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The Something Awful Forums > The Finer Arts > The Book Barn > Let's Read The Remnants: jesus christ what the fuck

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

Okay gang, we've knocked out Animorphs (all bangers, even the starfish one) and Everworld (B tier start, S tier middle, D tier ending), now it's time for us to finish what our pal Epicurius started way back in 2020 and read The Remnants!

Here's the summary as per wikipedia:

quote:

Remnants is a series of science fiction books co-authored by Katherine Applegate and her husband Michael Grant, writing together under the name K. A. Applegate, and published between July 2001 and September 2003. It is the story of what happens to the survivors of a desperate mission to save a handful of human beings after an asteroid collides with the Earth. Eighty people are placed aboard a converted space shuttle using untested "quack" hibernation technology and fired blindly into space hours before all life on Earth is obliterated by a large asteroid called The Rock. They are then picked up by a large, sentient space craft of monumental proportions known as 'Mother' which is inhabited by various races. 'Mother' can manipulate the physical environment within the craft's limits and often does so. Only a few people placed in stasis actually were alive and capable of being reanimated when they reached 'Mother'.

So maybe mash together Voyager and Farscape, I'd say Battlestar, but this predates the reimagining and I don't remember the original well enough to recall what it was about, aside from the cylons looking way more awesome than just pretend humans, idk, i never finished the reboot. Who knows how this will go!

Maybe you do! Did you read this as a youth? Do you have fond memories of it? What are we getting ourselves in for?

Also: Let's get a better thread title! Post your thoughts on this series and your idea for a title, we'll begin this tomorrow.

# ¿ Jan 10, 2024 00:24

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# ¿ May 8, 2024 21:28

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

Coca Koala posted:

sounds bizarre so I'm here for it.

we got our first contender for thread title!

# ¿ Jan 10, 2024 01:47

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

quote:

THE MAYFLOWER PROJECT

REMNANTS #1

Prologue

Hannibal�s Carthaginian army had trapped the Romans under Varro in a place called Canae. Before the day was done the Romans would lose seventy-thousand men. Hannibal would lose less than six thousand. It was to become the very model of total destruction, total victory.

Annihilation.

It was the year 216 B.C.

On that same day, in that same year, a comet that had for millions of years traveled a long, cold, looping orbit around the sun slammed into a massive asteroid in orbit between Mars and Jupiter. The impact was so powerful it reduced the comet to dust. It knocked several smaller pieces from the asteroid and nudged them, along with the asteroid itself, from orbit.

The asteroid began a slow spiral that would eventually bring it to a fiery death in the sun. Then, in the same year that Abraham Lincoln freed American slaves, the asteroid had a close encounter with Mars. It missed the planet by several hundred thousand miles but the gravity of Mars swung the asteroid into a faster, steeper descent.

The asteroid would never reach the sun. It had another stop to make.

quote:

DAYS TO IMPACT: 5

CHAPTER 1

�BANG.�

Jobs was fourteen years old, and if this were the year 2010 and not 2011, and if this were not the state of California but, say, the state of Indiana or New York, he would not be driving a car. Alone. All alone.

The technology had come in 2009 with the Ford Libertad!, but laws were slow to change, slower than technology, and so far only Texas, Montana, and in this last year, California, had changed the laws to allow people as young as twelve to be alone in control, more or less, of an actual car.

Jobs�s parents had bought the 2011 model Libertad! with two things in mind: the hideous commute from their home in Carmel northeast to Silicon Valley and Palo Alto, and their quiet, restless, gifted son. The car was yellow. It produced 325 horsepower, which wasn�t bad, though Jobs felt sure he could improve on that given time � the engine was computer-controlled, of course, and Jobs hadn�t met a program he couldn�t improve.

Still, it was his 325 horses. Three-hundred-twenty-five horses and all his on a Saturday midmorning with the fog lifting off the Monterey peninsula and Highway One not too choked with tourists yet.

�Car: Turn on,� Jobs said. The car read his fingerprints from the steering wheel and the engine started. It didn�t make very much noise � it was a hybrid and since the batteries were fully charged, it was running on electric motors at the moment.

�My pleasure, sir,� the car said in a noncommittal feminine voice, and added, �Operation will be in safe mode only.� The car did not sound apologetic. The car sounded, if anything, just a bit doubtful. A hint of uptalk. Jobs could fix that: This was just the default voice. Five other preloaded voices were available: young male, young female, authoritative male, gender nonspecific, and the computer-simulated voice of beloved (and long-dead) actor James Dean � a tie-in to Ford�s ad campaign.

Jobs said, �Car: Destination: South on Highway One, most direct route.�

There was no uptalk in his voice, no caution or question. Jobs could talk to machines. People not so much, but machines, yes. The car opened the garage door, backed down the driveway, bumped out into the street, stopped, turned, and proceeded at the speed limit. Jobs held his breath. It wasn�t that he doubted the technology, no, he�d read about it, understood it, the sensors were all well-tested, the Global Positioning System was backed up
with a fail-safe, the program had run millions of simulations before Ford ever put it into a car. No, he trusted the technology. It was his own emotions he mistrusted. That sense of getting away with something, of being unaccountably free, that�s what made him hold his breath because surely, surely somehow it wasn�t going to last.

And yet, the 325 horses stopped at the stop sign, and proceeded when safe, and took a left, and read the green light, and turned onto the highway, sped up and shifted gears and slipped neatly between a classic nineties-era Beetle and a semi pulling a Wal-Mart trailer. Past a new golf course with sprinklers going, and all at once the Pacific Ocean was revealed. Buttery sunshine, robin�s-egg skies, puffy clouds, a sailboat leaning far over, a warm, dry
breeze coming in the open window, what was not to like? What was less than perfect in all this?

Jobs sat watching the scenery and watching the wheel turn, left, right, passing the Wal-Mart truck. He wanted to drive. He wanted to hold the wheel. That�s what was wrong. He wanted his feet on the pedals and his hands on the wheel. Could he bypass the security protocol?

�No,� he told himself firmly. �No.�

It would be wrong, and worse still, it would be the end of him driving till he was seventeen and could get a license.
�Plus, you don�t know how to drive,� he reminded himself.

Jobs was thin, even bony, average height, with blond hair that looked as if it had been largely ignored, which it had been. There was something puppyish about his body: hands and feet too big, legs too long, as if he had been put together in a hurry from components that didn�t always match up.

He had too-prominent brown eyes that wore a distracted expression, as if they were usually turned inward and only occasionally startled into observing the outside world. His mouth�s default expression was one of tentative near-smile. Like he was planning on smiling but kept forgetting to.

His birth name was Sebastian Andreeson. He�d kept that name until he was seven and read a biography of Steven Jobs. From that point on, he was Jobs.

�Car: Sound system on.�

The stereo came on and defaulted to one of his dad�s files: Green Day? Nirvana? One of those eternally unhappy bands from the nineties. Jobs couldn�t keep track of them. At least it wasn�t his mom�s hip-hop.

�Car: Stereo: Search for opera. Neo, not classic.�

A few second�s delay and the full, rich sound of a tenor singing a popular aria from Molly Folly. It was one of those tunes you couldn�t get away from: hooky, singable, but lyrically prosaic, to Jobs�s ear at least. He was on the point of trying for something different when he recalled: Didn�t Cordelia love Molly Folly? Yes, he remembered, she did. He remembered that.

And the kiss.

The dance. The gym, decorated with streamers and balloons and flatscreens showing slo-mo montages of soaring flight videos. (The theme of the dance was All Can Soar!) He hadn�t come to the dance with Cordelia. He�d wanted to, he�d thought about it, planned it, written several convincing speeches to be delivered to her in a very casual yet totally rehearsed kind of way.

But he hadn�t asked her; she�d gone with her boyfriend. Jobs had been under the impression that she�d broken up with Hondo, but no, they were back together at the dance. So Jobs had gone alone. Even his best friend, Mo�Steel, had a date. He had to be there, no choice, since he was the designated techie running the lights and flatscreens.
On his way to the boys� room he�d come across Cordelia crying in a gloomy hallway off the gym. He asked why she was crying. She told him. For the next straight hour.

Jobs was a good listener. He listened, without judging or interrupting or trying to exploit the situation to his advantage. (Hondo had done her wrong.) He listened and sympathized and offered a shoulder to cry on, despite the increasingly urgent need to pee. And then, in a strange, tender moment, Cordelia kissed him. Not a brotherly, �thanks for listening� kiss on the cheek, but the real thing. Then, with a rueful smile, she walked away and Jobs ran for the boys� room.

He remembered every detail. He just wasn�t sure what the details meant. Had he blown his big chance? Had she been all but begging him to become her boyfriend? Had he been just too noble for his own good? Or had he exaggerated the whole thing all out of proportion?

The car swept down the coastal highway, holding at about forty miles an hour, open road ahead now, but twisting and turning. It occurred to Jobs that he should just dial Cordelia up and stun and astound her with the fact that he, he alone, was in the car. No parents. He was the only (or at least one of the very few) ninth graders currently in possession of 325 horsepower.

He could call her up. He could swing by wherever she was and give her a ride. She might respond by saying, �Ever since that night, that lovely, perfect kiss, I�ve been fascinated by you, Jobs. I know you�re like some uber-nerd, but I also sense that deep down inside you hide the soul of a poet. Now, please kiss me again.�

Yep. That�s what would happen.

The music stopped and Jobs realized he hadn�t turned on the content filter. A news broadcast began and before he had a chance to instruct the car to go back to music, he heard something that froze the words unformed in his throat.

�. . . denied the report and said that �no credible evidence has yet been presented that Earth is directly imperiled.��
And with that the broadcast turned to the next story, which involved stock prices.

�Car: Stereo: Previous story, give me the full file, on screen.�

The Libertad! might not have been exactly perfect for a guy who wanted his hands on the wheel and his foot on the pedal, but it was perfect for someone who wanted to read. The story appeared on screen, a compilation of news reports from The New York Times and CNN and WebboScreed.

The original story had come from WebboScreed. The story said that NASA had discovered an approaching asteroid roughly seventy-six miles long on an intercept course with Earth. As he was reading the story a bug popped up to announce an update. This was a CNN story, a more credible source than WebboScreed.

�Car: Stereo: Play the bugged story. Video.�

The screen showed a CNN anchor doing an intro to a piece reported with some skepticism by a field reporter standing out in a marsh near the Kennedy Space Center in Florida. The reporter quoted sources as saying that one of the last of the aging shuttles was being outfitted to carry a sort of Noah�s Ark of selected humans into space so that at least some humans would survive the impact of the rumored asteroid.

CNN went to some lengths to pooh-pooh its own story. There were endless reminders that this was totally unconfirmed, and in fact was being vigorously denied by NASA and the White House. The reporter concluded by suggesting that he, personally, thought the story was baloney.

Jobs cleared the screen.

He took several deep, shaky breaths. Dangerous to automatically believe anything the media said. Unless it was confirmed, backed up, proven. Or unless your mother had been weeping secretly for the last two weeks, giving you and your brother strange, faraway looks filled with muted horror and sadness. And unless that mother was Professor Jennifer Andreeson, head of astrophysics at Stanford. Asteroid. Seventy-six miles long. The asteroid that had eradicated the dinosaurs was what? Jobs searched his memory. Ten miles long? It would be like shooting a bullet into a soft-boiled egg.

�Bang,� Jobs said to the car.

He didn�t know what to do or think. He could call his parents. He could call his little brother, Edward. He could call Cordelia and try to exploit the fact that the world was coming to an end. Or he could call his best friend, Mo�Steel, who would be absolutely no help at all.

�Link: Call Mo.�

And we're off!

Okay, so number 1. We got some names in this book. Wow. Number 2, Jobs has a Something Awful account. Number 3, we're getting right into thing, hell yeah! Also lol at working autodriving cars in 2011

quote:

CHAPTER 2

�YOU DON�T WANT TO BE IN A BODY CAST WHEN IT HAPPENS.�

Mo�Steel had barely slept the night before. He�d barely spoken to anyone, which was unusual. He�d barely formed a coherent thought, which was not at all unusual. He was as excited as it was possible for him to be, and he was capable of becoming very excited.

He was not scared. Not what you�d call really scared. He was totally glandular, definitely hugely adrenalized, but not scared. His friend Jobs had once tried to convince him that fear was the real motivation behind Mo�Steel�s obsessive need for the newest, wildest, most idiotic, most dangerous thrill. But that was Jobs for you: He thought way too much. He wouldn�t say anything for a week, then, when he finally did say something besides, �You gonna eat those fries?� what he said would be something disturbing.

Mo�Steel was hooked onto a semi-enclosed chairlift that moved about five times faster than the usual ski lift. But then this wasn�t a ski lift. This wasn�t skiing. No snow in sight at this altitude, though there was a nice snowcap higher up. The lift was just a sort of hook, really, a bare little seat and a steel ring to hold him in place and a plastic bubble to trap oxygen and a bit of warmth.

His feet hung free. Fifty-foot-tall trees reached up practically to brush the wheels of Mo�Steel�s skates as he skimmed along above them. The birds were all down there, flitting white and gray and russet shapes. He was above the birds.

He twisted in the lift to look back at distant Denver, smoggy and sprawled out at the foot of the mountains. He pitied those people down there. Pitied them because all they were doing was grinding along, stuck on slow, while he was on the edge of the ultimate. He turned away from the city and peered down through the trees again. Here and there he saw sections of The Pipe. The Six Flags over Colorado Skateboggan was the official name, which was just pitiful. They should have known everyone would be calling it The Pipe. Capital T, capital P.

The Pipe was an eight-foot-diameter tube, all blast-glass, Teflon, and neon inside, dull brown-painted aluminum outside. It ran from near the top of Mount Cisco Systems all the way to the bottom: an eleven-thousand-foot drop. But not just a drop, oh no. The Pipe split into four intertwining, interlocking branches, zooming back and forth down the mountain�s face, so that the eleven-thousand-twenty-foot vertical actually ended up being closer to twenty
thousand linear feet.

