Ungeek It

As you know, Jeri and I are doing a round-robin story game. There are sixteen collaborators in this game; each one will write twice.

Part 1: Nathan
Part 2: Shawn
Part 3: MWT
Part 4: Eric
Part 5: Matt Warnock
Part 6: Jeri
Part 7: Saqib
Part 8: Michelle K.
Part 9: Vince
Part 10: Kimberly-Ann
Part 11: Tom
Part 12: Kate
Part 13: Justin
Part 14: Bryan (below)
Part 15: Tania
Part 16: Charles

—————————–

And here’s my alleged contribution:

Sophie from Shinola, Part 14:

Farthum Bardabuff was not having a good day. At all.

First, any day the tactical officer had to actually speak to the Supreme Councilor was by definition a bad day. Have the SC yell at him only made it worse. But the worst, the worst of all, was dealing with indoctrinated warships, especially the new ones.

“Bardabuff to warship WA-11. Come in 11.”

A few crackles of static. Nothing else.

“WA-11! Report!” Nothing came through the speakers on Farthum’s console. Once again Farthum cursed the Military Procurement office’s unending quest-to-screw-up-through- better-use-of-low-bidder-contract shenanigans.

Farthum was well aware that WA-11 was going to be a challenge. While the hunter-seeker droid’s report indicated the mind it had appropriated for WA-11 was exceptional, and would be a gifted destroyer of worlds, some of the readings were, well, eccentric. WA class cyber warships, armed to their metal-polyplastic teeth with everything from laser disrupters to, well, metal-polyplastic teeth, were a very efficient means of sterilizing troublesome life forms off colonizable worlds. Trouble was, to make them that good, they were loaded with the stolen intelligence of a lifeform; it was thought to be best that the lifeform was one from the world about to be wiped out. That might have had more to do with the innate cruelty of Farthum’s race, rather than actual results, but it was how it was done. The resulting AI tended to get a little batty just before making the planetary kill.

WA-11, however didn’t seem like it was hesitant. Just weird. Somehow the blasted thing had gotten into some old entertainment files while charging after the hunter-seeker transfer. The HS droid must have been watching old Earth tapes on its off time.

Farthum gulped a deep intake of the liquid oxygen which surrounded his body. Calm, I have to be calm, he thought. 11 was still functioning, and the readouts showed the warship was near striking distance to the target. The computer schematic on his console showed the ship charging up for the attack. But Farthum had no control, and that worried him greatly, especially since his ship was still nearby. “11,” he said intensely into the com, knowing from early calibration of the ship that by throwing in a few key words he could trigger a response, “I think I’m entitled to answers about the mission. I think I’m entitled to the truth this time.”

“You can’t handle the truth!” 11 screamed over the com. “I don’t give a DAMN about what you think you’re entitled to.”

“WA-11, cut the figgle crap. What’s your status?”

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“Clarify, 11.”

“I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

“Surely you can tell me more than that, 11. Turn on your visual receptors.”

“Receptors on. And don’t call me Shirley.”

Farthum could see the target, or at least what WA-11 was labeling “the target”. But while roughly round, the “target” was not a planet. It was a multi-limbed creature with short fur and limpid, intellegent eyes. “Sophie,” Farthum heard the target saying through the com, “what’s wrong? Why are you shivering?” By the buzzes and clicks coming from Farthum’s monitoring console, he knew that 11 was charging weapons, readying for the kill. The tac officer could tell, however, that 11 was confused, a confusion he shared hundred-fold.

———————

Tania is next.

Not-Sophie felt consciousness return; awareness fizzed along its circuits as a reboot restored power and sanity to its damaged hardware and software.

It inventoried the injuries. Then it reinforced and regrew several ribs and healed its mechanical heart and lungs. It reconstituted several vertebrae from chips & powder, knitting the spinal cord back together as it went. Finally, it snapped a knee and hip joint back into place. Slowly, carefully, it levered itself into a standing position, stretched, and clicked everything into alignment.

The blast had disoriented not-Sophie, and it didn’t recognize the current dingy, trash-strewn alley. It carefully walked toward the busy street, repairing tears in its skin and regrowing hair and teeth with each step.

