04:37, May 18th - Exactly one hour until my 21st birthday.
Sometimes you get lucky and have someone born in the same minute of the same hour of the same day as you - not me. Like most, I face the room alone. Bare room, steel lined. Two doors, both remote controlled. One screen.
The exams are over. The last two weeks have been complete hell. Oh yeah, it is funny to make jokes about the testing when you are 15. Hysterical, a total frakking thigh slapper, at 19 in the breeding center. But it isn't funny now.
04:53, May 18th
Funny how things are. All the time while learning, doing the daily maintenence chores, teaching the littles, I never once thought - why 21? Why is your 21st birthday decision day? I could have asked, of course - anyone can access the computer, or talk to the Historian or Mother. Hell, the Farmer almost never shuts up, but he knows little outside his speciallity.
05:07, May 18th
Half an hour to go.
Girls get longer of course - until 25 or their third child. Without them, the system would break down. Even in my lifetime, two new living caverns have been built. The Historian talks about population pressure and expansion - that goes over my head. I studied under the Engineer. Always had a talent for that. Making the machines keep working is more of an art than a skill, he told me, and one that I have.
05:13, May 18th
It is a shame that each profession, except the Doctor, is only allowed 2 apprentices and two journeymen. It means I have to out point people who have been around as much as 10 years longer than me! That is really not fair. Guess it is not fair on the apprentice who will take my place either, but that is his hard luck. As Mother keeps saying, life is a serious business and there is no room for sentiment in the caverns.
05:19, May 18th
I wonder what Jen is doing. We paired off in the breeding center. Not exactly according to the rules, but there are ways around that as long as healthy children are born. We have two between us, confirmed by genetic analysis as being ours, healthy and free from mutations and undesirable genes.
Is she thinking of me?
05: 26, May 18th
Nerves. Not getting up to pace, there is a rumor that the room is a final test of nerve and dedication. Very faint printing on the wall - faded to almost illegibility.
What does it say?
Primary Decontamination Chamber,
Denver Environmental Shelter Number 3.
What is a Denver?
05:36, May 18th
All you can do is hope. After all, some must stay to carry the life of the caverns on.
05:37, May 18th, 2213
The screen flickers to life. The aged face of the cavern's senior Doctor looks out. He has white hair - something I have never seen before.
"Candidate Gerrard. Your test results have been compiled. A decision has been made regarding your future on this, the 18th of May, 2213."
Please - I studied hard. God, if you are there, let me be the one.
A door grates open. The wrong door.
"Candidate Gerrard, you will find everything you need for surface life in the next chamber. Seeds, tools, decontaminants, personal protection for two years. Do not consider this a death sentence. You, like tens of thousands before you are working to make the surface once more mankinds home. Good luck and build well."
Dammit.
I shuffle to the open door.
Exile.
Oh, Jen!!!
05:43, May 18th
The second chamber is an elevator. It rises slowly, groaning, for 2 miles. The door opens again, on a landscape of blowing dust and ash. Nothing can live here.
At least the tools include a very sharp knife.
Wednesday, 27 October 2010
Friday, 22 October 2010
Truckstop Tales - 2
Oh, we get all sorts in here. Through trade mainly, but we do have our regulars. You need a refill? I'll just put a fresh pot on, we'll leave the stale for the tourists. After sitting in an air conditioned car for a few hours, they can't taste anything anyway.
And ambulance races by on the highway, lights and siren blaring and dopplering away in the distance.
Yeah - it is a bad bit of road along here. Always accidents, especially at this time of night. We see the ambulance and the police a couple of times a night.
A rig slowly rumbles into the parking lot and wheezes into a parking space. The grumble of the engine dies with a last whisper as a man emerges. Huddled shapeless against the rain, he heads for the door.
Well - say the devils name and he'll appear! This guy is one of the regulars I was talking about. Rig pusher, usually does the night run up to Witchita. Always stops in here for a meal. Both on the way up, and on the way home. Guessin' he likes my cooking, and who can blame him? Let me refill your cup before he gets in here, he'll have me running round the grill for a bit!
The man edges his way through the door. He needs to twist to get his gut through. Must weigh 400 pounds. And not all that tall. A waitress meets him just inside the door. A laugh, a joke and he is deftly inserted in a booth, like a lightbulb in a socket. He waves, chins wobbling. "Yo Stan, hows it hangin? The usual for me please."
4 eggs, over easy. 4 strips of bacon, extra crispy. Two fried bread and two toast with butter, not oleo. Fried mushrooms. Beans. Hash browns. And half a grapefruit - to keep him regular. Large coffee - the good stuff, not the tourist junk. Can cook it in my sleep, always the same order. I'll be back in a minute. Want me to sling a bit of bacon and eggs on the griddle for you? No? OK.
Mina - order up! For Rodger on table 4. Let him know the kidneys are a present - I had a few to spare for a good customer.
Of course the beans are home made! Do I look like some piker that would open a tin? Slow baked in honey and salsa, with chorizo sausage and onion. All my food is fresh and wholesome - it is what brings in the customers.
Look at him eat. Guy should have a sign on the table - "Man working." I'd hate to get between his fork and his plate. Don't get me wrong - I like people enjoying my food. But that is a little gross. Finished the whole damn plate in 6 minutes. He even looks kinda grey now as he pays the bill.
"Mina, give Rodger a hand to his rig, then take a break."
Mina walks out, arm in arm with the fat man. Without a backward glance, she climbs into the cab. The rig coughs into life, clearing its throat like a smoker in the last stages of lung cancer.
Then idles.
And idles.
And idles.
And ambulance races by on the highway, lights and siren blaring and dopplering away in the distance.
Yeah - it is a bad bit of road along here. Always accidents, especially at this time of night. We see the ambulance and the police a couple of times a night.