Twenty thousand feet: three-point-eight miles, give or take. Maximum recorded speed? Seventy-eight miles per hour, compadre. Fast as a car on the interstate, only with no car.

The peak, the launching point, was not far now. Mo�Steel was getting giddy and he wondered for a moment if the oxygen system was working right. Not much air way up here. Not much air but plenty of wind. The little car rocked back and forth, not a bad ride all by itself. What if the cable broke? That could be woolly. Hard-core woolly.

He began to loosen himself up as well as he could. Shoulder roll, leg stretch, oh man, it was going to be supreme.

The voice of the chairlift informed him that he had one minute to blastoff and reminded him to check his equipment.

He slapped the helmet down on his head, made sure it was seated properly. He spun the little wheels set in the edge of his gloves. He kicked his skates together, testing the feel of them. Knee pads, on. Elbow pads, on. Mo�Steel was not a big jock. He was never going to play professional basketball or football � he was too small for either. Not small small, just normal size, and normal size was death in pro sports.

He had broad shoulders and somewhat bowed legs and a concave belly. His face was defined by a wide, smiling mouth and eyes set too far apart for classic good looks. There was a reptilian quality to him, but a nice reptile: a happy lizard with quick movements and sudden grins and long brown hair that bounced every time he yelled. Which was fairly often since Mo�Steel�s normal mode of conversation was a goofy, wild-eyed yell.

He was over the snow now, the almost year-round snow. The wind whipped up seriously, whistling over the mountain�s peak, and pushed freezing tendrils through the chairlift�s heat- glow. They said the inside of The Pipe was warm. And plenty of air, too. That was good because he didn�t want to do this all numb and wheezing. The point was to feel.

The chair cleared a rock ledge and there it was, all at once: The Sink. There could be no other name for it, although the Six Flags people insisted on calling it the American Express Launch Point.

It was The Sink. Capital T, capital S.

It was sixty feet across, a rounded out, perfectly smooth dimple in the top of the mountain, carved into living rock. In the bottom of The Sink was a drain. That drain was the opening of The Pipe. The chair rose, circled, jerked on its cable as it dropped lower.

Time to take the test.

�Lock and load,� Mo�Steel said.

He opened the safety belt and dropped the three feet to the gently sloped upper sink. He could still chicken out if he wanted. He could skate out of The Sink and wait to catch the next downward chair.

Yeah. Right.

Mo�Steel had never bunnied out. He had broken five major bones � four of them so badly that they�d been replaced with either composites or regrown-bone-over-titanium. His left humerus, right clavicle, right tibia, and fibula were artificial.

He was proud of the damage. He�d traded his birth name of Romeo Gonzalez for the name Mo�Steel � either for Man Of Steel or More Steel, he couldn�t quite recall which � right after the spectacularly gross (and painful) tibia-fibula break.

Breaking body parts was acceptable. Going all bunny rabbit was not.

Mo�Steel changed his angle of attack and dropped down, turned, caught a cool centrifugal, then cut down and all at once, no time for second thoughts now, he was in The Pipe. The Pipe took it easy for the first three-hundred feet. Time to catch your breath, psych up, get ready. There were neon bands placed every fifty feet. The color of the neon changed depending on the slope. Here they glowed green. Later they would change to yellow. When you saw red bands flash by you were dropping nearly vertical.

And then, there were the big purple streamers that would warn you of approaching intersections, and the white strobes to let you know you were coming onto an airborne.

A lot to remember when your brain was screaming.

�Green, green, green,� as Mo�Steel got used to The Pipe, got used to the diameter, the unmarred smoothness. He slalomed a little, riding up and down the sides. How fast would he have to be going before he could pull a three-sixty?

Then, all at once it was bye-bye, stomach, and he was blazing down through a blur of yellow.

�Aaaaahhhh! Aaaaahhhh!� he yelled, an expression of purest joy. �Aaaaahhhhh!�

His link rang in his ear.

What? He�d blocked his link, he had definitely blocked his link, and now he was crouched low, beating the air resistance, building speed, and the phone was still deedly-deedling in his ear.

Faster, faster, so fast he could go airborne with a fart. Red lights ahead!

�Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!�

So fast now the wind was vibrating his cheeks, stretching his lips into an oblong �O.� Going red! The red neon was a blur. A smear of blood-light all around him. The link rang again. Distracting, to say the least, when the slightest wrong move would result in his sliding ignominiously down the entire remaining length of The Pipe. Oh, the
humiliation!

Deedly-deedly.

�Argh! Link: Answer already!� he shouted in frustration. Purple streamer. Left or right? Left or right? He tried to remember the simulation he�d had to run through three times and master before he could be allowed to ride The Pipe.

Left. No, right!

A voice in his ear. �Mo, what�s up?�

�Jobs? Aaaaaahhhhhh! Yeah! Yeah!�

�Mo, what are you doing?�

Left, left, left! A sudden, jerking, yellow-neon-three-gee-turn, then a sickening drop into all-red territory and man, he�d only thought he was going fast before. He was falling like a rock, gravity, Mother G had him, falling faster and faster, skates barely touching the tunnel.

�I�m riding The Pipe!� Mo�Steel yelled.

�What? Now?�

He pushed off ever so slightly, did a forward flip, and landed on his glove-wheels. Now he was rocketing along backward while standing (more or less) on his hands. It was perhaps the most deeply satisfying moment of his life.

�Strobes!� Mo�Steel screamed giddily.

�Hey, this is kind of important, Mo.�

Ahead there was a perfect circle of sunlight. Somersault. Upright and he was there before he could take a breath. There and all at once out of the pipe and flying through the air, shouting in glee, yelling, scared, wild, totally adrenal.
The gap was thirty feet. Thirty feet of open, pipeless air. A flash of green and brown and a weirdly long, dream-slow view of blue sky.

The opening of the next segment of pipe was flared wide to allow for windage. Mo�Steel pulled his legs up, raised his toes, spread his arms out like wings and hit the flared lip perfectly.

�Jobs, you have got to do this! Aaaaahhhh! Aaaaahhhh!�

�Mo, listen to me, man: no more broken bones. Take it slow. Something is happening. Something big. You don�t want to be in a body cast when it happens.�

�Aaaaahhhhh! No, no, no yellow, no yellow, give me the red! Give me the red! Gimme RED! What�s happening, Jobs? What big thing?�

�Mo, there�s an asteroid going to hit Earth. I don�t want to ruin your day, but it kind of looks like the world is going to end.�

�Oh, that. Yeah, I knew that. My dad told me. Why do you think he paid for this trip? Is that it?�

A long pause. A peevish, dissatisfied silence. Then, �Yeah, Mo, that�s it.�

�Cool. Aaaaahhhhh! Later.�

So it looks like we'll be getting multiple POVs a book. I like Mo.

# ¿ Jan 11, 2024 04:59

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

quote:

DAYS TO IMPACT: 4

CHAPTER 3

�IT WOULDN�T BE LIKE KILLING IN A NORMAL WAY.�

�Can�t they blow it up?�

�No.�

D-Caf thought about that for a moment. He trusted Mark, respected him. But at the same time he had always thought his brother lacked imagination. Mark was brilliant, no one argued with that, but he was not an imaginative person.

D-Caf said, �In this old movie I saw on TV, I forget the name, something about an asteroid, anyway, they blew it up. Most of it, anyway.�

�It�s too big, Hamster. If they were lucky maybe they�d knock a chunk off of it.�

D-Caf bit his lip, then bit his thumbnail. �Don�t call me Hamster. My name is D-Caf, everyone calls me that. You can call me Harlin if you can�t handle D-Caf. Not Hamster.�

�Whatever.� Mark returned his gaze to the monitor, gazing intently, working, worrying an idea, tapping fitfully at the keys, occasionally muttering a simple spoken command. D-Caf watched with what minimal patience he could summon. His brother had just announced the end of the world, and he seemed almost uninterested, distracted by the streaming number series on the monitor.

�Aren�t they at least going to try?� D-Caf pressed. �I mean, in this old movie they landed on the comet, I mean I think maybe it was a comet, and they were drilling holes down into it and putting nuclear bombs and ��

�Let it go, Hamster. Just let it go, all right?� Mark yelled. He slammed his hands down together on the desktop, sending a souvenir pencil holder from Ocean City crashing to the floor. He leaned over and picked it up, put the pencils back in, and returned the cup to its place.

�Look,� Mark said, �it�s too big, it�s too fast, it�s too close. It�s about four days away. If you dug a hole right to the center of it and piled every bomb on Earth in there all you�d do is crack it in half and both halves would hit Earth. Or maybe you�d melt some of it, and then we�d get hit by two great big rocks plus a few million cubic yards of molten rock and maybe some nickel and iron. You got the picture? Last big rock that hit Earth drilled a hole about a mile
deep and left a crater almost a mile across. You know how big that rock was? One-hundred-fifty feet. Not miles, feet. So guess what? The Rock is coming, the Rock is going to hit, and it�s going to be like swinging a sledgehammer into a watermelon.�

Mark spun back to his monitor, mad at himself for blowing up at his little brother, mad at D-Caf for making him blow up. He was more than just a big brother. He was all D-Caf had for family. Their parents had died ten years earlier when Mark was fifteen and Harlin was five. Under most circumstances the brothers would have been sent to foster homes. But Mark Melman was a resourceful kid. A prodigy in the arcane world of data flow mechanics. He was
already employed by a major e-tailer while still in school, and he was able to use his income and his skill to evade the Maryland child protective services and keep his brother with him.

Once he turned eighteen he sought and was granted legal custody. By then Mark Melman was employed by Oono Systems Inc., which, among other things, held major contracts with NASA. He had raised his little brother, doing a good job, mostly. But there had always been stresses and resentments. Mark hadn�t had much of a childhood himself and the weight of parenting had made him short-tempered, impatient.

And D-Caf was honest enough about himself to know that he had never been an easy kid to handle. He was a daydreamer, a spacer, a person for whom ordinary life seemed dark and dull and slightly threatening. He spent his days reading, playing by himself, wandering away on long walks by the bay, watching the sailboats, forgetting homework, times, dates, duties. He would gladly have spent from sunrise to long after sunset with his face buried in a book, living a vicarious life.

When he was around people, in school, at church, at the summer camp his brother forced him to attend each year, he switched personalities entirely, becoming hyper, chatty, nervous, like someone on his tenth cup of coffee. (Hence the name D-Caf.) He made bad jokes. Too many bad jokes. People made him tense, and tension made him jumpy. The presence of other people had a sort of toxic effect on D-Caf, like they were a drug that altered his sense of himself, turning him into someone that he himself could not stand.

He was getting that way now, he could feel it, reacting to Mark�s tersely delivered, shattering news. His leg was bouncing. He was rocking back and forth. �They can�t just sit around, though. I mean, they�re trying something, right? I mean, all the technology we have, all the scientists and all.�

Mark snorted derisively. �Yeah. They�re trying something all right. They�re calling it Mayflower. That�s fairly pathetic. Mayflower? They had two weeks� notice. What do you think they�re going to do in two weeks, build themselves a brand-new ship? They�re hauling some tired old shuttle out of mothballs, tacking on every half-tested bit of quack technology they can find � I mean, solar sail , hibernation, anything lying around in somebody�s lab. They�re gonna tack it all onto this shuttle, load it up with people, and shoot them off into space.�

�And they�re going to blow up the asteroid?�

�No, Hamster, they�re going to go floating off through space like some lost lifeboat. That�s the big plan. That�s it. That�s all they�ve got.�

Mark�s voice dripped contempt. But then contempt was Mark�s default tone. �Eighty, ninety people, whoever they can round up on no notice. For about ten seconds the NASA brass considered assembling some neat cross-section of humanity, geniuses of every type, every race and whatnot, then they realized, oops! They had no time for all that. NASA started handing out tickets to the people they needed, the people they owed favors to, the people who might screw up the plan if they weren�t taken care of. And they�re going to send those poor fools floating off through space, more or less aimed at a star they think might have a livable planet, which they might reach in a century or two, by which point they�ll be freeze-dried, radioactive, as full of holes as Swiss cheese, and oh, by the way, dead.�

D-Caf and his brother were like a before and after picture. The younger brother was fighting a weight problem, the older, Mark, looked like a guy who might not have exactly won that battle but had at least avoided losing it. D-Caf had dark hair, dark eyes, teeth that would need correcting. He was already as tall as Mark and on his way to being taller. But he concealed this advantage by his habit of walking a little stooped forward. He had been tested in the usual ways and was, in fact, a bit more intelligent than Mark. But this was another advantage D-Caf could never exploit. Mark was his parent and his brother, and their relationship depended on an assumption of superiority for
Mark. D-Caf had no interest in challenging the one real relationship he had.

