doesn't know why she finds it funny. She just does.
She laments the Akaishi Mountains, for Saga very much wants to see the sunset's reflection in the Sea of Japan, but she's been ordered to Izu for pickup. Maybe tomorrow she can catch the beginning of the sunrise over the Pacific, but the colors aren't the same. Given her situation, she'll take what she can get.
The middle-aged taxi driver asks her, in Japanese, if she would like to stop for dinner. She shakes her head and turns her attention to her package. She's not seen her American passport in years. The surprise she experienced upon finding it at the drop-off has hung around, and she relishes in its residue. Saga's not been surprised in a long time. Things have been so... menial.
America has long been a no-go area for her organization, and the fact she's being sent there means that something is wrong. She smiles, careful to keep her lips together. She's caught the taxi driver stealing glances at her - whether from attraction or curiosity is of no importance - and, though the thought has crossed her mind, she's no real desire to reveal her true identity. Any discrepancy or, Heaven forbid, interference from law enforcement might make her as-of-yet unknown mission more difficult. And Saga will be damned should Home Office decide to send someone else - someone less reckless - in her place.
The taxi driver asks politely if he may stop to pick up a snack and she nods. It is an unusual request from a taxi driver, particularly in this country, but then again, so is asking for a cab ride from Nomi - her chosen hideaway - to Shimoda. It hadn't occurred to her to request a closer pickup location. Subconsciously, and even if she had, she knew the answer would've been no. Home Office has a reason for everything. Vague though they tend to be, she trusts that she'll soon know why she's going to Shimoda.
Looking at the driver paying for a sea food box and a coffee, she catches her own reflection in the taxi window. There's nothing striking about Saga, save for her extremely pale skin. Many of her friends have asked why she chose Japan to hide in, since her appearance makes her stand out quite dramatically, but she finds that the local populace respects those who wish to keep to themselves. It's rare she notices anyone staring at her. And usually the stares come from tourists. Besides, Japanese was one of the first languages she learned, and there's something about Samurai movies that turns her on. Precision in movement and gratuitous blood. Why wouldn't she choose Japan?
***
The taxi pulls away. The driver no doubt ecstatic - in that subdued Japanese way - at the overly generous tip. Saga even gave him extra money for the fuel required of the return trip to Nomi. They hadn't talked much, but she appreciated his patience and professionalism, and she always makes it a point to reward such admirable characteristics.
"You're late," a voice says. In Romanian.
"By Japanese standards," Saga replies, in Japanese. "Not by anyone else's. What am I doing here?"
"The director," the voice switches to English, "requested your unit. We haven't located all of you yet. Any hints?"
"Legacy is in Australia..."
"We found him."
"I think Wolfe is in Ecuador. Hawke was heading to the Ukraine, last I knew. Haven't heard from any of the others. Are we being reformed?"
"Hawke's not in the Ukraine. Not as far as we can tell, at least. Wolfe was killed two years ago." The voice pauses, letting that sink in. Saga, to her credit, shows no emotional reaction. Wolfe must have really pissed her off. "And, no. Not officially."
"What am I doing here, Archangel?"
The man finally steps out of the shadows. He is even more pale than Saga, but his appearance is striking. Well over six feet tall, his is an imposing presence. Dressed in expensive suit, his strong jawline and angular features scream of Hollywood megastar. Out of the shadows, two more men dressed like him carry another, this one bound and gagged.
"We're being hunted," Archangel answers, equally as emotionless as Saga's responses have been.
Saga gestures tiredly towards the prisoner. "By him?"
"And others like him. Have you eaten?"
Saga shakes her head no and slowly allows a smile. This time, lips apart, the extended and sharpened canines of vampire unmistakable.
"We had his partner for breakfast. This one's all yours."
She glides up to the prisoner, smelling him. Definitely an American. And one who eats a lot of red meat and cheese, she gathers. He'll be tasty.
"Has he been interrogated?"
Archangel smiles. "Not yet." He's going to love watching her work. And eat.
***
The interrogation is terrifying. Saga punctures the man's carotid artery, though she does not draw her meal from there. The purpose is only to make the man lightheaded and less resistant to questioning. Instead, she feeds from his femoral. The blood is as rich, and it affords her the use of fellatio as a method of finding out what she wants to know. Create confusion, and the mind struggles to find clarity. Often by whatever means necessary.
***
Wiping her mouth clean, she makes eye contact with Archangel. Though most of the now-dead man's responses offered no new information, his dying words are cause for alarm.
"We know the Storyteller lied. We know he lied."
The fact that the man knew the name "Storyteller" changes everything. And both Archangel and Saga know it.
*To be continued...
She laments the Akaishi Mountains, for Saga very much wants to see the sunset's reflection in the Sea of Japan, but she's been ordered to Izu for pickup. Maybe tomorrow she can catch the beginning of the sunrise over the Pacific, but the colors aren't the same. Given her situation, she'll take what she can get.
The middle-aged taxi driver asks her, in Japanese, if she would like to stop for dinner. She shakes her head and turns her attention to her package. She's not seen her American passport in years. The surprise she experienced upon finding it at the drop-off has hung around, and she relishes in its residue. Saga's not been surprised in a long time. Things have been so... menial.
America has long been a no-go area for her organization, and the fact she's being sent there means that something is wrong. She smiles, careful to keep her lips together. She's caught the taxi driver stealing glances at her - whether from attraction or curiosity is of no importance - and, though the thought has crossed her mind, she's no real desire to reveal her true identity. Any discrepancy or, Heaven forbid, interference from law enforcement might make her as-of-yet unknown mission more difficult. And Saga will be damned should Home Office decide to send someone else - someone less reckless - in her place.
The taxi driver asks politely if he may stop to pick up a snack and she nods. It is an unusual request from a taxi driver, particularly in this country, but then again, so is asking for a cab ride from Nomi - her chosen hideaway - to Shimoda. It hadn't occurred to her to request a closer pickup location. Subconsciously, and even if she had, she knew the answer would've been no. Home Office has a reason for everything. Vague though they tend to be, she trusts that she'll soon know why she's going to Shimoda.
Looking at the driver paying for a sea food box and a coffee, she catches her own reflection in the taxi window. There's nothing striking about Saga, save for her extremely pale skin. Many of her friends have asked why she chose Japan to hide in, since her appearance makes her stand out quite dramatically, but she finds that the local populace respects those who wish to keep to themselves. It's rare she notices anyone staring at her. And usually the stares come from tourists. Besides, Japanese was one of the first languages she learned, and there's something about Samurai movies that turns her on. Precision in movement and gratuitous blood. Why wouldn't she choose Japan?