A rig slowly rumbles into the parking lot and wheezes into a parking space. The grumble of the engine dies with a last whisper as a man emerges. Huddled shapeless against the rain, he heads for the door.
Well - say the devils name and he'll appear! This guy is one of the regulars I was talking about. Rig pusher, usually does the night run up to Witchita. Always stops in here for a meal. Both on the way up, and on the way home. Guessin' he likes my cooking, and who can blame him? Let me refill your cup before he gets in here, he'll have me running round the grill for a bit!
The man edges his way through the door. He needs to twist to get his gut through. Must weigh 400 pounds. And not all that tall. A waitress meets him just inside the door. A laugh, a joke and he is deftly inserted in a booth, like a lightbulb in a socket. He waves, chins wobbling. "Yo Stan, hows it hangin? The usual for me please."
4 eggs, over easy. 4 strips of bacon, extra crispy. Two fried bread and two toast with butter, not oleo. Fried mushrooms. Beans. Hash browns. And half a grapefruit - to keep him regular. Large coffee - the good stuff, not the tourist junk. Can cook it in my sleep, always the same order. I'll be back in a minute. Want me to sling a bit of bacon and eggs on the griddle for you? No? OK.
Mina - order up! For Rodger on table 4. Let him know the kidneys are a present - I had a few to spare for a good customer.
Of course the beans are home made! Do I look like some piker that would open a tin? Slow baked in honey and salsa, with chorizo sausage and onion. All my food is fresh and wholesome - it is what brings in the customers.
Look at him eat. Guy should have a sign on the table - "Man working." I'd hate to get between his fork and his plate. Don't get me wrong - I like people enjoying my food. But that is a little gross. Finished the whole damn plate in 6 minutes. He even looks kinda grey now as he pays the bill.
"Mina, give Rodger a hand to his rig, then take a break."
Mina walks out, arm in arm with the fat man. Without a backward glance, she climbs into the cab. The rig coughs into life, clearing its throat like a smoker in the last stages of lung cancer.
Then idles.
And idles.
And idles.
Thursday, 21 October 2010
Truckstop Tales - 1
Have you ever been in a roadside cafe at 4 am? The smell of dead dreams and weariness combines with the steam and grease and ghosts of burgers past to make a heady perfume of despair and need.
Look at him. The guy that just walked in.
Not a rig pusher, not patrol, not highways. His shoes are too good. A little bloodshot 'round the eyes - he has either been crying or is a couple too many over the limit for driving. I'd guess one too many for the road, but might be mistaken. It does happen, even to me. Though him taking a booth at the back makes me pretty certain - one drink too many, and for no good reason. I'll send Dolores over. She'd get a statue talking.
"Whachu want, lover?" Slight hip sway as she stops by the booth. Nothing overt, of course, but there.
"Coffee." Abrupt. A little discourteous. As if she was a machine, rather than a fellow being.
"The coffee is shit here. Really bad." She cocks an eyebrow at him. "You don't want that."
"Fine, tea then, and a slice of apple pie."
Ah - apple pie. strange how the desperate crave it. OK, I make it well, but they just go nuts for it when they smell it. The smell of home, comfort and joy. It is a quick order to fill, excuse me one minute.
The thing with these folk, they can't handle the associations of food. Look at him. Smart enough man to have avoided the coffee, but the pie was too much to resist.
Apple pie. Scoop of vanilla ice cream - yeah, I make my own. Who wants chemical crap? The real stuff is better. He ate it in about 4 bites. Now nursing his mug of tea. Brooding.
"Hey Mister!" He jumps. "You driving the 98 Caddy? You left your lights on."
He is flustered. Stammering thanks as he pays for his pie and tea.
"No problem. We try to look out for our customers. Hope to see you again." He smiles, very unconvincingly.
"I'll certainly stop by again."
As he leaves, Dolores heads for the back door - "Going on break, Boss."
Watch. Not the main windows, where a 98 Caddy leaves the car park, with a sad, desperate man behind the wheel. Look out the side window.
Dolores unfurls her wings. She is ready to feed.
Look at him. The guy that just walked in.
Not a rig pusher, not patrol, not highways. His shoes are too good. A little bloodshot 'round the eyes - he has either been crying or is a couple too many over the limit for driving. I'd guess one too many for the road, but might be mistaken. It does happen, even to me. Though him taking a booth at the back makes me pretty certain - one drink too many, and for no good reason. I'll send Dolores over. She'd get a statue talking.
"Whachu want, lover?" Slight hip sway as she stops by the booth. Nothing overt, of course, but there.
"Coffee." Abrupt. A little discourteous. As if she was a machine, rather than a fellow being.
"The coffee is shit here. Really bad." She cocks an eyebrow at him. "You don't want that."
"Fine, tea then, and a slice of apple pie."
Ah - apple pie. strange how the desperate crave it. OK, I make it well, but they just go nuts for it when they smell it. The smell of home, comfort and joy. It is a quick order to fill, excuse me one minute.
The thing with these folk, they can't handle the associations of food. Look at him. Smart enough man to have avoided the coffee, but the pie was too much to resist.
Apple pie. Scoop of vanilla ice cream - yeah, I make my own. Who wants chemical crap? The real stuff is better. He ate it in about 4 bites. Now nursing his mug of tea. Brooding.
"Hey Mister!" He jumps. "You driving the 98 Caddy? You left your lights on."
He is flustered. Stammering thanks as he pays for his pie and tea.
"No problem. We try to look out for our customers. Hope to see you again." He smiles, very unconvincingly.
"I'll certainly stop by again."
As he leaves, Dolores heads for the back door - "Going on break, Boss."
Watch. Not the main windows, where a 98 Caddy leaves the car park, with a sad, desperate man behind the wheel. Look out the side window.
Dolores unfurls her wings. She is ready to feed.
Monday, 18 October 2010
Humanity unchained?
