"SO WH4T H4PP3N3D 4FT3R COLL1N'S FL4M3 THROW3R 3XPLOD3D?"
"I'm getting to that," I replied, trying to recall the events of the previous night's party. "Collins passed out, though I think it was the drinking, not the burst that did it. I'm starting to suspect he's immune to explosions. Meanwhile the bat he was aiming at did a victory dance."
"B4TS C4N D4NC3?"
"That was nothing compared to Loki. Do you know anything about Norse mythology?"
For half a minute, the screen went still.
"NOW 1 DO"
"Did you just download all of Norse Mythology?"
"PL34S3. DO YOU R34LLY TH1NK TH4T'S HOW 1T WORKS? TH4T 1 C4N JUST DOWNLO4D 4NY 1NFO 1 W4NT?"
"Yes."
"<_< >_> <_< "
"OK4Y, Y34H."
I tried and failed to repress a smirk. "Well then it shouldn't surprise you that after swindling half the Guild out of their coins and drinking the other half under the table, he decided to, er, well, go Greek as it were."
"HMMM?"
"Well, I mean, you know how -um- Zeus and his-affairs-uh," I blustered. For a moment I had forgotten that this was supposed to be an official report. Without care, the conversation could easily veer off into a significantly less official gutter. I needed to redirect the discussion with my rhetorical skill and maturity.
"H3 TURN3D 1NTO GL1TT3R 4ND D1D TH3 MYTHOLOG1C4L N4STY D1DN'T H3?"
It seemed I'd have to handle the maturity and let 101010 come up with the rhetorical skill.
"Frankly, I don't really think that part of the night is relevant, unless the Fey plan on taking over the world with bedroom conquests."
"TH3N WH4T DO YOU TH1NK 1S R3L3V4NT?"
"Well...maybe...if you think about it..." I could feel 101010's digital gaze bearing down on me, daring me to come up with something useful. A cocked eyebrow, a twisted smirk, crossed legs and arms, triumphant in advance. The silence was taking shape and the shape was mocking me. "I rickrolled them."
"WH4T!?"
"Well, Eleanor knew I played piano. The band didn't care who took a turn on theirs. She insisted. I protested. I lost, and that was the only song I could think of."
"H4H4H4H4H4H4H4H4! OK4Y, TH4T S3TTL3S 1T."
"Settles wha-" The clang of metal on metal cut me off. I clambered to my feet and rushed over to the door through which I'd entered the submarine's little closet. Locked. I'd known when I went in that it would be the perfect place to hold a conversation with a Streamer unobserved. However, at that moment, privacy struck me has highly overrated.
"101010? What are you doing?"
"R3L4X. 1'M JUST GO1NG TO T4K3 YOU FOR 4 R1D3 TO TH3 N3TH3RL4NDS."
"OH! Well, that's perfectly ALRIGHT THEN! Just let me out for a moment and I can pack my clogs." Anxiety poured over me, sending icy rivulets across my back and through my lungs. The pit of my stomach sank, then sprung up again, bobbing on a wave of...was that fear or excitement.
"4ND YOU DON'T H4V3 TO C4LL M3 101010. My name's Alice."
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Friday, November 25, 2011
An Un-suspicious Meeting
“Hold up a tick, Loki!” Orpheus called, huffing as he tried to catch up with the sprite striding out of the castle, “I must say, old boy, I'm curious. What's an immortal like you in such a hurry about?”
Loki's mouth bent into a smirk. “I'm only immortal as long as I'm alive. It's the time of century when the faerie blood lust is up. Some of them are bound to attempt coordinating their assassination attempts on me, that is, unless I start sowing suspicions among allies now. Otherwise, I'll have to kill all those would be assassins at once, and mass pest control is tedious.”
“Ah, well then. Until the ball! Good day,” Orpheus declared, but Loki had already shifted into hawk form and was soaring off into a cloudless sky. Orpheus was about to head off to his van, which had gained a number of dents despite Fisher's driving lessons when he heard Aldrich's booming voice.
“Farley, come back for a moment!”
“What's this then? Here to berate me about procrastination and what not?”
“Would you just get inside? This isn't about you, and I don't want to explain myself more than once.” As relatively calm as the meeting had been, Aldrich still had a headache building behind his temples.