***
The taxi pulls away. The driver no doubt ecstatic - in that subdued Japanese way - at the overly generous tip. Saga even gave him extra money for the fuel required of the return trip to Nomi. They hadn't talked much, but she appreciated his patience and professionalism, and she always makes it a point to reward such admirable characteristics.
"You're late," a voice says. In Romanian.
"By Japanese standards," Saga replies, in Japanese. "Not by anyone else's. What am I doing here?"
"The director," the voice switches to English, "requested your unit. We haven't located all of you yet. Any hints?"
"Legacy is in Australia..."
"We found him."
"I think Wolfe is in Ecuador. Hawke was heading to the Ukraine, last I knew. Haven't heard from any of the others. Are we being reformed?"
"Hawke's not in the Ukraine. Not as far as we can tell, at least. Wolfe was killed two years ago." The voice pauses, letting that sink in. Saga, to her credit, shows no emotional reaction. Wolfe must have really pissed her off. "And, no. Not officially."
"What am I doing here, Archangel?"
The man finally steps out of the shadows. He is even more pale than Saga, but his appearance is striking. Well over six feet tall, his is an imposing presence. Dressed in expensive suit, his strong jawline and angular features scream of Hollywood megastar. Out of the shadows, two more men dressed like him carry another, this one bound and gagged.
"We're being hunted," Archangel answers, equally as emotionless as Saga's responses have been.
Saga gestures tiredly towards the prisoner. "By him?"
"And others like him. Have you eaten?"
Saga shakes her head no and slowly allows a smile. This time, lips apart, the extended and sharpened canines of vampire unmistakable.
"We had his partner for breakfast. This one's all yours."
She glides up to the prisoner, smelling him. Definitely an American. And one who eats a lot of red meat and cheese, she gathers. He'll be tasty.
"Has he been interrogated?"
Archangel smiles. "Not yet." He's going to love watching her work. And eat.
***
The interrogation is terrifying. Saga punctures the man's carotid artery, though she does not draw her meal from there. The purpose is only to make the man lightheaded and less resistant to questioning. Instead, she feeds from his femoral. The blood is as rich, and it affords her the use of fellatio as a method of finding out what she wants to know. Create confusion, and the mind struggles to find clarity. Often by whatever means necessary.
***
Wiping her mouth clean, she makes eye contact with Archangel. Though most of the now-dead man's responses offered no new information, his dying words are cause for alarm.
"We know the Storyteller lied. We know he lied."
The fact that the man knew the name "Storyteller" changes everything. And both Archangel and Saga know it.
*To be continued...
Thursday, July 29, 2010
The Scheherazadi, Part III
*Continued from The Scheherazadi, Part I and The Scheherazadi, Part II
The Magic Carpet slowly whirs to life, emanating a hum that sounds a little like an alien version of the cooling turbines on a golem. I've heard Morgiana and Rashid talk about "carpet burns" before, but it was only yesterday that I learned what they were.
And, I must admit, the prospect of traveling via carpet burn scares the shit out of me.
***
They call themselves the Scheherazadi and they're not quite human. Human, yes, but even less natural than the tech-djinn. They don't talk about it with me, being an outsider and all, but as near as I can tell they serve some sort of entity - a god, a dictactor, a wet dream, I have no clue - they call the Shahryi.
Most of them stay away from me, save for Morgiana and two other women, Zumarra and Parizade. Although Parizade's kept her distance ever since we almost sealed the deal, if you know what I mean. The only male I have any contact with is Rashid, and he's the prick who walked in on Parizade and me. Everyone else I've interacted with has been on a sterile basis... braniac types who have been poking and prodding me, supposedly to ensure the modifications to my golem hold up under field tests, even though I haven't seen my golem since these people captured me.
I did happen to notice that there were no children present and that everyone was an intellectual of some sort. I couldn't figure out why, but Morgiana eventually let the cat out of the bag during my long indoctrination.
"While the rest of civilization were trying to save their useless children, our fathers were saving engineers, scientists, doctors," Morgiana says, the arrogance slipping through her kind's prescience.
I ignore it. Fact is, they all talk like this. "Is that why there aren't any kids?"
"We have children, though very few. The pleasures of nature are hard to suppress, as you know." She gives me an evil eye, obviously because of the whole Parizade debacle. I just chalk it up to jealousy. "But most of us are clones, either replacement bodies for those becoming too old or copies of those in high-risk positions."
"So, you don't die."
"Of course we do, though it is rare that a person is completely lost." Completely lost, she says. I like that. "500 years of research perfected the cloning and transfer of memories from body to body."
Whoa. Even I'm smart enough to have my mind blown by this.
"And, to think," Morgiana continues, "all you've managed to do is figure out how to transfer to machines."
Pathetic, I know.
"I'm still lost. How do you plan on saving the world?"
"Nothing more is expected from you." Because she's so beautiful, I let her insult me. Okay, okay, half the time I don't even realize she's insulting me. But that time I did. "And the same way we destroyed it. With technology and a desire to use it."
Funny, had I heard someone at home dune say that, I'd be worried. Morgiana's words, though, carry themselves with an immeasurable weight of trust. And I believe them.
***
"Open Simsim," Rashid commands and blast of bright light permeates the entire chamber. I was briefed for this, but there's nothing like seeing the Magic Carpet tear a hole through space-time in person.
Rashid and two of his soldiers step in with no hesitation and disintegrate in front of my very eyes. Morgiana smiles and follows. Parizade takes my hand and pulls me in as she herself disappears.
Now I know why it's called a carpet burn. I feel like I'm on fire.
When it subsides, something's not right. There's a bright blue planet over my head. Before I can even ask if that's Earth, Morgiana and Parizade lift me to my feet.
"Come," Morgiana says, her voice more deferential than I've ever heard it, "it's time for you to tell a story to the Shahryi."
Forget what I said about the Magic Carpet. Now I'm scared shitless.
The Magic Carpet slowly whirs to life, emanating a hum that sounds a little like an alien version of the cooling turbines on a golem. I've heard Morgiana and Rashid talk about "carpet burns" before, but it was only yesterday that I learned what they were.
And, I must admit, the prospect of traveling via carpet burn scares the shit out of me.
***
They call themselves the Scheherazadi and they're not quite human. Human, yes, but even less natural than the tech-djinn. They don't talk about it with me, being an outsider and all, but as near as I can tell they serve some sort of entity - a god, a dictactor, a wet dream, I have no clue - they call the Shahryi.