Dedicated to Brian, Jean and Stacey - who put up with my zoning out at the pub without calling the men in white coats. They just sigh and find me pen and paper....
After 23 years, the mathematics was perfect. Humanity's first star drive ship, capable of sending people to a different planet, distance immaterial, and back within a single year was perfected. This would bleed off the excess population to the new frontier. Dr. Micheal Ibrani could finally relax. The entire thing was his brainchild. It's success, or failure, was down to him.
7 million man hours were consumed in building it, in the face of massive indifference of the populace, grown fat and complacent on a diet of bread and circuses. There is one perfect mathematical design for a hyperdrive ship. The blunt nose holding the warp gear and shielding. The sharp taper in and then out of the jump drive and shielding. The living quarters and cargo bays. Then the gentle taper to the thrust nozzles, that apply a thrust not precisely of this universe.
A generation ago, they had discovered the secrets of holding a stable course through hyperspace. 10 responsive flutes, equidistant around the hull, that reacted to the thrust of non material flow to keep the ship on course. All was ready. The ship was finally built. And the first pictures of the ship in orbit finally transmitted to a mostly indifferent population at Launch minus 20 days.
We know there is an earth type planet orbiting Barnard's Star. The first destination for the first intestellar ship is a no brainer. We can breathe the air, walk comfortably on the surface, even eat some of the plant life. We are ready. We will claim the stars on behalf of human kind.
All is running smoothly, crew and consumables loading, colonisation equipment complete. All ready for the last great push that will send people to the stars. Loading has commenced. Nothing can stop us now. We will finally be away from all the fear of all humanities eggs in one basket.
****
Dear Dr. Ibrani,
It has come to our attention, as the legal representatives of the Coca Cola Corporation, that you are in violation of our patent number D48,160. Please refrain from using such a design in your starships, on penalty of litigation, civil fines and possible imprisonment. A lawsuit has been entered with the Supreme Court to grant an injunction against you using our client's patented design.
Yours faithfully,
M W Willis, for CBT Lowther and partners.
After 23 years, the mathematics was perfect. Humanity's first star drive ship, capable of sending people to a different planet, distance immaterial, and back within a single year was perfected. This would bleed off the excess population to the new frontier. Dr. Micheal Ibrani could finally relax. The entire thing was his brainchild. It's success, or failure, was down to him.
7 million man hours were consumed in building it, in the face of massive indifference of the populace, grown fat and complacent on a diet of bread and circuses. There is one perfect mathematical design for a hyperdrive ship. The blunt nose holding the warp gear and shielding. The sharp taper in and then out of the jump drive and shielding. The living quarters and cargo bays. Then the gentle taper to the thrust nozzles, that apply a thrust not precisely of this universe.
A generation ago, they had discovered the secrets of holding a stable course through hyperspace. 10 responsive flutes, equidistant around the hull, that reacted to the thrust of non material flow to keep the ship on course. All was ready. The ship was finally built. And the first pictures of the ship in orbit finally transmitted to a mostly indifferent population at Launch minus 20 days.
We know there is an earth type planet orbiting Barnard's Star. The first destination for the first intestellar ship is a no brainer. We can breathe the air, walk comfortably on the surface, even eat some of the plant life. We are ready. We will claim the stars on behalf of human kind.
All is running smoothly, crew and consumables loading, colonisation equipment complete. All ready for the last great push that will send people to the stars. Loading has commenced. Nothing can stop us now. We will finally be away from all the fear of all humanities eggs in one basket.
****
Dear Dr. Ibrani,
It has come to our attention, as the legal representatives of the Coca Cola Corporation, that you are in violation of our patent number D48,160. Please refrain from using such a design in your starships, on penalty of litigation, civil fines and possible imprisonment. A lawsuit has been entered with the Supreme Court to grant an injunction against you using our client's patented design.
Yours faithfully,
M W Willis, for CBT Lowther and partners.
Saturday, 16 October 2010
Minor peril
Staggering off the company plane in Trondhiem, after 16 hours and two changes, is like being dropped into a freezing pond. The fierce, biting wind brings tears instantly to his eyes, which roll down his cheeks, freezing as they go. The hand holding his heavy aluminium work case goes numb almost instantly, the other dives for the scant cover of his jacket pocket like it has a mind and survival instinct all its own. Get into the terminal as fast as possible, before you freeze, idiot.
Ah, the luxury of comparative warmth as he hands over his passport and company ID to the bored immigration agent and answers the routine questions. Customs takes longer. His work case was bonded shut in Abuja, to allow him to keep it in the cabin of the commercial flight to London, but it still needs checking.
"No other luggage, Doctor, uh, Abrams?" the customs officer looks askance at his thin clothes. "You will not be comfortable dressed like that at this time of year."
"No, Air Nigeria managed to lose the hold luggage with my warm clothes. I have someone meeting me here who is bringing me some outdoor gear."
A grunt and a nod in reply. Not his problem. Pass into the concourse. A man, short, sweating and looking almost spherical in his bulky winter gear, waves and comes over, hauling a kit bag.
"Bel! Long time! It is a long way from Nigeria, I am afraid."
"Tom, it's been years," as they shake hands, "How are things treating you? And is it always so damned cold here?"
"Ha, winter has only just begun, lad, it will be colder soon enough." Tom says with a grim chuckle as he hands over the kitbag. "Had to phone Mary to get your sizes when I got the message, these should all fit your lanky ass. Boots are in there too."
Smile as he ducks into the Gents to get changed. Tom is good people, one of the best operations engineers in the business. And he was a great friend to a skinny, gangling chemist just out of University and on his first job. That was long ago now. Tom has gone from a mining engineer to chief of operations, Laponie Division. The nervous chemist is now the chief analyst for the entire company. Times change. Fortunately, friends don't, not often.