D-Caf considered Mark�s statement, the way he delivered it, the sense of things being left unsaid. He was practically vibrating, forehead frowning and releasing, frowning and releasing, trying to resist the cascade of tension-agitation.
�Can we go?� D-Caf asked. �Can we go on the shuttle?�

�Didn�t you hear what I just told you?�

�Yeah. But you kind of look on the negative side of stuff, Mark.�

To D-Caf�s surprise, his brother barked out a genuine laugh. �Yeah, I do, huh? But, Ham � but brother, this isn�t about positive or negative. The Rock hits, that�s it. I wasn�t going to tell you. I was just going to make it all good for you: movies every night, all the junk food you want, whatever you wanted because what does it matter anymore, right? But even if you are annoying sometimes, you�re a very smart kid, and I�ve never lied to you yet.�

D-Caf looked hard at his brother�s face. There was something more, something he wasn�t telling. D-Caf had the gift of knowing people�s emotions, understanding. Empathy. He felt some hesitation, some indecision from his brother.
He waited, and stared, and said nothing, and at last Mark sighed and hung his head. �We can�t go on the Mayflower because we�re not a regular, stable family. That�s what they�re looking for. They�re rounding up NASA people and NASA contractors, and yeah, maybe that�s me, but only intact families. Anyway, the whole Mayflower Project is a stupid waste of time. But I guess there�s a small but measurable chance it will succeed, and no chance with anything else.� He sucked in a deep breath and looked hard at his brother. �So, look, if you want to, we�re going.�

�How?�

Mark leaned forward. He twined his fingers, twisting them almost painfully. �Everyone�s doomed, brother. Everyone�s death warrant is signed, sealed, and waiting to be delivered. So killing . . . I mean, it wouldn�t be like killing in a normal way. And I still have Dad�s old gun.�

D-Caf blinked. He knew his brother didn�t believe his own words, but he also knew he was very serious.

�The crew of the shuttle, just two guys, they have to deploy these experimental solar sails after they�re in orbit, well into the flight. There�s a space that connects the flight deck to the pod, the Mayflower capsule, whatever you want to call it. They have two hibernation berths there for the crew, just above the rest of the berths. They�ll come back there after they deploy the sails and carry out their final burn. That�s where we�ll be, Hamster. That�ll be our place. We�ll be waiting.�

three chapters in and we're already justifying murder, hell yeah!!!

quote:

CHAPTER 4

�YOU UP FOR SOMETHING STUPID AND DANGEROUS?�

A weird day had passed since Jobs had guessed the truth from the much-dismissed news story. A day when he had gone to school, done his homework, followed his usual routine. His parents had said nothing. But for the last twenty-four hours the air in their home had been electric with unspoken fears. Conversation was stilted. His mother�s eyes were rimmed with red. His father withdrew into a shell of silence, reading the paper for too long without turning a page, staring at nothing, squeezing his wife�s hand too often.

But the next day, things changed. The atmosphere was just as charged, but Jobs guessed that whatever consideration had imposed the delay, the time had come at last. Jobs�s parents were waiting for him when he got home from school. They asked him to stay home. That night, after a family dinner, after Edward had been freed to go play in the family room, they made it official: It was real.

�It will be devastating. I mean, you can do the math, son,� his mother said.

�There�s this escape plan. They call it Mayflower. It�s an old shuttle loaded up with new technology. Hibernation,� his dad added helpfully.

�I�ve read about the hibernation technology,� Jobs said. �They tested it on baboons. Sixty-two percent of the baboons survived. That means thirty-eight percent died. And that was a short-term test: twelve hours in hibernation.�

�That�s just what�s been declassified,� his mother reassured him.

But his dad gave him one of the secret looks they sometimes shared. Jobs and his father had an agreement, a sort of truce that papered over the fundamental differences between them: They didn�t lie to each other. Jobs nodded slowly: message received. His mom was trying to soften reality.

It was a lot to absorb. One thing to deduce, based on sketchy, not-entirely-serious news reports that the world was coming to an end. A whole different thing to have your parents lay it out.

His father said, �The thing is, kid, they�ll come for us sometime in the next day or so. In the meantime, we�re being watched. All communications in and out of the house are being monitored. Same with the cars, with your link. You can�t talk to anyone about this.�

�I called Mo yesterday after that news story ran. He was in Colorado. He already knew.�

�And you got the call to go through?� His mother frowned. �Idiots! On an open link and they didn�t block it? You encrypted at least?�

Jobs nodded. �Of course, Mom. Mo and I have our own cryp.�

�Thank God for that at least. This can�t get out. The shuttle only carries so many people, you know, and almost all the spots are spoken for. There would be panic.�

�The story was on CNN,� Jobs said.

His father waved a dismissive hand. �That�s a deliberate leak. They set it up so they can knock it down. Makes the newsies cautious about reporting anything else on it till they�re dead sure.� He winced. �Bad choice of words.�

Jobs went to his room. He contacted Mo�Steel on his link. The call did not go through. Dead air. He e-mailed. E-mail returned, unreceived. Weird. He sat there, staring at the glowing screen of his main monitor. How could he punch
through? He could tack an e-mail onto a virus, piggyback it onto a simple request for a movie. He had a virus he�d used before, a benign, harmless, nearly invisible virus created only as a test. He called it up, bundled it into a standard request to view a movie. What movie? He thought for a moment. Lord of the Rings, Part III.

He punched in the request.

Request denied: virus detected.

And then, an instant message from Watcher 27@DSA. The IM said, �Nice try, kid.�

Jobs didn�t answer. He pulled his hands away from the keyboard. DSA: Data Security Agency. He was being actively monitored by the DSA. Jobs had often considered a career that would begin with a couple of years at DSA.
He couldn�t reach Mo�Steel. That was clear. Of course, he wasn�t really interested in reaching Mo. Mo was already in the know, Mo could take care of himself.

Cordelia was a different matter.

What would I even say? Jobs wondered. You barely know me, but the world is ending and maybe I could get you on some doomed shuttle to nowhere? A silly, romantic gesture, he knew. Grandiose. Melodramatic. Ludicrous. But the need to do it, to try, to make the grand, silly, romantic gesture, those feelings were real. He couldn�t just do nothing. He couldn�t just write off the human race, so long, Earth, so long, Homo sapiens. So long to the kiss.

He noted with some surprise that he felt like throwing up. He was sweating. His hands were shaking. It disturbed him being this disturbed. He tried to take deep breaths, tried to calm himself down, impossible to do any good
thinking when you were this upset. Deep breath. Deep breath.

�Calm down?!� he demanded, outraged at himself. �Calm down? Everyone is going to die, calm down?!�

Sudden thought: Had they bugged his room? Were they watching him even now, watching, listening, and getting readouts on his pulse and respiration and brain waves? He shot a look around his room. Pointless, of course: The sensors the FBI had access to were too small to be detected without the right equipment. Yes, of course they were watching, of course.

How to play it out? They�d seen him try to contact Mo. Seen him from both sides of the keyboard. Still, their resources must be limited. He got up and went to the bathroom. He turned on the shower, hot and hotter. He cranked on the air-conditioning and closed the fan vent. Steam.

Lots of steam, that was the trick. Wet heat would confuse the sensors, the steam would cloud the tiny lens. He let the steam build up, and, very self-consciously, took off his clothes. He was going to take a shower. A perfectly normal thing to do. When the steam was dense enough he slipped back into his clammy clothing, opened the
bathroom window, slid out, hung by his fingers, sucked it up, and dropped the eight feet to the ground.

He rolled, stood up, looked around the dark backyard. In a crouch he ran for the back fence. A jump, a grab, a painful roll across the top. �Ouch. Ow. How does Mo do this kind of stuff?�

He was in the Ludmillas� yard. They didn�t own a dog, fortunately. He ran across their yard, cut left, and climbed their shorter fence, landing in the alleyway. It was just a block to Mo�Steel�s house. Mo would probably be in the backyard: His family had a pool, and it was a warm night.

Jobs ran full speed. They�d know he was gone by now.

He reached the fence around Mo�Steel�s backyard and saw his friend fly through the air, soar above the fence into view, then fall with a huge splash. He jumped, used the fence to do a pull-up, stuck his head over, and saw Mo�Steel spitting water. He was trying to drag a stainless steel mountain bike up out of the shallow end. Mo had
rigged a ramp to drop from the backyard swing set, onto the diving board. He was convinced that he could get his bike to jump the pool lengthwise, if only he could build a high-enough ramp.

�Mo!�

�T�sup, Duck?�

�You up for something stupid and dangerous?�

Mo�Steel grinned like a four-year-old offered a lollipop. �Who, me?�

# ¿ Jan 12, 2024 16:04

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

WrightOfWay posted:

This series has incredible names.

YEAH I can't wait for D-CAF and Mo'Steel to hang out!

# ¿ Jan 12, 2024 17:52

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

/\/\/\That's awesome, please post about the stuff the freaked you out when it comes up!

Remalle posted:

Is this series mostly written by Grant? Animorphs and Everworld definitely had the same voice but this feels wildly different so far.

I could see that. I think Epi mentioned as much waaaaay back in the animorphs thread when we were discussing what series to do next.

quote:

CHAPTER 5

�WELL, YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENED TO THE DINOSAURS, RIGHT?�

In his dream Billy Weir flew across a great emptiness. An emptiness so vast, so hollow, so ringingly empty, so utterly without form or characteristic, there seemed no possibility of an ending. It was emptiness, blankness, a hole not in the ground but in the fabric of time and space itself.

He flew, immobile. He flew and his body was changed, somehow.

At times as he flew through the void he recalled the orphanage in Chernokozovo, Chechnya. He tasted the mold on the bread. He smelled the urine reek from the latrine, the reek that permeated the whole room. The cold, always cold, paint peeling from damp stone walls.

Other times he was in his room, in the house in Austin, Texas, the shockingly large, impossibly clean, opulent house where they fed him barbecue and corn and green salad. Billy Weir. Not a taken name, a given name. He had been born Ruslan. That was his first name. No one ever told him his last name; it wouldn�t have been safe: His father was a guerrilla fighter and the Russians were not above using him to hurt his father. When the Weirs adopted him at age three he became William Weir III. At school, Billy Weird.

His dream drifted to school. He was teased but not harshly. Liked but not much. Accepted without enthusiasm. He wasn�t even weird, except for the dreams, and no one knew about them. No one knew that in his dreams he remembered everything, everything, things he couldn�t possibly remember: being a newborn baby, being three months old, and the murder of his mother by scared-drunk Russian troops. Things no one remembered but Billy.

And then there were the dreams, just as real, but that seemed to be about events that had not yet unfolded. Those dreams, those places all lay across that great, horrible void. He saw a world of brilliant copper-colored ocean and pale pink skies and a ragged group hoisting sails on tall masts to catch the wind. A wild kid was hanging from the ropes yelling.

He saw mountains like knife edges. He saw great, buoyant beasts as big as blimps that bounded across a landscape of waving yellow grass.

He saw other creatures, creatures without faces, without arms or legs. Was he, himself, one of them?

But all that was far, far away. And what he saw most was the Rock. He dreamed of it, spinning, silent, no rush of air, no swoosh, no sense of its enormous speed. Just a monstrous rock, as big as a whole mountain chain, hills and pockmark craters and strange, fanciful extrusions.

He saw the Rock. He saw that his father, his adopted father, knew it was coming. The Rock would chase Billy Weir away to yet another home, another country. The Rock would make him an orphan again. There was no resisting the dreams. When the dreams came they spoke the truth as it had been, as it would be.

He woke. He�d fallen asleep on the couch watching football. It was only about nine o�clock. Sadness washed over him. Sadness had always been with him. Always from the start, from birth in a hollowed-out stone house, roof blasted away. He had come into the world without a cry, they thought he was dead, they almost hoped he was dead because what life could he ever have?

His mother, his true mother, had cried as she nursed him for the first time. And many, many times more as she carried him from place to place, always harried by the distant and not-so-distant sounds of artillery, the sharp crack of rifle fire.

He woke and the sadness was all over him, all through him, the dream still fresh in his mind. His father and mother were coming. They were in the kitchen doorway. �Son, did you wake up?�

His mom and dad, Jessica and Big Bill Weir, as he was known, all went into the kitchen. Big Bill was just home late from work: a suit, a tie, polished alligator cowboy boots. His mom was in her robe.

�Sorry to make you miss the game, son,� Big Bill said. �But we got the okay, so, anyway, I had to talk to you.�

�It�s fine,� Billy said.

His dad looked at him, lips pursed, thoughtful, perplexed. Billy knew his dad had always done his best to treat Billy like a natural son. But despite those best efforts there seemed to be immutable differences between them. They didn�t fight. They didn�t argue. Billy was a good kid, respectful, proper, rarely headstrong. And, he knew, that was part of the problem, because Big Bill was known as a Holy Terror, a wild man of the high-technology world. He had loved it when Business Week called him a maverick.

Billy was not a maverick. Not a Texas-style maverick, anyway. He was small, for one thing. He had pale skin that never seemed to tan. He had deep, deep black eyes and unruly black hair. He was a good-looking kid in his own way, but he wasn�t Big Bill. And yet, Billy knew, his dad admired him. When he was twelve Billy had been in a very
one-sided fight: An older kid, twice Billy�s size, had beat him up in retaliation for Big Bill�s firing his father. The older kid had broken his nose, kicked him so severely he peed blood for a day. Billy refused to take off from school. He refused to be driven to school to avoid walking by the bully�s house. And when the bully�s father brought his son over to make a contrite and frightened apology, Billy just listened, said nothing, showed neither fear nor resentment.

Big Bill didn�t say much at the time. But the next day, for the first time, he brought Billy to work, to the company he owned. �Figure it�s time for you to start finding out what our family does for a living. Meet some of our people, see our company.�

The �our� was subtly underlined.

Now Big Bill was watching his son closely as he delivered the news. �Son, I have something to tell you. In the morning some men are coming. FBI agents, to tell it true. They�re going to pack us up and take us away.�

�Why?�

�Something terrible is about to happen. You know how you used to like to play with dinosaurs when you were little? You could name them all, I think. Brachiosaurus, all those. Well, you know what happened to the dinosaurs, right?�

�Yes, sir.�

�A couple weeks ago they found a big old asteroid and it�s coming this way. And there�s no way to stop it. So, well, we�re going to try hard not to be here when it hits. There�s a mission. They�re going to use the solar sails we�ve been developing, what do you think of that, eh? Of course, I have to tell it true: It�s all one heck of a long shot.�

�It will work,� Billy said.

Big Bill smiled. To his wife he said, �The kid can take it.�

Billy did not return the smile. He could feel himself rising up, floating, hanging now very, very near the edge of the endless void. So close now, that nothingness. Normal time, this whole world already seemed shriveled and insignificant beside so much emptiness.