Most of them stay away from me, save for Morgiana and two other women, Zumarra and Parizade. Although Parizade's kept her distance ever since we almost sealed the deal, if you know what I mean. The only male I have any contact with is Rashid, and he's the prick who walked in on Parizade and me. Everyone else I've interacted with has been on a sterile basis... braniac types who have been poking and prodding me, supposedly to ensure the modifications to my golem hold up under field tests, even though I haven't seen my golem since these people captured me.
I did happen to notice that there were no children present and that everyone was an intellectual of some sort. I couldn't figure out why, but Morgiana eventually let the cat out of the bag during my long indoctrination.
"While the rest of civilization were trying to save their useless children, our fathers were saving engineers, scientists, doctors," Morgiana says, the arrogance slipping through her kind's prescience.
I ignore it. Fact is, they all talk like this. "Is that why there aren't any kids?"
"We have children, though very few. The pleasures of nature are hard to suppress, as you know." She gives me an evil eye, obviously because of the whole Parizade debacle. I just chalk it up to jealousy. "But most of us are clones, either replacement bodies for those becoming too old or copies of those in high-risk positions."
"So, you don't die."
"Of course we do, though it is rare that a person is completely lost." Completely lost, she says. I like that. "500 years of research perfected the cloning and transfer of memories from body to body."
Whoa. Even I'm smart enough to have my mind blown by this.
"And, to think," Morgiana continues, "all you've managed to do is figure out how to transfer to machines."
Pathetic, I know.
"I'm still lost. How do you plan on saving the world?"
"Nothing more is expected from you." Because she's so beautiful, I let her insult me. Okay, okay, half the time I don't even realize she's insulting me. But that time I did. "And the same way we destroyed it. With technology and a desire to use it."
Funny, had I heard someone at home dune say that, I'd be worried. Morgiana's words, though, carry themselves with an immeasurable weight of trust. And I believe them.
***
"Open Simsim," Rashid commands and blast of bright light permeates the entire chamber. I was briefed for this, but there's nothing like seeing the Magic Carpet tear a hole through space-time in person.
Rashid and two of his soldiers step in with no hesitation and disintegrate in front of my very eyes. Morgiana smiles and follows. Parizade takes my hand and pulls me in as she herself disappears.
Now I know why it's called a carpet burn. I feel like I'm on fire.
When it subsides, something's not right. There's a bright blue planet over my head. Before I can even ask if that's Earth, Morgiana and Parizade lift me to my feet.
"Come," Morgiana says, her voice more deferential than I've ever heard it, "it's time for you to tell a story to the Shahryi."
Forget what I said about the Magic Carpet. Now I'm scared shitless.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
The Scheherazadi, Part II
*Continued from The Scheherazadi, Part I
I'm dreaming of a green world. A wonderful world full of life and lots of naked women. I know, I know... I can be a tad perverted. But, hey, it's my fucking dream.
Of course, it's all a crock of shit. These types of dreams are common when unplugging from a golem. The last thing I remember is getting hit by some sort of missile. I guess my tech-djinn deactivated my brain in time. I owe it my life, sure. But I'm still gonna smack it in the face.
Or I would, if I didn't just wake up surrounded by a group of strangers. My eyes are blurry, but I don't recognize any of the voices and I'm tied to a metal pallet. I'm guessing these guys don't like me.
Don't worry. I don't know what's going on, either. Better get some sleep.
***
They're talking like I'm not in the room. Which is a little rude since, you know, I'm tied to a metal pallet. They don't realize I speak French, so their attempt at keeping me ignorant is falling short a bit.
"I think we should kill this one and find another," one says. I think his name is Rashid.
"Why do you say that, Rashid?" a woman asks him. So, yep, his name is Rashid. These people are ridiculously tall. I clock in at 73 inches, but everyone else in the room - the women included - have me beat by at least four more. They're also rather dark... every hue of skin from heavy bronze to deep brown. No pale bodies in the group.
"He's an irreverent asshole."
Seriously, what did they expect? I wake up tied to a metal pallet and then they interrogate me? And I'm supposed to be polite? Fuck 'em.
"No," the woman replies - for a tall chick, she's gorgeous... Hell, for any type of chick, she's gorgeous. "There's a chance his djinn transmitted a signal, so our tactic will likely be recognized the next time."
Rashid frowns and almost pouts. This guy called me an asshole?
"Besides," the woman continues, "this one didn't even shoot at us. I doubt we'd be so lucky again."
"Perhaps he's incompetent." Fuck you, Rashid. Really.
"No. I believe quite the opposite. The shock of seeing humans on the surface must have registered quickly."
Yeah, that. I'm really starting to like this broad. Of course, I'll probably be ordered to kill her at some point.
"Where am I?" I ask, tiring of their exchange. I speak in English, not wanting to give away that I speak their little fruity tongue.
She looks at me, her eyes - not naturally piercing - manage to stab at me. "Somewhere under the Russian Ocean," she answers, absent any discernible emotion.
Well, that's a long way from home. Fucking wonderful. She nods at who I'm guessing is a medical technician and the jerk sticks something in my arm. I'm passing out... again.
***
It's the green world. What it looked like centuries ago. It wasn't all green, of course - desert was still around and there was plenty of blue - but it looks like a chia pet in my dream. I can hear voices, so I'm probably not completely asleep. French voices, too. Sound like scientists, because they're explaining how the nuclear fallout over the Arctic isn't what fucked Mama Earth... it was the Antarctic melt that really caused problems. Oh, and some massive secret project to create more water using nuclear fusion that didn't quite pan out. Some angel in my dream who's a drop-dead gorgeous brunette with an accent - British, maybe... can't really tell - talks about how the coolers failed at the worst possible moment, exacerbated by a terrorist attack on the secondary coolers. Kaboom went the man-made glacier machines and splash went the planet.
The desire to survive instituted a global feudal system and that's pretty much been the preferred form of government since the flood. Only no Noah's Ark this time. Yeah, some animals survived - dogs and cats, mostly... people and their pets, let me tell ya - but this extinction event took care of most our four-legged, eight-legged, no-legged, and winged friends. Humanity's stubbornness and a brief (as existence goes) adoption of cannibalism saved what was left.
The voices are disappearing and my angel fades. Damn, she's beautiful. I hope she revisits me again some night. Her voice does me in. The last thing I hear her say throws me for a bit of a loop.
