Hyperspace.
Outside - if there were an outside, when all there was, was space folding and unfolding, doing vaguely indecent things to itself - was a dazzling light display which would have hurt the eyes of an observer (if an observer were possible, which of course it wasn't, there being nothing 'out' there but space folding and unfolding, nothing moving, so to speak).
At the apex of a cone of this unspeakably dazzling light, the observer (who of course wasn't there, scroll up) would have seen a small, silver, six-ribbed spearhead - Bright Arrow, well-named, ploughing its way through space-time in a pattern of its own making.
Inside - and of course there was an inside, because how could a human being live in that outside? - was a remarkably ordinary scene, apart from the vidscreen where the impossible lightshow blazed, UV-filtered and polarised. In front of the vidscreen was a console, on a desk, of course, with a chair behind it, ergonomically correct for a man of about six feet. Beside the keyboard on the desk was the holographic representation of a beautiful young woman petting a border terrier.
The rest of the ship, rather familiar: a living area, a space with gym equipment, a kitchenette and bath. The only unusual object there was just now opening - a tilted dayglo-green sarcophagus - to reveal a handsome, sandy-haired man whose eyes, just now fluttering, turned out to be green (though not as green as the rising lid).
The man stretched, yawned a bit for effect, and stepped out of the cryopod, naked, muscular, a David out of time. As he headed for the shower, a bell sounded, followed by a blast of music: 'Scotland the Brave', played on a slightly wheezing piobreach. The man winced as he stepped into the shower.
'Blast Martin Connor, ' he thought, before a pleasant female voice announced, 'Good morning, Captain Gordon, we hope you slept well.' Gordon didn't bother answering, as he knew the voice belonged to his AI computer, showered for the sake of feeling the wetness on his skin (he couldn't really be dirty, even after seven years in cryonic suspension, but he felt dusty), and, towelling off, donned a blue jumpsuit with the Eurospace Corps logo on it before heading to the kitchenette to make breakfast. At least the wee piper had shut up, which was a mercy. He located a brand-new copper kettle, and set it on for tea, stuck some bread from the box in the toaster, and rummaged for a saucepan, thinking that - the wormhole jump being safely over (waking up was a pleasant surprise, he'd half-expected to die during that first-ever experiment), such ordinary activities as making breakfast had their charms, after all.
He made it safely through the preparations, and sat down to eat, before the next surprise came.
'Captain Gordon, you have not spoken to me for half an hour, ' the AI female said with a maddeningly calm and (he thought) smug air. 'If you do not reply within ten seconds, it will be assumed you are in difficulty, and Emergency Measures will be taken.' A series of bells started counting off the seconds
The porridge caught in his throat. He managed to get the spoonful down, wash it clear with tea, and choke out, with one second to spare, 'What the blazes? Can't you tell I'm breathing, you silly machine? Do you want me to talk to myself all the way home?' His outburst was rewarded by a laugh - a deep, rich guffaw, about an octave lower than the previous voice, in a tone redolent of the Bahamas, on impossibly faraway Earth.
'Heh, heh, got you, Anarchy, ' said the voice of Martin Connor, 'Thought you'd appreciate a bit of stirring up, when you'd been asleep so long. I've programmed the AI to sound like me, ha-ha, and I have given it the most precious gift of all...' a mock-sinister stage whisper, 'my sense of humour.'
Auchanachie Gordon groaned aloud, but was secretly pleased. He wasn't yet sure how long this part of his trip - the return through hyperspace from the one-way wormhole - was going to take. A friendly voice, and a friendly attitude on the part of his AI partner, would go a long way toward making the months (years?) pass more pleasantly. Gordon was a practical man, but not an unsociable one. He grinned.
'You program yourself to play chess?' The AI/Martin chuckled. 'Yes, sirree, I did that. I can subject you to humiliating defeat from one end of space-time to the other, buddy boy.'
Gordon replied drily, 'We'll see about that. If you didn't cheat and use SuperBlue to program with, I'll give you a run for your money.'
Martin laughed back. 'No cheating. Just my usual wizardry. Speaking of which...when you've finished your disgusting breakfast, step on over to the console and we'll find out the damage. This isn't a pleasure cruise, Captain Gordon, much as you're enjoying yourself....'
As Gordon washed up the few dishes (why not make use of the warp-matrix technology, they'd thought, plenty of air and water, plenty of everything, the interface that made hyperspace travel possible also regenerated the fabric of the ship itself, pity it didn't work when you weren't travelling faster than light, they'd end want forever), Martin kept up his jovial bantering.
'You know why they picked a Scotsman for this, don't you?' Gordon grinned, knowing how badly Martin had wanted to be here - and now he was, in a way. The AI continued remorselessly, 'You're cheap to feed. This tub is stocked with oatmeal, freeze-dried salmon, haggis, of all things. You are a nutritionist's nightmare, Anarchy Gordon.' Gordon chuckled as hung up the dish towel - Martin's needling was welcome, he was getting used to the place that would be his home for...how long?
Time to find out.
Crossing to the console, Gordon flipped a switch, and the view on the screen shifted from lights to numbers. With practised ease - he knew every system by heart, he'd helped build it - he keyboarded his way to the program he needed, the one with the answer he both hoped and dreaded to find. As he waited for the calculations to come up, his eye fell on the holograph, and he realised with a start that he'd been awake for nearly an hour (he glanced up at the chronometer) without thinking of Jeannie...
Jeannie would be waking up now, too, he thought, as he fondled the pedestal above which she bent, her rich brown hair half-obscuring her delicate features, stroking the head of the badly misnamed Lassie (male, and a terrier). Jeannie had put herself into suspension at the same time as her intended, had promised to wait, even if it took the threatened seven years for him to return, even if took longer...Oh, dear heart, his mind whispered, Let it not be that long, let the mathematicians be wrong...A whoop from Martin interrupted his reverie.
'Anarchy, look, look, you daft git, look at the screen! We've done it - you and I were right!' Gordon looked - and almost jumped out of his seat, so glad he was.
'Three and a half years, ' he said, wonderingly. Then he shouted, 'THREE AND A HALF YEARS! That's no time at all!' And then, to himself, in amazement and gratitude to whatever forces where holding him in his tenuous relation to reality, 'I can be home in three and a half years.'
Martin laughed his full-throated laugh. 'We were right, boyo. You were right. In forty-two months, Bright Arrow will materialise - not fall from the sky, not drop into the ocean, no, indeed - will materialise in its signature spot.' The AI laughed again. 'Right in your sweetheart's back garden.' Gordon laughed along with Martin.
'"Back garden" is hardly the right expression, ' he chided jocularly. 'That's the formal garden of a proper estate, you know.'
Martin chuckled. 'I know. And a fine place it will be for the monument. Didn't you say they moved the statue of Robert the Bruce, just to give us a safe place to park this thing?' Gordon started to protest - it was William Wallace - but gave in. 'Okay, laugh, but at least there won't be any danger of somebody happening to be standing on the spot when Bright Arrow appears. I'd hate to show up and kill an innocent bystander.'
Martin's voice assumed lecture mode. 'In order to prevent this, we have determined the exact spot where materialisation will take place.' Another evil chuckled. 'The most you could do would be to knock off a stray squirrel.'
Gordon laughed - and then stopped, suddenly struck by a suspicion. 'Three and a half years - for me. But what about...?"
Martin answered, 'For your lady love? The same, my boy, the same - our algorithm was right, it's one-to-one.' Gordon let out the breath he hadn't known he was holding, in relief.
Then Martin's voice took on a new tone, and Gordon could have sworn the AI program was rubbing its hands in glee. 'I, er, have a surprise for you, my boy, ' he said slyly. 'One you are really going to like. I, er, snuck a piece of hardware aboard that you didn't know about. Hit that blue button on your keyboard, the one that says, Panic, and I'll tell you a-a-a-ll about it.' Gordon did so, and as the program went through its diagnostic, heard the most amazing news of an amazing day.
Martin explained, 'What you are about to see is my own special contribution to the science of tomorrow, boyo - a state-of-the-stateless-art, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see the future. You see, the technology that runs this bucket, taking it through the warp space-time of its own making, will be able to detect the event energy surrounding its materialisation...and translate it into visual imagery.'