�Can we bring anything with us?�

His mother spoke for the first time. �Not very much, sweetheart. One or two small things, maybe, they said. It�s all . . .� She looked around at the gleaming kitchen. There were tears in her eyes.

�I�ll go pack,� Billy said.

And we have another kid. No girl character yet, will that be Cordelia?

quote:

CHAPTER 6

�IT�S JUST NOT HERO TIME.�

�How are you going to get them to let Cordelia come along?� Mo�Steel asked.

�Blackmail,� Jobs said.

�Cool.�

They were trotting along the alley, Jobs dressed in still-damp clothes, Mo in a bathing suit, barefoot.

�I�m going to threaten to go straight to the media,� Jobs panted.

�When we get to Cordelia�s house I�ll use her link to creep my mom�s computer at work. They won�t be monitoring Cordelia�s link. I�ll creep my mom�s files � I know her codes. I�ll upload them into half a dozen time-release files spread all over the Web. If they don�t give me what I want, my mom�s files on the Rock will be everywhere in a hurry.�

Mo�Steel nodded. As usual, Jobs had a plan. Jobs always had a plan. But discussions of computers tended to cause Mo�Steel�s mind to wander, and after ascertaining that Jobs had some kind of plan, he lost interest in the details.

He did not lose interest in what was happening around him. Specifically the two dark sedans that roared down the street, crossing the alleyway. There was a screech of brakes and the whirring sound of a car thrown into reverse.

�Are we being chased?� Mo�Steel asked.

�Yeah. Maybe.�

�Woolly. Come on, Duck. Follow me.�

Mo�Steel leaped onto a trash bin, balanced precariously, stepped onto the top rail of a high fence, balanced there for a split second and jumped onto the sloped roof of a garage. Jobs did his best to follow. Fortunately Mo�Steel had a pretty good idea of his friend�s physical coordination and he had a strong hand ready to grab Jobs�s flailing arm and pull him up.

A sedan came down the alley. Someone inside was shining a powerful flashlight into dark corners. The light swept just beneath Jobs�s dangling legs. On the garage roof Jobs gasped, �Thanks, Mo. I would have made it, you know.�

�Sure you would, Duck. No question,� Mo�Steel answered. �Come on.�

�Let�s get down.�

�Down? Why would we get down? Look: There�s a tree.�

He led the way across the garage roof, into the low-drooping branches of an ancient elm. They threaded through the branches, up, down, squeeze. Across the fence to drop into the next yard.

Then it was across the yard, climb the rose trellis to the roof of the house, over to the far side, out onto that attached garage, a jump onto an RV parked in the driveway, and a heart-stopping leap that took them over a picket fence.
Jobs landed and plowed forward. Mo�Steel grabbed his arm and yanked him back.

�Careful of the roses, compadre. Thorns and all. Besides, the old lady who lives here is nice.�

A quick look left and right and they bolted across the street. Then through a gate and smack into a very large dog.

�Rrrrr.�

�Mo!�

�He�s on a chain!�

�It�s a long chain!�

With a guttural roar the dog charged.

�Jump him!� Mo�Steel yelled and leaped straight up as the dog passed beneath him. The animal hit Jobs head-on, bowling-balled him down and stood snarling on his chest.

�Aaahhh!� Jobs yelled.

Mo�Steel grabbed the chain, yanked the animal off Jobs, dragged the chain fast, and looped it around a cast-iron lawn chair.

�Come on, Duck, what are you waiting for?�

Jobs jumped up, cursing under his breath, and ran past the frantic, air-snapping beast. Two more fences, one more roof, and a lung-crushing trip over a swing set and they were in Cordelia�s backyard.

�Yesterday I do The Pipe. Now I�m Spider-Man,� Mo�Steel exulted. �It�s been a sweet couple of days.�

Jobs gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes. �Yeah, it�s been a party, Mo. You are deeply disturbed.�

Mo�Steel nodded in agreement. He was aware that he was different. He liked the difference. They stood gazing up at Cordelia�s window. No light showed.

�How do you know that�s her room?� Mo�Steel asked.

�I know where her room is.�

�You been up there?� Mo�Steel shot Jobs an incredulous look. Then he laughed. �Just in your head, right? L-o-o-o-ve. Makes a boy go crazy.�

�How do I get up there?� Jobs wondered aloud.

Mo�Steel frowned. �Go around to the front door and knock. You can�t be climbing in some girl�s window.�

�What? Hey, those guys could be waiting for me around front.�

�Yeah, and your babe could be changing clothes or picking her nose or whatever, Duck. You have to treat fems with respect, you can�t just be sticking your head in her window. Who raised you? Monkeys?�

�Mo, it�s kind of an emergency. Now, how do I get up there?�

Mo�Steel looked around. He spied a picnic table. �Come on.�

They manhandled the heavy table into place and leaned it up against the siding. Then Mo�Steel piled a wooden chair atop the upturned table.

�Climb on up: easy as a ladder.�

Jobs began the ascent. Not as easy as a ladder, Jobs thought, but not impossible, either. But now he had some time to consider the next step: actually confronting Cordelia. What on Earth was he going to say? Hi, it�s me, Jobs, I wanted to stop by and let you know the world is coming to an end but I think I can use blackmail to get you a berth on a probably doomed shuttle to nowhere?

He looked down at Mo�Steel. Too late to back out now. Not after all they�d gone through. Besides, maybe, maybe she�d believe him, and maybe she�d go along with his plan.

�I�m an idiot,� Jobs muttered as he stood up to his full height and stretched to slide the window upward. A breeze carried delicate white curtains out, along with the scent of perfume: Bulgari Pink. He�d made it his business to find out.

�Cordelia,� he whispered. �Don�t be afraid. It�s . . . it�s Jobs.�

He pulled himself up as well as he could. No answer. He sensed the emptiness of the room. He climbed in, feeling that he was very definitely doing something wrong. But he had to do it anyway.

It was a girl�s room, definitely a girl�s room. There were stuffed animals, that was a dead giveaway. But she wasn�t a Jane at least. No frills, no retro-Vic tea set or gold-framed pic of Jane Austen, the patron saint of the Jane clique, or the Skirts as they were sometimes called.

He�d worried about that, early on, what with her name being Cordelia. No way a Jane and a Techie ever got together. But it had turned out Cordelia was her given name, so blame her parents. Anyway, this room was a girl�s room, but a cool girl. She had a pair of screens doing slow-dissolves of pix. Pix she must have taken herself, of places Jobs recognized, hangouts, parts of the school, people he knew. Also landscapes, sunsets (kind of a clich� choice, he thought), and seascapes.

He stood watching the dissolves, turning his gaze from screen to screen as each new pic came into focus. And he was starting to see something more there than just so many giga-pixels. She had an eye. Nothing posed or forced or overly cute. But there was affection in some shots, and distaste in others. The emotion bled through into the shot somehow.

�It�s an emotional progression,� he said, surprised at both the fact and at his ability to see it. The shots were arranged without seeming regard to subject category, but rather according to the mood expressed by the photographer�s choices. The screens were moving from affection, to indifference, to active distaste or even contempt, to lust.

�What does that say?� he wondered aloud. �Contempt leads to lust? That can�t be right.�

But now the alternating shots were progressing to humor, to admiration, to a shot of him.

�Huh?� Jobs said, blinking fast and reaching unconsciously for some sort of freeze-frame. But then the shot of him was gone.

�That was off a pinhole camera,� he muttered. The shot had come from a concealed camera, and he had a sinking feeling he knew when and where the shot had been taken. He�d had a look in his eyes: scared, hungry, hopeful, and scared some more. He walked over to her computer and tapped at the keyboard. It asked for a code word. It
took him twenty seconds to break the security and another twenty to run a word search for his own name. He popped a blank disc � he hoped it was blank, anyway � into the drive and copied the files.

This was highly immoral. But then, so was using a pinhole camera. Her wrong had necessitated his wrong. That wasn�t a morally defensible position, but hey, this was love and wasn�t all fair in love and war? There was a noise from the hallway. Footsteps. Heavy ones. Jobs stifled a desperate yelp and dove for the window. He was halfway out, with his legs kicking to find a support when the light in the room snapped on.

�Who are you and what are you doing here?�

A man. Almost certainly Cordelia�s father. With a stun gun. Not deadly but very painful.

�Um . . .�

�I would answer if I were you,� the man said.

�My name is Jobs. I�m a friend of Cordelia�s. From school. I was . . . See, she asked me to drop by and study with her.�

A click. The man lowered his weapon. �I see. And she asked you to come in through the back window?�

Of course. In this position it looked like he�d been caught crawling in. That was something, at least. Cordelia�s father didn�t know he�d already been inside.

�I wasn�t totally clear on where exactly she wanted me to come in.�

�Uh-huh. Well, that makes perfect sense, son. Yes, I can see why you�d be confused: door, window, hard to keep them straight. Anyway, Cordy�s not here. She�s up in San Francisco for a couple days for her cousin�s wedding.�

�Ah.�

�You can go now. And put the lawn furniture back where it belongs, hear me?�

Jobs climbed down. Mo�Steel was standing between two men in dark business suits.

�FBI,� one of the men announced unnecessarily.

�Hi.�

�We�ll drive you boys home now.�

�Okay.�

The agent, a gray-haired man named Boxer, shook his head sadly. He patted Jobs�s shoulder and said, �That�s okay, son: You tried. Everyone wants to be a hero. It just ain�t that kind of situation, that�s all. It�s just not hero time.�

Okay well lol, I ask a question and it's immediately answered. But there's no way this series doesn't have a �fem� in it. Oh god, this slang is sure is something.

I do find these characters a bit endearing. I'm already invested in Jobs and D-Caf, I like seeing what Mo'Steel is gonna pull off. Psychic russian kid has potential.

What are folks impressions so far?

# ¿ Jan 13, 2024 05:52

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

quote:

DAYS TO IMPACT: 3

CHAPTER 7

�NO ONE MAY SURVIVE.�

2Face prepared to leave the house in the same way she had every morning for the last couple of months. She dressed, made sure everything necessary was in her pouch, checked the battery charge on her link. And then she stood in front of the mirror and looked at her face, looked at it long and hard.

No deception, that was the point. No fooling herself.

She turned to the right, showing her left face: the smooth, olive skin, the unsettling juxtaposition of pale gray eye color beneath distinctly Asian eyelid. The strong chin, the too-pert nose.

Then she turned the other way, revealing the burned, melted flesh. The eyelid drooped at the outside corner, making it seem the eye was eternally crying. Her cheek was like some aerial shot of a desert: pale ridges like sand dunes. Human caramel.

The nose was untouched, but beneath her long black hair the right ear was nearly gone, a nub. The hearing on that side was an echo chamber, hollow. Her straight black hair was an illusion in part, grown longer on the top so she could conceal the ear and the fact that her hairline on that side began two inches higher than it once did. But that was the only trick she allowed. She would not wear shades to hide the damaged eye. She would not wear a scarf to conceal the melted wax skin that extended down her neck as far as her collarbone.

This is what she looked like, at least till the next surgery. She had been beautiful all her life, naturally so, blessed by the fortuitous arrangement of the four letters along her DNA helix. And then, the fire. And the hideous results. And the change in how people reacted to her.

It was fascinating. It was a lesson that no book taught. It was a spy-cam straight into the human soul. Everyone flinched when they saw her, that was to be expected, that was inevitable. How could they not? The human mind was prepared to see certain things and not others. So it wasn�t the shocked looks that fascinated 2Face, rather it was what came next: the pity, the avoidance, the anger, the poor attempts to conceal disgust, the dishonesty, the
bending over backward to pretend it wasn�t there, and the outright ridicule and anger.

The anger was most interesting. People were outraged that she would dare to show them something ugly. It was a social sin. Her existence forced people to confront the uncertainty of life. And of course the irony disturbed people most of all: the pretty girl turned ugly. Like they would have understood if she�d been ugly to begin with. But a beauty turned hideous?

What kind of rotten trick was that?

Her birth name was Essence Hwang. Before the fire she�d been called either SE for Essie, or WaterBaby, depending on whether it was a family member or someone from school. But once the bandages were unwrapped she knew she had to either hide from the truth or get right up in its face. She changed her name to 2Face. People thought it was rude, like she was forcing them to look.

Maybe so, maybe it was rude. But she had learned a lot, most of it not encouraging. She almost welcomed the whole thing, except for the hideous pain she�d endured earlier.

Almost.

She was stabilized, her health had been rebuilt, her scarred lungs were fully functional again. She was ready to start the series of reconstructive surgeries in exactly twenty-two days. A year from now the doctors said she�d have her old face back, all of it, all of the eye- catching loveliness.

She�d wondered if she should refuse the surgery. That old face felt like a mask now. Maybe she should go through life as 2Face, proud, defiant, a living reproach to superficiality.

�No,� she told the mirror sadly. �You�re not that brave.�

She headed downstairs intending to go running. She ran four miles a day. She hated it, but it was part of staying strong for the trauma of the operations. Part of strengthening her lungs. She would have preferred to swim, she�d been on the swim team back in the before, but chlorine burned her still-too-tender scar tissue in places. She wore a running shark suit, skintight black from neck to ankles. She twisted her pouch around to the rear position, then pinned her link in place; the earpiece had a tendency to slip off. Heavy-use athletic links usually rested on two ears and she only had the one.

She paused at the top of the stairs and stretched, using the stairs themselves to lengthen leg muscles. Then down the stairs at a quick trot, a nod to her dad in the kitchen, and past him toward the front door.

�Essie!� he called.

She paused, trotting in place to warm up and to demonstrate her impatience to be gone. �What?�

Her father walked over to her and clumsily put his arms around her, hugging her tight. Her dad was old-country Chinese, though he�d been a U.S. citizen for fifteen years; not a hugger, definitely not a hugger.