"Save the planet."
Me? What the fuck am I supposed to do? I'm just a dumb grunt who lost his golem.
***
And I'm waking up... again. I'm getting real sick of these hangovers. At least this time only the woman is in the room with me.
"My name is Morgiana and you're probably wondering why you're here."
I didn't notice it before - strange, I know - but she's not wearing very much clothing. Topless, in fact. Then again, I'm drowzy... maybe seducing me is the next stage of the interrogation. And, trust me, I'd let this one seduce me. It's at this point during my morning arousal - if it's even morning - I realize how hot it is here. I should say something snarky, but I keep my mouth shut and nod.
"We need you."
Nice and vague. And probably a lie. "How'd you get my body?"
"We assaulted your home dune the same time we attacked your golem. Your tech-djinn is dead, along with all of the other inhabitants of your dune. For that, I apologize. We could take no chances at being discovered or reported."
Djinn's dead? And all of my friends, even the ones I didn't really like. Yeah, this upsets me a little. And pisses me off a lot.
"So why not kill me?"
"I told you. We need you. We're not interested in your wars over land. We have a much larger goal."
She's starting to sound like one of those over-the-top villains from an old spy movie.
"And what's that?"
"Saving the planet."
For some reason - no doubt an imaginary brunette - I believe her. Now I'm intrigued. Whether by the concept, by the dream, or by Morgiana's beautifully smooth and supple nipples, I've no idea. But I'm intrigued.
"Yeah, fine. When are you going to untie me?" Perhaps I should've toned down the defiance in my voice a little bit.
"When I decide to trust you."
Great. I might be here a while. Judging from the syringe she's holding, I'm gonna have a lot of headaches, too.
*Continued in The Scheherazadi, Part III
I'm dreaming of a green world. A wonderful world full of life and lots of naked women. I know, I know... I can be a tad perverted. But, hey, it's my fucking dream.
Of course, it's all a crock of shit. These types of dreams are common when unplugging from a golem. The last thing I remember is getting hit by some sort of missile. I guess my tech-djinn deactivated my brain in time. I owe it my life, sure. But I'm still gonna smack it in the face.
Or I would, if I didn't just wake up surrounded by a group of strangers. My eyes are blurry, but I don't recognize any of the voices and I'm tied to a metal pallet. I'm guessing these guys don't like me.
Don't worry. I don't know what's going on, either. Better get some sleep.
***
They're talking like I'm not in the room. Which is a little rude since, you know, I'm tied to a metal pallet. They don't realize I speak French, so their attempt at keeping me ignorant is falling short a bit.
"I think we should kill this one and find another," one says. I think his name is Rashid.
"Why do you say that, Rashid?" a woman asks him. So, yep, his name is Rashid. These people are ridiculously tall. I clock in at 73 inches, but everyone else in the room - the women included - have me beat by at least four more. They're also rather dark... every hue of skin from heavy bronze to deep brown. No pale bodies in the group.
"He's an irreverent asshole."
Seriously, what did they expect? I wake up tied to a metal pallet and then they interrogate me? And I'm supposed to be polite? Fuck 'em.
"No," the woman replies - for a tall chick, she's gorgeous... Hell, for any type of chick, she's gorgeous. "There's a chance his djinn transmitted a signal, so our tactic will likely be recognized the next time."
Rashid frowns and almost pouts. This guy called me an asshole?
"Besides," the woman continues, "this one didn't even shoot at us. I doubt we'd be so lucky again."
"Perhaps he's incompetent." Fuck you, Rashid. Really.
"No. I believe quite the opposite. The shock of seeing humans on the surface must have registered quickly."
Yeah, that. I'm really starting to like this broad. Of course, I'll probably be ordered to kill her at some point.
"Where am I?" I ask, tiring of their exchange. I speak in English, not wanting to give away that I speak their little fruity tongue.
She looks at me, her eyes - not naturally piercing - manage to stab at me. "Somewhere under the Russian Ocean," she answers, absent any discernible emotion.
Well, that's a long way from home. Fucking wonderful. She nods at who I'm guessing is a medical technician and the jerk sticks something in my arm. I'm passing out... again.
***
It's the green world. What it looked like centuries ago. It wasn't all green, of course - desert was still around and there was plenty of blue - but it looks like a chia pet in my dream. I can hear voices, so I'm probably not completely asleep. French voices, too. Sound like scientists, because they're explaining how the nuclear fallout over the Arctic isn't what fucked Mama Earth... it was the Antarctic melt that really caused problems. Oh, and some massive secret project to create more water using nuclear fusion that didn't quite pan out. Some angel in my dream who's a drop-dead gorgeous brunette with an accent - British, maybe... can't really tell - talks about how the coolers failed at the worst possible moment, exacerbated by a terrorist attack on the secondary coolers. Kaboom went the man-made glacier machines and splash went the planet.
The desire to survive instituted a global feudal system and that's pretty much been the preferred form of government since the flood. Only no Noah's Ark this time. Yeah, some animals survived - dogs and cats, mostly... people and their pets, let me tell ya - but this extinction event took care of most our four-legged, eight-legged, no-legged, and winged friends. Humanity's stubbornness and a brief (as existence goes) adoption of cannibalism saved what was left.
The voices are disappearing and my angel fades. Damn, she's beautiful. I hope she revisits me again some night. Her voice does me in. The last thing I hear her say throws me for a bit of a loop.
"Save the planet."
Me? What the fuck am I supposed to do? I'm just a dumb grunt who lost his golem.
***
And I'm waking up... again. I'm getting real sick of these hangovers. At least this time only the woman is in the room with me.
"My name is Morgiana and you're probably wondering why you're here."
I didn't notice it before - strange, I know - but she's not wearing very much clothing. Topless, in fact. Then again, I'm drowzy... maybe seducing me is the next stage of the interrogation. And, trust me, I'd let this one seduce me. It's at this point during my morning arousal - if it's even morning - I realize how hot it is here. I should say something snarky, but I keep my mouth shut and nod.
"We need you."
Nice and vague. And probably a lie. "How'd you get my body?"
"We assaulted your home dune the same time we attacked your golem. Your tech-djinn is dead, along with all of the other inhabitants of your dune. For that, I apologize. We could take no chances at being discovered or reported."
Djinn's dead? And all of my friends, even the ones I didn't really like. Yeah, this upsets me a little. And pisses me off a lot.
"So why not kill me?"
"I told you. We need you. We're not interested in your wars over land. We have a much larger goal."
