Janek felt scared. From the window of the little bus snaking across the cracked concrete he could see the rocket. It hissed with a thousand stresses and strains from the gases that it expelled, coolant for its chemical engines. He had known this would be how he would be leaving this world, too newly colonised for an elevator and too far from Centre for other, more advanced forms of lift, but faced with the reality of it in front of him a near panic seems to over take him. The shape and physicality of it intimidates him. Even the landing, falling from orbit in little more than a heat-shielded tin can, was less terrifying than the prospect of sitting on top of several tonnes of explosives ready to detonate and propel him into orbit.
The other two men sat in the carriage with him seemed calm. One, a fat business man from the system's fourth planet, was obviously used to travelling this way. The other, Oorta, his attaché and bodyguard, betrays no sense of fear having had all common sense of danger carefully edited out by training and genetic manipulation.
At least the mission has been successful. The planet's contract treaty with the UN had been about about to expire and there had been talk about secession, all too common in the past twenty years. Janek disliked secession. It was always too bloody and it never succeeded, but time and again planets thought they could get away with it. At least this time invasion and cultural shift was not going to be required. Assuming he survived the take-off.
He did not hear the shot. The first he knew was the sticky, wet splash across his face. He turned in annoyance and only then realised it was Oorta's blue blood that had spurted from the gaping wound in his shoulder. Oorta looked annoyed, reaching out with his undamaged arm to pull Janek down, away from the window, across his lap.
An insurrection. Part of Janek's brain is almost relieved.
Sunday, 21 March 2010
Wednesday, 17 March 2010
ash
The darkness echoes. There is a dim glow. Ahead a slicing of light from Jean's torch illuminates the metal corridor. The Captain is in the doorway of the control centre. His hands are made of ash. They hang loosely at his sides. Gray overlays black-flecked scales. Loose white flakes drift loose, catching on his clothes, the floor and the walls. He raises his left hand, deep within the ash a red glow kindles, his crumbling hand points, the finger melting and falling as a cone of powder that lands and rolls along the floor carried by the internal convection wind of the ship. Jean looks to where he is pointing. There is nothing he can see. The Captain falls, his body consumed by the burn, falling to dust.
Communing
The day started with a little more stimulation then I was used to. For once I was lucky enough to get a seat in the crowded rail carriage, a chance to sit down, claim my own space among the heaving mass of humanity. I settled in for the journey, my document bag clasped firmly on my lap, demure and calm. I set my expression to secure isolation and resolved to make no eye contact. A daily mantra.
Then, at the very next stop, a flock of new travellers flooded in to the carriage. I ignored them except to pull in my toes a little, partially making room, partially in a vague attempt at self-protection.
But I couldn’t ignore the movement.
The train set off, a long way now until the next stop, under the rivers and the dead zone, into the long tunnels black as night and narrow fitting. A highly charged worm. The battered carriage rocked from side to side as it rumbled along the poorly maintained rails but that was not the movement that caught my attention. The rocking of the carriage I found soothing, a gentle lullaby of action, rhythmic meditation for a tired mind.
In front of me however, right at my eye level, a young man was rocking his hips in time with the music he had plugged into his ears. I could hear the faint buzz of electricity. His crotch was jerking back and forwards with an occasional wiggle. This was distracting.
Surreptitiously I glanced up at the man’s face. With eyes half closed he was smiling, lost in his own world.
I envied him his youth, returning my watery eyes to the vision of my wrinkled aging hands as they lay forlornly on the document case. I envied his obvious relaxation, a striking counterpoint to my efforts to portray the appearance of calm. I envied his joy in his music.
My watch beeped and I knew that I was close to my station. Getting a grip on my case, and on my wandering mind, I got ready. When the time came I stood up, trying not to bump into the oblivious boy, and blinked.
The short jump to the station, with the train still rattling at top speed through the dimmed tunnel, was always disconcerting. This time I felt like I had left something behind and I wobbled on the balls of my highly polished shoes.
‘Morning.’ Harry Short had been on the same train. He greeted me now with an expression of inattentive curiosity on his grey and whiskered face.
‘Morning.’ I pulled myself together and turned towards the lift, putting the shiver that ran down my back to the windy absence created by the now departed train.