Shakes his head as he stamps to sit the boots comfortably. Look around, make sure everything is picked up and back in the kit bag. Think of the present, not the past.
The long drive was as painful as expected, even in snow gear. The Land Rover's heater, not the greatest engineering triumph the best of times, made not the slightest dent to the minus 30 air leaking into the cab. When it is that cold, you don't waste words. The trip was done, mostly in silence, until, one last rise and the Laponie Mine complex stretched out, sparsely illuminated by the exterior lights. Concentrations of light around the living quarters and processing plant emphasise the dark gulf of the minehead in the background.
"We enlarged an existing cave entrance for the minehead." Tom breaks the silence. "T'was easier than trying to blast a new one out of this horribly hard rock, and the cave is big enough to keep the haulers under cover and out of the weather. Goes back a fair way into the mountain too, leads right to the main ore lode."
The ore. The thing that made him, and the company, both respected in the field, and mega rich. The first stable transuranic ever found. Element 126, on the periodic table. A total bitch to extract. The metal itself works as easily as lead. More conductive than gold. Once shaped, a blast of chlorine gas fixes it into the hardest and most refractory substance known, making diamond look like putty. Always found with Thorium and Neodymium.
As discoverer, he had namers rights. A long, drunken night with the survey crew, full of good humor, bad jokes and puns, lead to the name. Odinium. The God metal. The one everyone wants. Found in only five places on Earth. Nigeria. A nameless South Pacific island. Under Ben Nevis in Scotland. Just south of Anchorage, Alaska. And the motherlode, here in Laponie, Norway.
Stamp into the main lab ahead of Tom, into the warmth. He really hates the cold. Just not built for it. No one here, but hot coffee in the pot, waiting, just like in every lab. Analysts are always caffiene junkies, it goes with the territory. He gratefully siezes a cup and starts to thaw out.
"So, what we got?" Tom sits and calls up the data.
"We ran a shot pattern on the mountain, looking for further veins. This is what we got back."
Look at the screen. Geo-radar science has improved in the last year. Still wavery and suggestive, more than a map, but clearer than the last generation of sensors.
Odd. The mine workings are clearly visible. The motherlode is a massive ring shape, three quarters mined out, with four side tunnels branching off.
"Those side tunnels ..." he starts.
"Go to the other four mines, within our limits of accuracy." Tom looks grave. "Two of our analysts took one look at this and simply left. No reason given, they just walked out."
Why. That is just stupid. Ore beds follow odd patterns. They can make shapes. Everyone knows this.
"What is this blackness in the center of the ore bed?" he gestures at the screen.
"Incredibly dense, that is all we know. Got a crew driving an adit now, to see what is there. Whatever it is, it is showing up as denser than Odinium. That's why I called you."
This could be spectacular. Another unknown metal. Another transuranic. Another Nobel. He stands and fastens his coat again.
"Lets go. I want to see this." The prospect of cold means nothing now. There is something new on the horizon.
The mine is warm, as they descend to the operating level and make their way to where the adit is being cut. Machinery shrieks in protest against the stubbornly hard rock, but slowly, steadily, makes progress. He watches, hungrily, looking for the subtle signs of a new ore. Color change in the rock, a change in smell as the drills spin, smoke and bite in again. Nothing yet, just the tough igneous rock forming the roots of the mountain.
A roar from the drill, as it suddenly encounters no resistance, rising rapidly to a scream, before the overrides kick in and it shuts off. A hollow. They happen. Annoying, this close to the lode, but one of those things you have to expect in mining.
An inrush of air through the 2 cm hole, strong, then slowing to a stop. Then an outrush, gathering force until it is almost a gale, before dying away. A wave of heat from the hole. The miners back away, dropping the drill. Inrush. Outrush.
That is not the tricks the air passages in a mountain plays. That is breathing.
An immense voice presses him down.
"It is time at last, is it?" And the top of the mountain crumbles away as Fenrir, free of his God forged chains at last, stands.
There are things moving out there in the ice and snow. Massive things.
I am so damned cold.
Ah, the luxury of comparative warmth as he hands over his passport and company ID to the bored immigration agent and answers the routine questions. Customs takes longer. His work case was bonded shut in Abuja, to allow him to keep it in the cabin of the commercial flight to London, but it still needs checking.
"No other luggage, Doctor, uh, Abrams?" the customs officer looks askance at his thin clothes. "You will not be comfortable dressed like that at this time of year."
"No, Air Nigeria managed to lose the hold luggage with my warm clothes. I have someone meeting me here who is bringing me some outdoor gear."
A grunt and a nod in reply. Not his problem. Pass into the concourse. A man, short, sweating and looking almost spherical in his bulky winter gear, waves and comes over, hauling a kit bag.
"Bel! Long time! It is a long way from Nigeria, I am afraid."
"Tom, it's been years," as they shake hands, "How are things treating you? And is it always so damned cold here?"
"Ha, winter has only just begun, lad, it will be colder soon enough." Tom says with a grim chuckle as he hands over the kitbag. "Had to phone Mary to get your sizes when I got the message, these should all fit your lanky ass. Boots are in there too."
Smile as he ducks into the Gents to get changed. Tom is good people, one of the best operations engineers in the business. And he was a great friend to a skinny, gangling chemist just out of University and on his first job. That was long ago now. Tom has gone from a mining engineer to chief of operations, Laponie Division. The nervous chemist is now the chief analyst for the entire company. Times change. Fortunately, friends don't, not often.
Shakes his head as he stamps to sit the boots comfortably. Look around, make sure everything is picked up and back in the kit bag. Think of the present, not the past.
The long drive was as painful as expected, even in snow gear. The Land Rover's heater, not the greatest engineering triumph the best of times, made not the slightest dent to the minus 30 air leaking into the cab. When it is that cold, you don't waste words. The trip was done, mostly in silence, until, one last rise and the Laponie Mine complex stretched out, sparsely illuminated by the exterior lights. Concentrations of light around the living quarters and processing plant emphasise the dark gulf of the minehead in the background.