2Face pulled off her link and gently pushed her father back. �What�s the matter, Daddy? Is it Mom? Is something the matter with Mom?�

�No, no, your mom is fine. She�s on her way home. She ran out to get a few things. Listen, something is happening. Something very bad is happening.�

He was agitated. Overwhelmed even. All 2Face could think was that it was her mother. What else would make her dad this upset? The fire. He�d learned about the fire. He knew. No, that was impossible. She couldn�t start getting jumpy now.

�Daddy, tell me the truth: Has something happened to Mommy?�

He shook his head and drew her with him into the living room. It was the most formal room in the house: spare to the point of austerity. Three big flatscreens showed art that changed with the time of day. The furniture was low-slung, elongated, modern. Uncomfortable.

2Face sat perched beside her father, turned toward him. She consciously sat this way so her undamaged side was facing him. She didn�t mind provoking strangers, but her pain had been felt too deeply by her father.

�I have the biggest story of my life,� he said. �The biggest story of anyone�s life.�

�A story?� This was about some story? Her father was a producer for ABC news here in Miami. He worked closely with the network�s investigative reporter, Carl Ramirez. �You�re scaring me half to death over some work thing?�

She said it in a teasing tone, but her father�s scared, serious expression didn�t flicker. Just then the door opened. 2Face�s mother, Dawn Schulz-Hwang, came rushing in carrying two bags from the drugstore. Her mother said, �I got the toothbrushes. Q-Tips. Deodorant. Travel-pack sizes, except for your migraine pills, Shy.�

She was agitated. 2Face�s worry deepened. Why was her mother running out to buy travel- size toothpaste at this hour of the morning?

�I'll be okay, hon,� Shy Hwang said. He turned back to his daughter. �We�ve had this story we were trying to get a grip on. We thought it was probably nothing. Rumor. Crazy stuff. But I told Carl I wanted to stay on it, I had a feeling about it. I didn�t think it would be true, and it wasn�t, not exactly. The story was that NASA had developed human hibernation technology and was going to use the technology to pull off a manned mission to Europa. You know, a
moon of Jupiter.�

�Yes, I know the moons of Jupiter,� 2Face said impatiently.

�But that wasn�t it. I reached this source, this guy who owed me a favor. He wouldn�t talk except to give me a name: Mayflower. I used that name in a couple of places and all of a sudden word is coming down from on high to lay off. Then I reached out to the right person. She gave me chapter and verse. Chapter and verse and documentation.�

�About a mission to Europa?� 2Face asked.

�No. That�s a cover story. Mayflower is not about a mission to Europa. Mayflower is about a shuttle they�re rigging up with hibernation berths for eighty people. Actually seventy-eight people plus two crew.�

�Why on Earth would they be doing that?� his daughter asked.

�Because in three days an asteroid twice the size of Long Island is going to impact Earth,� he said. �It will be the dinosaurs all over again. It�s possible that the planet may literally break apart. No one may survive.�

There was a long silence.

�Some other guys got parts of the story a couple days ago, ran with it, but they had no proof, so the story�s dead. Me, I had the proof. But I spiked the story,� Shy Hwang said.

�What? People have a right to know,� 2Face said.

He shook his head. �No. If I had run with the story NASA would be mobbed with people trying to get on that shuttle. I killed the story in exchange for their agreement.�

�What agreement?�

�I buried the story, and we go on that shuttle. Three berths. For the three of us.�

�What? When? How soon?� 2Face asked, and unconsciously touched her marred cheek.

�Soon,� her father said, unable to meet her gaze. �Too soon.�

There was a knock at the front door and 2Face�s mother spilled the drugstore bag.

goddamn these names, but 2face seems really interesting, so perhaps the �worse the name/better the character� idea holds up. We also have our girl character.

quote:

CHAPTER 8

�WHERE EXACTLY ARE WE GOING?�

They didn�t kick the door down; they were more polite than that. But when Special Agent Boxer, with two other FBI agents and two DSA agents in tow arrived at the Andreeson home, they were the Mongol hordes showing up for breakfast unannounced.

�Ma�am, FBI,� Boxer said, and promptly pushed past Jobs�s mother, who was still chewing a toaster strudel and still in her bathrobe. The agents wore dark business suits, not the FBI logo windbreakers that Old Navy had begun to copy and sell for forty-two dollars.

The Data Security Agency agents wore office-casual clothes � that was their look. The FBI agents, two men and one woman, went through the house, polite but relentless, gathering up papers, floppies, nubs, links, and the schoolbooks of Jobs and his brother. The DSA agents plopped themselves down in front of Jennifer Andreeson�s computer and Jobs�s computer. His mom�s computer was networked with the house system�s and all the other
machines except for Jobs�s own, which he had firewalled.

Edward was six, so he didn�t burst out crying, but he did run to his mother and hug her knee, while she went hobbling after the agents saying, �Is this really necessary? Isn�t this awfully early? I assumed you�d be here at a civilized hour. What are you doing? Put that down this instant.�

Jobs was interested to observe that his mother�s �or else!� voice did not work on FBI agents.

Tony Andreeson, Jobs�s dad, was still asleep when an FBI woman hit the lights and announced herself.

�Uh-huh. Could you do it more quietly?� Jobs�s dad grumbled. He was a software aestheticist and had the sort of job where no one expected you to show up early. Or at all.

�Sir, you need to get up and get dressed. You have thirty minutes. Pack a small bag, like carry-on luggage size. No electronics of any type. If you need more we can send for it later.�

�Where exactly are we going?�

�That information is unavailable,� the agent said with a bland smile.

Jobs had already stuffed a few T-shirts into a bag and now he stood watching as the DSA guy searched his computer files and his Web files.

�Pretty good encryption on some of these,� the DSA agent said.

�Thanks. Not good enough, obviously.�

The DSA man tapped away on the keyboard. He frowned. Looked back at Jobs, who kept his face carefully expressionless.

�Very cute: ghost files. I could hack in, but you could save me the time.�

Ghost files were files hidden within regular files. They used the regular file as camouflage. Jobs leaned over and used the calculator for a moment, then typed in a number-letter code.

�Pi to six places divided by yesterday�s date I get,� the agent said. �What were the interposed letters?�

�A girl�s name,� Jobs said, hoping he sounded cool, not pathetic. �Cordelia.�

�Uh. The girl from last night. She�s a babe, huh?�

The ghost file opened. It contained the file he�d stolen from Cordelia�s computer. It was video from a pinhole camera. She�d been wearing a pinhole cam on the night they�d kissed. That was where she�d gotten the scared close-up of him.

But it wasn�t like that, he�d realized, after viewing the data the first time. Cordelia had been hired to do video of the dance for the school�s zine. She�d been wearing a privacy warning button. It had come off during her angry encounter with her now ex-boyfriend. She probably didn�t know that. Anyway, Jobs was prepared to believe she didn�t know. Maybe didn�t even know she was still shooting.

The DSA agent speed-scanned the video for a few seconds, got to the hideous moment when a sped-up Jobs leaned close for the great kiss that now seemed more comic than romantic, then closed the file without comment.

�She . . . Cordelia was . . .� Jobs started to explain.

The DSA agent shook his head. He was young for an agent, maybe fifteen years older than Jobs himself, though mostly bald. �Don�t worry, kid, you got nothing here that�s going to shock me. She pinholed you, you swiped the file. Fair enough, right?�

No, that wasn�t the way it was, Jobs wanted to say. But of course that�s exactly how it was, at least on the surface. The kiss had meant everything to him when it lived only in memory. He should not have had to see it again. He should not have had to share it with a stranger. It should not be electronically stored data.

From the living room came his mother�s cry, �What about the cats? I can�t just leave them.�

�They�ll be taken care of, ma�am.� A lie. Jobs knew it was a lie clear in the other room. Of course his mother did, too, but she broke down crying at that point, and Edward hugged her.

Tony Andreeson said, �For God�s sake, Jen, you don�t even like the cats.�

�Let me put food out for them. Let me at least do that. Oh, Digit�s already so fat, if I leave out all this food . . . the vet will . . .�

Jobs met the DSA agent�s gaze. �You know what all this is about, sir?� Jobs asked.

The agent said, �Officially, no.�

Jobs nodded. He tried to think of something pithy to say, maybe something about the irony of his mother crying over a pair of cats when the whole world was coming to an end. But all he managed was, �It�s kind of disturbing.�

�Yeah,� the DSA guy said. And then he unhooked his link from his belt, tapped the screen, and showed Jobs a picture of three kids, all young, ranging maybe from two to six. The agent seemed about to say something, then lost focus as he gazed at the softly glowing photo.

Jobs considered whether he should reveal the encrypted files he�d programmed to transfer into the DSA agent�s decryption program. They were harmless files, not viruses, created only to prove he could do it, not to cause damage.

No. It would hurt the guy�s feelings. No adult liked being outwitted by a teenager. And the guy had enough on his mind. He would be dead soon. Him, his wife, his three kids, everyone he cared about.

�I better go see if I can help my mom and dad,� Jobs said. There was nothing he could say to this man. Nothing the maybe survivor could possibly say to the surely dead.

�Yeah.� Then the agent shook himself free of the picture and said, �Hey, you have some writing in here, looks like poems. You want a printout to take with you?�

Jobs shook his head. �No. None of it�s any good. Besides . . .� He let the thought hang, unable to find any way to explain the deep sense that the one way, the only way to do this was with a clean break. A bright clear line between a past already suffused with nostalgic golden light, and a terrible, desperate future. �No. Thanks.�

Forty-five minutes after the FBI agents arrived, the Andreeson family was bundled into a dark-colored Suburban with black-out windows accompanied by a dark sedan and a windowless white van. They drove down familiar streets. Jobs looked out the window and knew beyond any doubting that he would never see this home, this street, this place again.

Two blocks away they passed Mo�Steel�s house. A black Suburban, a black sedan, and a white van were parked in the front. Inside Mo�Steel�s house, in his room, some DSA agent would be going through his computer, unable to believe the nearly untouched, pristine emptiness of the thing.

�What do you mean you don�t have any personal files? None? Have you ever even turned this thing on?�

That thought brought a smile to Jobs�s face.

Edward was playing with a pair of action figures, making soft boosh, boosh explosion sounds.

Where would the Rock hit? Would it hit far out in the ocean and send a wave to wash this idyllic place into the sea like a sand castle with the tide coming in? Would the Rock hit far across the planet and break the world apart, sending unimaginably huge wedges spinning off into space? Would this place, his place, still be intact when the sea boiled away, when the atmosphere ghosted away leaving the few still-living creatures to gasp in vacuum?

Maybe the Rock would hit right here, boom, right on top of them. Maybe it would come ripping through the puffy clouds, scattering the fog, a hurricane wind rushing before it. Slam right here into this very place.

He thought of asking his mother. She was in the seat in front of him. She would know, if anyone would. But she was crying softly. Jobs reached to put his hand on her shoulder. And once again, words failed him. He thought too much about what he ought to say, he knew that. He looked too long for the perfect words and ended up saying nothing at all. But what did you say at the end of the world?

# ¿ Jan 15, 2024 01:45

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

i don't even know if your joking

# ¿ Jan 15, 2024 03:26

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

Second chapter today is a good one

quote:

CHAPTER 9

�YOU HAVE TO ASSUME THOSE TWO KIDS ARE ARMED AND DANGEROUS.�

A private jet took the Andreeson and Gonzalez families, Jobs and Mo�Steel, their respective parents, plus Edward, from the tiny Monterey Airport to a refueling stop in the middle of nowhere west Texas, then on to Cape Canaveral, Florida.

A limousine hauled 2Face and her family from Miami, up the coast past blazing white beaches and sun-roasted tourists.

In San Jose and Austin and Houston and Seattle, in Boston and Washington and New York, the FBI and DSA descended suddenly and swept up their charges and hustled them aboard the unmarked jets borrowed from the Defense Department.

D-Caf and his brother, Mark, had to provide their own transportation, a regular commercial flight out of Baltimore-Washington International airport that landed in Miami. Then they caught a bus northward. They used false identification that Mark had created. They used a credit card number plucked off the Web. It would be hours before the FBI realized that one of the many �Aware Individuals� had disappeared.

Special Agent Paul Boxer had followed Jobs�s family to their destination, then been detached to Miami along with half the field agents in the United States. The Miami office would oversee coverage for the Kennedy Space Center. Boxer drew the assignment to locate and question Mark Melman and his brother, D-Caf. Mark Melman was known to be cognizant of the Mayflower Project. Boxer requested that the Baltimore office search the Melman home. They found evidence of the flight to Miami. And worse.

Boxer took the call while eating his third hot, fresh, practically melting Krispy Kreme doughnut. �They�re in the Miami area, that�s definite,� the Baltimore agent reported. �They�re all yours, Paul.�

�Great. What do we know about this guy? Anything that�s not in the file?�

�We canvassed the neighbors. They all say the same: Mark is a nice guy, but a loner. His little brother, who calls himself D-Caf, is kind of a twitchy kid. One other big thing, though: Their father had a weapon.�

�A weapon?�

�A Ruger six-shot .44 magnum. And it�s missing. You have to assume those two kids are armed and dangerous.�

The news did not particularly surprise or bother Agent Boxer. The lunatic fringe had never bought the official denials of the Mayflower Project. The nuts were gathering around Cape Canaveral. Where there were nuts, there were guns; the two went hand-in-hand.