She's starting to sound like one of those over-the-top villains from an old spy movie.
"And what's that?"
"Saving the planet."
For some reason - no doubt an imaginary brunette - I believe her. Now I'm intrigued. Whether by the concept, by the dream, or by Morgiana's beautifully smooth and supple nipples, I've no idea. But I'm intrigued.
"Yeah, fine. When are you going to untie me?" Perhaps I should've toned down the defiance in my voice a little bit.
"When I decide to trust you."
Great. I might be here a while. Judging from the syringe she's holding, I'm gonna have a lot of headaches, too.
*Continued in The Scheherazadi, Part III
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Hollywood Science Fiction Tentpoles
As relatively-ignored by the Oscars as science fiction films are, it's hard to argue that there is a more influential genre in Hollywood. Ever since Star Wars nominalized the blockbuster, technology has usurped story as the force behind filmmaking. Yes, a good story remains the most important factor in regards to a good movie, but a good story is often not what makes a box office success. You can argue that if you'd like, but all evidence will point against you.
Every time an "event" science fiction film makes its way into theaters, other films (science fiction or not) scramble to take advantage of the technology presented in that event picture. The end result is that motion picture eras can be defined almost as easily by the science fiction film they follow as by the decade they're a part of.
2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
Stanley Kubrick was infamous for his bucking of Hollywood trends and the irony that he likely kicked off one of its biggest is not lost on anyone (or shouldn't be). There were influential science fiction films before Kubrick and Clarke's 2001: A Space Odyssey, but this was the first film to not only truly emphasize scientific realism in Hollywood science fiction at large, but to also present it as what many might refer to as an art film.
Admittedly, I find 2001: A Space Odyssey a highly overrated narrative mess (the novel, on the other hand, is brilliant), but its influence is obvious. Without it, there would be no Solyaris (1972) or The Man Who Fell to Earth (1976). Indeed, given its own sequel (2010: The Year We Make Contact - 1984) and the underrated American remake of Solyaris (Solaris - 2002), it's easy to argue that 2001: A Space Odyssey remains more influential than the more recent films appearing on this list. 1996's The Arrival and 1997's Contact also directly owe their thematic execution to Kubrick's influence.
Star Wars (1977)
Undoubtedly the most obvious film on the list, this is the one that changed Hollywood from top to bottom. Upon its release and the seemingly miles-long lines of eagerly-awaiting audiences that accompanied it, the film industry started churning out science fiction films (many horribly awful) in droves. Overtly less science fiction and more fairy tale (what many call space opera), Star Wars spanned all of the fantasy genres and its fingerprints can be found on everything from its own sequels to 2006's Eragon.
Specifically regarding science fiction, however, the success of Star Wars convinced Paramount to take a silver screen chance on its beloved franchise, Star Trek, and 20th Century Fox to give Ridley Scott the go-ahead to make a horror film set in space (Star Trek: The Motion Picture and Alien, respectively... both 1979). That the brilliance of The Empire Strikes Back (1980) and the fun of Return of the Jedi (1983) were nearly erased with the despicable Star Wars prequels of the the late 1990s and early 2000s does not lessen the impact of the original movie (and, in fact, proves its resilience).
Aliens (1986)
James Cameron's sequel to Ridley Scott's Alien is, as implied, part of the Star Wars "family tree of influence." And while perhaps not as groundbreaking as Cameron's previous film, The Terminator (1984), Aliens propelled science fiction into the stratosphere (a fact not lost on the Academy Awards, which honored the film with a nomination for Best Actress... a feat unheard of for a science fiction film). Part action, part horror, part commentary, Cameron finally proved with Aliens what stalwarts such as David Cronenberg and Scott were trying to prove with their own (brilliant) films: science fiction could be dark, gritty, and commercially successful.
While some might disagree, Aliens is the true cinematic progenitor of 1991's Terminator 2: Judgment Day (corporate intrigue, strong female protagonist, etc.) and not, as one would imagine, The Terminator. 2000's Pitch Black is even interpreted by some as a quasi-remake of Aliens. 1997's Starship Troopers, too, owes a great deal to Cameron's film (ironically, the novel Starship Troopers heavily influenced Aliens). And lets not forget the plethora of franchise-launching or franchise-renewing projects that appeared because of it: 1987's Predator (which also unfortunately led to2004's Alien vs. Predator), Alien Nation (1988), a War of the Worlds television series (1988), and even direct and pervasive homage in countless Japanese animated films.
The Matrix (1999)
Strangely, there were rather low expectations for this film to do well at the box office, must less spawn two sequels and a host of animation and graphic novel projects. That it became so influential to Hollywood in general could not have been predicted by anyone. Filmed for a relatively low budget (less than $65 million, where most films of this type are priced well over $100 million), the in-house effects team created some mind-boggling visuals that are still considered top-notch over a decade later. These effects, combined with a comic book-inspired script loaded with (unintentional) relevant philosophy, captured the minds of its audiences while blowing them away with ridiculous (yet appropriate, given the story) action sequences and subdued questions of reality.
Though not entirely relevant to itself, this examination of existence returned the genre to the realm of philosophy. While the tone of such later films as Sunshine (2007) and Moon (2009) doesn't lend to comparison, it would be hard-pressed for one to imagine either of those films being produced without The Matrix. And despite the two Matrix sequels attempting to force the philosophical issue (resulting in far-inferior films), many subsequent films were highly successful at it (2006's The Fountain - despite being a tad too overwrought - and even 2002's 28 Days Later). Essentially, it took an action spectacle to allow the quiet, introspective science fiction film to enjoy a resurgence.
Avatar (2009)
Avatar's place on this list could have very easily been taken by 2007's Transformers (yes, Transformers), but given that film's rush-to-sequel and the enormous amount of press preceding Avatar's release, Transformers had no chance to settle into the subconscious of audiences and filmmakers. There's not a lot to say about Avatar's influence just yet (save for the proliferation of 3D films), but I don't think I'm taking too much of a risk by claiming that, yes, it is the new Star Wars in that filmmaking has been distinctly altered forever.
The story of Avatar is admittedly pedestrian, but out of all of the films on this list, it is the most socially relevant. An intellectual might claim 2001: A Space Odyssey holds that distinction, but Kubrick's film hid its moral behind far too much artistic interpretation that its message went unnoticed by most of its viewers. Avatar, on the other hand, presented its commentary (environmentalism, racism, anti-private military, corporate greed) rather plainly.