He continued ironically, 'If you'll put the colander on your head, that is - for the interface.' Startled, Gordon found the offensive object - more headset than colander - and put it on his head, then settled back to watch. Martin cautioned, 'You can only see about five minutes on either side, but that should be enough to test the program. When Bright Arrow materialises, the alarm will go off, right? And Jeannie promised she'd look out her window, right? So you should be able to see her...the lights should be bright enough, even though it will be evening, early summer.' Gordon was all eyes, and no more ears for Martin, for the next five minutes, as the program unfolded the images...
And gasped. Instead of the quiet garden he was expecting, he saw a gala affair, people dressed to the nines, filing in, taking seats. Were they expecting his return? No, Earth didn't have the ETA, there was no possible communication between now and then, besides, they were facing away from the platform in the centre of the garden, so why...? Then he saw it, the rose arbour, the orchestra, the aisle set off with glowing luminaria for the evening ceremony, the cheerful clergyman, and waiting at the altar...
Robert Saltoun? Why was that whey-faced nerd dressed up like that? No matter that he owned half the shire, with his computer company and his North Sea oil revenues, what was he doing getting married in Jeannie's garden? The orchestra struck up the music, the bride was coming.
And then he saw her - his beloved, dressed in white, coming down the aisle between the guests on her father's arm. Gordon groaned. She went to sleep for me, for seven years. She couldn't wait? Maybe she thought, maybe they told her, maybe, maybe -
But then it happened: the lights flashed, the alarm sounded to herald the Arrow's approach - and disaster struck.
The guests all jumped up, looking around wildly, some seeing the lights over the landing platform and understanding, others guessing God-knew-what...
And Jeannie, Jeannie in her long, white wedding dress, turning, confusion in her face, turning, right into the luminaria, so that the candles caught the fine stuff of her gown, caught, flaring, Jeannie going up like a torch, screaming, Robert Saltoun, the fool, fussing, losing precious seconds, not knowing what to do, not reacting, while Gordon's Jeannie, screaming, caught between one set of events and another, went to her death in flame. Gordon screamed where he sat, almost tearing the headset off, trying to will Saltoun to do the right thing, roll her, quickly, on the grass, the dew-wet grass...the grass wet as his face, with the tears streaming down...
Afterwards, Gordon sat for long minutes, his head between his knees, shaking. Martin (wisely, for an AI) was silent until Gordon lifted his head and spoke.
'Five minutes. That's all we need. Five minutes, one way or the other.'
Martin's voice was gentle but firm. 'No way, brother. It can't be done.'
'How do you know? None of this has been done before. Not ever. Five minutes, that's all I need. And five minutes I will find.'
Martin sighed. 'You're the boss.'
Long into the 'day' they worked, and long into the 'night', as the ship Bright Arrow plunged on its self-made path toward the dimensional layer that was Earth, worked as long as Auchanachie Gordon could stand or sit, until Martin, concerned for his health, told him tomorrow was another day, and turned off the console, dimming the lights and telling him to rest, exhaustion would not help him.
Or Jeannie.
Reluctantly, Gordon agreed. 'We'll find the answer. We have time...three years, five months, 29 days...'
Before retiring for the night, Gordon got out his bagpipes - he'd insisted on them, to the real Martin's great glee, as a way of passing what was presumed to be long leisure hours aboard ship - and played one song.
The sad lament had been in his family for quite a while. Martin sang along, and there was no one there to wonder how an AI program could have such perfect pitch...
And the unseen, non-existent observer might have heard, had the walls of Bright Arrow been thin enough - but they were thick enough, and there was no outside, anyway - the words of the song:
'The day that Jeannie married was the day that Jeannie died, and the day that young Annachie came home on the tide...'
Note: For a graphic-novel approach to this material, see the web comic Anarchy Gordon.
Showing posts with label time travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label time travel. Show all posts
30 March 2011
05 March 2011
Progressive Dinner
A "progressive dinner" is an old American custom in which a group of people have different courses of a meal at different homes. In this story, the venue of the meal doesn't change - but there's a progressive aspect to the dining experience. ;) Cicero's isn't there any more - at least, I couldn't find it on google. Google street view will allow one to take a virtual tour of Forbes Ave, however.
Put your antennae down.
RAT-A-TAT-TAT....
The corridor of the battleprobe – typical Serenellian design, old, bulky, exuding a general air of malicious militarism – echoed with the sound of plasma bullets, while the accompanying flashes of tracer turned the ugly gunmetal walls an uglier puke green in spurts. Arpad glanced around as he fired, and spotted Arvid doing his patented one-and-a-half millisecond reload. He shouted – the only way to make himself heard above the din.
"To the airlock! Fifteen seconds to detonation!" Arvid's helmet bobbed in acknowledgement, and they ran.
They made it, just in time. The Galactic Police cruiser was jumping into warp when the rogue probe's career of marauding, murder, and general mayhem ended with a hideous bang – a visual one, at least, on the vidscreen, though space doesn't run to talkies. General A'no"iANS gave the two troopers a thumbs-up.
"Good work, you two. As always. There's a reception laid on in the Deck 3 mess. See you there." He winked. "I wouldn't be surprised if there were a couple of citations for you in this day's work."
They changed out of combat gear and into standard uniform. Striding down the corridor, Arpad whispered to Arvid, "Are you looking forward to this dinner?"
Arvid grimaced. "Reconstituted freeze-dried tahacoes and a canned speech about truth, justice, and the Galactic Way? What do you think?"
Arpad grinned. "Then come with me. I know a great little eatery you haven't been to yet."
Arvid flashed his buddy a grateful look. "Swell idea. If I never eat another candied-chili-filled tahaco, it will be too soon."
He would have said more – about the last six months' assignment, about the Serenellians' irritating habit of trying to claim star systems that did not belong to them, about the lousy cuisine in this sector – but Arpad had grabbed his (Arvid's) arm, twisted a dial on his (Arpad's) wrist, and the entire scene had shimmered out of existence...
...to be replaced by something completely different.
The ground was solid, the street was full of traffic, and the hour was blue. Arvid gazed around in appreciation.
"Where are we?"
Arpad checked his wrist device. "Earth, North America, a city called Pittsburgh. 1970 is their year, never mind ours. You'll like it, promise."
Arvid turned around and looked –up. Way up. "That's not your 'little eatery', is it?"
Arpad followed his gaze. "No, silly, that's the university building. 42 storeys. All they have is a hamburg joint in the subbasement. Come with me – wait!" He hissed. "Drop the antennae! Nobody wears them here. It's a hair-only zone. Lots of hair, though." Arvid dutifully lowered his cerebral appendages, and Arpad steered them both down the street, labelled at its corners "Forbes Ave", while Arvid admired the interesting beings. One of them tried to sell him something called The Fair Witness– a sort of blog made from paper – while another made what seemed to pass for music on a stringed box.
Ignoring the strains of one, two, three, what are we fighting for?, Arvid asked anxiously, "Are we dressed okay? They seem to wear a lot of tribal beads."
Arpad shrugged. "We're okay. The beads are optional. This is one corner of the universe where jeans and t-shirts that say 'Galactic Police Force' are not going to raise eyebrows." They meandered through the evening student crowd, past quaint, small shops peddling books, antique (well, maybe not) sound-producing equipment, and ceramic "gifts" intended, no doubt, as insulting messages to one's bitterest enemies. Arvid gawked. In one window, a man was tossing dough into the air under a sign that boasted, 'Flying pizza. You order 'em, we fly 'em.' He pointed to a set of yellow arches over one building. "Did you want to eat there? It says something about hamburgs."
Arpad waved this away. "No. Definitely not. The man who invented that poison should have been spaced. Here we are, the ne plus ultra of fine dining, my friend." He beamed as he pointed to the sign above the entrance: CICERO'S.
Before they could go in, Arvid had another question. "What about this?" He pointed to the small, discreet-er sign beside the door:
Arpad explained. "To eat here, it is necessary to cover both the upper body and the feet. It is a law."
Arvid scratched his head, causing his antennae to appear briefly. "But what if..."
After three thousand years, Arpad knew what was coming. "If you only wear a shirt and shoes, you get arrested. This is a prudish planet. Come on, I'm starving." And he opened the door.
The interior was underlit, comfortable, with leather seats in the booths. Arvid could not resist touching the fuzzy red-and-gold wallpaper, so he didn't. Arpad muttered something about "Early Cathouse", and then a gum-chewing waitress in a pale green uniform turned up, pulling a pencil from behind her ear. (Arpad knew what Arvid was thinking, and gave him a dirty look before he asked about antennae.)