And really, with all the so-called militias, all the doomsday cults, the extremists, and the outright terrorists, some maladjusted computer geek and his twitchy brother didn�t seem like a top-level threat. Boxer had another doughnut. He�d fought a weight problem all his life. Well, if there was one upside to the end of the world it was that now, at least, he could eat all the Krispy Kremes he wanted.

quote:

CHAPTER 10

�TICKTOCK, HERE COMES THE ROCK.�

The chosen few, the eighty men, women, and children who would form the cargo of the Mayflower, were taken to a remote corner of the base, to a shabby, run-down, long-abandoned barracks. It was one of three barracks buildings which, together with a low administrative bungalow, an olive-drab mess tent, and a perilously leaning motor-pool barn formed a sort of compound.

The only thing new in the compound was the chain-link fence topped with razor wire. One of the Eighty had arrived a few hours early. His birth name was Robert Castleman. He called himself Yago.

The President of the United States, Janice Castleman, had refused a berth for herself and her husband. But she had demanded, and been given, a berth for their fifteen-year-old son. And as Yago stood contemplating the noisy squalor of the barracks, the disorder of arriving families, he knew beyond any reasonable doubt that his parents had secured his berth not so much to save his life as to have him out of theirs.

That would hurt, Yago thought, if I cared.

Yago had never been a good politician�s child. Articles had been written about him, contrasting him unfavorably with the sainted Chelsea Clinton, dean of Perfect Presidential Children (who had, of course, gone on to be such a spectacularly, tediously perfect adult), but also mentioning Amy Carter and John-John Kennedy and various others going all the way back to Lincoln�s kids. No one could come up with another presidential kid quite like Yago.

Polls showed that Yago had actually earned his mother a fair number of sympathy votes following the fateful interview in which, at age thirteen, he�d told the NBC news anchor his goal in life was to become �feared.�

Then there had been the time he yelled, �Gun!� at the top of his lungs during a post-summit meeting press conference. The Secret Service had tackled his mother, and the security detail around the president of Azerbaijan had very nearly shot a sound man holding a long microphone that looked just a bit like a rifle.

Yago surveyed a glum assemblage, for the most part, these chosen survivors. They had all packed in a hurry, hustled along by FBI agents. There were too few toothbrushes and not enough toilet paper and everyone was hungry and all the littler kids wanted upper bunks, and all the parents wanted lower bunks, and where was the trash, and good lord why wasn�t it air-conditioned, and why couldn�t they at least have killed the roaches, and how were they supposed to have any privacy at all?

�Killing time till it�s killing time,� Yago muttered and laughed a bit at his bon mot.

Normally he�d have recorded it on his link. But it was an unhooked, unlinked world now. It made him feel deaf and blind. A creepy feeling. There were no really young kids. There was no set cutoff age. But, prepubescent kids were
thought to be at greater risk from hibernation. There were no old people, either. The upper age limit was just over forty. It wasn�t just that NASA wanted everyone to be fit and healthy, they were also looking ahead: to populating some entirely speculative planet.

But in a room filled with scientists and the kids of scientists you couldn�t ignore facts: The Mayflower didn�t represent a real chance, it represented death delayed. Or death unnoticed, unremarked: Death deprived of all the drama and majesty of the shattering, fiery annihilation that was being prepared by that cold-blooded killer Mother Nature.

For his part Yago had no doubts. He had a destiny. His destiny was not to die on a shattered Earth, one of seven-billion bugs cowering under the big cosmic shoe. Nor was it to float through the cold emptiness of space for the remaining life of the universe, pockmarked by micrometeorites and disintegrated into soup by radiation. Yago was going to be something. And there was no point moping over the long odds, or boo-hooing over poor, lost Earth. The point was to figure out how to come out on top. And the time to start preparing was now.

He fixed his gaze on the most promising arrival, the Asian girl, the one with the messed-up face. She would be an easy mark. Like taking candy from a baby. He tried to recall her name from the personnel files he�d wheedled out of a secretary at the White House. What was it . . . Scent? No, that couldn�t be it. Substance . . . Effect . . .

Essence! That was it: Essence Hwang.

Well, it was her lucky day.

Yago knew he was good-looking. After all, he got fan mail from half the girls in the United States, and a lot of girls from other countries, too. They even sent pictures, and some of them weren�t half bad. He was tall and powerfully built. He had his dad�s Caucasian, male-model features and his mother�s African-American skin coloration, but the rest of his �look� was straight out of a petri dish � his parents were rich and indulgent. Yago had had his original kinky hair replaced with straight-growing light brown hair, which he�d dyed different colors over time � it was currently the green of a late-summer elm leaf.

His original brown eyes had been genetically altered to a distinctly golden color with just enough cat DNA to be slightly reflective in the dark. His teeth were unnaturally white and perfectly straight. His skin would never know a pimple. He�d even had his navel relocated and reshaped.

The smirk was all his own.

He was handsome, he was smart, he was smooth: He was way, way out of the freak-girl�s league, obviously. But if he beamed the sunlight of his attention on her she�d be his devoted servant not only now, but later, when they all thawed out. And that was the key: He would need a hard core of sycophants ready to back him up from the very first.

He�d seen the early documents on the Mayflower Project. He�d seen right away what everyone else in their desperate haste had missed: There was no one in charge. No hierarchy. No one in command. How could they be dumb enough not to see that wherever the Mayflower ended up, someone would be giving orders? What did the NASA people think? That they�d form up into Democrats and Republicans and hold an election? In any crisis the strong rose to the top and the weak fulfilled their own paltry destiny as willing servants, unwilling slaves, or victims.
It was a game. A hard, cruel game of survival, and he at least understood that. Let the others mope for poor old Earth. He was starting the game early: right now.

�Kind of a zoo, huh?� Yago said.

Essence Hwang looked at him thoughtfully. Like he looked familiar, but she couldn�t quite place him. �I guess it is,� she said. Adding, �Literally.�

�I�m Yago,� he said and flashed his number-two modest smile � not the full, number-three aw-shucks modesty he saved for meeting with sports stars, but more than the deliberately transparent number-one modesty. He made a sort of deprecating gesture toward the two Secret Service agents, Horvath and Jackson, who watched him from a discreet distance.

�Don�t mind those guys. They come with the job.� He raised his voice. �As a matter of fact, why don�t you guys take five, huh? I don�t think I�m in any danger.�

The girl glanced at the departing agents, obviously clicked into recognition, and said, �Oh. I�m 2Face.� She watched him closely, waiting to gauge his reaction.

He gave her nothing. He�d long ago learned to conceal all but the strongest emotions. �So, what do you think of all this? Kind of amazing, isn�t it?�

2Face considered. �It seems very sad to me.�

The girl looked like she might start crying. Or maybe that was just the creepy way her messed-up eye always looked. He wished she�d turn her head a little, not aim all that scar tissue at him.

Yago nodded. �It�s very sad. The whole Earth getting wiped out and all. Ticktock, here comes the Rock. All those people dying and whatnot. Kind of depressing. So, you here with your folks?�

�Yes. My mom and dad.�

�Me, I�m alone,� Yago said. �You know, my mom�s the president, so she has this idea she has to go down with the ship. Like that�s going to help all the losers who�re getting sledgehammered into the center of Earth. I think she can�t get it out of her head that she�s not exactly running for reelection.�

Yago laughed a winning laugh, expecting 2Face to join in. She didn�t. In fact she gave every sign of wishing she was somewhere else.

�I hope we can be friends,� Yago said. He�d spent his life around politicians, and could, when it was required, mimic the heartfelt tone, the sincere look, even the warm handshake. He could also mimic the subtle threat. �Wherever we end up, a girl like you will need friends.�

�I see. A girl like me. Do you want to be my boyfriend?�

Yago gulped, caught off-guard for once. �Do I . . .� He almost laughed. The idea that the freak was going to be his girlfriend was just amazing. Who did she think she was?

2Face winked with her one good eye and smiled a smile that was unavoidably wry. �Sell it somewhere else,� she said, and started to walk away.

Yago grabbed her shoulder, spun her back to face him. �Hey, freak. You don�t turn your back on me till I say you can go.�

2Face tried to knock his hand away but Yago had a powerful grip. She struck at him, palm outward, trying to push him away. It was a blow, clearly, clearly, in Yago�s mind, it was a blow. She had hit him! All bets were off, all restraint was gone. She�d hit him!

Yago drew back his hand to deliver a slap. Two hands locked around his wrist. Yago glared, processed the necessary data: It was the nerd. The one from California. What was the name? Oh, yeah.

�No,� Jobs said. He shook his head slightly. �No.�

Yago glared at this intruder. He wasn�t very big and he didn�t look very tough. He looked scared. But he didn�t flinch or look away. Yago rotated his hand, broke Jobs�s grip, and using the same hand, shot a short, hard, snapping punch into Jobs�s head.

Jobs fell back. Yago shoved hard and knocked him on his butt.

2Face yelled, �Stop it! Stop it, you jerk!�

Yago moved in to kick Jobs. He would teach the punk a valuable lesson. Once they�re down, make sure they stay down.

Just then, a blur of movement: someone running, bounding from top bunk to top bunk. �Yaaahhh!�

Mo�Steel threw himself at Yago, caught him around the neck, and carried him to the floor. Yago rolled with almost professional skill and was on his feet in a flash. But so were Jobs and Mo�Steel and 2Face. Three against one.

Yago spotted the Secret Service agents across the room drinking coffee from disposable cups. �They attacked me!� he roared. �What are you doing standing there? They attacked me! Get them. Get them!�

The agent named Horvath looked puzzled. He cupped a hand to his ear and pantomimed that he couldn�t hear. Agent Jackson just smiled. Yago swallowed the rage that came boiling up inside him. Swallowed it hard and slowly,
slowly erased the feral, murderous expression from his face.

�We seem to have a misunderstanding,� he said stiffly, then turned and walked away. Under his breath he added, �On my list. That�s three of you, on my list.�

We are on page 35 of 70 And wow, do we have a great villain in Yago. What a loving cock. Intersting that this is 2011 and they have a Black woman in a mixed marriage winning the presidential election in 2008. Also interesting the degree of genetic manipulation humanity has, even if it is probably only for the rich. I'm most interested in hearing how Black folk view the changes he's made to his own body.

# ¿ Jan 16, 2024 03:08

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

quote:

CHAPTER 11

�SHE LAKKA YOU BEEZNESS.�

�You want me to go bounce on him some more?� Mo�Steel asked Jobs.

�No. Let it go. It�s all over.� Jobs put a hand on Mo�Steel�s arm and gently drew him away.

2Face said, �Hey. Thanks.�

Jobs shrugged. �No problem.�

�No, I mean, really: Thanks. Is your head okay?�

Jobs touched his injured ear and then looked at his hand. There was a little blood on his fingers. It seemed to puzzle him. �Hmm.�

�You should have someone look at that. You need a Band-Aid,� 2Face said.

�That ear is gonna have to come off,� Mo�Steel offered with a giddy grin. �Get you a nice, new, titanium ear. Change your name to . . . to, um, oh, hey, I know! Change your name to Earanium!�

Jobs and 2Face both looked at him. �Earanium?�

�Hey, it�s the best I could come up with just off the top of my head, all right? You know, you�re not exactly Mr. Quick either,� Mo�Steel grumbled.

�This is my friend Mo,� Jobs said. �Mo�Steel. I�m Jobs. And the ear is fine. Mo�s in favor of as much surgery as possible.�

�2Face.�

They shook hands. The name brought a smile to Jobs�s face. He nodded to himself, absorbing it, smiled again. Jobs looked at her face, interested at almost a scientific level in the effect. Not at all horrified, not at all sickened.

�I was in a fire,� she said.

He nodded. �Yeah. Well, see you later.�

For his part Jobs had already half forgotten the incident. He was remembering the girl instead. His always-distracted expression grew positively dreamy.

�That girl liked your business, Duck.�

�What?�

�Uh-uh, don�t give me �what?�� Mo�Steel said. �You know what I said. She lakka you beeznees. She wants to invest in you.�

Jobs said, �Mo, you know I�m faithful to Cordelia.�

�The girl who isn�t even totally sure who you are?�

Jobs smiled ruefully. Cordelia knew who he was, he was sure of that at least. She�d included his picture in her flatscreen montage. He�d come in right after what, admiration? But what had come next? He couldn�t remember, had been too stunned to pay attention. Where did he fit in Cordelia�s emotional cycle?

No way he could go into that with Mo. Mo was an old-fashioned kid. He�d never understand creeping Cordelia�s computer. Jobs said, �Yeah. That�s right, Mo: Cordelia, the girl who isn�t sure who I am.�

�That�s you, Jobs: All you need is a girlfriend up here.� He tapped his head. �Me, I need a real, live girl. You know, like maybe someone who would recognize me at least.�

�What�s going to happen to her?� Jobs asked, but silently, to himself alone. �What will happen to Cordelia?�

Had to avoid those images. Had to sheer off, stay out of that, or lose his mind. The Rock was coming. Cordelia was just another dinosaur. He shook his head so hard that Mo�Steel looked at him with concern.

�What�s the bruise, compadre?�

�They didn�t leave us any hope, Mo. The Rock. It�s all too sure. Too . . . And we don�t get to fight it, man. All we can do is run away. All we can do is be cowards and save ourselves. It�s just random. If the Rock�s trajectory was one-hundredth of a degree different, it�d miss us. It�s just random, and we don�t even get to fight it. What kind of a story is that?�

Mo�Steel looked perplexed. Then he shrugged. �Maybe we fight later, Duck.�

�It can�t all end this way. It can�t just end in some meaningless . . .� Jobs couldn�t find the word. He hung his head. �Everyone�s just going to die, Mo. What�s the point in that?�

Mo�Steel said, �Everyone always dies, man. Always been that way. And I don�t think it ever did have a point. Did it?�

I really do like the rapport between Mo and Jobs, it looks like 2face is going to slot into that relationship pretty well too.

quote:

DAYS TO IMPACT: 2

CHAPTER 12

�OH, MY GOD, ALL THOSE PEOPLE.�

Cordelia was in San Francisco. Actually standing on the balcony of a monstrously big faux-Victorian mansion atop exclusive Twin Peaks. The balcony looked out over the backyard where the wedding reception of her cousin, Lucy, was under way. But more compelling by far, to her artist�s eye, was the view beyond the backyard. The house had been built on two lots. Two existing houses had been torn down to make room, and to ensure the capture of this very view.