It is obvious that Avatar has affected the technical nature of filmmaking for all time to come. It remains to be seen how it affects the presentation of social context within the genre. One can only hope.
Every time an "event" science fiction film makes its way into theaters, other films (science fiction or not) scramble to take advantage of the technology presented in that event picture. The end result is that motion picture eras can be defined almost as easily by the science fiction film they follow as by the decade they're a part of.
2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
Stanley Kubrick was infamous for his bucking of Hollywood trends and the irony that he likely kicked off one of its biggest is not lost on anyone (or shouldn't be). There were influential science fiction films before Kubrick and Clarke's 2001: A Space Odyssey, but this was the first film to not only truly emphasize scientific realism in Hollywood science fiction at large, but to also present it as what many might refer to as an art film.
Admittedly, I find 2001: A Space Odyssey a highly overrated narrative mess (the novel, on the other hand, is brilliant), but its influence is obvious. Without it, there would be no Solyaris (1972) or The Man Who Fell to Earth (1976). Indeed, given its own sequel (2010: The Year We Make Contact - 1984) and the underrated American remake of Solyaris (Solaris - 2002), it's easy to argue that 2001: A Space Odyssey remains more influential than the more recent films appearing on this list. 1996's The Arrival and 1997's Contact also directly owe their thematic execution to Kubrick's influence.
Star Wars (1977)
Undoubtedly the most obvious film on the list, this is the one that changed Hollywood from top to bottom. Upon its release and the seemingly miles-long lines of eagerly-awaiting audiences that accompanied it, the film industry started churning out science fiction films (many horribly awful) in droves. Overtly less science fiction and more fairy tale (what many call space opera), Star Wars spanned all of the fantasy genres and its fingerprints can be found on everything from its own sequels to 2006's Eragon.
Specifically regarding science fiction, however, the success of Star Wars convinced Paramount to take a silver screen chance on its beloved franchise, Star Trek, and 20th Century Fox to give Ridley Scott the go-ahead to make a horror film set in space (Star Trek: The Motion Picture and Alien, respectively... both 1979). That the brilliance of The Empire Strikes Back (1980) and the fun of Return of the Jedi (1983) were nearly erased with the despicable Star Wars prequels of the the late 1990s and early 2000s does not lessen the impact of the original movie (and, in fact, proves its resilience).
Aliens (1986)
James Cameron's sequel to Ridley Scott's Alien is, as implied, part of the Star Wars "family tree of influence." And while perhaps not as groundbreaking as Cameron's previous film, The Terminator (1984), Aliens propelled science fiction into the stratosphere (a fact not lost on the Academy Awards, which honored the film with a nomination for Best Actress... a feat unheard of for a science fiction film). Part action, part horror, part commentary, Cameron finally proved with Aliens what stalwarts such as David Cronenberg and Scott were trying to prove with their own (brilliant) films: science fiction could be dark, gritty, and commercially successful.
While some might disagree, Aliens is the true cinematic progenitor of 1991's Terminator 2: Judgment Day (corporate intrigue, strong female protagonist, etc.) and not, as one would imagine, The Terminator. 2000's Pitch Black is even interpreted by some as a quasi-remake of Aliens. 1997's Starship Troopers, too, owes a great deal to Cameron's film (ironically, the novel Starship Troopers heavily influenced Aliens). And lets not forget the plethora of franchise-launching or franchise-renewing projects that appeared because of it: 1987's Predator (which also unfortunately led to2004's Alien vs. Predator), Alien Nation (1988), a War of the Worlds television series (1988), and even direct and pervasive homage in countless Japanese animated films.
The Matrix (1999)
Strangely, there were rather low expectations for this film to do well at the box office, must less spawn two sequels and a host of animation and graphic novel projects. That it became so influential to Hollywood in general could not have been predicted by anyone. Filmed for a relatively low budget (less than $65 million, where most films of this type are priced well over $100 million), the in-house effects team created some mind-boggling visuals that are still considered top-notch over a decade later. These effects, combined with a comic book-inspired script loaded with (unintentional) relevant philosophy, captured the minds of its audiences while blowing them away with ridiculous (yet appropriate, given the story) action sequences and subdued questions of reality.
Though not entirely relevant to itself, this examination of existence returned the genre to the realm of philosophy. While the tone of such later films as Sunshine (2007) and Moon (2009) doesn't lend to comparison, it would be hard-pressed for one to imagine either of those films being produced without The Matrix. And despite the two Matrix sequels attempting to force the philosophical issue (resulting in far-inferior films), many subsequent films were highly successful at it (2006's The Fountain - despite being a tad too overwrought - and even 2002's 28 Days Later). Essentially, it took an action spectacle to allow the quiet, introspective science fiction film to enjoy a resurgence.
Avatar (2009)
Avatar's place on this list could have very easily been taken by 2007's Transformers (yes, Transformers), but given that film's rush-to-sequel and the enormous amount of press preceding Avatar's release, Transformers had no chance to settle into the subconscious of audiences and filmmakers. There's not a lot to say about Avatar's influence just yet (save for the proliferation of 3D films), but I don't think I'm taking too much of a risk by claiming that, yes, it is the new Star Wars in that filmmaking has been distinctly altered forever.
The story of Avatar is admittedly pedestrian, but out of all of the films on this list, it is the most socially relevant. An intellectual might claim 2001: A Space Odyssey holds that distinction, but Kubrick's film hid its moral behind far too much artistic interpretation that its message went unnoticed by most of its viewers. Avatar, on the other hand, presented its commentary (environmentalism, racism, anti-private military, corporate greed) rather plainly.
It is obvious that Avatar has affected the technical nature of filmmaking for all time to come. It remains to be seen how it affects the presentation of social context within the genre. One can only hope.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Equation
*Follows Gateway and Surface
Falling from an aircraft and experiencing flight the way only a liar can feels nothing like falling from a planet. Or in this case a moon, Samuel reminds himself. The landscape here doesn't vary and the dark skies make it hard to gauge how high up he actually is. His head hurts, an infection-inspired vertigo, and that his eyes constantly readjust from his inclination to stare up at Saturn and down at Iapetus make the very act of focus - visual or mental - almost impossible. But he can't help it. This facade of flying is too addicting.
***
"Jesus fuck," Vasquez mutters as he loses his balance. The impact doesn't hurt much - the gravity here is roughly two or three percent of Earth's - but the complicated act of landing properly makes him feel like an albatross.
"Ah, shit," Estevez screams in frustration as he undertakes the same clumsy action.