--
I recognise now that the real reason for my lack of mental balance that morning was enclosed in the faux leather wrapping of my document case…
Then, at the very next stop, a flock of new travellers flooded in to the carriage. I ignored them except to pull in my toes a little, partially making room, partially in a vague attempt at self-protection.
But I couldn’t ignore the movement.
The train set off, a long way now until the next stop, under the rivers and the dead zone, into the long tunnels black as night and narrow fitting. A highly charged worm. The battered carriage rocked from side to side as it rumbled along the poorly maintained rails but that was not the movement that caught my attention. The rocking of the carriage I found soothing, a gentle lullaby of action, rhythmic meditation for a tired mind.
In front of me however, right at my eye level, a young man was rocking his hips in time with the music he had plugged into his ears. I could hear the faint buzz of electricity. His crotch was jerking back and forwards with an occasional wiggle. This was distracting.
Surreptitiously I glanced up at the man’s face. With eyes half closed he was smiling, lost in his own world.
I envied him his youth, returning my watery eyes to the vision of my wrinkled aging hands as they lay forlornly on the document case. I envied his obvious relaxation, a striking counterpoint to my efforts to portray the appearance of calm. I envied his joy in his music.
My watch beeped and I knew that I was close to my station. Getting a grip on my case, and on my wandering mind, I got ready. When the time came I stood up, trying not to bump into the oblivious boy, and blinked.
The short jump to the station, with the train still rattling at top speed through the dimmed tunnel, was always disconcerting. This time I felt like I had left something behind and I wobbled on the balls of my highly polished shoes.
‘Morning.’ Harry Short had been on the same train. He greeted me now with an expression of inattentive curiosity on his grey and whiskered face.
‘Morning.’ I pulled myself together and turned towards the lift, putting the shiver that ran down my back to the windy absence created by the now departed train.
--
I recognise now that the real reason for my lack of mental balance that morning was enclosed in the faux leather wrapping of my document case…
Tuesday, 9 March 2010
Wilson's Clipboard
Wilson stood in front of the open cargo door and tapped his clipboard against the handrail of the gangway. The clipboard was a fake, a prop, an affectation that was as unnecessary as the clear glass spectacles that perched on the end of Wilson’s angular nose.
A drone emerged from the gangplank with a whirr of sudden braking. Its low level body flittered across the raised threshold and banged onto the gangway, stopping at Wilson’s feet. A camera head scanned Wilson’s knees and beeped.
‘What did you find?’ Wilson asked. He made an effort to ensure that his speech was clear and simple (not his usual style at all). These drones were basic models and very little effort had been spent on their cognitive abilities.
The drone flashed its data through to Wilson’s implanted receiver and he frowned. ‘Nothing?’
The drone flashed an identical data package and Wilson kicked it off of the gangplank and down into the far distance of the floor of the hanger deck. There was a brief clang and a frustrated whirr as the drone righted itself and set off on its next mission.
‘There’s no point taking it out on him. It’s not his fault.’
Wilson started, he hadn’t heard the man creeping up on him but he recognised the voice all too well.
‘It must be faulty.’ He started, trying to justify his pique. ‘It reported nothing at all but there must be something. A ship can’t just turn up empty and not have any data on board to explain why.’
‘Can’t it? This ship seems to be telling you that it can.’
The other man was shorter than Wilson but carried more authority in the relaxed set of his shoulders and the way his hands nonchalantly rested in the pockets of his regulation jumpsuit. His face was kind and his eyes were alive with joy and a twinkle of good humour. The man’s genial demeanour only made Wilson seem more pathetically sour and Wilson was not ignorant of this effect.
‘Then something is wrong with the system. The data must be there but we’re just not getting to it yet.’ Wilson paused. ‘Unless you know different?’
Wilson had remembered the rumours about Mack and his set. The experiments and missing equipment. The personnel who also disappeared.
Mack smiled with the still-mobile left side of his face. ‘I don’t know anything that you don’t.’ He said, walking stiffly past Wilson and up into the ship.
‘Hang on. What do you think you are doing?’
‘I’m going to have a look around. Are you coming?’
‘But we don’t know that it’s safe…’ Wilson protested weakly. The empty ship made him feel scared and he couldn’t explain why. Since the moment he had spotted the dark green blip of the incoming signal he had experienced an odd feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. ‘We don’t know why it’s empty.’