"We enlarged an existing cave entrance for the minehead." Tom breaks the silence. "T'was easier than trying to blast a new one out of this horribly hard rock, and the cave is big enough to keep the haulers under cover and out of the weather. Goes back a fair way into the mountain too, leads right to the main ore lode."
The ore. The thing that made him, and the company, both respected in the field, and mega rich. The first stable transuranic ever found. Element 126, on the periodic table. A total bitch to extract. The metal itself works as easily as lead. More conductive than gold. Once shaped, a blast of chlorine gas fixes it into the hardest and most refractory substance known, making diamond look like putty. Always found with Thorium and Neodymium.
As discoverer, he had namers rights. A long, drunken night with the survey crew, full of good humor, bad jokes and puns, lead to the name. Odinium. The God metal. The one everyone wants. Found in only five places on Earth. Nigeria. A nameless South Pacific island. Under Ben Nevis in Scotland. Just south of Anchorage, Alaska. And the motherlode, here in Laponie, Norway.
Stamp into the main lab ahead of Tom, into the warmth. He really hates the cold. Just not built for it. No one here, but hot coffee in the pot, waiting, just like in every lab. Analysts are always caffiene junkies, it goes with the territory. He gratefully siezes a cup and starts to thaw out.
"So, what we got?" Tom sits and calls up the data.
"We ran a shot pattern on the mountain, looking for further veins. This is what we got back."
Look at the screen. Geo-radar science has improved in the last year. Still wavery and suggestive, more than a map, but clearer than the last generation of sensors.
Odd. The mine workings are clearly visible. The motherlode is a massive ring shape, three quarters mined out, with four side tunnels branching off.
"Those side tunnels ..." he starts.
"Go to the other four mines, within our limits of accuracy." Tom looks grave. "Two of our analysts took one look at this and simply left. No reason given, they just walked out."
Why. That is just stupid. Ore beds follow odd patterns. They can make shapes. Everyone knows this.
"What is this blackness in the center of the ore bed?" he gestures at the screen.
"Incredibly dense, that is all we know. Got a crew driving an adit now, to see what is there. Whatever it is, it is showing up as denser than Odinium. That's why I called you."
This could be spectacular. Another unknown metal. Another transuranic. Another Nobel. He stands and fastens his coat again.
"Lets go. I want to see this." The prospect of cold means nothing now. There is something new on the horizon.
The mine is warm, as they descend to the operating level and make their way to where the adit is being cut. Machinery shrieks in protest against the stubbornly hard rock, but slowly, steadily, makes progress. He watches, hungrily, looking for the subtle signs of a new ore. Color change in the rock, a change in smell as the drills spin, smoke and bite in again. Nothing yet, just the tough igneous rock forming the roots of the mountain.
A roar from the drill, as it suddenly encounters no resistance, rising rapidly to a scream, before the overrides kick in and it shuts off. A hollow. They happen. Annoying, this close to the lode, but one of those things you have to expect in mining.
An inrush of air through the 2 cm hole, strong, then slowing to a stop. Then an outrush, gathering force until it is almost a gale, before dying away. A wave of heat from the hole. The miners back away, dropping the drill. Inrush. Outrush.
That is not the tricks the air passages in a mountain plays. That is breathing.
An immense voice presses him down.
"It is time at last, is it?" And the top of the mountain crumbles away as Fenrir, free of his God forged chains at last, stands.
There are things moving out there in the ice and snow. Massive things.
I am so damned cold.
1492
The ship creaked softly around him as it adjusted to a current change. It has been months since leaving port. He sighs and picks up his pen.
Captains log, Day 63
Still no end in sight. Noon sightings inconclusive.
We have been off the charts now for 23 days. The men are getting restless with nothing to do but sail on. A deputation, lead by the chief mate, approached me today and asked how much longer we shall continue. What could I tell him. We cannot turn back, the currents will not allow it. We must sail on.
Walking the deck. Hear the mutters of the men - they are not happy. They never are. Landlubbers, the lot of them. They don't understand the need to keep going, following the currents to see what is there. Assholes. They do not understand what is at stake. They do not know. Besides, what is there to go back to? A dying culture, wracked by disease and strange illnesses. Better to die on the clean sea.
Captains log, Day 68
For the first time in three months, we saw a bird today. Land cannot be too far away. Even the men look more cheerful. It seems for the first time in ages I heard them singing songs of hope, not despair.
"Land Ho!"
Mad scramble into the rigging by all hands, even the off duty ones.
This is the time of danger. All his training, all the family history, all the hours of digging through rotten records in a forgotten language - they have all led to now.
"Bay, 9 points to starboard!" sings out the lookout.
"Helm, 9 points to starboard and steady as she goes. Mr Mate - call the depth." His voice now confident, with an edge of triumph.
As they round the headland, a huge mound of metal heaves into view. Just as in the old tales, the fabled El Dorado. As the crew dissolve into cheers, he says "Mr Mate, anchor in the middle of the bay. We will take the jolly boats ashore."
No hesitation or resentment from the crew now. Visions of riches beyond their wildest dreams fill their thoughts as they man the boats. In a matter of an hour, they stand on the shore. As one, the men stop. This is the Captain's moment. He approaches the citadel alone.
Striding up the metal ramp to the entrance. The fabled entrance that others have sought. Blackened, twisted skeletons on the ramp show the failures. How many in the last 400 years? It looks to be a multitude.
He reaches the entrance. No monsters await, just a bank of holes and a grill like the one in the confessional. He leans forward, puts his hand in the slot at the bottom of the grill, and repeats the spell. The spell that has been handed down, father to son, since the plague years.
Silence. Then a buzzing.