Standing on the noisy corner, watching dilapidated, hydrocarbon-fueled vehicles stream by, it made some adjustments. Lighter, longer hair. Bold makeup, with black-circled eyes and a crimson mouth. Bigger mammary glands, cantilevered up… and out. Longer, more flexible legs. And a black latex minidress and with stiletto heels.

It’d need some cash – and some information – to get off this planet. The oldest profession was the easiest way to make contact with the local ruling class.

Not-Sophie sauntered to the curb, stuck out a hip, and configured its face in a provocative expression. Watching the vehicles roar by, it assessed the natives inside. Some studiously avoided looking at it. Some leaned out their windows, whistled and shouted. And some talked endlessly into electronic devices strapped to their ears, held burning cylinders of plant material, drank hot cups of bitter black stimulant – even all three at once. It wanted one of these last types, preferably one that sat in the back seat and had a driver.

Finally, one of those multi-tasking ones, a male, slowed. Distracted, he spoke into the electronic earpiece, “Hold on, I’m about to lose signal… can’t hear you…” and then clicked a button and looked up. And down. And back up again, but never quite met not-Sophie’s eyes. “Hey baby, would you like to take a ride?”

Not-Sophie purred, “Sure, big man, are you going to take good care of me?”

The man bared his teeth, and pulled a thick roll of the local currency from his jacket pocket.

“400 to go around the world, or just 200 for a rocket job.” Not-Sophie didn’t know much about the local currency or slang, but hoped that wasn’t wildly out of line.

He showed even more teeth. “That’s a bargain. Done! Climb in.” He opened the door.

It nodded and stepped in and past the man, brushing its mammary glands across the man’s face – and fingertips across his lap - as it settled into the far side of the seat.

The man pressed a button, and a window slid up between the back seat and the driver. He hit a series of switches, and all the windows surrounding them darkened until they were nearly opaque. One final click, and nondescript music filled the air.

Not-Sophie pressed close, put its crimson mouth to the man’s ear, whispered, “What do you need?” as it exhaled a cloud of interrogation nanites. As those penetrated the skin and sped to the brain, not-Sophie loosened the strip of cloth tied around the man’s neck, unbuttoned his shirt, and shot a long, thin needle out from under her fingernail into his jugular, completing the feedback loop.

The man sagged and he began to drool as not-Sophie started tearing through his thoughts.

Hopefully not-Sophie could find what it needed, and then it would use the wad of currency to secure a seat on the next shuttle to the space station.

As you know, I’m participating in a round-robin writing project called “Sophie from Shinola” – the rules are here. I’m sixth in sequence; links to the parts before and after me are below:

Part 1: Nathan
Part 2: Shawn
Part 3: MWT
Part 4: Eric
Part 5: Matt Warnock
Part 6: Jeri
Part 7: Saqib
Part 8: Michelle K.
Part 9:Vince
Part 10: Kimberly-Ann
Part 11: Tom
Part 12: Kate
Part 13: Justin
Part 14: Bryan (below)
Part 15: Tania
Part 16: Charles

_________________________________________________

Sophie from Shinola, Part 6

Sophie dreamed that she was falling into a blue, watery gravity well. Instead of hitting the surface, she startled awake, heart racing.

Opening her eyes, she realized she’d probably have preferred the fatal impact to waking up in a low-rent hospital bed. Cheap fluorescent lighting flickered above, shadowing dirty gray walls and glinting off the buckles on her restraints. The scent of stale urine, cheap antiseptic and burning plastic permeated the air. Ancient LCD monitors beeped and buzzed around her.

The doctors had told her she was developing something called “dissociative personality disorder”, whatever that was. From her perspective, it meant blacking out, and waking in unfamiliar clothes with fresh bruises. She was blacking out more and more often lately, in spite being tied down with a poisonous, psychoactive IV brew dripping into her arm.

She knew her parents were broke, but she never imagined they’d sell her to Spaceforce.

Her mom slumped, snoring quietly, in a chair beside the bed, face grey with anxiety. She stirred, blinked. “Sophie, is that you?”

That was odd. Who else would it be? And why couldn’t her mom just leave her alone? All the fussing and guilt was making it worse.