They returned to the main hall, where the society heads, apart from Eris and Loki, had gathered once more. “Are we going to the Supreme Wizard's study then?” Orpheus inquired.
“This won't take that long,” Aldrich explained, “Fifi, if you have a phone on you, could you turn it on?”
Seconds after Fifi hit the power button, her phone started to buzz. “I've got a text from my mom? She never -” her palm met her face before she could even finish her sentence. Without removing her hand from her forehead, she held the phone out to Aldrich, who read aloud.
“'Yo dawg. Heard you liked meetings, so I put a streamer in your phone so you can tell me wtf is going on while you're told wtf is going on.'
“Are you listening right now?” Aldrich asked the phone. It buzzed in response.
“'I'm all microphones.' Good, then I can begin. I am worried about the faeries behavior.”
Buzz “'What are you complaining about? You aren't the ones who got to have your neural network synced up to a computer as it's butchered.'”
“What do you mean, Arch Chancellor?” Fifi piped.
“I believe I know what he means,” inserted the Supreme Wizard, “he is referring to Loki and Eris's familiarity with one another.”
“Come to think of it,” Orpheus pondered, “they were a bit chummier than usual. In fact, did Loki ever threaten to claw out Eris's throat?”
“No,” Aldrich stated, “and what is more, no matter how far I read into her comments, I couldn't find a single insult in what Eris said about him.”
“How peculiar...”
“I'm sorry, but, er, why is that so strange?” Fifi asked.
Buzz “'Nymphs and sprites are like cats and dogs. You should know-'” Aldrich decided not to finish reading the sentence. “At any rate, the streamer is correct. When a nymph and a sprite get along, something is afoot, and given their histories, a plan hatched by Loki and Eris has a 99% chance of ending in war. I don't like those odds, and as a necromancer, it is my duty to prevent such reckless death.”
“Well, then, Mr. Necromancer, just what the dickens do you propose we do about it, hmm?”
“For now, I think it would be prudent to keep our eyes, ears, and, er, microphones open. We need to keep in regular communication on what we've seen. This may not be anything. This may be some strange faerie mating ritual for all I know, but caution never hurt anyone.”
“I could disagree with you there, but in this case, you may have a point,” Orpheus conceded, “I'll be sure to have someone else write you a letter every day.”
“Letters are not quite quick or secure enough for such a purpose,” the Supreme Wizard commented.
“Agreed,” said Orpheus.
Buz.
An Inauspicious Meeting
The Supreme Wizard and the Head Chancellor of Necromancy despised the first Wednesday of every month. Their lives would be a great deal less stressful without it. Unfortunately, the first Wednesday came without fail every month, right after Tuesday and just before Thursday. With it, came the society heads.
"I hope you remembered the tea cakes this time," harrumphed Orpheus Farley. He preened his impressive mustache as he pushed through the gates of the WAND's castle. "It's unnatural to have tea without cakes. There was nothing for it to wash down!"
Aldrich performed the first of many eye rolls as he closed the gate behind the Guild leader. "Don't worry, Farley. We've all learned to appreciate the importance of tea cakes." As long as they're going into your mouth, nothing else can come out, Aldrich wanted to add. He chose a more diplomatic comment instead. "The others have all arrived already. They're with Archibald."
Archibald's study felt fastidiously lived-in. Shelves packed tightly with tomes covered nearly every square inch of wall. Every gap in books corresponded to one of the twenty or so texts tidily situated on the mahogany desk. A stack of wood sat squarely to the right of a hearth where the remains of a recent fire waited to kindle the next one. The very idea of dust seemed wrong, as if the room simply didn't have the time to accrue any. Sitting in a padded arm chair, his white robes tucked neatly around him, was Archibald himself, looking as in place as a bookmark in a novel. Across from him sat a petite, pug-faced young woman with silky hair pulled into pig tails, a thin, pale man sitting sideways in his chair, an equally thin and pale ginger woman, and a computer. Two seats remained open, a heavily laden tea table in between them.
"Wow, guys! The Guildie figured out how to get here! Seriously, I'm in shock. This is going to change my life forever. Who wants to throw a party? Anybody? Huh?" The voice issued from the computer in the synthesized, yet surprisingly expressive tones of a text to speech program.