Roarke can't help but smile, knowing that Estevez and Vasquez are from the same part of the United States and react similarly to almost every situation. The group - five survivors from an initial squad of 13 - has been walking/flying for about 70 miles. It was determined a short time ago that whatever is jamming their transmissions to the orbiter is not coming from Gateway. Instead, it seems to be coming from the moon. Though Roarke swears she can occasionally see the Capricorn orbiter in the sky - a perception shared by none of the others - she knows that the odds of the crew spotting five lonely spots on the surface of Iapetus are slim to none... and closer to none.
"Sipalia," Roarke calls out over the comm-set, "the men are tired."
Sipalia responds with a grunt. The labored breathing Roarke hears lets her know that Sipalia is well-aware of the team's exhaustion. They've been fighting all day - perhaps more than a day - and though the light gravity allows the team to move quite rapidly, the frustration of not being able to move efficiently is taking its fair toll.
"Oxygen check," Sipalia orders. Though Roarke had led the team for much of the operation, Sipalia re-assumed his proper authority upon leaving the station. They hadn't been accosted by the Things since abandoning McDaniels in the airlock and the thought of sleeping is quite attractive.
Everyone reports in at least 60%. Good news, thinks Sipalia, and he begins mentally to put a sleep schedule together. Then he realizes only three reports came in.
"Nduom?"
Silence.
"Nduom?" Sipalia repeats in that command voice that leaders who prefer subtle approaches hate to use.
***
The zenith of the flight arc provides a wonderful view of the equatorial ridge. It is a strange natural formation that spans nearly the entire waistline of the moon. The skyline screams of being man-made - or intelligently-designed, as it were - but he knows that's impossible. The entire moon would have to be an artifact, were that the case. Thoughts struggle to form pedestrian theories as a pressure suit slams into the ground. The memory of a paratrooper's poeticism from the early 21st century begins to sing in imaginative choir.
"Give us wings... and we'll still fall."
***
"Nduom!" Sipalia's yell fails to snap Nduom out of whatever trance he's in and Sipalia watches as the pressure suit smacks a rock, then rolls over limp. "Estevez." It is a simple order and even without being able to see Sipalia's command expression, Estevez reacts immediately and bounds over to Nduom's unmoving suit.
"Hang on, brother," Estevez radios out, "I'm coming." The anxiety in the medic's voice betrays his knowledge that if, in fact, Nduom needs medical attention, he's not getting any out here.
"Anybody see what happened?" Sipalia asks the others. Some shake their heads, then respond "no" once they remember that the pressure helmet hides any such body language. "Well, that's just fucking great."
"How far do you think we are from the ridge?"
Sipalia turns to Roarke instinctively. Even without being able to discern a woman's voice, he knows that she's the only one who would ask such a pragmatic question in such a dicked-up circumstance. He holds his thumb toward Gateway, estimating their distance traveled, then turns around and compares it to the base of the ridge. "We're over half-way," he answers.
Roarke fails to transmit it, but Sipalia imagines a small sigh of relief. The ridge is their last hope of making contact with the orbiter - or so they think - and the orbiter is their only chance of survival.
***
Samuel can tell his body is being rolled over into a supine position, but he can't tell by whom... or by what. His thoughts continue to enjoy the meanderings of flight, finding an imaginary permanence over a random peak of a random mountain. Iapetus, he muses, is only about one-tenth as beautiful as Earth's own moon. Somewhere in the back of his mind there's a laugh at such an arbitrary and subjective conclusion.
His eyes finally recognize Estevez' face through the half-reflection of a gold-lined faceplate. The medic is talking to him and though the receivers are inches from his ears, Samuel has no idea what is being said. Instead, his thoughts begin to accelerate, concocting mathematical formulas that have no basis in logic.
65 miles to the ridge. Just over 100 klicks. 15 klicks up the designated peak. Just over 9 miles. 189 total integers that don't create a sum but add together anyway. The acceleration of gravity here is .223 meters per second squared and indefinite flight can be achieved with a jump creating just over a half-kilometer per second force. The orbiter should still be tending to Gateway's satellites, which are geo-synchronous, which technically allows a rendezvous with a well-aimed push. 60% oxygen is an ample supply. 40% carbon dioxide might be enough to plant a tree. Landing in a tree should be easier than landing on a rock one can barely see. I just want to fly.
Samuel knows he was scratched by one of the Things. He couldn't figure out if it were a claw or a tail that got him... maybe even a tooth or a fang... but it didn't draw a lot of blood so he had kept his mouth shut. He watches Estevez stand and can tell the medic's posture is dour. The Things are poisonous.
100% fatal.
***
Estevez double-checks the vital read on the suit before he calls Sipalia. "He's dying."
Sipalia is confused, but doesn't harp on it. "From what?" There's nothing out here.
"I don't know."
"Can we carry him?"
"Sure, but without opening the suit there's not a damned thing I can do."
Roarke's radio keys and Sipalia prepares himself to counteract her typical "no man left behind" argument. Instead, she merely offers a suggestion. "Transfer his oxygen to the others."
Each man can hear her tears. The Icy Bitch finally melts under Saturn's rings of ice.
***
Nduom lies still on the moon's landscape. Left with ten per cent oxygen - the others hoping that his wound will kill him before the asphyxiation - his mind once again returns to flight. He briefly considers this to be an out-of-body experience, but discounts the consideration when he fails to see his body. Only stars in one direction and a large, ringed planet in the other. There is no wind, no gale to ride, but the flight is as spectacular as any he's ever taken.
He smiles as another pressure suit approaches. Perhaps one of his friends - probably Roarke - is refusing to let him die alone. It towers above him, though Nduom knows that he is flying above it. How odd that ground and sky can each be touched but out of reach at the same time. There is cheerful laughter as he sees that there are wings on his new companion. An angel to take him home.
200 billion stars means 200 billion chances for life. There is alien life here, of which I am one. One killed me. And one returns me to zero.
It is a horrible mathematical interpretation, but as he is carried away from the surface, he knows that the formula is sound. Breaking free of atmosphere, he spies the peaks that his friends head toward. Somehow, they will survive.
Falling from an aircraft and experiencing flight the way only a liar can feels nothing like falling from a planet. Or in this case a moon, Samuel reminds himself. The landscape here doesn't vary and the dark skies make it hard to gauge how high up he actually is. His head hurts, an infection-inspired vertigo, and that his eyes constantly readjust from his inclination to stare up at Saturn and down at Iapetus make the very act of focus - visual or mental - almost impossible. But he can't help it. This facade of flying is too addicting.