Mack paused and turned back to Wilson, making no attempt to hide his contempt. ‘You’re right. You don’t know anything.’
Wilson felt the focus of his fear shifting. ‘We… we should wait for the inspectors to… to arrive.’
‘Yes. Yes we should.’ Mack raised his left hand and starting wagging an accusatory finger at his bureaucratic adversary, his face turning red and ugly with anger. ‘And that is what you would do because you are a coward. A yellow-bellied hollow shell of a man with a misplaced ego large enough to smother your pathetic weaknesses in red tape and excuses. Pah! Arguing with you is a waste of my time. Do what you want, I’m going to look around.’
Wilson watched as Mack disappeared into the shadow of the ship, drenched in nervous sweat, his heart racing wildly and erratically with the effort of enforced confrontation. He looked around the vast expanse of the otherwise empty hanger. There was no-one watching. He felt his trepidation being transformed to rage. How dare he! How dare Mack talk to him like that! As if he was nothing.
I’ll show him, Wilson thought, I’ll show all of the engineers and pilots and, yes, even those darned drones. Dropping the clipboard to the floor of the gangway and clenching both hands into determined fists, Wilson followed Mack into the darkness…
A drone emerged from the gangplank with a whirr of sudden braking. Its low level body flittered across the raised threshold and banged onto the gangway, stopping at Wilson’s feet. A camera head scanned Wilson’s knees and beeped.
‘What did you find?’ Wilson asked. He made an effort to ensure that his speech was clear and simple (not his usual style at all). These drones were basic models and very little effort had been spent on their cognitive abilities.
The drone flashed its data through to Wilson’s implanted receiver and he frowned. ‘Nothing?’
The drone flashed an identical data package and Wilson kicked it off of the gangplank and down into the far distance of the floor of the hanger deck. There was a brief clang and a frustrated whirr as the drone righted itself and set off on its next mission.
‘There’s no point taking it out on him. It’s not his fault.’
Wilson started, he hadn’t heard the man creeping up on him but he recognised the voice all too well.
‘It must be faulty.’ He started, trying to justify his pique. ‘It reported nothing at all but there must be something. A ship can’t just turn up empty and not have any data on board to explain why.’
‘Can’t it? This ship seems to be telling you that it can.’
The other man was shorter than Wilson but carried more authority in the relaxed set of his shoulders and the way his hands nonchalantly rested in the pockets of his regulation jumpsuit. His face was kind and his eyes were alive with joy and a twinkle of good humour. The man’s genial demeanour only made Wilson seem more pathetically sour and Wilson was not ignorant of this effect.
‘Then something is wrong with the system. The data must be there but we’re just not getting to it yet.’ Wilson paused. ‘Unless you know different?’
Wilson had remembered the rumours about Mack and his set. The experiments and missing equipment. The personnel who also disappeared.
Mack smiled with the still-mobile left side of his face. ‘I don’t know anything that you don’t.’ He said, walking stiffly past Wilson and up into the ship.
‘Hang on. What do you think you are doing?’
‘I’m going to have a look around. Are you coming?’
‘But we don’t know that it’s safe…’ Wilson protested weakly. The empty ship made him feel scared and he couldn’t explain why. Since the moment he had spotted the dark green blip of the incoming signal he had experienced an odd feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. ‘We don’t know why it’s empty.’
Mack paused and turned back to Wilson, making no attempt to hide his contempt. ‘You’re right. You don’t know anything.’
Wilson felt the focus of his fear shifting. ‘We… we should wait for the inspectors to… to arrive.’
‘Yes. Yes we should.’ Mack raised his left hand and starting wagging an accusatory finger at his bureaucratic adversary, his face turning red and ugly with anger. ‘And that is what you would do because you are a coward. A yellow-bellied hollow shell of a man with a misplaced ego large enough to smother your pathetic weaknesses in red tape and excuses. Pah! Arguing with you is a waste of my time. Do what you want, I’m going to look around.’
Wilson watched as Mack disappeared into the shadow of the ship, drenched in nervous sweat, his heart racing wildly and erratically with the effort of enforced confrontation. He looked around the vast expanse of the otherwise empty hanger. There was no-one watching. He felt his trepidation being transformed to rage. How dare he! How dare Mack talk to him like that! As if he was nothing.