"That's a bit extreme, isn't it?" asked the pug-faced woman, cocking her head quizzically.
"Come on, Fifi! This is a big freakin' deal. I mean, just the fact that his decrepit, piece of crap pocket watch got him here within 6 hours of the right time is a mother freakin' miracle."
"WHAT WAS THAT ABOUT MY POCKET WATCH?" Orpheus boomed. He made it half way to the computer when Archibald blocked his path.
"As justified as your rage is, might I point out that we are having tea? It would be tragically improper to sully the moment with violence. Don't you agree?"
"Hmph!" Orpheus plodded to the chair beside the tea table and commenced one of the more curmudgeonly displays of sipping and nibbling the society heads had seen. "And who might you be?" he inquired of the young woman, grudgingly polite.
"Oh. Well, um, I suppose I'm the new head of the Peace Warriors, Fifi," she muttered, too bashful to lift her head fully, too hopeful to keep her eyes down. Aldrich, who had taken his seat on the other side of the tea table, felt the sudden compulsion to pat the tiny woman on the head. He quickly disregarded this as a ridiculous thing to do.
"Really?" Orpheus continued to inquire, "What happened to the last head, Harry what's-his-name?"
"Uhh, unfortunately, he isn't, well..."
"Someone killed him," the thin man on the other side of Fifi finished.
"Killed him, eh? Bit too close of a shave, eh?"
"I can't believe you would make a joke about a dead guy!" the computer wailed. "And a pun? How can you be such a horrible person? I hope you can sleep at night because I can't, thinking about the sort of people living under London."
"But," Fifi interjected as Orpheus reddened, "didn't you tell me a lot of Streamers are going by Steve Jobs on forums now?"
"Man, and I thought people like you were supposed to be loyal!"
"Who's Ste-" Orpheus began to ask before Aldrich thrust a confection into his open mouth.
"Have a biscuit. They're delicious," he insisted, glancing at the computer in the futile attempt to see if the Streamer had heard the half-formed question. However, it seemed that the manic giggling of the pale man and woman had drowned Orpheus out.
"Well then, if Loki and Eris would calm down, perhaps we might get down to business?" Aldrich suggested.
"ho-Al- hee-hee-Aldrich, how-hee- how can you not laugh? It's just so-ho-hee- ridiculous how important -heh- you humans make the most insignificant things," chortled Loki.
"Oh yes! A pu-heh-ocket watch? A pun? We didn't even have to-heh-heh- to help it along! Oh, what delectable discordance. I love these meetings," Eris snickered as the waves of laughter shrank to ripples, and then an eager stillness.
"At any rate," Aldrich continued, "the dump provided by the Guild has been working adequately and at this rate will last us another half a year at least, which should provide sufficient time for the construction of its replacement. However, I would like to remind no one in particular that having sufficient time is not the same as having time to waste.
"Our Necromancers Abroad Program has been quite successful except for a small incident in Japan at a relief center. Fifi, would you please inform your Peace Warriors that if they encounter a necromancer working in a public place they should not exclaim 'Richard, you old necromancer, how's the magic going?' It is quite inconvenient."
"Yeah," Fifi blushed, "That was probably Thermostat. He, well, see he isn't the most, um, discreet person? I'll talk to him. Sorry."
Aldrich found himself again resisting the urge to scratch her head. "Moving on, Archibald?"
"I would like to request that Green Thumb pay another visit. It would seem the wizards have required more fuel than usual, and the gardens are nearly depleted of life."
"Oh, sure, yeah. That shouldn't be a problem, I mean, when he's free of course."
"And the Streamers need someone to come and give our bodies baths so we don't get real viruses. It has to be the Peace Warriors, girl."
"Uhm?"
"You are the chosen one!"
"Blast it all! Would you cease this confounded japery?!”
"I hope you remembered the tea cakes this time," harrumphed Orpheus Farley. He preened his impressive mustache as he pushed through the gates of the WAND's castle. "It's unnatural to have tea without cakes. There was nothing for it to wash down!"