"What'll y'uns have to drink?"
Arpad looked around, and thought fast. "Er, two Censored Marys1, please." The waitress looked blank.
"Sorry. We don't got none of them fancy drinks in here. I can get you whiskey sours, though."
"Sounds good."
"Irish, Scotch, or bourbon?"
"Irish, please. Rocks." While the waitress was off getting the drinks, they studied the menu. Arvid wanted to know how the currency converted – and then wanted to know why these people were giving food away. Arpad explained about the current lack of inflation, then what inflation was, and had just about got to the Orionian Platinum Panic of '03 when the whiskey sours arrived, cold, tart, and inviting. They accepted the invitation, ordered Number Three on the menu – salad, steak, well-done (no starship trooper ever eats rare meat, he's seen too much), baked potato (after explanation of tubers to Arvid), green beans, and ice cream for dessert. The waitress went off to process this. Arvid sipped his iced drink, surprised at the flavours. Arpad was about to tell a Pittsburgh joke – he'd just remembered one – when a persistent beeping began in Arvid's left rear pocket. "Oh, fnark."
Arpad reached across and grabbed Arvid by the arm before he could complete the fatal move of bringing out his mobile. "Not here," he hissed. "The only person on this planet who has one of those right now is the star of a cheap scifi vid. In there." He jerked his head in the direction of a door marked "Men".
Arvid looked at it curiously. "What do they do in there?"
"You don't want to know. Just go in there and answer it." Arvid obeyed, scooting into the room with his pocket still beeping softly. Within thirty seconds, a middle-aged man with a shirt that said "Len" emerged and made his way, somewhat unsteadily, to the bar.
"You wouldn't believe what that guy's doin' in there. He's talkin' on a little-bitty phone." The bartender rolled his eyes and set another beer in front of him. Arvid slid back into the booth.
"Bad news, I'm afraid. They need us in Sector 9. And before you ask, no, they need us now. Something about a mad professor, and temporospatial simultaneity."
Arpad sighed, they took last sips of drinks, clasped arms, and vanished.
The incident in the Farradisic Asteroid Belt, involving (as it did) a galaxy-renowned scientist gone off the deep end, a time-scoop device in urgent need of repair, and the possible end of civilisation as everybody knew it, took longer than Arvid and Arpad liked. So it was a few months later when they rematerialised in the booth at Cicero's.
Nobody noticed this except Len, who was amazingly perceptive for someone with his bibulous habits. The bartender waved away his protests, and wiped up spilled Iron City2.
Since no time had passed, their drinks were still cold, and since Arvid and Arpad were bored with manganochutney and fermented pulpa, they went down a treat. More were ordered, and the salad course arrived.
Arvid looked at it dubiously. "Er, Arpad, I don't like to complain, but we've just travelled quite a lot of light-years for what appears to be a wedge of iceberg lettuce topped with some sort of thick, pink sauce with tiny bits in."
"Arvid, my lad, this is true. Those bits are the reason it is called Thousand Island Dressing – or, at least, I think so. This is a simple Terran dish. But when you consider that this iceberg lettuce is the best iceberg lettuce in the known universe..."
Arvid nodded. Arvid tasted. Arvid's eyes lit up. "You're right! This is amazing iceberg lettuce." They enjoyed this treat in silence, and anticipated steaks...
Unfortunately, at this point, the mobile (silenced by a wary Arvid) began vibrating violently, and the troopers had to link arms before the next round of drinks arrived.
The Horsehead Nebula Uprising is, of course, infamous, and since the details are in all the standard interactive history courses, we will omit them here. Suffice it to say that Arvid and Arpad were heartily tired of alkali deserts, multi-dimensional warfare, and the acrid taste of dried megamarsupial. They slipped into their seats at Cicero's, salivating at the idea of charred bovine.
"Hey!" yelled Len. "They did it again. Those two blonds back there. They shimmered."
"Oh, yeah? Shimmered?" groused the bartender. "You are flagged, buddy. Don't be so nebby. Leave those guys alone." And Len's Iron City tab was closed for the evening.
The steaks were everything the two travellers had hoped for – succulent, well-marbled, robust. The baked potato, complete with sour cream, butter, and chives, startled Arvid with the subtlety of its flavour. The green beans were, well, tasty. They chewed in silence, enjoying the ambience and the novelty of good dining.
The mobile had the good sense not to go off until they'd eaten the last bite. Otherwise, they might have damaged government property.
Long and arduous was the trek of the Galluminids. Many, many years of police escort were required until this spacefaring race – its migration of paramount importance to stellar peace – had at last reached its new haven in Geminid City. The Galluminids are a hospitable species. They gladly share their daily ration of halli halli rice, sometimes enlivened with a dollop of seya sauce. The sacrifices of the Galactic Police were appreciated. They gave them medals and a parade.
Thus it was that Arpad and Arvid arrived again at Cicero's, weary, weary of the galaxy and all its problems, to enjoy their (just) desserts.
Len stared at them, opened his mouth, closed it again, and headed in a zig-zag for the door.
The waitress appeared. "Y'uns decide what ice cream you wanted?"
Arpad looked at her hopefully. "Butter pecan?" She nodded and left.
They sipped the last of their drinks in peace (because, contrary to orders, they had turned the mobile off). The ice cream arrived – two small, shallow bowls, each containing a single round scoop of frozen deliciousness with real pecans in. They picked up spoons, tasted.
And smiled.
"This is fantastic," said Arvid. "It's just...just...fantastic." Arpad nodded.
"Like I said, the food on Earth is the best in all the 7,000 worlds." Arvid agreed.
The bill came to a modest $8.80. Arpad left a good tip.
And slowly, oh so slowly, savouring the moment, the two troopers walked out into the deepening city night.
"Arvid? Have you ever seen a celluloid movie? I think there's one playing down the street..."
 |
| The longest way round is oft the shortest way home. |
A "progressive dinner" is an old American custom in which a group of people have different courses of a meal at different homes. In this story, the venue of the meal doesn't change - but there's a progressive aspect to the dining experience. ;) Cicero's isn't there any more - at least, I couldn't find it on google. Google street view will allow one to take a virtual tour of Forbes Ave, however.
Put your antennae down.
In which our heroes are brave, as usual
RAT-A-TAT-TAT....
The corridor of the battleprobe – typical Serenellian design, old, bulky, exuding a general air of malicious militarism – echoed with the sound of plasma bullets, while the accompanying flashes of tracer turned the ugly gunmetal walls an uglier puke green in spurts. Arpad glanced around as he fired, and spotted Arvid doing his patented one-and-a-half millisecond reload. He shouted – the only way to make himself heard above the din.
"To the airlock! Fifteen seconds to detonation!" Arvid's helmet bobbed in acknowledgement, and they ran.
They made it, just in time. The Galactic Police cruiser was jumping into warp when the rogue probe's career of marauding, murder, and general mayhem ended with a hideous bang – a visual one, at least, on the vidscreen, though space doesn't run to talkies. General A'no"iANS gave the two troopers a thumbs-up.
"Good work, you two. As always. There's a reception laid on in the Deck 3 mess. See you there." He winked. "I wouldn't be surprised if there were a couple of citations for you in this day's work."
They changed out of combat gear and into standard uniform. Striding down the corridor, Arpad whispered to Arvid, "Are you looking forward to this dinner?"
Arvid grimaced. "Reconstituted freeze-dried tahacoes and a canned speech about truth, justice, and the Galactic Way? What do you think?"
Arpad grinned. "Then come with me. I know a great little eatery you haven't been to yet."
Arvid flashed his buddy a grateful look. "Swell idea. If I never eat another candied-chili-filled tahaco, it will be too soon."
He would have said more – about the last six months' assignment, about the Serenellians' irritating habit of trying to claim star systems that did not belong to them, about the lousy cuisine in this sector – but Arpad had grabbed his (Arvid's) arm, twisted a dial on his (Arpad's) wrist, and the entire scene had shimmered out of existence...
...to be replaced by something completely different.
In which our heroes drink something interesting
The ground was solid, the street was full of traffic, and the hour was blue. Arvid gazed around in appreciation.
"Where are we?"
Arpad checked his wrist device. "Earth, North America, a city called Pittsburgh. 1970 is their year, never mind ours. You'll like it, promise."
Arvid turned around and looked –up. Way up. "That's not your 'little eatery', is it?"