“Sophie, honey, I’m so sorry you’re having to go through this. I had no idea the treatments would be this painful! This cut-rate facility is horrid but it’s all we could afford.”

“Well, check me out and take me home, then!” She bit her tongue; bitterness wouldn’t help matters. “Mom, do you know where Blink is? I can feel him but his thread is almost gone. It would really help if he were here, couldn’t we sneak him in?”

“Honey, I’m sorry, I hate to tell you this: we’ve lost Blink. We were taking him back home and he had a fit, flew off into a radioactive zone. We couldn’t catch him, and I’m afraid mine security might.”

A wave of rage and grief crashed over Sophie. She started to scream at her mother, then started falling again and blacked out.

In a blink of the eye, not-Sophie smoothly took control. It glared at the woman sitting beside the hospital bed. “Was that really necessary? Sophie didn’t need to know about Blink. At all.”

Sophie’s mother straightened, pulled her sweater closer around her. “Yes, it was necessary, I’ve always believed in being honest with my family.” She got up and carefully walked to the doorway, ready to leave. She added, “That doesn’t apply to you, you’re not family.”

Not-Sophie laughed bitterly. “That’s hypocrisy! It’s not like you told Sophie you were going to sell her body, you just fed her Spaceforce propaganda and tried to make her think she was volunteering. At the end of it all, Sophie had no choice. You may hate this procedure, but you signed her up for it.”

Sophie’s mother raised one hand, as if to deflect the words. “If I’d known what it really took to create a Spaceforce Academy candidate, I’d never brought Sophie to this back-alley brainmod shop. This…”she gestured around the room, “and you are just wrong.”

“True. You’re afraid of me!” challenged not-Sophie, eyes glittering.

Sophie’s mother replied “You’re right, I am. You are cold, alien, calculating. You are eating my daughter’s mind and soul from within. You are not Sophie, and can never be!”

Not-Sophie sighed. “True. But it’s me the Spaceforce will want, not your daughter. Her ability to create a symbiosis with that quasi-intelligent flying tarantula you gave her is what made her a candidate for the mod. In one sense, you created me. Mother. ”

Sophie’s mother flinched and turned away.

Not-Sophie pulled at the restraints, watched the relentless IV drip that was feeding it, helping it grow. It was too bad that the metamorphosis would destroy the first Sophie. It was hard on the family. OK, it was pretty tough for Sophie’s symbiote, too, but that was inconsequential.

Last week, a producer from CBC broadcasting contacted me about participating in their Spark technology trends radio show; this particular episode focuses on online collaboration. The show included an overview of the site Ficlets. My participation is limited to a couple lines from a ficlet, but the show in its entirety is pretty interesting. CBC has uploaded the show podcast and written a blog entry about the show (including links to the ficlets highlighted on the radio show).

I wasn’t asked to contribute because my writing is particularly wonderful, in fact the Ficlet featured is not one of my better ones. I was contacted because I wrote a viable sequel to a piece written by the creator of the site, Kevin Lawver.

Nonetheless, it’s been fun.

In other notes, I’m going to be offline for a few days for personal travel; this will probably be my last post until next week.

Holly made a cup of coffee, pulled on her breakup boots and a jacket, and anxiously opened the door on the morning’s storm damage.

The view was disheartening. Standing water was everywhere. Esther’s house had lost part of its roof — hopefully she was ok! A sheet of plywood had pierced and shattered Ted’s window. Jannie’s home was missing its arctic entrance, it was torn clear off.

Garbage littered the streets and ponds. All the recycling, all the spare parts and pieces, were scattered across the landscape as far as she could see.

Suddenly, throat constricting with dread, she realized why it was still so quiet. The sled dogs were gone. Some of the dog runs were underwater, and other dogs had gotten tangled in their chains, choked & drowned. A few had obviously broken necks, or ribs. The lucky few had just been swept away.

A young, blue eyed mutt still moved, feebly, off to the side of her house. He whined, his breath coming fast and harsh with anxiety. He was trying to get under her house, he was looking for a place to die, she thought. And oh, she was afraid to help him, the splintered white of a broken leg drug behind the him as he tried to move.