I’ll show him, Wilson thought, I’ll show all of the engineers and pilots and, yes, even those darned drones. Dropping the clipboard to the floor of the gangway and clenching both hands into determined fists, Wilson followed Mack into the darkness…
Monday, 8 March 2010
a discussion between monkeys
"It is a common misconception." Hutton Ambo removes the pipe from his mouth, stabbing the air with it to emphasise his point. As he is currently in the body of an eighteen year old who has barely fluff on his chin and upper lip the action is both more irritating and ridiculous than usual. I roll my eyes.
He puffs on the pipe and coughs, his new lungs untrained to accept the stink of the cherry shag tobacco that he insists on polluting us all with, before he continues.
"It's not that consciousness is a quantum activity in the sense of the brain's physical position in the universe, like some would think. That there is some special effect at work in the structure of the human mind that somehow gives it consciousness, or even life. It's more pervasive than that. The whole universe is alive, what Professor Rucker called pan-psychism. We are merely bubbles that erupt from the underlying quantum foam of thought that is at the heart of every particle of matter. That is what allows us to travel between universes, what we call parallels, by the sheer effort of thought. We are slowly training out wavelength to a new frequency, one that slips us through the brane separating the parallels and into the specialised host body waiting for us."
"Yes, but what I wanted to know is why is our the only parallel to have developed the technique? Why do none of the other monkeys seem to be able to do it?" I look to the girl who has asked the question. Her mind really isn't much older than the teenage body she is in; her first mission and clearly uncomfortable, she's provoking the debate and pushing Ambo's buttons in all the wrong ways.
"Well, that's simply not true." Ambo replies. "There are many agents who have come from different parallels. We do try to reduce the amount of interference and limit the knowledge of the ability to travel. We don't really know what the effect of large amounts of inter-parallel travelling would cause."
"That's why we focus on cleaning up our own mess and, occasionally, that of others." I say. Time to bring this to a close and back to the mission. "We aren't evangelists, these other parallels must be free to develop as they would."
"So long as they don't break our rules." Ambo says.
He puffs on the pipe and coughs, his new lungs untrained to accept the stink of the cherry shag tobacco that he insists on polluting us all with, before he continues.
"It's not that consciousness is a quantum activity in the sense of the brain's physical position in the universe, like some would think. That there is some special effect at work in the structure of the human mind that somehow gives it consciousness, or even life. It's more pervasive than that. The whole universe is alive, what Professor Rucker called pan-psychism. We are merely bubbles that erupt from the underlying quantum foam of thought that is at the heart of every particle of matter. That is what allows us to travel between universes, what we call parallels, by the sheer effort of thought. We are slowly training out wavelength to a new frequency, one that slips us through the brane separating the parallels and into the specialised host body waiting for us."
"Yes, but what I wanted to know is why is our the only parallel to have developed the technique? Why do none of the other monkeys seem to be able to do it?" I look to the girl who has asked the question. Her mind really isn't much older than the teenage body she is in; her first mission and clearly uncomfortable, she's provoking the debate and pushing Ambo's buttons in all the wrong ways.
"Well, that's simply not true." Ambo replies. "There are many agents who have come from different parallels. We do try to reduce the amount of interference and limit the knowledge of the ability to travel. We don't really know what the effect of large amounts of inter-parallel travelling would cause."
"That's why we focus on cleaning up our own mess and, occasionally, that of others." I say. Time to bring this to a close and back to the mission. "We aren't evangelists, these other parallels must be free to develop as they would."
"So long as they don't break our rules." Ambo says.
Wednesday, 3 March 2010
Face First
The force of the fist smashing into my face drove me against the side of the ship and I crumpled down the cold metal to the wooden floor. In apparent slow motion the man came towards and heaved me upright by clenching a huge fistful of my hair and tugging until I rose, gasping with pain. I could feel blood dampening my cheeks, mixing with the tears that coursed freely down my face, diluted drops that dripped nonchalantly to the floor.
The man peered closely at me through my swollen vision and I cowered in anticipation trying to raise my hands to protect my face but failing to find the strength to move. His face was contorted in violence, his features unrecognisably human.
'That's enough.' A woman's voice broke through the rushing noise of blood racing around my heightened system. 'Back off for now.'