The view included much of San Francisco, down through the skyscrapered downtown and beyond to the sparkling bay, ornamented by the eternally stunning Golden Gate Bridge. As it happened, an aircraft carrier, the new, sleek, low-silhouette USS Reagan, was entering the bay, sliding beneath the bridge in a spectacle that combined the reassuring grace of perfect form with the disturbing grace of might.

Of course Cordelia was supposed to be focusing her link on the reception. She had the latest link, capable of shooting very high-resolution video and transmitting it directly to satellite, so she�d been drafted, or perhaps volunteered, she wasn�t sure which, to act as the videographer. The link allowed far-flung family members to follow the events live from anywhere they happened to be.

Messages were beginning to pile up, superimposed on the viewfinder. Messages like, �Show the ceremony!� And, �We want to see the bride, not the bridge!!!� Cordelia ignored them. The more they nagged, the less she was going to show the silly bride and her dweeb of a groom.

Cordelia�s cousin was from a very wealthy family, money derived from the biotech boom. Cordelia herself came from a more modest background. A more restrained background. Not cheap, not puritanical, just reasonable. Her family did not believe in ostentatious displays of wealth. Her family would not have placed twelve-thousand dollars� worth of Beluga caviar in seventeen-thousand dollars� worth of crystal and then gone about ten steps too far by covering
each mound of caviar with edible gold foil.

Okay, so Lucy�s family had money. Did they have to rub people�s noses in it? And yet, for this view . . . What wouldn�t Cordelia do to be able to look out at this magnificence every day?

Maybe she�d be rich someday. Maybe she�d be a really rich photographer. Uh-huh. There were about, hmm, two rich photographers.

Maybe she�d marry a rich guy. Jobs would probably make a lot of money some day; he was shockingly smart after all. Of course that was jumping the gun a little bit, but that�s what weddings did to you: made you go all mushy and misty and begin fantasizing.

Her dad had called to tell her that he�d caught Jobs trying to crawl in her bedroom window. That was either very romantic or insane or some combination of the two. Romeo or Psycho? He could be nuts, that was a possibility to consider. Jobs was definitely different. He�d spent close to half an hour listening to her, actually listening, without trying to make the conversation about himself. And he�d made no move on her. Just listened. The number of guys Cordelia had met in her entire life who could actually listen intelligently was, well, one.

Unfortunately, setting aside the odd home-invasion, Jobs seemed to have no follow-up. He hadn�t asked her out, despite the fact he was definitely interested. So, she�d have to ask him out. Only, check with people at school first and find out if he was actively crazy.

Her link was ringing. Again.

�Yes?� Cordelia asked in an innocent singsong.

It was her great-aunt Rebecca (formerly great-uncle Robert). �Cordelia, honey, show us the bride and groom or ��

�� Sorry, your audio is breaking up.� She killed the connection. Then she turned the link around to show herself standing before the view and laughing. She was not a classically beautiful girl; her face had too much character for that. Her nose was too big, for one thing. She�d thought of having it fixed, but hey, it was a family trait. Her hair was blond � actual blond, not petri-dish blond, and she wore it long. Her eyes were authentically blue.

She winked at the link, knowing she was really annoying her extended family now. �Okay, okay, I�ll show the bride,� she said.

She started to pan down toward the reception again, intending to focus on the rather gruesome sight of Lucy stuffing her face with crab legs, but something drew her eye. In the sky. It was a small asteroid, a meteorite, no more than eight-hundred feet in diameter, a chip that long ago had spun off the Rock in its collision with the comet.
Just a chip. A pebble.

It ripped through the air, shrieking, a hurricane wind behind it. The pebble slammed into San Francisco Bay just short of hitting Alameda. The explosion was equal to a nuclear weapon. The entire contents of San Francisco Bay, billions upon billions of gallons of water shot skyward, a vast column of superheated steam. Millions of tons of dirt, the floor of the bay, erupted, a volcano.

The immediate shock wave flattened every building in Alameda and Oakland. Skyscrapers were simply knocked over like a kid�s pile of blocks. Frame houses collapsed. Cars were tossed around like leaves in the wind. The water of the bay surged in, sucking the USS Reagan into the bay, a swirling bath toy, then all at once the water blew back. The USS Reagan was picked up and thrown into and through the Golden Gate Bridge. The rust-red bridge wrapped bodily around the flying ship.

The bridge supports ripped from the shores. Cable snapped like bullwhips. The shock wave reached San Francisco itself. The downtown area pancaked. Areas that were landfill simply melted away, quick sand, entire square miles of the city sank down into the water.

A million dead in less than five seconds.

Cordelia said, �Oh, my God, all those people.� It was all she had time to say before the shock wave ripped apart the mansion on Twin Peaks.

The final image broadcast was from a link lying sideways. The lens was speckled with dust. But the image was still clear: Cordelia lay on her side, her face shocked. She looked down and saw the two-by-four that had been driven through her chest. She shuddered and died.

Yeah, I guess there was more for Cordelia. RIP

# ¿ Jan 18, 2024 02:13

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

Tree Bucket posted:

Uh

Mods, can we get a title change to Let's Read The Remnants: ...Uh...

# ¿ Jan 18, 2024 03:06

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

Tree Bucket posted:

I'm not sure how the logistics of getting people on an IRL hope rocket would work, let alone deciding who gets a ticket. I feel like it would involve something a little more dramatic than the FBI heading out to the burbs to pick up families who know about the doom comet. Does the wider world know about the Rock yet?

only as a crank theory previous to San Fransico. It was purposfully leaked with bad information so it could be debunked.

# ¿ Jan 18, 2024 22:16

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

quote:

CHAPTER 13

�MAYBE THE WORLD IS COMING TO AN END, IT DOESN�T MATTER: YOU FOLLOW ORDERS.�

Sergeant Tamara Hoyle had a simple enough task: Protect the perimeter. A standard task for any Marine. Protect the perimeter of the compound from any unauthorized persons attempting to enter or depart.

She followed orders, deployed her Marines as she had been instructed to do by her captain, kept them alert, did her best to keep them focused on the job at hand. One or two of her Marines raised complaints, fears, wanted to know what kind of a mission this was, anyway, standing guard at the end of the world when they should be home with their families, after all what did any of it matter?

Sergeant Hoyle had taken time to explain patiently. �Excuse me, son? Did I hear you right?� she demanded, levering her body forward, bringing her angry, incredulous face to within a millimeter of the unfortunate private�s nose. �You want to go home, Marine? Well, I guess you�re just about the first Marine in all of history who has thought about that. All those guys who went ashore on Iwo Jima, Inchon, any of a hundred different places, getting chewed up on godforsaken beaches, I don�t guess any of them ever thought maybe they�d rather be home
drinking a cold beer.�

�All due respect, Sarge, this is different.�

�No, private, it isn�t different. You�re a Marine. You have your orders. You follow orders. Maybe you live, maybe you die, maybe you like it, maybe you don�t, maybe the world is coming to an end, it doesn�t matter: You follow orders. Is that clear?�

It was clear.

It was clear to the private. It was not clear to the sergeant.

Tamara Hoyle was twenty-two years old with two and a half years in the Corps. She was seven weeks pregnant, a fact she had not yet revealed to her husband, a Marine who was on embassy duty in Tokyo, or to her superiors. The Corps provided for an eighteen-month leave of absence in the event of pregnancy � time that had to be made up.
There would be no hiding it, of course. Tamara Hoyle was five foot nine, one hundred and twenty pounds, with the kind of stomach you get from doing a hundred crunches every morning followed by fifty military push-ups and a five-mile run. You couldn�t hide a pregnant belly on that kind of body.

Tamara Hoyle loved the Corps. She loved being a Marine. She believed everything she had ever heard (or said) about duty, honor, and country. And the Marine sergeant was determined that the end of the world would still find her little part of the Corps executing their lawful orders. Semper Fi: always faithful. Always.

Following orders had presented no conflicts between Tamara Hoyle the Marine and Tamara Hoyle the someday mother. The Marines guarding the compound had been fully briefed � it was thought they�d learn the truth anyway � and Sergeant Hoyle had accepted the fact that her baby would never be born. That there would, in all probability, be no world for her to be born into. That was like a bayonet to the heart, but there was no changing things, and orders were orders.

But then, that first evening as she stood at rest smoking a safe-cig in the dark outside the barracks, listening to the frogs and the crickets, a young woman emerged to stand beside her.

�You�re pregnant,� the young woman said. Tamara nearly swallowed her safe-cig. The woman�s voice carried such conviction that there was no denying. �How do you know?�

The woman stuck out a hand and Tamara shook it. �I�m Connie Huerta. Doctor Connie Huerta, OB-GYN. I�m wrong sometimes, but not often.� She withdrew her hand and for the first time Tamara noticed the tiny medi-scan, no more than a thin film of plastic.

Doctor Huerta looked at the medi-scan, peered close to make out the tiny digital readout. �I�d say you�re between six and eight weeks along.�

Tamara took a deep, shaky breath, let it out slowly, recovered some of her inner calm. But the woman�s next words blew away her calm entirely.

�Sergeant, I don�t want to be here. I�m here with my husband. I don�t love my husband. I love a guy . . . a guy. Leave it at that. I don�t want to go on this trip. Me, I�d rather stay behind. Anyway, I�m a doctor: Maybe not everyone will be killed right away when the Rock hits. If there are people hurt I should be there.�

�You�re an obstetrician, not exactly a trauma surgeon,� Tamara pointed out.

Connie smiled. �Yes. But if you�re hurt I�ll be better than no doctor at all. Besides, women will still be having babies. For a while. Maybe.�

Tamara shook her head. �I have my orders. No one leaves the compound. Sorry.� She used her no-nonsense voice, putting an end to the conversation.

But the doctor wasn�t so easily cowed. She moved closer, to whispering distance. �We�re much the same size, Sergeant. When they give us the word, you let me walk away, and you take my place. Use my berth.� She placed her hand gently on Tamara�s very slightly swollen belly. �You may save your baby.�

Tamara removed the woman�s hand, gently but firmly. �I�m a Marine, Doctor: I have my orders.�

Connie Huerta started to say something more, but then she shrugged and let it go. Tamara was relieved. It had been an unsettling encounter, but it was over.

Then she heard the cries.

She dropped her safe-cig and ran inside the barracks. Everyone was gathered around the TV in the common room.

�What is it?� she demanded. She had to repeat the question several times before getting an answer.

�San Francisco was just wiped out,� a man said. �Some girl was filming it live. So much for the big secret.�

Can I get another F in chat for Cordelia?

quote:

DAYS TO IMPACT:1

CHAPTER14

�I�M NOT KILLING ANYONE, THE ROCK IS KILLING THEM.�

FBI agents led by Agent Boxer kicked in the door of the motel in Titusville, Florida. They found several pizza boxes, a number of empty cookie and candy bar wrappers, and the personal hygiene items belonging to Mark and Harlin Melman.

The TV was tuned to CNN, still doing San Francisco without letup. Showing the same satellite photos of a devastated Bay Area. Showing interviews with survivors from the fringe of the blast. Showing that awful link-video from a girl whose name was now known to every person left on Earth: Cordelia.

But neither Mark nor D-Caf were in the room, and no, the motel�s phones had not been used to call for a taxi, and no, neither Mark nor D-Caf had accessed the Web or used their links in any way. A search of the trash found no telltale receipts. The stolen credit card number had not been used again. So clearly the young man and the boy had �gone to cash,� slipped off the Web, out of sight.

Just as clearly they were up to no good. There was no innocent explanation for the sudden disappearance of the prodigy Mark Melman and his little brother. But they were not the only potential troublemakers, or anything like the most serious, either. The FBI was strained to its limits. Agents had been brought in from all over the United States
and even from stations abroad to keep an eye on the hundreds, if not thousands of people who knew about the Mayflower Project but had not been bought off with a boarding pass.

Mark�s plan relied on his own deep knowledge of the Kennedy Space Center and the surrounding area. Part of his job had been to streamline the data flow from security sensors around the facility. The scruffy woods, with its stunted pines and dense thickets and humid bogs, was protected by a string of sensors: infrared, motion sensors, even microphones tuned to pick up human speech.

But these sensors were not � could not be � watched by human monitors. Instead the barrage of data was overseen by computers programmed to differentiate between a wild pig or a heron and a human. Mark had left all the sensors functioning fully. The program itself would pass even the most rigorous tests. But Mark had played a little game with the program: He had created a sort of cloak of invisibility.

As he and D-Caf walked through the wild brush they had to contend with mosquitoes, with the possibility of snakes, and most of all with the innumerable falls and scrapes that resulted from walking in darkness when you�re not used to night vision goggles.

D-Caf caught his right foot on a root and pitched forward into a bush. �Ow. Oh, snake! Snake!�

Mark grabbed him by the jacket collar and yanked him to his feet. �It�s not a snake. Look: There�s nothing there.�

D-Caf stared at the spot where he�d fallen. It was green-on-green, but not the natural green of chlorophyll but the eerie, glowing green of the night-vision equipment. There was no snake, green or otherwise.