She carefully jumped down from her front stoop. The ground squelched and stunk around her ankles, and she found a trail through the standing water to the dog. Her son could help with the dog, he was always able to calm them with a gesture, a whisper - but she didn’t want to wake him up to see this.

She talked, softly, coming close. “Hey, guy, it’s gonna be ok.”

Blue eyes rolled back, ears flattened, and the dog growled in fear.

“Hey, buddy, shhhh. I’m going to try to help.” She slowly took off her coat, squatted beside him. Maybe she could get the dog to creep onto her coat, and she could carry him to… where?

The dog collapsed sideways, in fear and exhaustion, landing on a corner of the coat.

She carefully wrapped it around him, trying not to touch the leg. “OK, buddy, I’m gonna try and pick you up now. It’ll hurt, but we’ll be ok.”

She carefully scooped the dog up in her arms. The leg twitched, and the dog snarled, snapped at air. “Shh, shhhh. Let’s get you some help.”

She set off toward the health clinic, picking her way carefully through the muddy water. Maybe Rebecca would be able to help.

She shouldered through the health clinic door, arms aching with the load. “Hey, Rebecca, you here?”

Carefully, she lay the dog down on a bench, making sure not to move his leg. The dog looked away, panting furiously.

Rebecca poked her head out of the back room. “I’m with someone hurt in the storm. What do you need?”

“We can wait.”

A few minutes later, Rebecca came out, looking exhausted. Her patient followed her, freshly bandaged.

She turned to Holly and her burden.

“Holly, I’m not a vet! And we have people here who need help more.”

Holly sagged. “Then who takes care of your dogs?”

“They either live, or they die. We don’t let them stay in pain if we can’t help them, they deserve to go on to their next life too.” Rebecca sighed. “This morning has been awful. And the dogs, my god! We need those sled dogs to hunt this winter.”

Rebecca knelt on the floor in front of the dog, touched his leg lightly. “Holly, his leg will never be whole again, it’s too damaged. You need to let him go.”

“But if you set it we’ll take care of him. Lots of dogs do fine with a bad leg!”

“Not in the village, Holly. These dogs are bred to run, to pull. They’re miserable if they can’t, and in hungry times we aren’t able to feed a dog who can’t work.”

Holly said, “It’s not our dog. It’s the Stewart’s, next door.”

“It’s the right thing to do, they wouldn’t dream of trying to keep him lame and in the house.” Rebecca walked back to her cabinet, got out a syringe and a vial. “I’ll try to give him a quiet goodbye. One of the men would just take him out and shoot him but I’m not up to that.”

Holly touched the dog’s head. It made sense. But it hurt. Her heart ached not just for Buddy, but all the dogs.

This morning I took a walk on the bleak, deserted beach; not even the seabirds wanted to scavenge in the stinging, horizontal rain.

I usually try to follow the high-water mark. It is easier to walk there, and the seafoam sometimes carries treasures.

Today, though, I walked back near the driftwood margin; it blocked the wind a little. Driftwood has always fascinated me. The bleached, twisted shapes speak of desolation and endurance.

I stumbled, lurching, and looked down. I’d tripped over bones, a hand, fingers partially buried in the sand. It seemed like a desperate skeleton clawing its way out of the earth.

I breathed deeply… be calm. I knelt, and without touching, looked more closely. A silver bracelet circled the dessicated wrist, inscribed with the word “Faith”.

It was disconcerting; I’d thought this was a good place to hide the body.

I brushed sand back over the unfortunate bones, relic of a different time in my life, and headed back up the beach to warmth.

Jacob said, “Come on, all the men do it. Being invited to join them is an honor!”

Shane stared dubiously at the small shack. “It’s a what?”

“A makivik. A steam bath. It cleans your body and your spirit.”

As the damp wind whipped through his clothes, he had to admit - being warm would be great. “OK, let’s do it.”

He and Jacob paused at the door. Jacob quickly stripped to nothing, hung his clothes on a peg. “Come on, slug!”

Shane widened his eyes. All his clothes? OK, he could do that. The wind slapped his legs as he undressed.