Arpad followed his gaze. "No, silly, that's the university building. 42 storeys. All they have is a hamburg joint in the subbasement. Come with me – wait!" He hissed. "Drop the antennae! Nobody wears them here. It's a hair-only zone. Lots of hair, though." Arvid dutifully lowered his cerebral appendages, and Arpad steered them both down the street, labelled at its corners "Forbes Ave", while Arvid admired the interesting beings. One of them tried to sell him something called The Fair Witness– a sort of blog made from paper – while another made what seemed to pass for music on a stringed box.
Ignoring the strains of one, two, three, what are we fighting for?, Arvid asked anxiously, "Are we dressed okay? They seem to wear a lot of tribal beads."
Arpad shrugged. "We're okay. The beads are optional. This is one corner of the universe where jeans and t-shirts that say 'Galactic Police Force' are not going to raise eyebrows." They meandered through the evening student crowd, past quaint, small shops peddling books, antique (well, maybe not) sound-producing equipment, and ceramic "gifts" intended, no doubt, as insulting messages to one's bitterest enemies. Arvid gawked. In one window, a man was tossing dough into the air under a sign that boasted, 'Flying pizza. You order 'em, we fly 'em.' He pointed to a set of yellow arches over one building. "Did you want to eat there? It says something about hamburgs."
Arpad waved this away. "No. Definitely not. The man who invented that poison should have been spaced. Here we are, the ne plus ultra of fine dining, my friend." He beamed as he pointed to the sign above the entrance: CICERO'S.
Before they could go in, Arvid had another question. "What about this?" He pointed to the small, discreet-er sign beside the door:
No shirt
No shoes
No service
Arpad explained. "To eat here, it is necessary to cover both the upper body and the feet. It is a law."
Arvid scratched his head, causing his antennae to appear briefly. "But what if..."
After three thousand years, Arpad knew what was coming. "If you only wear a shirt and shoes, you get arrested. This is a prudish planet. Come on, I'm starving." And he opened the door.
The interior was underlit, comfortable, with leather seats in the booths. Arvid could not resist touching the fuzzy red-and-gold wallpaper, so he didn't. Arpad muttered something about "Early Cathouse", and then a gum-chewing waitress in a pale green uniform turned up, pulling a pencil from behind her ear. (Arpad knew what Arvid was thinking, and gave him a dirty look before he asked about antennae.)
"What'll y'uns have to drink?"
Arpad looked around, and thought fast. "Er, two Censored Marys1, please." The waitress looked blank.
"Sorry. We don't got none of them fancy drinks in here. I can get you whiskey sours, though."
"Sounds good."
"Irish, Scotch, or bourbon?"
"Irish, please. Rocks." While the waitress was off getting the drinks, they studied the menu. Arvid wanted to know how the currency converted – and then wanted to know why these people were giving food away. Arpad explained about the current lack of inflation, then what inflation was, and had just about got to the Orionian Platinum Panic of '03 when the whiskey sours arrived, cold, tart, and inviting. They accepted the invitation, ordered Number Three on the menu – salad, steak, well-done (no starship trooper ever eats rare meat, he's seen too much), baked potato (after explanation of tubers to Arvid), green beans, and ice cream for dessert. The waitress went off to process this. Arvid sipped his iced drink, surprised at the flavours. Arpad was about to tell a Pittsburgh joke – he'd just remembered one – when a persistent beeping began in Arvid's left rear pocket. "Oh, fnark."
Arpad reached across and grabbed Arvid by the arm before he could complete the fatal move of bringing out his mobile. "Not here," he hissed. "The only person on this planet who has one of those right now is the star of a cheap scifi vid. In there." He jerked his head in the direction of a door marked "Men".
Arvid looked at it curiously. "What do they do in there?"
"You don't want to know. Just go in there and answer it." Arvid obeyed, scooting into the room with his pocket still beeping softly. Within thirty seconds, a middle-aged man with a shirt that said "Len" emerged and made his way, somewhat unsteadily, to the bar.
"You wouldn't believe what that guy's doin' in there. He's talkin' on a little-bitty phone." The bartender rolled his eyes and set another beer in front of him. Arvid slid back into the booth.
"Bad news, I'm afraid. They need us in Sector 9. And before you ask, no, they need us now. Something about a mad professor, and temporospatial simultaneity."
Arpad sighed, they took last sips of drinks, clasped arms, and vanished.
In which our heroes return for salad
The incident in the Farradisic Asteroid Belt, involving (as it did) a galaxy-renowned scientist gone off the deep end, a time-scoop device in urgent need of repair, and the possible end of civilisation as everybody knew it, took longer than Arvid and Arpad liked. So it was a few months later when they rematerialised in the booth at Cicero's.
Nobody noticed this except Len, who was amazingly perceptive for someone with his bibulous habits. The bartender waved away his protests, and wiped up spilled Iron City2.
Since no time had passed, their drinks were still cold, and since Arvid and Arpad were bored with manganochutney and fermented pulpa, they went down a treat. More were ordered, and the salad course arrived.
Arvid looked at it dubiously. "Er, Arpad, I don't like to complain, but we've just travelled quite a lot of light-years for what appears to be a wedge of iceberg lettuce topped with some sort of thick, pink sauce with tiny bits in."
"Arvid, my lad, this is true. Those bits are the reason it is called Thousand Island Dressing – or, at least, I think so. This is a simple Terran dish. But when you consider that this iceberg lettuce is the best iceberg lettuce in the known universe..."
Arvid nodded. Arvid tasted. Arvid's eyes lit up. "You're right! This is amazing iceberg lettuce." They enjoyed this treat in silence, and anticipated steaks...
Unfortunately, at this point, the mobile (silenced by a wary Arvid) began vibrating violently, and the troopers had to link arms before the next round of drinks arrived.
In which it is shown that one man's meat is another's invitation to join a support group
The Horsehead Nebula Uprising is, of course, infamous, and since the details are in all the standard interactive history courses, we will omit them here. Suffice it to say that Arvid and Arpad were heartily tired of alkali deserts, multi-dimensional warfare, and the acrid taste of dried megamarsupial. They slipped into their seats at Cicero's, salivating at the idea of charred bovine.
"Hey!" yelled Len. "They did it again. Those two blonds back there. They shimmered."
"Oh, yeah? Shimmered?" groused the bartender. "You are flagged, buddy. Don't be so nebby. Leave those guys alone." And Len's Iron City tab was closed for the evening.
The steaks were everything the two travellers had hoped for – succulent, well-marbled, robust. The baked potato, complete with sour cream, butter, and chives, startled Arvid with the subtlety of its flavour. The green beans were, well, tasty. They chewed in silence, enjoying the ambience and the novelty of good dining.
The mobile had the good sense not to go off until they'd eaten the last bite. Otherwise, they might have damaged government property.
In which it is shown that some things are worth waiting for
Long and arduous was the trek of the Galluminids. Many, many years of police escort were required until this spacefaring race – its migration of paramount importance to stellar peace – had at last reached its new haven in Geminid City. The Galluminids are a hospitable species. They gladly share their daily ration of halli halli rice, sometimes enlivened with a dollop of seya sauce. The sacrifices of the Galactic Police were appreciated. They gave them medals and a parade.
Thus it was that Arpad and Arvid arrived again at Cicero's, weary, weary of the galaxy and all its problems, to enjoy their (just) desserts.
Len stared at them, opened his mouth, closed it again, and headed in a zig-zag for the door.
The waitress appeared. "Y'uns decide what ice cream you wanted?"
Arpad looked at her hopefully. "Butter pecan?" She nodded and left.
They sipped the last of their drinks in peace (because, contrary to orders, they had turned the mobile off). The ice cream arrived – two small, shallow bowls, each containing a single round scoop of frozen deliciousness with real pecans in. They picked up spoons, tasted.
And smiled.
"This is fantastic," said Arvid. "It's just...just...fantastic." Arpad nodded.
 |
| The siren call of Iron City beer |
"Like I said, the food on Earth is the best in all the 7,000 worlds." Arvid agreed.
The bill came to a modest $8.80. Arpad left a good tip.
And slowly, oh so slowly, savouring the moment, the two troopers walked out into the deepening city night.
"Arvid? Have you ever seen a celluloid movie? I think there's one playing down the street..."