"Welcome Captain Agdamag." The voice is mellow, speaking the old language. "Starship El Dorado, awaiting instructions."
Captians Log, Day 70.
On this day, 12th of August, 1492 After Landing, we reclaimed our lost inheritance. We are going home.
Captains log, Day 63
Still no end in sight. Noon sightings inconclusive.
We have been off the charts now for 23 days. The men are getting restless with nothing to do but sail on. A deputation, lead by the chief mate, approached me today and asked how much longer we shall continue. What could I tell him. We cannot turn back, the currents will not allow it. We must sail on.
Walking the deck. Hear the mutters of the men - they are not happy. They never are. Landlubbers, the lot of them. They don't understand the need to keep going, following the currents to see what is there. Assholes. They do not understand what is at stake. They do not know. Besides, what is there to go back to? A dying culture, wracked by disease and strange illnesses. Better to die on the clean sea.
Captains log, Day 68
For the first time in three months, we saw a bird today. Land cannot be too far away. Even the men look more cheerful. It seems for the first time in ages I heard them singing songs of hope, not despair.
"Land Ho!"
Mad scramble into the rigging by all hands, even the off duty ones.
This is the time of danger. All his training, all the family history, all the hours of digging through rotten records in a forgotten language - they have all led to now.
"Bay, 9 points to starboard!" sings out the lookout.
"Helm, 9 points to starboard and steady as she goes. Mr Mate - call the depth." His voice now confident, with an edge of triumph.
As they round the headland, a huge mound of metal heaves into view. Just as in the old tales, the fabled El Dorado. As the crew dissolve into cheers, he says "Mr Mate, anchor in the middle of the bay. We will take the jolly boats ashore."
No hesitation or resentment from the crew now. Visions of riches beyond their wildest dreams fill their thoughts as they man the boats. In a matter of an hour, they stand on the shore. As one, the men stop. This is the Captain's moment. He approaches the citadel alone.
Striding up the metal ramp to the entrance. The fabled entrance that others have sought. Blackened, twisted skeletons on the ramp show the failures. How many in the last 400 years? It looks to be a multitude.
He reaches the entrance. No monsters await, just a bank of holes and a grill like the one in the confessional. He leans forward, puts his hand in the slot at the bottom of the grill, and repeats the spell. The spell that has been handed down, father to son, since the plague years.
Silence. Then a buzzing.
"Welcome Captain Agdamag." The voice is mellow, speaking the old language. "Starship El Dorado, awaiting instructions."
Captians Log, Day 70.
On this day, 12th of August, 1492 After Landing, we reclaimed our lost inheritance. We are going home.
Friday, 15 October 2010
Today is the tomorrow that you worried about yesterday
This is probably the oldest tale in the collection, written nearly 40 years ago. I found it while hunting for some papers, re-read it, and thought - "Hey, that is not half bad." So here it is, with a bit of grammar correction. And no - I do not have an eidetic memory. But I know someone who does.
Life has been compared to many things. In bad songs, bad films and simplex philosophy, you get a thousand answers to the question "What is life."
All of them wrong, some badly. I know.
I have seen.
I have always had a perfect memory. Not just good, but perfect. Oh, it sounds great, but have you ever stopped to really think about it?
Do you have a favorite book? I don't. I hear about the joy of re-reading a book to find new nuances, but I can't do that. One read, and it is there in my mind forever.
A favorite song? Let me listen to it once, and I can play it back note perfect on any instrument you care to name.
A beloved memory? I remember it all - not just the ambiance and the emotions, but the transient pain in the shoulder, the smell of burnt food, the waiter farting as he walks past, the bit of spinach in her teeth as she says yes.
So not the gift that 99.99% of the race thinks it is. It is bearable, normally. No one really dwells on memories unless they are intense. They are there, waiting for recall, but harmless. Mostly.
Oh - it pays well. I got a job straight out of university working for the world's biggest library. You'll not have heard of it, it is under 19 layers of security and a direct presidential order.. In a week, I knew where every one of the 3 million books, papers and manuscripts in the library were. In 4 years, I knew the contents of every one. Yes - I am a speed reader too - one second per page is plenty for me, and I had nothing but time. I was not just the chief research librarian. To all intents and purposes, I was the library. My pay rocketed. National security was at stake, after all, and no one looks closely at defence budgets. Not even now.
By 27, I was technically a multimillionaire. Money is just another tool, but useful in large amounts. I started a library of my own. In my mind. One of a kind books, odd research papers, a week in the vaults of the Vatican. That cost a pretty penny - let no one say that the Catholic Church doesn't know how to turn a profit. I do not own these books, but can write them out if necessary. For some of them, I hope it will never be necessary. My personal library is in my mind. It is now some 8 million volumes and research papers.
All confounded and made useless by a four year old.
I have a family. I don't see them often, but they are there. I pretty much ignored them all once I left home, until my sister had a kid. Children are amazing. Totally open to the universe and all it offers. I got into the habit of dropping in on sis and her kid once a week or so. Maybe doing the park thing, or horse riding, or going to the circus. The joy of seeing a person meeting an experiance for the first time is incredible. Even though they inevitably forget. Almost makes me want to go through the monotony of pairing off again, simply to have one of my own.
Little Jose was bright. Reading at two, and holding his own in a conversation at three. A good kid, though without my curse. I found an unexpected talent - explaining things in a way a child could understand. We had fun. To me - he was what I did not and never would have. To him, I was a playmate - that could explain everything. Of course we played! Did you not know that play is the most important part of a child's developmental cycle until the age of 10? The exercise of the imagination lets them deal with anything.
Almost.
When Jose was four, the cat died. Nothing much at all, in the scheme of things. But to a child, a tragedy worse than Dresden. My sister was heavily pregnant. Her husband was out of town. So she phoned me at work, something I detest, to ask me to come over and deal with the body. What could I do? I went. Not for her. Not for the damn cat, that always brought me out in hives. But for Jose.