The last was ominous, threatening a resumption of hostilities, and I could see that I had a painfully narrow window of opportunity.
The man crossed rapidly to another part of the room and came clumping back with a stool for me in one large, manicured hand and a brass mug of water in the other. I perched, protecting the base of my spine which was throbbing in a most unpleasantly insistent way, and took the mug, sniffing it before I drank.
'Are you ready to talk?' The woman asked. She moved into my line of vision as she spoke and I realised with a jolt of recognition that I knew who she was. Her face betrayed no knowledge of me, however. Perhaps I was still safe.
I nodded. She smiled, inclining her head in a gracious invitation for me to continue.
My mind raced as I pondered, trying to work out strategically what the best thing to say would be. But I was taking too long and the woman's fixed smile began to slide away. She started to physically move away, nodding to her tame thug as she went.
'No, wait!' I yelled. She turned back to me, her satisfaction apparent.
'Go on.'
'I'll tell you whatever you like. Just keep him away from me.'
She frowned. 'What do you mean? You'll tell us whatever we like? We just want the truth.'
I drew a deep breath through sore ribs. 'Would you recognise it if I told you?'
The woman flinched. Unexpectedly I had scored some sort of point. But then her features composed themselves back into her former resolution and she shrugged.
'If you're telling me it doesn't matter then you are telling me that you don't matter.' She said simply.
I wished I had her composure but both of us knew how important this was. We were dancing around each other, hesitating to be the first to give anything away. And, somehow, I was expected to convince her to change sides.
I began to think that I should never have said yes to the old man...
The man peered closely at me through my swollen vision and I cowered in anticipation trying to raise my hands to protect my face but failing to find the strength to move. His face was contorted in violence, his features unrecognisably human.
'That's enough.' A woman's voice broke through the rushing noise of blood racing around my heightened system. 'Back off for now.'
The last was ominous, threatening a resumption of hostilities, and I could see that I had a painfully narrow window of opportunity.
The man crossed rapidly to another part of the room and came clumping back with a stool for me in one large, manicured hand and a brass mug of water in the other. I perched, protecting the base of my spine which was throbbing in a most unpleasantly insistent way, and took the mug, sniffing it before I drank.
'Are you ready to talk?' The woman asked. She moved into my line of vision as she spoke and I realised with a jolt of recognition that I knew who she was. Her face betrayed no knowledge of me, however. Perhaps I was still safe.
I nodded. She smiled, inclining her head in a gracious invitation for me to continue.
My mind raced as I pondered, trying to work out strategically what the best thing to say would be. But I was taking too long and the woman's fixed smile began to slide away. She started to physically move away, nodding to her tame thug as she went.
'No, wait!' I yelled. She turned back to me, her satisfaction apparent.
'Go on.'
'I'll tell you whatever you like. Just keep him away from me.'
She frowned. 'What do you mean? You'll tell us whatever we like? We just want the truth.'
I drew a deep breath through sore ribs. 'Would you recognise it if I told you?'
The woman flinched. Unexpectedly I had scored some sort of point. But then her features composed themselves back into her former resolution and she shrugged.
'If you're telling me it doesn't matter then you are telling me that you don't matter.' She said simply.
I wished I had her composure but both of us knew how important this was. We were dancing around each other, hesitating to be the first to give anything away. And, somehow, I was expected to convince her to change sides.
I began to think that I should never have said yes to the old man...
Sunday, 28 February 2010
Chewed up and spat out
I chew the gum cautiously, wincing at the bitter taste seeping through the mint overtones. The engineers assured me there is no risk of it exploding without the chemical stimulus of the detonator, but they've been wrong before. I curse the rules that say we can only use appropriate tech for the parallel we are active in. If it's not nanotech the engineers seem to treat it like some kind of game, an academic experiment in antiquity. As soon as the gum turns sweet I extract it from my mouth and push it gently into the lock. I take the packet of cigarettes from my pocket and pull one out, checking it to make sure it is one of the ones that I need. I lick the paper wrapper and gently break it apart. I tease out the dark, thin thread hidden within it and push it into the gum. Next I take off my watch and wrap the thread around the diver's face which I twist ninety degrees. A push of the wind-up knob sets the timer going and I quickly run around the oversize desk and duck behind it.