Aldrich performed the first of many eye rolls as he closed the gate behind the Guild leader. "Don't worry, Farley. We've all learned to appreciate the importance of tea cakes." As long as they're going into your mouth, nothing else can come out, Aldrich wanted to add. He chose a more diplomatic comment instead. "The others have all arrived already. They're with Archibald."
Archibald's study felt fastidiously lived-in. Shelves packed tightly with tomes covered nearly every square inch of wall. Every gap in books corresponded to one of the twenty or so texts tidily situated on the mahogany desk. A stack of wood sat squarely to the right of a hearth where the remains of a recent fire waited to kindle the next one. The very idea of dust seemed wrong, as if the room simply didn't have the time to accrue any. Sitting in a padded arm chair, his white robes tucked neatly around him, was Archibald himself, looking as in place as a bookmark in a novel. Across from him sat a petite, pug-faced young woman with silky hair pulled into pig tails, a thin, pale man sitting sideways in his chair, an equally thin and pale ginger woman, and a computer. Two seats remained open, a heavily laden tea table in between them.
"Wow, guys! The Guildie figured out how to get here! Seriously, I'm in shock. This is going to change my life forever. Who wants to throw a party? Anybody? Huh?" The voice issued from the computer in the synthesized, yet surprisingly expressive tones of a text to speech program.
"That's a bit extreme, isn't it?" asked the pug-faced woman, cocking her head quizzically.
"Come on, Fifi! This is a big freakin' deal. I mean, just the fact that his decrepit, piece of crap pocket watch got him here within 6 hours of the right time is a mother freakin' miracle."
"WHAT WAS THAT ABOUT MY POCKET WATCH?" Orpheus boomed. He made it half way to the computer when Archibald blocked his path.
"As justified as your rage is, might I point out that we are having tea? It would be tragically improper to sully the moment with violence. Don't you agree?"
"Hmph!" Orpheus plodded to the chair beside the tea table and commenced one of the more curmudgeonly displays of sipping and nibbling the society heads had seen. "And who might you be?" he inquired of the young woman, grudgingly polite.
"Oh. Well, um, I suppose I'm the new head of the Peace Warriors, Fifi," she muttered, too bashful to lift her head fully, too hopeful to keep her eyes down. Aldrich, who had taken his seat on the other side of the tea table, felt the sudden compulsion to pat the tiny woman on the head. He quickly disregarded this as a ridiculous thing to do.
"Really?" Orpheus continued to inquire, "What happened to the last head, Harry what's-his-name?"
"Uhh, unfortunately, he isn't, well..."
"Someone killed him," the thin man on the other side of Fifi finished.
"Killed him, eh? Bit too close of a shave, eh?"
"I can't believe you would make a joke about a dead guy!" the computer wailed. "And a pun? How can you be such a horrible person? I hope you can sleep at night because I can't, thinking about the sort of people living under London."
"But," Fifi interjected as Orpheus reddened, "didn't you tell me a lot of Streamers are going by Steve Jobs on forums now?"
"Man, and I thought people like you were supposed to be loyal!"
"Who's Ste-" Orpheus began to ask before Aldrich thrust a confection into his open mouth.
"Have a biscuit. They're delicious," he insisted, glancing at the computer in the futile attempt to see if the Streamer had heard the half-formed question. However, it seemed that the manic giggling of the pale man and woman had drowned Orpheus out.
"Well then, if Loki and Eris would calm down, perhaps we might get down to business?" Aldrich suggested.
"ho-Al- hee-hee-Aldrich, how-hee- how can you not laugh? It's just so-ho-hee- ridiculous how important -heh- you humans make the most insignificant things," chortled Loki.
"Oh yes! A pu-heh-ocket watch? A pun? We didn't even have to-heh-heh- to help it along! Oh, what delectable discordance. I love these meetings," Eris snickered as the waves of laughter shrank to ripples, and then an eager stillness.
"At any rate," Aldrich continued, "the dump provided by the Guild has been working adequately and at this rate will last us another half a year at least, which should provide sufficient time for the construction of its replacement. However, I would like to remind no one in particular that having sufficient time is not the same as having time to waste.
"Our Necromancers Abroad Program has been quite successful except for a small incident in Japan at a relief center. Fifi, would you please inform your Peace Warriors that if they encounter a necromancer working in a public place they should not exclaim 'Richard, you old necromancer, how's the magic going?' It is quite inconvenient."