We buried the cat under the rose bush in the garden. I wanted to bury it by the apple tree. but Jose had a problem with eating apples that might have a bit of Fluffy in them. Fair enough - kids have weird ideas. Did it properly, small coffin, said a prayer, sang a hymn - the works.
Then we sat and had a small picnic. The association of food, after death, with life going on is older than our species. And Jose asked those five cursed words.
"Tio, why do we live?"
I opened my mouth - and shut it. Why do we live? What is the point? I didn't know. Couldn't answer.
The question bugged me for months. I read - voraciously. Absently responded to questions asked at work, leading to 17 scientific breakthroughs and 12 banned or restricted new technologies. This was no longer a child's question, but a gap in my knowledge. That can not be permitted.
Then I died.
It was an accident of course. With my memory and associated situational awareness, it would have to be. A one in a million occurrance - a lightning strike as I stepped out of the Library. That is when I saw.
An infinite room. Filled with wheels. Each wheel split into thirds, each labelled "Today." A person running in each wheel.
The past that you run from - the future that you run toward. They are the same. Does time exist if no one is there to measure it? Or does intelligence make the universe run.
I no longer care. Pass me another drink - I would rather forget.
But I can't.
Life has been compared to many things. In bad songs, bad films and simplex philosophy, you get a thousand answers to the question "What is life."
All of them wrong, some badly. I know.
I have seen.
I have always had a perfect memory. Not just good, but perfect. Oh, it sounds great, but have you ever stopped to really think about it?
Do you have a favorite book? I don't. I hear about the joy of re-reading a book to find new nuances, but I can't do that. One read, and it is there in my mind forever.
A favorite song? Let me listen to it once, and I can play it back note perfect on any instrument you care to name.
A beloved memory? I remember it all - not just the ambiance and the emotions, but the transient pain in the shoulder, the smell of burnt food, the waiter farting as he walks past, the bit of spinach in her teeth as she says yes.
So not the gift that 99.99% of the race thinks it is. It is bearable, normally. No one really dwells on memories unless they are intense. They are there, waiting for recall, but harmless. Mostly.
Oh - it pays well. I got a job straight out of university working for the world's biggest library. You'll not have heard of it, it is under 19 layers of security and a direct presidential order.. In a week, I knew where every one of the 3 million books, papers and manuscripts in the library were. In 4 years, I knew the contents of every one. Yes - I am a speed reader too - one second per page is plenty for me, and I had nothing but time. I was not just the chief research librarian. To all intents and purposes, I was the library. My pay rocketed. National security was at stake, after all, and no one looks closely at defence budgets. Not even now.
By 27, I was technically a multimillionaire. Money is just another tool, but useful in large amounts. I started a library of my own. In my mind. One of a kind books, odd research papers, a week in the vaults of the Vatican. That cost a pretty penny - let no one say that the Catholic Church doesn't know how to turn a profit. I do not own these books, but can write them out if necessary. For some of them, I hope it will never be necessary. My personal library is in my mind. It is now some 8 million volumes and research papers.
All confounded and made useless by a four year old.
I have a family. I don't see them often, but they are there. I pretty much ignored them all once I left home, until my sister had a kid. Children are amazing. Totally open to the universe and all it offers. I got into the habit of dropping in on sis and her kid once a week or so. Maybe doing the park thing, or horse riding, or going to the circus. The joy of seeing a person meeting an experiance for the first time is incredible. Even though they inevitably forget. Almost makes me want to go through the monotony of pairing off again, simply to have one of my own.
Little Jose was bright. Reading at two, and holding his own in a conversation at three. A good kid, though without my curse. I found an unexpected talent - explaining things in a way a child could understand. We had fun. To me - he was what I did not and never would have. To him, I was a playmate - that could explain everything. Of course we played! Did you not know that play is the most important part of a child's developmental cycle until the age of 10? The exercise of the imagination lets them deal with anything.
Almost.
When Jose was four, the cat died. Nothing much at all, in the scheme of things. But to a child, a tragedy worse than Dresden. My sister was heavily pregnant. Her husband was out of town. So she phoned me at work, something I detest, to ask me to come over and deal with the body. What could I do? I went. Not for her. Not for the damn cat, that always brought me out in hives. But for Jose.
We buried the cat under the rose bush in the garden. I wanted to bury it by the apple tree. but Jose had a problem with eating apples that might have a bit of Fluffy in them. Fair enough - kids have weird ideas. Did it properly, small coffin, said a prayer, sang a hymn - the works.
Then we sat and had a small picnic. The association of food, after death, with life going on is older than our species. And Jose asked those five cursed words.
"Tio, why do we live?"
I opened my mouth - and shut it. Why do we live? What is the point? I didn't know. Couldn't answer.
The question bugged me for months. I read - voraciously. Absently responded to questions asked at work, leading to 17 scientific breakthroughs and 12 banned or restricted new technologies. This was no longer a child's question, but a gap in my knowledge. That can not be permitted.
Then I died.
It was an accident of course. With my memory and associated situational awareness, it would have to be. A one in a million occurrance - a lightning strike as I stepped out of the Library. That is when I saw.
An infinite room. Filled with wheels. Each wheel split into thirds, each labelled "Today." A person running in each wheel.
The past that you run from - the future that you run toward. They are the same. Does time exist if no one is there to measure it? Or does intelligence make the universe run.
I no longer care. Pass me another drink - I would rather forget.
But I can't.
Thursday, 14 October 2010
Channel 187
The road unwinds before me like a broken tape measure in the dark. The flickering of the dashed white lines, the sleeping towns, the gentle snore of the engine and drone of the wheels.
This is my life.
Lonely, yes, but one I chose with my eyes open.