28 February 2011
Contact
Four thousand, two hundred and 17 steps from his house to the river. Zarah knew - he had counted them many times. He knew exactly how to make those steps come out even while chanting the hymn, up the long, gradual slope, ignoring the calls of his camels who, rising early, would soon be looking for food and water. His deep-blue turban wound with exactly fourteen twists of the cloth, his robe folded in the manner prescribed by the seers.
He would reach the river exactly at dawn.
When he entered the water, the rising sun would strike his purified body. He hoped, he prayed, that this would be the day he had spent his thirty years of life preparing for.
He hoped, he prayed, that on this day Enlightenment would come.
'Ouch!' Jake Vohman jerked irritably at the helmet, readjusting the headset. 'Do I have to wear all this gear? The poor guy will run screaming down the hill. I am a walking cliché.' He rolled his eyes as he lurched around the ship's control room, arms stretched out in parody of some forgotten scifi horror. 'Take. Me. To. Your. Leader,' he intoned.
Technical Chief Uri Ma'az slapped Vohman on the rear with a cleaning rag, and spun the tall, blond man around. 'Hold still,' he sighed, tugging at the helmet until it came off. He took the device to the bench to adjust the padding, calling over his shoulder, 'We have been through all that. This,' He held up the helmet, 'is the only way you can talk to him. We have to use mind-to-mind transmission. And he has to be in the water for it to work.'
Shaking shaggy locks, Vohman collapsed into a swivel chair, which he proceeded to destructively test. 'I know the drill. I show up, do my We-Come-in-Peace routine, and give him the message, using the Universal Translator over there.' He grinned toothily, knowing what was coming.
Ma'az rounded on him in exasperation. 'How many times do I gotta tell you? There is no such meshugenah thing as a universal translator, goyische kop. You can't translate ideas from one language to another when the other guy don't have words for what you've got to say...' He rubbed his chin as he studied the state-of-the-art device, and then nodded as he found the precise words. 'It's a DIT machine, is what it is. Direct Information Transfer, mind to mind.'
He turned to Vohman, who was already getting into the rest of his gear - antigravity belt over a white Fleet-issue jumpsuit, packet of mints in the pocket in case the early-morning air hit his sinuses the wrong way. (It wouldn't do to have a coughing fit in the middle of a Pronouncement.) The short, stocky Ma'az pointed a finger at Vohman, at six-foot-four an imposing specimen, one they hoped would meet the expectations of a worshipper of the Divine and Perfect.
'Remember. Keep your mind clear and on-task. Any and every little stray thought - say, what's for dinner in the mess tonight, what that girl on Reda thinks of you, whatever - will get magnified.' He ran his hands through wiry hair. 'Etymologies are treacherous. Sound associations leak through. If you don't want 'em starting a frog cult, don't think about Rana, get it?'
Vohman patted his tech chief on the shoulder, then gave it a squeeze. 'Don't worry. I'll keep it simple. Just let them know, we're on their side, what we want them to do.' His blue eyes twinkled. 'My thoughts will be pyoo-ah, free from concupiscence...' He reached for the helmet.
Ma'az strapped him into his harness for the journey planetside, wondering privately where this amoretz got his vocabulary from. 'And don't forget - they need to know that the guy from SOSHIA will contact them. To trust him.'
Vohman rolled his eyes one more time as he pulled on his helmet, talking into it to test the mike. 'Okay, yeah. In a few thousand years, somebody from the Special Office for Spatial Harmonics and Intertemporal Affairs will be along. Tell him Uri sent you.' He held up a confirmatory thumb to match Uri's as he stepped into the landing craft.
Vohman floated above the water, his hands held out wide, both in what he hoped was a sign of harmlessness and to keep his equipment out of the water. It was necessary for his contactee to be partially immersed - the liquid aided the transmission of thought waves - but it would not be a good idea to get Uri's components wet.
The dark little man below him didn't seem fazed by all the gear. He stretched out his hands in imitation of the gesture, grinning from ear to ear as he stood in the flowing river, the rising sun glinting off the water droplets in his curly beard. Vohman cleared his throat, cursed himself for a fool, then cleared his mind before turning on the transmitter.
'Er, hello, Friend. I come in peace.' Wider grin from local, obviously having the time of his life. Encouraged, Jake went on. 'I bring a message from...' Oh, smeg, who should he say he was from? What would Uri say? He gulped, fearing a cerebral faux pas, but the little man just nodded eagerly.
'Oh, yes, Blessed One, I love you, too, and like you I worship the Creator. May I ask your name, please?'
Blink. Oh, well, no harm in that. Now for the message. Jake went on to reassure the contactee that they were not in the religion business. Nobody wanted sacrifice, especially not of people or animals. Desperately not thinking of a frog at this point.
'We're just like you, really, only we have this trick with time. Don't worry about it, but we want you folks to get the full experience when you finally join us. Which means learning good citizenship. You'd help us a lot if you'd pass that message on, because we can only come back in a hop, skip, and a jump, you see. Hyperspace is kind of imprecise...er, don't worry about it...but there's something we need you to do for a sign to the rest of the team, that we've talked to you...'
He was losing the signal, he could tell in spite of the man's continued smiling and nodding, as the sun rose higher, attenuating the frequency. He had better be fast.
'Towards the target date, somebody from SOSHIA will contact you. Trust him, pass it along, please...' Lamely, 'Tell him, er, Uri Ma'az said hi.' Leaning over - a tricky manoeuvre, Vohman touched his contactee briefly on the neck with the device he held in his palm, hoping this gesture would be interpreted as a benediction, as apparently it was.
Vohman waved goodbye, and wished the other fellow luck as he turned off the transmitter and activated his cloaking device so that he could get to his shuttle without being seen.
'I hope we get better at this, ' he thought as he pulled off his helmet and strapped himself into the pilot's seat. 'I hope that guy doesn't get in too much trouble. Oh, well - we'll find out next hyperjump, now, won't we?'
Lt Vohman of the Confederation Space/Time Corps punched in the coordinates that would take him home aboard the CSS Merkavah. As he sat back, letting the autopilot do its job, he wiped nervous sweat from his face and studied the vial in his hand.
Ha, got you in the resurrection databank, my friend, you're a keeper...now, won't you be surprised?
Thus spoke Zarathusht, Zarah-of-the-Camels, to his followers:
'Ahura Mazda has spoken: We are starseed, we are his children.
'Abandon the old religion. Offer no sacrifice to stock and stone. Worship in the heart. Worship by right thought and action alone.
'This have I heard from Ahura Mazda's servant, Vohu Mana, which means Good Thought:
'At the end of days, we will join him in the wonderful new world. Only right action will prepare us to live fully in that world.
'Do justice, love mercy, heed the words of Vohu Mana.
'At the end of time, one will come, the Soshiant. He is from Ahura Mazda. He will reorder things so that we may leave this world behind and go to the next.
'Here is our sign...'
Zarathustra met with quite a lot of opposition to his teachings. He won only 22 converts in his lifetime. Approximately three and a half millennia later his followers still numbered only 200,000 on a planet of billions.
These followers kept faith, however, tried to live good lives, and did what their founder had asked in the name of his friend Vohu Mana:
To light a fire in a dark place.
He would reach the river exactly at dawn.
When he entered the water, the rising sun would strike his purified body. He hoped, he prayed, that this would be the day he had spent his thirty years of life preparing for.
He hoped, he prayed, that on this day Enlightenment would come.
'Ouch!' Jake Vohman jerked irritably at the helmet, readjusting the headset. 'Do I have to wear all this gear? The poor guy will run screaming down the hill. I am a walking cliché.' He rolled his eyes as he lurched around the ship's control room, arms stretched out in parody of some forgotten scifi horror. 'Take. Me. To. Your. Leader,' he intoned.
Technical Chief Uri Ma'az slapped Vohman on the rear with a cleaning rag, and spun the tall, blond man around. 'Hold still,' he sighed, tugging at the helmet until it came off. He took the device to the bench to adjust the padding, calling over his shoulder, 'We have been through all that. This,' He held up the helmet, 'is the only way you can talk to him. We have to use mind-to-mind transmission. And he has to be in the water for it to work.'
Shaking shaggy locks, Vohman collapsed into a swivel chair, which he proceeded to destructively test. 'I know the drill. I show up, do my We-Come-in-Peace routine, and give him the message, using the Universal Translator over there.' He grinned toothily, knowing what was coming.