"Yeah," Fifi blushed, "That was probably Thermostat. He, well, see he isn't the most, um, discreet person? I'll talk to him. Sorry."
Aldrich found himself again resisting the urge to scratch her head. "Moving on, Archibald?"
"I would like to request that Green Thumb pay another visit. It would seem the wizards have required more fuel than usual, and the gardens are nearly depleted of life."
"Oh, sure, yeah. That shouldn't be a problem, I mean, when he's free of course."
"And the Streamers need someone to come and give our bodies baths so we don't get real viruses. It has to be the Peace Warriors, girl."
"Uhm?"
"You are the chosen one!"
"Blast it all! Would you cease this confounded japery?!”
“You mad br-” Before the computer could finish, screeches and sparks sprayed from its casing. This was probably due to the claws embedded in it. The claws were attached to an arm, and the arm was attached to a shoulder, and the shoulder attached to a body, and the body had a head, and the head was smiling.
“As entertaining as the streamers can be, I'm starting to run short on time. Worse, I was getting bored with him. Does anyone want to argue with me about it?” Loki asked, still grinning.
Fifi raised a tentative hand. “Not arguing, but, er, well, question? How did your arm grow ten feet long and gain claws?”
Eris lay a finger casually against Loki's arm, which wrapped behind her shoulders, in front of Fifi, and planted in the computer at the other end of the room. “Please, Fifi, This? This is nothing compared to some of the things he's shown me.”
“Might I explain, Loki?” requested Archibald. Loki consented with a wave of his claw as he retracted it. As the arm returned to more typical dimensions, it may have brushed against Eris's shoulder just a bit more than necessary.
“You know of course that Loki and Eris are fey.”
“Well, yeah, but, doesn't that just mean they're, you know, immortal?”
“That is what it means to be a fey. That is not what it means to be a sprite or a nymph. A sprite, a male fey like Loki, has the ability to shift forms at will. A female fey, or nymph, can exert a certain persuasive influence over those around her.”
“And just, um, just what does that mean?”
“Don't worry about it, Fifi, sweetheart,” Eris cooed.
“Okay.”
“Well then,” Orpheus cheered, face glowing beneath his mustache, “shall we get down to business once more now that the streamer is out of the way? I believe it was my turn.”
In point of fact, the Peace Warrior usually followed the Supreme Wizard. However, no one present had a particular desire to convince Orpheus to wait. He rattled off the successes of the Guild's latest STORM, details for the upcoming Fey-Guild ball, modifications to contact information for one or two assassins, and finally a perfectly superfluous report on how far behind the Guild had fallen in product production for the Streamers. Fifi, Loki, and Eris all then made considerably succincter reports and requests. With that, Aldrich adjourned the meeting.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Demaskiert
Ich spiele vor
vorzuspielen.
Wie ein Monster
an Halloween,
entferne ich meine Maske.
Niemand merkt,
niemand glaubt,
dass Monsters wirklich sind.
Ich gleite durch die Mengen
wertloser Versteller.
Ich bin durch ihre Masken
sicher versteckt.
Ich strecke meinen Kiefer
erstmals seit einem Jahr.
Ich schüttele meine Haut,
um den glatt gestrichenen Pelz zu lockern.
Die Nacht gehört mir,
ich kann mit ihr machen, was ich will
Wenn du die Magierkappe
abnimmst
und die karminrote Gabel
zu Boden legst,
entschlüpfe ich aus der Nacht
und wieder in eine Haut
zu dünn,
um von Dauer zu sein.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Unmasked (and unrelated)
I pretend
to pretend.
Like a monster
on Halloween,
I take off my mask.
No one notices,
no one believes
monsters might exist.
I glide through throngs
of paltry masqueraders.
I am safely hidden
by all of their masks.
So, I stretch my jaw
for the first time in a year,
and 
I shake my hide
I shake my hideto loosen sweat slicked fur.
The night is mine
to have my way with.
When you take off
the wizard cap
And set down
the scarlet pitchfork,
I slip out of the night
and back into a skin
too thin
to last.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Food for Thought (or, HAHA! I Posted Finally!)