Stretch my back, twist. Check speed, check road ahead, check mirrors. Trailer tight and following perfectly, no flapping of the canvas sides. Tonight I have a delivery.
Tomorrow, a funeral.
My brother. To be honest, he was a worthless piece of shit. Never held a job, except dealing coke. You know the sort - spread his seed far and wide, then ran like hell when some of it grew. Totally irresponsible. One of the main reasons I sit in a rig all night instead of laying in a warm bed with a comfortable wife.
Meh - who cares. Check trailer, check speed, check road. Reach for my flask of coffee.
A bump - nothing major for a rig, but joggles my arm against the dash. Quick check shows that everything is as it should be. I have sped up a bit while bracing - ease back on the gas and drop her back to 55.
I know this route. Emily, my rig, could probably drive it without me, we have done it that often.
I lean back and enjoy the night.
Check road, check speed, check trailer.
My brother wasn't all bad - don't go thinking that. He is .. was ... two years older than me. He looked out for me when we were kids - caught more than his fair share of strappings from the old man too. Now there was a nasty bugger. You did it his way, and right the first time, or you got the strap laid on with no light hand. Mom, I don't really remember. She left Dad when I was two. Just put down the dishcloth one day and walked out. By the time Dad got home, I was, so I have been told, screaming in fear of the dark, with Bobby outside my playpen holding my hand. Like I say - he wasn't all bad.
Check trailer, check road, check speed. Blink and stretch.
Night driving is peaceful but it is boring. Tonight I am not really in the mood for voices though - even though they are a switch throw away on the CB.
When did Bobby go wrong? I don't know. This has bothered me for years. He protected me always, don't get me wrong, except from Dad. I was, I suppose, what they would now call educationally challenged. Oh, I speak well enough, but writing and figuring are hard for me. I blame Dad for that. After all, there are only so many times you can be hit in the head before it has an effect. Look at poor Muhammed Ali! Poor guy can't even string two words together now.
But one thing I can do is concentrate.
Check speed, check trailer, check road. Scratch balls.
Sip of coffee. Lucy, down at the truck stop, fixes me a flask every night. Extra strong, cream, 6 sugars. Just the way I like it. It helps with the boredom. Coming up to the crossroads in Three Rivers. Shift down and slow. The lights turn to blinkers at night here. No red, just caution. Check for traffic. 3 am, so unlikely to be drunks or racers on the road. Shift down again and take the corner, then accelerate and shift back up.
Check road, check speed, check trailer. Slight wobble, damping out as I speed up. All good.
"All Good." Story of my life. Failed my diploma. It was fine, I went into the Army and they taught me how to drive. Came out, got a job driving rigs, met a girl, courted and won her. Yeah - her name was Emily, why do you ask.
Then Bobby came back from wherever the hell he had been. California I think it was. He had no where to stay - what was I going to do? But I was away all night, 6 nights a week. One morning I got back - they were both gone. Along with the savings and the few bits and pieces from mamma and grandma I managed to save.
Check trailer, check road, check speed.
Guess I am still married to her - or at least I was until the accident. A shame in a way. Lucy, you know, the girl from the truck stop, is interested in being Mrs Johnson number 2. I guess there is nothing stopping us now. Except Emily is the only one for me. Lucy is sweet and all, but there isnt the - whats the word - excitement there. Sometimes I think that excitement is not something for me.
Excuse me - we are coming up to the bypass at Bumpville. I need to see if there are any checkpoints. Not that I am hauling illegal shit, but it will slow me down.
Check road, check trailer, check speed. Switch on CB. Mike snuggling in my hand like an extension of my body.
"Breaker, Breaker. This is Freewheeler on 109, asking if it is all green to bring on the machine."
Nothing but static. Check channel. 187.
187?
"Ray?"
I didn't hear that - did you? Was just the static on a channel that doesn't exist.
"Ray, I know you are listening." My disbelief is melting fast. What do I know about this sort of shit? I have enough trouble reading the damned comics.
"Bobby?"
"The one and only, little bro."
Check road, check trailer. Stay calm.
"So who we burying tomorrow Bobby? You conned someone into taking the last fall?"
"Me and Emily, bro. It isn't too bad here. Pretty much everything you could want."
Channel 187. An impossible channel. To the afterlife, apparently.
"Bobby, stop fucking around. If you are on the radio you ain't dead."
Check road, check trailer.
"Yep, Ray. We watched them scoop up what was left and bag it. Em is still laughing that one of her arms went in my bag."
Shit. This is deep. What the fuck do I do? Got any suggestions?
Check trailer.
"Bobby, why?" I may be dumb, but I got my curiosity, and pride.
"Because I could, Ray. After 15 years of taking the blame for you and your fuck ups, I deserved something. And I got it here" Very faint. Lean forward to hear. Brace on the pedals.
"You know you asked me if I found someone to take the last fall? I did."
OH FUCK!! CHECK ROAD, CHECK SPEED!
"It is you, Ray. You"
As I crash through the barrier at 75, I console myself that at least the afterlife is real and something will survive beyond death. Then my passenger, who has been there and not there the entire trip, speaks.
"Heaven is channel 154."
Kisses in the Dark - Welcome
This collection is named after a phrase used by one of the modern masters of the short story, Stephen King. Kisses in the Dark is my collection of very, or fairly, short stories.
Some have been, or will be, as it is a work ongoing, damned hard work to write. Some have hit me between the eyes like a Viking swung warhammer. One or two, which I shall have to transcribe from longhand, did not let me eat or sleep until they were written down. At 3 am, one does not type.
Enjoy.
Some have been, or will be, as it is a work ongoing, damned hard work to write. Some have hit me between the eyes like a Viking swung warhammer. One or two, which I shall have to transcribe from longhand, did not let me eat or sleep until they were written down. At 3 am, one does not type.
Enjoy.
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