Ma'az rounded on him in exasperation. 'How many times do I gotta tell you? There is no such meshugenah thing as a universal translator, goyische kop. You can't translate ideas from one language to another when the other guy don't have words for what you've got to say...' He rubbed his chin as he studied the state-of-the-art device, and then nodded as he found the precise words. 'It's a DIT machine, is what it is. Direct Information Transfer, mind to mind.'
He turned to Vohman, who was already getting into the rest of his gear - antigravity belt over a white Fleet-issue jumpsuit, packet of mints in the pocket in case the early-morning air hit his sinuses the wrong way. (It wouldn't do to have a coughing fit in the middle of a Pronouncement.) The short, stocky Ma'az pointed a finger at Vohman, at six-foot-four an imposing specimen, one they hoped would meet the expectations of a worshipper of the Divine and Perfect.
'Remember. Keep your mind clear and on-task. Any and every little stray thought - say, what's for dinner in the mess tonight, what that girl on Reda thinks of you, whatever - will get magnified.' He ran his hands through wiry hair. 'Etymologies are treacherous. Sound associations leak through. If you don't want 'em starting a frog cult, don't think about Rana, get it?'
Vohman patted his tech chief on the shoulder, then gave it a squeeze. 'Don't worry. I'll keep it simple. Just let them know, we're on their side, what we want them to do.' His blue eyes twinkled. 'My thoughts will be pyoo-ah, free from concupiscence...' He reached for the helmet.
Ma'az strapped him into his harness for the journey planetside, wondering privately where this amoretz got his vocabulary from. 'And don't forget - they need to know that the guy from SOSHIA will contact them. To trust him.'
Vohman rolled his eyes one more time as he pulled on his helmet, talking into it to test the mike. 'Okay, yeah. In a few thousand years, somebody from the Special Office for Spatial Harmonics and Intertemporal Affairs will be along. Tell him Uri sent you.' He held up a confirmatory thumb to match Uri's as he stepped into the landing craft.
Vohman floated above the water, his hands held out wide, both in what he hoped was a sign of harmlessness and to keep his equipment out of the water. It was necessary for his contactee to be partially immersed - the liquid aided the transmission of thought waves - but it would not be a good idea to get Uri's components wet.
The dark little man below him didn't seem fazed by all the gear. He stretched out his hands in imitation of the gesture, grinning from ear to ear as he stood in the flowing river, the rising sun glinting off the water droplets in his curly beard. Vohman cleared his throat, cursed himself for a fool, then cleared his mind before turning on the transmitter.
'Er, hello, Friend. I come in peace.' Wider grin from local, obviously having the time of his life. Encouraged, Jake went on. 'I bring a message from...' Oh, smeg, who should he say he was from? What would Uri say? He gulped, fearing a cerebral faux pas, but the little man just nodded eagerly.
'Oh, yes, Blessed One, I love you, too, and like you I worship the Creator. May I ask your name, please?'
Blink. Oh, well, no harm in that. Now for the message. Jake went on to reassure the contactee that they were not in the religion business. Nobody wanted sacrifice, especially not of people or animals. Desperately not thinking of a frog at this point.
'We're just like you, really, only we have this trick with time. Don't worry about it, but we want you folks to get the full experience when you finally join us. Which means learning good citizenship. You'd help us a lot if you'd pass that message on, because we can only come back in a hop, skip, and a jump, you see. Hyperspace is kind of imprecise...er, don't worry about it...but there's something we need you to do for a sign to the rest of the team, that we've talked to you...'
He was losing the signal, he could tell in spite of the man's continued smiling and nodding, as the sun rose higher, attenuating the frequency. He had better be fast.
'Towards the target date, somebody from SOSHIA will contact you. Trust him, pass it along, please...' Lamely, 'Tell him, er, Uri Ma'az said hi.' Leaning over - a tricky manoeuvre, Vohman touched his contactee briefly on the neck with the device he held in his palm, hoping this gesture would be interpreted as a benediction, as apparently it was.
Vohman waved goodbye, and wished the other fellow luck as he turned off the transmitter and activated his cloaking device so that he could get to his shuttle without being seen.
'I hope we get better at this, ' he thought as he pulled off his helmet and strapped himself into the pilot's seat. 'I hope that guy doesn't get in too much trouble. Oh, well - we'll find out next hyperjump, now, won't we?'
Lt Vohman of the Confederation Space/Time Corps punched in the coordinates that would take him home aboard the CSS Merkavah. As he sat back, letting the autopilot do its job, he wiped nervous sweat from his face and studied the vial in his hand.
Ha, got you in the resurrection databank, my friend, you're a keeper...now, won't you be surprised?
Thus spoke Zarathusht, Zarah-of-the-Camels, to his followers:
'Ahura Mazda has spoken: We are starseed, we are his children.
'Abandon the old religion. Offer no sacrifice to stock and stone. Worship in the heart. Worship by right thought and action alone.
'This have I heard from Ahura Mazda's servant, Vohu Mana, which means Good Thought:
'At the end of days, we will join him in the wonderful new world. Only right action will prepare us to live fully in that world.
'Do justice, love mercy, heed the words of Vohu Mana.
'At the end of time, one will come, the Soshiant. He is from Ahura Mazda. He will reorder things so that we may leave this world behind and go to the next.
'Here is our sign...'
Zarathustra met with quite a lot of opposition to his teachings. He won only 22 converts in his lifetime. Approximately three and a half millennia later his followers still numbered only 200,000 on a planet of billions.
These followers kept faith, however, tried to live good lives, and did what their founder had asked in the name of his friend Vohu Mana:
To light a fire in a dark place.
09 February 2011
A Dance in Time
'Ho-kay, what am I forgetting? Ow-ah!"
I hopped around on the unvarnished wooden floor of the office, dancing barefoot in the circle of light, trying not to fall out of the area defined by the glyph. The question was the usual one I ask myself when I'm about to go on a Jump. The exclamation was because I'd got a splinter in my foot. Smegging splinters...I'd have to ask Merle to try and sand the floor down again, and listen to him whinge on about temporospatial flux again, yadda yadda.
My name is Choraola - Chori for short - and I'm a chrononaut.
Splinter extracted, I smoothed down The Garment. Imagine, if you will, a giant translucent shower cap, big enough to put me in, okay, not so giant, I'm 4'10" – the elastic part goes under my armpits, there's more for the waist – and falling to ankle length. Okay, don't imagine it, if you don't want to. I don't blame you. It's the only thing we can wear on a Jump. The Garment enables chrononauts to navigate the time/space corridors safely, and allows us to project the image we choose to be seen in. Good thing, too. Besides being rustly, this thing leaves nothing at all to the imagination. I may be a time-dancer, but I'm not a natural stripper.
The really good thing about The Garment is pockets. Two of them. Don't leave your home time without one. I checked – typescreen around my neck, ditto access key, a sort of round gizmo that lets you dial in and out, mobile in my left pocket (I'm a lefty, or at least I am now, never back-jump through a mirror, take it from me), and packet of Smarties in my right (call me an addict, but we live on sugar). I sighed. Ready to go. I glanced once more at the plain desk –lamp is green, meaning go (doh), and date-chip says 11.13.4655, need to remember that, make sure I return to home base. Don't want to miss the office party.
I glanced at my personal chronometer and pulled the mobile out of my pocket. I had three minutes to get the petitioner on the line, hook up, and jump over there. The pet wasn't much to go on - they seldom are, I mean "Help help help' never is, is it? I sighed again, and punched in the number.
Smeg. Ten rings. Could you be there, please? Then, surprise, a male voice...my pet said the petitioner was female. Smeg. I jigged around a bit.
The voice wasn't making much sense – just grunting noises, and 'Who are youze?', that sort of thing. No surprise there. The voice on the mobile didn't really represent the RL (er, Real Life, we chronos use a lotta slang) voice of the person. It represented their evolutionary state.
This guy was a troglodyte.
I kept glancing at my chronometer, hurry up, hurry up, 1 minute left, answer the phone, honey, because I'm cutting it fine...I hate to hang up on a petitioner, they usually lose their place in the queue and time out before we can get them again, but under no circumstances can I violate the three-minute rule. Never. No telling what might happen if you go out there out of synch. Thirty seconds and counting...then...
'Hullo?' A woman's voice, breathy, modulated, posh accent, sorta Coral Browne-ish (cinema buff, here). I had my party. I didn't just jump, I leapt.
And oh smegsmegsmeg and doublesmeg. I'd cut it too fine. I was in the soup.