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.
"'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.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
New Wave
There is no helping a thoroughly queasy stomach; there is only not making it worse. You sit perfectly still, head between knees, clammy hands on forehead. You hope that these shows of submission and calm will appease the wretched thing riding in your stomach. You hope against hope that the one thing you know will give you relief does not happen, at least not until someone brings you a bucket.
"'ere it is, Mr. Fisher," the boy's adolescent voice screeched. It was the most wonderful sound I had ever heard, followed by one of the most unpleasant sounds as I emptied my lunch into the metal pail he handed me.
"Blugh. Do Under-Locomotives always run so...violently?"
"Whatcha mean? 'Aven't you ever ridden 'fore?" he inquired, taking a surreptitious step away from my peaked form and fragrant bucket.
"Never anything that takes 90 degree turns at 90 kilometers an hour," I shuddered.
"90 k an hour?" the boy asked incredulously, "why in blazes was it running so slow?"
I decided not to respond to that. Instead, I attempted to stand. Surprisingly, I succeeded and felt a shred of dignity returning. With my queasiness passing, I took a moment to examine my surroundings. I knew that I had been sent to a loading dock of some sort, but the cavernous room had no ships or trucks to speak of. Instead, it had a sizable pool in its center and crates of various sizes stacked all around its perimeter. Men and boys loitered among the crates and against the walls.
"M'name's Toby, by the way. Toby Crimshaw," the boy announced, offering me a grimy hand, which I could not avoid shaking.
"Nice to meet you. I'm -"
"Geoffrey Fisher. I know," he interrupted, "I was told ya'd be coming. I'm ta show ya the ropes. Now, iffin ya don't mind me asking, why're ya 'ere?"
"Pardon?"
"Well, ya ain't exactly built for 'ard labour, are ya? So, I figure, either ya want ta bulk up, which doesn't look bloody likely, or something ya did went all ta pot and ya wound up 'ere where ya can't do more damage. Which is it?"
"Er, I suppose the latter. It's more that I'm no use anywhere else in the Guild. I can't build, I can't lead, and when I so much as set foot in a kitchen, it's up in flames."
"Oh, I've pulled that prank meself. Watcha use? Nitroglycerin or gunpowder?"
"That...was a figure of speech," I eyed Toby warily, "what did, uh, you use?"
"ah," he bleated, "that was just a figure o' speech too. Ya know, 'whatcha use?' ha ha, heh" I sensed discomfort
"Why don't you tell me what that pool's doing there," I suggested.
"Actually," he said, pulling a fob watch from his vest pocket, "you'll find out just about..." His voice trailed off as he gazed at his watch, not a muscle moving. After several seconds I started to wonder he had accidentally hypnotized himself when I noticed something queer. All sound in the room had dropped away. A quick look around revealed that everyone was fixating on their watches. A couple of men had two time pieces dangling centimeters from their faces. One had five watches strung along a chain.
"NOW!" The cry ricocheted around the frozen room. Its source, a worker not two meters away from me, drooped like an old man's jowls when whatever he had expected to happen didn't. No one, apart from the man who had just spoken, looked away from their timepieces.
"NOW!" This time, the shout came from across the room. Another followed after it. Then another. Shouts rebounded, seemingly at random. I saw the man with five watches sounding off, "Now, now, now, now, NOW!" He let the chain drop moodily when the world failed to react to his commands.
Toby had yet to say anything. I could see his eyes twitching with every tick of the second hand. Finally, his clock reached 9, and he shouted with a force that could tear the heavens asunder. His cry shook the very ground; it turned the placid pool into a turbulent sea; In fact, he yelled so loudly that he sounded exactly like a submarine surfacing. I'm certain it was only a coincidence that one actually did surfaced at the same time.
"Ha!" Toby exclaimed, holding his watch aloft triumphantly, "Right, everyone, pay up!"
Grudgingly, men and boys in the vicinity gathered around and dropped coin after coin into Toby's gaping pockets. They also seemed to compare their fob watches to his, but I didn't pay much attention to the process. I was slightly more interested in the giant hulk of submersible metal that had appeared in the middle of the room.
