Sweat soaked through my shirt, I couldn't raise my arms above my head, and my hands were infested with blisters. Yet, I couldn't shake the feeling that this was one of the best days I had had since forcibly joining the Guild two months prior. Toby Crimshaw strode over to my spot and collapsed in a boneless heap beside me.
"'ere ya go, Geoffrey," Toby said, handing me a flask of some sort of alcoholic beverage, "no'in' like a swig o' spirits after an honest day's work."
"Well," I replied, taking a tentative sip from the container, "as honest as you can get living in a secret society hiding under Britain."
"Oh, O' course the people we are an' the people we serve are e'ery sort o' dishonest, but the job i'self is no'in but respectable. We're doin' our part in the food chain ta make sure e'erthin's runnin' proper like."
I took another gulp from the flask as he spoke. Toby and I seemed to have differing definitions of 'spirits'. The flask contained nothing more than apple juice. Then again, given that he seemed all of 14, perhaps that was for the best.
"So, Toby. Where did you say you were from again?" My attempts to guess based on his accent had resulted in a wild goose chase around all of Europe and parts of America. He seemed to change his nationality with every other word.
"I'm a born'n bred West Guildie, ne'er gone more'n a couple UL rides from 'ere. Unlike ta common inner Londerns wot kept ta normal accent, we West Guildies decided ta distiguish ourselves from ta E-world an' its speech," Toby decreed, pulling himself up into what I suppose he considered a dignified sitting position.
Before I could reply, a steam whistle blew the end of our break. We had finished unloading the sleek submarine and were about to start piling crate after crate of Guild Goods into the hold. What a civilization with completely automated submarines could want of us I could not imagine. "Merchandise" was all the answer Toby had given me.
Blisters threatened to burst as I hefted a box and waddled up the gangplank after the others, listening uneasily to the creak of the wood beneath my feet. After a dozen cautious steps, I reached the submarine hatch and planted my feet gratefully onto the solid metal. Some would have been surprised to hear a crack and then a splash behind them. Some would have felt concern for the men that the splintered gangplank had sent tumbling into the water. I, however, had only one thought in my mind.
IT WASN'T ME THIS TIME! For once, something has gone horribly wrong, and I'm not even really involved! I enjoyed that thought as long as I could until another one hit me. I had no way to leave the submarine. Strangely, that did not particularly upset me either. I had spent the entire day in and out of the ship, but had yet to really examine it. It had a flat, spacious interior. A flight of narrow metal stairs led to the bottom, where crates would fill it until they created a new floor for the second layer of goods. First things first, I deposited my crate next to those of the other three stranded workers. They had rushed past me to examine the wrecked gangplank, leaving the hold effectively unoccupied. For the most part, there wasn't much to see. After the lavish decorations I had come to expect, the black, serviceable interior seemed almost dead.
However, as I brushed my fingers along the dark steel walls, they met a patch of glass, followed by a flash of white light. I yanked my hand away, heart beating its way into my mouth. Just as quickly as the light appeared, it faded, leaving just another swatch of black. The secret display and the polished metal appeared almost identical in the dimness. I stretched my hand out once more, taping the screen, which responded with another, briefer flash of light. Emboldened by the lack of deadly consequences, I pressed my palm flat against the cool glass.
Predictably, the screen lit up once more, but as my eyes adjusted, I noticed an icon in the center of the display resembling a paper trumpet. With my free hand, I double tapped it, and a chat log opened. The program listed two chatters, one named 101010, the other named Guest with a picture of myself in front of the display showing next to it. While I grappled with the idea that the submarine had taken a picture of me, a ping alerted me that 101010 had said something.
"WHO R U 4ND WHY 4R3 YOU BOTH3R1NG M3"
"Oh great," I moaned to myself, "a teenager." I started to study the screen for some means of typing, when I realized that the log displayed what I said, along with the symbol >_<. It seemed the consul had a microphone as well as a camera. I promptly slapped myself in the forehead because nothing prevents further idiotic actions like head trauma, and "*facepalm*" appeared on the screen. Fortunately, 101010 broke the cycle of idiocy.
"U C4N T4K3 YOUR H4ND OFF TH3 CONSUL 1T WONT F4LL 4SL33P"
I refrained from cringing at the stranger's text style, and let my hand drop, taking a step back from the glaring screen.
"So, um....to answer your question, My name's Geoffrey," The title next to my picture quickly converted itself from Guest to Jeff. The sentence I had been forming dropped out of my thoughts completely. Have I really gotten used to Geoffrey so quickly? It's not like I really changed my name. They said I needed something more Guildish, that's all...I shook myself out of it. I was NOT going to create pointless angst by panicking over a little name change. My life had gotten dramatic enough already. Emboldened, I turned my attention back to 101010.
"Anyway, I'm working loading this submarine up, and I stumbled across this display. So, now that you know who I am and why I'm here, I'd like to know just who you are!"
":-J"
"1LL B3T 4N 1GNOR4NT GU1LD13 L1K3 YOU C4NT 3V3N T3LL TH4T 1S 4 SM1RK"
"YOU P3OPL3 DONT KNOW 4NYTH1NG"
"So you know what the Guild is then! And for the record, the Guild knows plenty of things. They just aren't generally very useful things. Now, are you going to introduce yourself or not?"
"F1N3"
"MY N4M3S 101010 4ND 1 4M TH3 SUBMAR1N3"
Three consecutive dots appeared on the screen. I mentally applauded the consul for its accurate yet space efficient interpretation of my thoughts at that moment. Then, I let the brunt of the statement hit me.
"WHAT?!"
"DONT T3LL M3 YOU DONT KNOW HOW THE STREAMERS WORK"
"I don't know what you're talking about, and if it isn't too much to ask, could you please type like a normal person? This is weird enough already assuming you're telling the truth. I don't need a headache on top of that."
"(-.-) "
"Fine. Is this better your majesty? And no, I'm not trolling you."
"Well, I am, but I really am the submarine."
"I'll pretend for the sake of discussion that that made sense to me. Would you kindly explain what the streamers are and why you are a giant underwater vehicle?"
"You really are ignorant."
"Okay. Streamers are people who realize that computers are the way of the future, and we want to get a head start. We experience computer programs and the internet the way you experience "real" life, and anything you can do with a computer, we can do better."
"Are you getting it now?"
"So, you plugged your brain into a computer and are using it to control the sub remotely."
"If you want to say it in such a lame and oversimplified way, sure."
"So how do you ta-AHH!" Several bodies crashed into me, sweeping me off my feet in the painfully literal sense. My face met the floor, and stars and shouting flooded my head. Somewhere above me, a light went out, and the voices settled to a disgruntled rumble.
"Can you let me up now?" Fortunately, the men piled on top of me clambered to their feet. Also fortunately, they gave me a hand up. Not so fortunately, one of them threw me against a wall and pinned me a foot off the ground, his sneering face inches from mine.
"We don't. Talk. To streamers."
When he let go of me, I slumped to the floor. People had started coming and going from the submarine once more, so I gathered myself up and headed back to the stairs. Great, I stewed, I was just starting to hit my stride. Of course, something had to knock me off balance... literally... again.
"Why so glum, chap?" Toby piped as he caught up to me on the new and unimproved gangplank, "Ya dinnae know, an' Flaherty's a bit o' a codger anywho. Come on then. Back ta work."
Then again, maybe I'm not so alone as I thought. Ignoring the shudder that passed through me for thinking something so cliche, I listened to Toby and went back to work.