I looked around. Nothing better to do, as my tootsies appeared to be rooted to the...floor? More like an ice rink, only less cold. The walls were, well...weird. Canted in too many directions at once. There was no furniture, but ugly little things I couldn't quite see head-on kept drifting past my peripheral vision.
My first thought was to call for backup. Bad idea. What if one of those horrible Government thingies Merle was always warning us about had built itself a nice little chronotrap? I'd be the Judas sprite in this, for sure. Nope. Solve it yourself, Chori girl. Use your noodle.
I studied the ugly little things...glyphs? Really bad Government?...out of the corner of my eye, and then I started Barney Googling for all I was worth on my little typescreen. Come on, come on, symbols...funny thing looks like a crooked cross...aha, got it.
Gulp. Not letting these people in here, no sirree bob, not letting them in here...just because I jumped at the last second, how do I get out of here, oh Mother Ceres how do I...? Barney Googled some more, thought about what I knew about that time...I smiled.
I concentrated first on straightening out the walls. When I'd got them plumb, I painted the walls pink, with panelling beneath. Then I put in a fireplace - no fire – with a huge mirror over the marble mantel. Oh, yeah, clock and a couple of candlesticks on the mantelpiece. Then I waited.
When the little choo-choo came steaming out of the fireplace, I was ready. Muttering the magic words 'Ceci n'est pas une pipe', I broke the inertia and sprang onto the back of the train. Ride 'em, cowboy, or however that comes out in French. In a few seconds my time, I was out of the trap and into...
...a child's bedroom. A snub-nosed girl, about 8, pigtails, jammies with feet, red hair and freckles, crying, while her big brother, a blond lummox of 10 or 11, held her storybook over his head.
'Give it back, Reg! I'm telling!'
Shake of lummoxy head. 'Nah. I think I'll just go feed it to Mrs Witherspoon's goat. You don't need this old...'
It was the leer on his ugly mug that got me to do it. I loathe snotty little boys, and he was the living end, even had chocolate on the corner of his mouth, and I'll bet he didn't share. So I held up my chronokey and muttered, 'Oh, that God the gift would gie us, to see oursel's as others see us.' That did it.
The book in his hands turned into a mirror – a magic mirror – at least, to him. To his sister, it still looked like a book. Her mouth made an O of astonishment as her brother suddenly dropped the book on the floor – I could see its title now, 'Peter Pan', what else – and backed away, rubbing at his hands and arms as if they had become foreign objects, his face contorted in (to me, at least) comic fear. The kid backed out of the room, almost stumbled over the threshold, and righted himself just in time to tear down the hallway like a bat out of Holo-Hades.
I laughed, and 'materialised', that is, projected myself into the room, about a foot high, green outfit, de rigeur feather in cap, yadda yadda. The laugh came out musical. It was intended to.
The O of the little girl's mouth became even rounder. 'Oh, my goo'ness. A real, honest-to-goo'ness fairy!' I laughed again. Costs nothing. Gives the punters a treat.
'What's your name?'
'M'lissa. What's yours? And what happened to Reg?' I laughed again, warming to the role. Hadn't done a fairy in ages.
'That's a nice name, none of your business, nosy, and Reg just got a go-od look at himself. He didn't like what he saw. Now, I can't stay long, what can I do for you?' I hated to be so brusque, but after that way station stop I was anxious to move on.
Melissa thought. You could see her doing this. It takes some kids that way, thinking - big surprise, involves that wrinkle right above the nose...she looked cute that way, though. I waited.
'Well, I really was just lonesome, and I thought it would be fun to have a playmate...' I could see the wheels turning...'But now you're here, I'm going to put you in my dollhouse and keep you for always.' And she reached for a big jar, probably the one she kept frogs in. I bolted, straight for the ceiling.
Oh, smeg, I thought, a collector, no less. What next today? That puzzled me, though, as I dodged and wove around the room, and Melissa with her specimen jar clambered all over the furniture. Usually we declass this kind of petition, why in the world had it popped up as a number one, meaning 'needs direction in life'? This little minx had direction, more than enough, in fact she seemed to be coming from all directions at once...I did the fluttery number, and was about to say goodbye, when...
...it hit me. The voice. That was the voice of a mature woman. It wasn't Melissa's childhood self that needed help, it was...I frantically typed. I busily dodged. I wove, I dialled, I flew...
The nursery was familiar somehow, twenty-five years into the future. A big casement window, moonlight shining in, three beds, the mother, hair a dark auburn now, the nose just perfect in that delicate face, singing softly, how did I know she would be singing?
'Melissa.' She turned, gracefully, and when she saw me, her hands flew to her face in an equally graceful gesture of alarm.
'Oh! Have you come to take them, then?' I shook my head, noting that where the moonlight fell on her face, she looked drawn, older than her years. But I looked around at this room...and I knew what she'd been trying to make for these children, what kind of haven this room was supposed to be. I shook my head again.
'No. I came in answer to your call. Do you remember the fairy?' I smiled, and something in that fake cybersmile of mine triggered her memory, and she gasped a little gasp of laughter.
'Oh, yes, I do! You were the fairy, weren't you? Oh, and I was such a naughty little girl, I tried to put you in a jar...' Her eyelashes fluttered, she had nice ones. 'I am so sorry. I suppose I'm too old to go to fairyland with you now? Are you sure you won't take the children?' Her voice faltered. 'I'm afraid...I have so little to give them.' Her clothes, and the furnishings in the room, were expensive, but I think I knew what she meant. I smiled and shook my head again.
'You're wrong. Look around.' I indicated the room, typing furiously to make myself do elegant things. I made a sweeping gesture. 'You've given them the most important thing a mother can give her children - you've given them your dreams.'
I remembered my lines now, and my indicator light was blinking, so I knew I had to get them out quickly. 'Always remember, Melissa, to follow your heart. And the light of fairyland will bless your little ones.' Three, two, one, fade...
...and back home. Whew. I hate those fairy numbers, wish on a star, yadda yadda. I was relieved to see that the datechip still said 11.13.4655, the light on the desk was still green, and Rob, a co-worker and good buddy, was sitting behind it smiling at me.
I just hoped he hadn't seen the tear I'd brushed away as I ran behind the screen - damask, not computer - to change, as Rob merrily chatted away, filling me in on the latest water cooler gossip about Merle and some ninny from the secretarial pool. I was half in love with Melissa, though I'd never see her again. I wish I'd asked about Reg...as I dressed, I grinned. Bet he cheated at cards.
I pulled on my after-work glad rags - for me, pink chiton and sandals - did something fast with my hair, just glad to get out of that plastic bag, and ran hand in hand with Rob down the steps from the shack, down the path, under the willow tree, round the standing stones, and down to the fire in the grove.
We ate, we drank, we danced all night, the way we usually do, and overhead, the stars danced with us - as they usually do.
Another day, another dance, we say.
What do you say?
I hopped around on the unvarnished wooden floor of the office, dancing barefoot in the circle of light, trying not to fall out of the area defined by the glyph. The question was the usual one I ask myself when I'm about to go on a Jump. The exclamation was because I'd got a splinter in my foot. Smegging splinters...I'd have to ask Merle to try and sand the floor down again, and listen to him whinge on about temporospatial flux again, yadda yadda.
My name is Choraola - Chori for short - and I'm a chrononaut.
Splinter extracted, I smoothed down The Garment. Imagine, if you will, a giant translucent shower cap, big enough to put me in, okay, not so giant, I'm 4'10" – the elastic part goes under my armpits, there's more for the waist – and falling to ankle length. Okay, don't imagine it, if you don't want to. I don't blame you. It's the only thing we can wear on a Jump. The Garment enables chrononauts to navigate the time/space corridors safely, and allows us to project the image we choose to be seen in. Good thing, too. Besides being rustly, this thing leaves nothing at all to the imagination. I may be a time-dancer, but I'm not a natural stripper.
The really good thing about The Garment is pockets. Two of them. Don't leave your home time without one. I checked – typescreen around my neck, ditto access key, a sort of round gizmo that lets you dial in and out, mobile in my left pocket (I'm a lefty, or at least I am now, never back-jump through a mirror, take it from me), and packet of Smarties in my right (call me an addict, but we live on sugar). I sighed. Ready to go. I glanced once more at the plain desk –lamp is green, meaning go (doh), and date-chip says 11.13.4655, need to remember that, make sure I return to home base. Don't want to miss the office party.