It was a sleek machine, covered from tip to tail in discreet black paint. It reminded me of swimmers I had met, lean people stripped of every gram of fat or excess that could slow them down. The submarine was one hundred percent, absolutely, now and forever, a submarine and nothing else.
"So," I said to the clinking Toby when he joined me by the edge of the pool, "I take it that doesn't belong to the Guild."
"Blugh. Do Under-Locomotives always run so...violently?"
"Whatcha mean? 'Aven't you ever ridden 'fore?" he inquired, taking a surreptitious step away from my peaked form and fragrant bucket.
"Never anything that takes 90 degree turns at 90 kilometers an hour," I shuddered.
"90 k an hour?" the boy asked incredulously, "why in blazes was it running so slow?"
I decided not to respond to that. Instead, I attempted to stand. Surprisingly, I succeeded and felt a shred of dignity returning. With my queasiness passing, I took a moment to examine my surroundings. I knew that I had been sent to a loading dock of some sort, but the cavernous room had no ships or trucks to speak of. Instead, it had a sizable pool in its center and crates of various sizes stacked all around its perimeter. Men and boys loitered among the crates and against the walls.
"M'name's Toby, by the way. Toby Crimshaw," the boy announced, offering me a grimy hand, which I could not avoid shaking.
"Nice to meet you. I'm -"
"Geoffrey Fisher. I know," he interrupted, "I was told ya'd be coming. I'm ta show ya the ropes. Now, iffin ya don't mind me asking, why're ya 'ere?"
"Pardon?"
"Well, ya ain't exactly built for 'ard labour, are ya? So, I figure, either ya want ta bulk up, which doesn't look bloody likely, or something ya did went all ta pot and ya wound up 'ere where ya can't do more damage. Which is it?"
"Er, I suppose the latter. It's more that I'm no use anywhere else in the Guild. I can't build, I can't lead, and when I so much as set foot in a kitchen, it's up in flames."
"Oh, I've pulled that prank meself. Watcha use? Nitroglycerin or gunpowder?"
"That...was a figure of speech," I eyed Toby warily, "what did, uh, you use?"
"ah," he bleated, "that was just a figure o' speech too. Ya know, 'whatcha use?' ha ha, heh" I sensed discomfort
"Why don't you tell me what that pool's doing there," I suggested.
"Actually," he said, pulling a fob watch from his vest pocket, "you'll find out just about..." His voice trailed off as he gazed at his watch, not a muscle moving. After several seconds I started to wonder he had accidentally hypnotized himself when I noticed something queer. All sound in the room had dropped away. A quick look around revealed that everyone was fixating on their watches. A couple of men had two time pieces dangling centimeters from their faces. One had five watches strung along a chain.
"NOW!" The cry ricocheted around the frozen room. Its source, a worker not two meters away from me, drooped like an old man's jowls when whatever he had expected to happen didn't. No one, apart from the man who had just spoken, looked away from their timepieces.
"NOW!" This time, the shout came from across the room. Another followed after it. Then another. Shouts rebounded, seemingly at random. I saw the man with five watches sounding off, "Now, now, now, now, NOW!" He let the chain drop moodily when the world failed to react to his commands.
Toby had yet to say anything. I could see his eyes twitching with every tick of the second hand. Finally, his clock reached 9, and he shouted with a force that could tear the heavens asunder. His cry shook the very ground; it turned the placid pool into a turbulent sea; In fact, he yelled so loudly that he sounded exactly like a submarine surfacing. I'm certain it was only a coincidence that one actually did surfaced at the same time.
"Ha!" Toby exclaimed, holding his watch aloft triumphantly, "Right, everyone, pay up!"
Grudgingly, men and boys in the vicinity gathered around and dropped coin after coin into Toby's gaping pockets. They also seemed to compare their fob watches to his, but I didn't pay much attention to the process. I was slightly more interested in the giant hulk of submersible metal that had appeared in the middle of the room.
It was a sleek machine, covered from tip to tail in discreet black paint. It reminded me of swimmers I had met, lean people stripped of every gram of fat or excess that could slow them down. The submarine was one hundred percent, absolutely, now and forever, a submarine and nothing else.
"So," I said to the clinking Toby when he joined me by the edge of the pool, "I take it that doesn't belong to the Guild."
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