Unseen by me there is a fizzing and a sharp crack. I wince. I'm hoping the sound of the party below will cover up the noise of my break-in but there are plenty of guards patrolling around, keeping an eye out for people like me. I lift my head over the desk. The safe door is open, a small wisp of smoke caught in the moonlight crack of the curtain. Running back to the safe I start to explore its contents, pocketing the jewelry, putting the folders with documents to one side. The theft of the trinkets will help to provide a cover for my real reason for the burglary as well as inject some much needed local cash into the project's coffers. I spread the documents on the desk and begin to quickly identify those that might be of use. Plans for rockets, buildings and other assorted hardware, signatures on deals and contracts. I quickly photograph them all and then scatter them around the safe to give the impression that the have been discarded and thrown to the side. It won't fool the Professor, but there won't be enough evidence to prove we were here, either.
I clip the camera back onto my belt buckle, rearrange my bow tie and brush down the tuxedo jacket. I check the hallway outside. Still no-one. I need to get back to the party unnoticed and get out of here before the robbery is noticed. Always the fun part. A door opens and my hand slides to my gun. Agent Kowalski steps out of a side room, messing her hair a little. I take her arm and, turning the corner we begin to stagger down the hall with our best drunken walks. It's all going well until we reach the stairs to almost walk straight in to the guards forming a wall blocking our path. Behind us the Professors gentle voice speaks.
"Kill them."
Kowalski and I both launch ourselves at the guards, drawing our guns, but we are too slow to get off a shot and, deafened by the sound of shots, we fall. The pain and blood mix into my senses into a single flailing cry of annoyance.
Back at the base Kowalski, now back in her normal body, is cursing. Staggering around the office space as she paces through the adjustment exercises. I watch her, waiting for the hangover kick of the transmission to peel away before I start my own exercises.
"Not only did we not get anything, he also knows we are here. He's going to find the bloody camera and know it was us."
I shrug.
"We can still pull the images from my mind. Won't be as good, but it's something. And the Professor would have known anyway. It's not stupid."
Jung, the blue brain consciousness currently in charge of us, watches from his screen silently. He's a patient one, and he already has a plan in place, I can tell from looking at him.
Unseen by me there is a fizzing and a sharp crack. I wince. I'm hoping the sound of the party below will cover up the noise of my break-in but there are plenty of guards patrolling around, keeping an eye out for people like me. I lift my head over the desk. The safe door is open, a small wisp of smoke caught in the moonlight crack of the curtain. Running back to the safe I start to explore its contents, pocketing the jewelry, putting the folders with documents to one side. The theft of the trinkets will help to provide a cover for my real reason for the burglary as well as inject some much needed local cash into the project's coffers. I spread the documents on the desk and begin to quickly identify those that might be of use. Plans for rockets, buildings and other assorted hardware, signatures on deals and contracts. I quickly photograph them all and then scatter them around the safe to give the impression that the have been discarded and thrown to the side. It won't fool the Professor, but there won't be enough evidence to prove we were here, either.
I clip the camera back onto my belt buckle, rearrange my bow tie and brush down the tuxedo jacket. I check the hallway outside. Still no-one. I need to get back to the party unnoticed and get out of here before the robbery is noticed. Always the fun part. A door opens and my hand slides to my gun. Agent Kowalski steps out of a side room, messing her hair a little. I take her arm and, turning the corner we begin to stagger down the hall with our best drunken walks. It's all going well until we reach the stairs to almost walk straight in to the guards forming a wall blocking our path. Behind us the Professors gentle voice speaks.
"Kill them."
Kowalski and I both launch ourselves at the guards, drawing our guns, but we are too slow to get off a shot and, deafened by the sound of shots, we fall. The pain and blood mix into my senses into a single flailing cry of annoyance.
Back at the base Kowalski, now back in her normal body, is cursing. Staggering around the office space as she paces through the adjustment exercises. I watch her, waiting for the hangover kick of the transmission to peel away before I start my own exercises.
"Not only did we not get anything, he also knows we are here. He's going to find the bloody camera and know it was us."
I shrug.
"We can still pull the images from my mind. Won't be as good, but it's something. And the Professor would have known anyway. It's not stupid."
Jung, the blue brain consciousness currently in charge of us, watches from his screen silently. He's a patient one, and he already has a plan in place, I can tell from looking at him.
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