I glanced at my personal chronometer and pulled the mobile out of my pocket. I had three minutes to get the petitioner on the line, hook up, and jump over there. The pet wasn't much to go on - they seldom are, I mean "Help help help' never is, is it? I sighed again, and punched in the number.
Smeg. Ten rings. Could you be there, please? Then, surprise, a male voice...my pet said the petitioner was female. Smeg. I jigged around a bit.
The voice wasn't making much sense – just grunting noises, and 'Who are youze?', that sort of thing. No surprise there. The voice on the mobile didn't really represent the RL (er, Real Life, we chronos use a lotta slang) voice of the person. It represented their evolutionary state.
This guy was a troglodyte.
I kept glancing at my chronometer, hurry up, hurry up, 1 minute left, answer the phone, honey, because I'm cutting it fine...I hate to hang up on a petitioner, they usually lose their place in the queue and time out before we can get them again, but under no circumstances can I violate the three-minute rule. Never. No telling what might happen if you go out there out of synch. Thirty seconds and counting...then...
'Hullo?' A woman's voice, breathy, modulated, posh accent, sorta Coral Browne-ish (cinema buff, here). I had my party. I didn't just jump, I leapt.
And oh smegsmegsmeg and doublesmeg. I'd cut it too fine. I was in the soup.
I looked around. Nothing better to do, as my tootsies appeared to be rooted to the...floor? More like an ice rink, only less cold. The walls were, well...weird. Canted in too many directions at once. There was no furniture, but ugly little things I couldn't quite see head-on kept drifting past my peripheral vision.
My first thought was to call for backup. Bad idea. What if one of those horrible Government thingies Merle was always warning us about had built itself a nice little chronotrap? I'd be the Judas sprite in this, for sure. Nope. Solve it yourself, Chori girl. Use your noodle.
I studied the ugly little things...glyphs? Really bad Government?...out of the corner of my eye, and then I started Barney Googling for all I was worth on my little typescreen. Come on, come on, symbols...funny thing looks like a crooked cross...aha, got it.
Gulp. Not letting these people in here, no sirree bob, not letting them in here...just because I jumped at the last second, how do I get out of here, oh Mother Ceres how do I...? Barney Googled some more, thought about what I knew about that time...I smiled.
I concentrated first on straightening out the walls. When I'd got them plumb, I painted the walls pink, with panelling beneath. Then I put in a fireplace - no fire – with a huge mirror over the marble mantel. Oh, yeah, clock and a couple of candlesticks on the mantelpiece. Then I waited.
When the little choo-choo came steaming out of the fireplace, I was ready. Muttering the magic words 'Ceci n'est pas une pipe', I broke the inertia and sprang onto the back of the train. Ride 'em, cowboy, or however that comes out in French. In a few seconds my time, I was out of the trap and into...
...a child's bedroom. A snub-nosed girl, about 8, pigtails, jammies with feet, red hair and freckles, crying, while her big brother, a blond lummox of 10 or 11, held her storybook over his head.
'Give it back, Reg! I'm telling!'
Shake of lummoxy head. 'Nah. I think I'll just go feed it to Mrs Witherspoon's goat. You don't need this old...'
It was the leer on his ugly mug that got me to do it. I loathe snotty little boys, and he was the living end, even had chocolate on the corner of his mouth, and I'll bet he didn't share. So I held up my chronokey and muttered, 'Oh, that God the gift would gie us, to see oursel's as others see us.' That did it.
The book in his hands turned into a mirror – a magic mirror – at least, to him. To his sister, it still looked like a book. Her mouth made an O of astonishment as her brother suddenly dropped the book on the floor – I could see its title now, 'Peter Pan', what else – and backed away, rubbing at his hands and arms as if they had become foreign objects, his face contorted in (to me, at least) comic fear. The kid backed out of the room, almost stumbled over the threshold, and righted himself just in time to tear down the hallway like a bat out of Holo-Hades.
I laughed, and 'materialised', that is, projected myself into the room, about a foot high, green outfit, de rigeur feather in cap, yadda yadda. The laugh came out musical. It was intended to.
The O of the little girl's mouth became even rounder. 'Oh, my goo'ness. A real, honest-to-goo'ness fairy!' I laughed again. Costs nothing. Gives the punters a treat.
'What's your name?'
'M'lissa. What's yours? And what happened to Reg?' I laughed again, warming to the role. Hadn't done a fairy in ages.
'That's a nice name, none of your business, nosy, and Reg just got a go-od look at himself. He didn't like what he saw. Now, I can't stay long, what can I do for you?' I hated to be so brusque, but after that way station stop I was anxious to move on.
Melissa thought. You could see her doing this. It takes some kids that way, thinking - big surprise, involves that wrinkle right above the nose...she looked cute that way, though. I waited.
'Well, I really was just lonesome, and I thought it would be fun to have a playmate...' I could see the wheels turning...'But now you're here, I'm going to put you in my dollhouse and keep you for always.' And she reached for a big jar, probably the one she kept frogs in. I bolted, straight for the ceiling.
Oh, smeg, I thought, a collector, no less. What next today? That puzzled me, though, as I dodged and wove around the room, and Melissa with her specimen jar clambered all over the furniture. Usually we declass this kind of petition, why in the world had it popped up as a number one, meaning 'needs direction in life'? This little minx had direction, more than enough, in fact she seemed to be coming from all directions at once...I did the fluttery number, and was about to say goodbye, when...
...it hit me. The voice. That was the voice of a mature woman. It wasn't Melissa's childhood self that needed help, it was...I frantically typed. I busily dodged. I wove, I dialled, I flew...
The nursery was familiar somehow, twenty-five years into the future. A big casement window, moonlight shining in, three beds, the mother, hair a dark auburn now, the nose just perfect in that delicate face, singing softly, how did I know she would be singing?
'Tender Shepherd, Tender Shepherd, let me help you count your sheep...'I waited until the last 'safe and happily, fall asleep' had echoed away before activating my appearance. This time I, too, was a grown woman, hair up (I went chestnut), long green silk gown, satin slippers. Tried to make my voice musical, but got about to Audrey Hepburn level rather than Coral. Never mind.
'Melissa.' She turned, gracefully, and when she saw me, her hands flew to her face in an equally graceful gesture of alarm.
'Oh! Have you come to take them, then?' I shook my head, noting that where the moonlight fell on her face, she looked drawn, older than her years. But I looked around at this room...and I knew what she'd been trying to make for these children, what kind of haven this room was supposed to be. I shook my head again.
'No. I came in answer to your call. Do you remember the fairy?' I smiled, and something in that fake cybersmile of mine triggered her memory, and she gasped a little gasp of laughter.
'Oh, yes, I do! You were the fairy, weren't you? Oh, and I was such a naughty little girl, I tried to put you in a jar...' Her eyelashes fluttered, she had nice ones. 'I am so sorry. I suppose I'm too old to go to fairyland with you now? Are you sure you won't take the children?' Her voice faltered. 'I'm afraid...I have so little to give them.' Her clothes, and the furnishings in the room, were expensive, but I think I knew what she meant. I smiled and shook my head again.
'You're wrong. Look around.' I indicated the room, typing furiously to make myself do elegant things. I made a sweeping gesture. 'You've given them the most important thing a mother can give her children - you've given them your dreams.'
I remembered my lines now, and my indicator light was blinking, so I knew I had to get them out quickly. 'Always remember, Melissa, to follow your heart. And the light of fairyland will bless your little ones.' Three, two, one, fade...
...and back home. Whew. I hate those fairy numbers, wish on a star, yadda yadda. I was relieved to see that the datechip still said 11.13.4655, the light on the desk was still green, and Rob, a co-worker and good buddy, was sitting behind it smiling at me.
I just hoped he hadn't seen the tear I'd brushed away as I ran behind the screen - damask, not computer - to change, as Rob merrily chatted away, filling me in on the latest water cooler gossip about Merle and some ninny from the secretarial pool. I was half in love with Melissa, though I'd never see her again. I wish I'd asked about Reg...as I dressed, I grinned. Bet he cheated at cards.
I pulled on my after-work glad rags - for me, pink chiton and sandals - did something fast with my hair, just glad to get out of that plastic bag, and ran hand in hand with Rob down the steps from the shack, down the path, under the willow tree, round the standing stones, and down to the fire in the grove.
We ate, we drank, we danced all night, the way we usually do, and overhead, the stars danced with us - as they usually do.
Another day, another dance, we say.
What do you say?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)