***
"Jesus fuck," Vasquez mutters as he loses his balance. The impact doesn't hurt much - the gravity here is roughly two or three percent of Earth's - but the complicated act of landing properly makes him feel like an albatross.
"Ah, shit," Estevez screams in frustration as he undertakes the same clumsy action.
Roarke can't help but smile, knowing that Estevez and Vasquez are from the same part of the United States and react similarly to almost every situation. The group - five survivors from an initial squad of 13 - has been walking/flying for about 70 miles. It was determined a short time ago that whatever is jamming their transmissions to the orbiter is not coming from Gateway. Instead, it seems to be coming from the moon. Though Roarke swears she can occasionally see the Capricorn orbiter in the sky - a perception shared by none of the others - she knows that the odds of the crew spotting five lonely spots on the surface of Iapetus are slim to none... and closer to none.
"Sipalia," Roarke calls out over the comm-set, "the men are tired."
Sipalia responds with a grunt. The labored breathing Roarke hears lets her know that Sipalia is well-aware of the team's exhaustion. They've been fighting all day - perhaps more than a day - and though the light gravity allows the team to move quite rapidly, the frustration of not being able to move efficiently is taking its fair toll.
"Oxygen check," Sipalia orders. Though Roarke had led the team for much of the operation, Sipalia re-assumed his proper authority upon leaving the station. They hadn't been accosted by the Things since abandoning McDaniels in the airlock and the thought of sleeping is quite attractive.
Everyone reports in at least 60%. Good news, thinks Sipalia, and he begins mentally to put a sleep schedule together. Then he realizes only three reports came in.
"Nduom?"
Silence.
"Nduom?" Sipalia repeats in that command voice that leaders who prefer subtle approaches hate to use.
***
The zenith of the flight arc provides a wonderful view of the equatorial ridge. It is a strange natural formation that spans nearly the entire waistline of the moon. The skyline screams of being man-made - or intelligently-designed, as it were - but he knows that's impossible. The entire moon would have to be an artifact, were that the case. Thoughts struggle to form pedestrian theories as a pressure suit slams into the ground. The memory of a paratrooper's poeticism from the early 21st century begins to sing in imaginative choir.
"Give us wings... and we'll still fall."
***
"Nduom!" Sipalia's yell fails to snap Nduom out of whatever trance he's in and Sipalia watches as the pressure suit smacks a rock, then rolls over limp. "Estevez." It is a simple order and even without being able to see Sipalia's command expression, Estevez reacts immediately and bounds over to Nduom's unmoving suit.
"Hang on, brother," Estevez radios out, "I'm coming." The anxiety in the medic's voice betrays his knowledge that if, in fact, Nduom needs medical attention, he's not getting any out here.
"Anybody see what happened?" Sipalia asks the others. Some shake their heads, then respond "no" once they remember that the pressure helmet hides any such body language. "Well, that's just fucking great."
"How far do you think we are from the ridge?"
Sipalia turns to Roarke instinctively. Even without being able to discern a woman's voice, he knows that she's the only one who would ask such a pragmatic question in such a dicked-up circumstance. He holds his thumb toward Gateway, estimating their distance traveled, then turns around and compares it to the base of the ridge. "We're over half-way," he answers.
Roarke fails to transmit it, but Sipalia imagines a small sigh of relief. The ridge is their last hope of making contact with the orbiter - or so they think - and the orbiter is their only chance of survival.
***
Samuel can tell his body is being rolled over into a supine position, but he can't tell by whom... or by what. His thoughts continue to enjoy the meanderings of flight, finding an imaginary permanence over a random peak of a random mountain. Iapetus, he muses, is only about one-tenth as beautiful as Earth's own moon. Somewhere in the back of his mind there's a laugh at such an arbitrary and subjective conclusion.
His eyes finally recognize Estevez' face through the half-reflection of a gold-lined faceplate. The medic is talking to him and though the receivers are inches from his ears, Samuel has no idea what is being said. Instead, his thoughts begin to accelerate, concocting mathematical formulas that have no basis in logic.
65 miles to the ridge. Just over 100 klicks. 15 klicks up the designated peak. Just over 9 miles. 189 total integers that don't create a sum but add together anyway. The acceleration of gravity here is .223 meters per second squared and indefinite flight can be achieved with a jump creating just over a half-kilometer per second force. The orbiter should still be tending to Gateway's satellites, which are geo-synchronous, which technically allows a rendezvous with a well-aimed push. 60% oxygen is an ample supply. 40% carbon dioxide might be enough to plant a tree. Landing in a tree should be easier than landing on a rock one can barely see. I just want to fly.
Samuel knows he was scratched by one of the Things. He couldn't figure out if it were a claw or a tail that got him... maybe even a tooth or a fang... but it didn't draw a lot of blood so he had kept his mouth shut. He watches Estevez stand and can tell the medic's posture is dour. The Things are poisonous.
100% fatal.
***
Estevez double-checks the vital read on the suit before he calls Sipalia. "He's dying."
Sipalia is confused, but doesn't harp on it. "From what?" There's nothing out here.
"I don't know."
"Can we carry him?"
"Sure, but without opening the suit there's not a damned thing I can do."
Roarke's radio keys and Sipalia prepares himself to counteract her typical "no man left behind" argument. Instead, she merely offers a suggestion. "Transfer his oxygen to the others."
Each man can hear her tears. The Icy Bitch finally melts under Saturn's rings of ice.
***
Nduom lies still on the moon's landscape. Left with ten per cent oxygen - the others hoping that his wound will kill him before the asphyxiation - his mind once again returns to flight. He briefly considers this to be an out-of-body experience, but discounts the consideration when he fails to see his body. Only stars in one direction and a large, ringed planet in the other. There is no wind, no gale to ride, but the flight is as spectacular as any he's ever taken.
He smiles as another pressure suit approaches. Perhaps one of his friends - probably Roarke - is refusing to let him die alone. It towers above him, though Nduom knows that he is flying above it. How odd that ground and sky can each be touched but out of reach at the same time. There is cheerful laughter as he sees that there are wings on his new companion. An angel to take him home.
200 billion stars means 200 billion chances for life. There is alien life here, of which I am one. One killed me. And one returns me to zero.
It is a horrible mathematical interpretation, but as he is carried away from the surface, he knows that the formula is sound. Breaking free of atmosphere, he spies the peaks that his friends head toward. Somehow, they will survive.
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