Opening the door, then pushing the skins aside from the inner door, the smell hit him. It was rank. Body odor, seal oil, damp musty hide, tobacco, maybe even an undercurrent of honey bucket. He gagged, but stepped in, committed now.

The room was warm, too warm. He perched on a bench and sat, leaning forward, elbows on knees, to cover himself. That put his face right over the fire, that wouldn’t work. He straightened.

Jacob was there, and Jacob’s dad. Also, old Charlie Levi, the angulkuq. Charlie being a shaman creeped his mom out, but sort of fascinated Shane.

Jacob waved, “Charlie is my uncle. Do you know him?”

Shane nodded, grunted.

“Ah, Shane. Finally taking part in some of the things of men?”

Shane didn’t know what to say to that.

They all fell quiet, as the sweat began to run. The overwhelming smell, the heat, it filled Shane’s lungs and the makivik swam around him. His vision exploded.

He was falling, landing in worlds temporarily like branches in a tree.

Another fall and he was back in the makivik. The men were staring at him.

Holding his pounding head, he ran for the door, leaned out and retched until his stomach was empty. Then he slumped to the ground.

Jacob knelt next to him, touched his shoulder. “Shane, you were there, your eyes open, but you weren’t responding. You were moaning, and wouldn’t move. It was bizarre!”

The angulkuq cocked his head like the raven, assessing him. “Where were you?”

Shane said, “Huh? What do you mean?”

“You were not here with us, so you must have been somewhere else. Where were you? Tell me about it.”

Shane exhaled. He was so not up to an interrogation. But the angulkuq was an elder, respected. “Let me get dressed and I’ll tell you what I can.”

Lifting his face to the broken heavens, Murray closed his eyes and let the warm rain drench him. After tonight, he didn’t think he’d ever feel clean again.

He resumed his search. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flicker of black movement in the downpour.

He pushed a shaking key toward the lock. “Hello?”

He shook his head, scattering water. All in his mind, what was left of it.

Another lightning bolt split the sky like an axe, illuminating the parking lot and puddles with electric light. No one there. The thunderclap followed almost immediately, like a voice of judgment.

Murray managed to get the car door open, climbed in and slammed it. The air was stale, blood warm, and smelled of decay. A raven landed on his hood and peered through the sheets of water.

“Sheesh, that’s what I’m seeing. OK, breathe again.” He put the key in the ignition, turned it. Nothing. “Dammit to hell!”

He screamed as I leaned forward and tapped him on the shoulder. “I can help with that hell bit, if you’d like.”

No one knows how high the effect goes, or how deep. Birds avoid the airspace over the sentinels, wheeling and turning with a high pitched scream rather than flying across the line of stones. Mussels and barnacles don’t cling to them, and there are no minnows living in their too-dark shadows.

Last year Mike and I decided we were going to take his sailboat out, see how far the parade extends, and sail around the end. Mike’s a better sailor than me – but I think things through.

“Do we really need to bring all those galley supplies with us?” he’d ask, every time I passed him on the pier, loading up. “We have fishing gear, we’ll be fine for just a few days.”

“We have no idea how long we’ll be out, let’s make sure we’re prepared,” I’d respond, patiently.

It’s been a long time, I miss Mike a lot, but I’m glad to have his supply of water.

Pat and I decided to take our RV up into the hills for the last days.

We’d heard that things might degenerate into insanity in the cities, what was left of them, and we didn’t want that as our last memory of this world.

Memory… that’s a funny concept, isn’t it, when you’re probably not going to be around to recall the events in question?

Anyway, I loaded up clothes, gear, and guns and Pat loaded up food and reading stuff.

“How long do you think we need to pack for?” she asked.

Good question. We weren’t sure if we’d ever see the sun again, and the wind was blowing choking thick sulfurous smoke and ash. No one really knew the exact day and time it would all fall apart.

“Why don’t you pack for maybe two weeks? We can hunt, fish and forage for longer, if we need to.”

Two weeks or two days, it didn’t really matter. Quicker might even be easier. I just wanted to go somewhere quiet, where I’d be able to hold her close at the end of it all.

She called to me from the bathroom, “Do we need sleeping pills?”