�There was one, he just ran off. Slithered off, I mean.�

Mark nodded. �See, up in that tree? You can just make out the antenna. It�s a sensor.�

�Do you think they heard us?�

�Yes. Of course the sensor picked up your whining, and it sees our infrared and has registered your extremely clumsy movement. It would easily determine that we are humans except for the fact that we�re putting off a very precisely tuned audio signal � too high for us to hear � but audible to the sensor.� He tapped the signal generator clipped to his belt. �The computer is programmed to see anything putting off that audio signal as a wild pig, regardless of the other data.�

�What would they do if they caught us?�

�Shoot us,� Mark said harshly. Then, realizing that this would just set D-Caf off, he said, �Just kidding, Hamster. They�d just arrest us and kick us off the base.�

D-Caf fell into step behind his brother, determined this time not to trip again, or to ask any more dumb questions. But it was creepy out here in the snake-infested woods, where every gnarled, dwarfish tree looked like some glowing, green, radioactive monster. D-Caf slipped his goggles down to his chin. The moon was at the quarter and it gave barely adequate light. When the clouds scudded across it the light was almost entirely extinguished.

It wasn�t quiet out here; there were endless insect and animal sounds, buzzing, rasping, croaking, and a weird, harsh cough that may have been anything. �How much farther?� D-Caf asked.

�Half a mile.�

�I need to rest.�

�No. Do you just not get it? The ship launches tomorrow night: 2:26 in the morning. After that thing in San Francisco, that tape being on all the news shows, all over the world, this secret is not going to keep. They can talk accidental nuclear explosion and all that, but no one buys that load of bull: the only nukes were aboard the carrier, and it would have been vaporized, not flying backward through the bridge. People are figuring it out, which means
everything is gonna hit the fan and security is going to come down even harder. There�s no backup launch window, NASA has to go. This is it. Either we�re on board, or we�re dead.�

D-Caf shrugged. �Maybe we shouldn�t do it.�

Mark spun and yanked his collar, yanked him close. �Don�t even start.�

�You said yourself it was a sham, Mark. I mean, if it�s not even going to save our lives then why do it? I mean, why? I can�t kill someone.�

�You won�t have to,� his brother sneered, releasing his angry hold. �I�ve always taken care of you, haven�t I?�

�Yeah. You have. Ever since Mom and Dad. But you don�t want to kill anyone, either, Mark. I know you don�t.�

�I�m not killing anyone, the Rock is killing them. If the Rock is going to kill everyone, how can I be a murderer, huh? Have you figured that out?�

Mark wasn�t sure whether he wanted to roll up in a ball and be sick, or beat his brother�s face in. The stupid kid! Didn�t he realize how hard this was? Didn�t he realize he was just making things worse? Mark was saving his stupid life, maybe, saving him from the end of the whole lousy world and all he could do was whine?

�We�ll get caught,� D-Caf wailed.

�Yeah? What are they going to do? Put us in jail for life? That�s a twenty-seven-hour sentence.�

�Doesn�t make it right,� D-Caf whispered.

�Hey, you saw the video. You saw what happened to the whole Bay Area? Everyone within five miles of the impact point is dead. That was a pebble, some little nothing knocked loose from the Rock. What happened there was a joke compared to what�s happening in twenty- seven hours.�

�We�ll never make it,� D-Caf said, sounding defeated. �It�s the end. It�s all going to end.�

�Yeah? Then I guess you might as well relax. Let�s go.�

# ¿ Jan 19, 2024 01:26

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

quote:

CHAPTER 15

�YOU�LL BE THERE. YOU�LL BE THERE.�

Jobs heard whimpering in the night. He was not asleep. Sleep wasn�t possible. Cordelia. The link had shown her smiling, mugging for the camera, just moments before her link recorded the single most devastating natural disaster in human history.

He told himself she was alive. They couldn�t know, not for sure. Everyone dead? Maybe that was just because they didn�t want to try and save anyone. Not that it mattered. She was dead now, or would die later. Dead from the Pebble, dead from the Rock. What was the difference? What did it matter?

The whimpering again, more urgent.

Was it Edward? The tape had shaken him, too. It had shaken everyone. It had made it all very, very real.

Jobs rolled sideways and looked across at Edward�s bunk. It was just two feet away. Not Edward. His brother was snoring softly, clutching his pillow tight. Jobs looked over the edge of the bunk, down at his dad. He felt weird doing so, like he was invading his parents� privacy. There was no privacy here, but still, he didn�t have the right to look at his dad sleeping, at his mom in her own lower bunk. It was like sneaking into their room.

Like sneaking into someone�s room and creeping their computer. God, why did his memory of Cordelia have to be tainted with all that? If he�d never had more than that one perfect kiss, if he and Cordelia had never been anything more to each other, he could have lived with that. Now his memories were fouled with feelings of guilt, with a sense of irrational resentment, all layered over, overwhelmed by those hideous images of death.

If she was still alive, if his own life was still to be lived, if, if, if, he could have discovered, they could have discovered . . . Maybe there would have been love. Maybe that. Maybe she would have loved him. Maybe what was wispy and slight could have become deep and enduring, real.

The whimpering came again, and for a moment Jobs wondered if the sounds came from him. But the words were not in English. More guttural. Like a very young child�s inflection. Like a kid trying to sound like a baby or something.

The room was dark but for the glowing red exit sign at either end of the room, the sliver of light from the bathroom, and the blue glow of the TV set at the far end of the room. A half dozen people sat hunched there, watching, watching, watching the only show on any channel: San Francisco.

Cordelia.

It was dark in the rest of the barracks, but not quiet. Fifty of the Eighty were up here on the upper floor. Fifty people snoring, wheezing, whispering, rolling over on creaky bedsprings. Jobs pulled off his blanket and rolled over the side. Now that he was awake he had to pee.

He dropped to the floor, crouched, hoping he hadn�t awakened anyone. The dilemma was whether he should root around under his dad�s bunk to find his shoes. If he did he might wake his parents. If he didn�t he might step on one of the cockroaches. They had very big cockroaches here in Florida.

There was more to worry about than roaches, he told himself. He crept away on bare feet, and now he passed the source of the whimpering. It was a kid he�d met in passing, a kid named Bobby or maybe Billy. Billy Weir, that was it. The kid was his own age, more or less, but seemed younger somehow.

Jobs padded by, trying to shut out the distress sounds of Billy�s nightmare. Across the cracked linoleum, tensed for foot-on-roach contact, he slid through the door into the bathroom � a military-style latrine with something like a dozen ancient toilets facing a matching dozen sinks, all under the blinding, unnatural glow of fluorescent overheads. A blanket had been hung halfway down the room as a vague barrier between men�s and women�s rooms.

Jobs did what he had to do and was washing his hands when Billy Weir came in. Jobs gave him a civil, neutral nod; after all, guys didn�t chat in the rest room. But Billy made no acknowledgment. He just stood there in bare feet, boxer shorts, and Dallas Cowboys T-shirt. Jobs started to walk away, but it was just too strange. The boy was standing, staring, but seeing nothing.

�Must be sleepwalking,� Jobs muttered out loud, comforting himself by the sound of his own voice. Billy Weir was creeping him out. What was the deal with sleepwalkers? You weren�t supposed to wake them up, or you were,
or it didn�t matter? Jobs couldn�t remember.

Suddenly Billy started talking again in a language Jobs had surely never heard: It wasn�t English or Spanish or anything like either of them. It was the voice he�d heard earlier.

�I�ll get your parents, that�s what I�ll do,� Jobs said. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing up.

�You�ll be there,� Billy said in clear, unaccented English.

�You awake now?�

�You�ll be there. You�ll be there,� Billy repeated.

�Where?�

�The world . . . the creation . . . the beautiful, terrible place . . .�

�You know what? I�m just going to get your father.�

�He dies. She dies. Many die. Others . . .� The boy shrugged.

�Are you awake or what?� Jobs demanded, frustration getting the better of him. �If you�re awake let�s cut the spook show, okay?�

Billy Weir stretched out his hand, feeling ahead of him like a blind person, and touched Jobs�s arm. He gripped the bicep, hard, almost painfully. Jobs nearly shook him loose but was stopped cold by the expression on the boy�s face. He was crying silent tears. And he looked at Jobs with sadness, but more, with deepest gratitude, like Jobs was his last friend, his savior. �You�ll be there,� Billy said.

quote:

DAYS TO IMPACT:0

CHAPTER 16

�DON�T PANIC, BUT KEEP MOVING.�

�Your attention, please. Your attention, please. Okay, folks, this is it. We have a �go.�� 2Face stood between her mom and dad, the three of them holding hands. She felt sick. It was a sickness that went all through her. It was a feeling that permeated the room.

Until the video from San Francisco, people could avoid thinking about the details, avoid picturing what was going to happen very soon now. The death of billions was an abstraction. The death of one pretty girl at a wedding reception had driven home the reality: People would die, not billions. Friends: friends you�d had all your life, people you�d have given your last dollar. Family: your grandparents, your aunts and uncles, the cousins you played with at family reunions. All of them were going to die like that girl, like all the people in the Bay Area.

The people in the house next door, teachers, principals, coaches, the lady at the bank, the bus driver, the guys who mowed the lawn, the Starbucks girl, all the people who entertained, all those familiar faces from TV. All of them dead. Every one of them dead. Pets. Homo sapiens, flower of evolution, lord of planet Earth. Forever dead.

The great forests, the swamps, the mountains and valleys, the deserts, obliterated. Every building, every work of art, every book, every church, obliterated. It was too big, too awful and awe-inspiring, to fit inside your head, 2Face thought. So much waste, so much sadness, you couldn�t squeeze the tiniest fraction of it into your brain.

But you could imagine being that girl, that one girl, watching the annihilation, feeling the fear, and then, the sudden knowledge that you, too, would be among the victims. At least they would be mourned. Who would be left to mourn for the billions? Only the Eighty. The weight of that pressed down on every heart in the room.

�The buses are outside. It�s about a ten-minute ride to the launch pad. When we get there we�ll unload and call the roll to make sure everyone is there.�

�It�s a sick joke, just a sick joke,� a man muttered behind 2Face.

2Face leaned close to her dad. �They were supposed to do a practice run this morning. I don�t know what to do.�

�I know, honey. I know. I don�t know what happened to the practice run.�

2Face knew: San Francisco. It had gutted the staff. Some of the Marines had run off, the cooks in the mess tent, drivers, NASA techs, even the two Secret Service agents assigned to that jerk Yago. The Eighty had been waiting for this moment for most of two days. Waiting and waiting with nothing else to do. And yet, it was too sudden. It was all too sudden. It couldn�t really be happening, not right now, right now.

They shuffled down the stairs and merged with the herd of people down there. People were carrying their possessions, their few small things.

�Folks, if it won�t fit in a pocket, it ain�t going,� a weirdly cheerful woman with a clipboard chirped. �Put it in the trash barrel. Don�t worry, the Lord will provide, the Lord will provide. We�ll have all we need in the Kingdom.�

2Face stuffed a few hard-copy photos in her pockets, and her mini-book: The tiny screen was hard to read but it contained the full text of sixteen books.

�Like I�ll be reading them on the flight,� she muttered, almost amused at the strangeness of it all. A flight? To where? To what airport? How far? What time zone? How many hours, how many days, weeks, months, years? Centuries?
In two hours she would be in hibernation. Two hours. Would there be a time to say good- bye? Was now the time?

�Mom and Dad? I love you both,� 2Face said, her throat closing up, choking off the words. �We love you, honey,� her mom said.

Her dad said nothing, just wiped his tears with the back of his hand.

The crowd was in a strange mood, or several strange moods. Many wept. Some joked, displays of bravado. Some prayed. Someone started to sing �God Bless America,� but no one joined in and the tune petered out. America was just another dinosaur now. Boarding the buses was a debacle. No one knew if buses were assigned or whether it was first come, first served. No one wanted to be separated from loved ones. People clutched precious mementos that had to be pried from their hands by touchingly patient Marines.

2Face noticed the young, black woman sergeant reasoning with a man who would not release a big stuffed lion. It had belonged to a daughter who died in infancy. His wife at last pulled the toy away from him, forceful but wailing all the while, and handed it to the sergeant. The man squeezed his arms together, squeezed emptiness and cried.

At last everyone was loaded. The buses, all full, rolled away toward the launch pad. And now silence fell. The only sound was the symphony of squeaks from the seats, the wheezing of the engines, the metallic rattle. No one spoke. People held hands. Their lips moved, but silently. They stared around, out the windows. 2Face stared. Shadows of trees. Plants. Grass. Earth.

The shuttle was visible from miles away. It was lit up, as garish as a gas station at night. It looked like a jumbo jet strapped onto a pair of spindly rockets and an odd, outsized, rust-red fuel tank bigger than the orbiter itself. This jury-rigged craft seemed then to have been leaned against what might have been a gravel factory.

Most, if not all Americans had seen shuttle launches on TV, and at some level this massive machine seemed almost commonplace to 2Face. The tower, that maze of I-beams and platforms, was familiar as well. In fact, the image was so commonplace that the changes stood out glaringly: big, lumpish pods placed atop the wings, an array of what might have almost been propane tanks welded down the sides, obscuring the big red, white, and blue flag and the black letters that spelled out United States.

At the best of times the space shuttle looked like something put together out of spare parts. Now it seemed positively trashy. A vast piece of junk, all lit up by spotlights, blotting out the stars. They had chiseled away most of the heat tiles: no need. There would be no reentry.

The sight extinguished what small shred of optimism 2Face had clung to. This was a joke. It really was a joke. No sane person would have climbed into a car that looked half this junked. Making matters worse still, the payload door was open a crack. A ten-foot crack. From the tower a rickety catwalk extended around and through the crack, into the payload bay.

Within the payload bay it was just possible to see the steel tube grandiosely named the Mayflower. The tube, the Mayflower, was the color of lead. For a very good reason: It was sheathed in lead, some protection at least against insidious radiation.

The Mayflower was thirty-nine-and-a-half feet long, which took up most of the sixty-foot-long payload bay. The rest of the space was crammed with experimental oxygen generators, nutrient pumps, and the machinery of the hibernation equipment. All together, and with the pods attached to the exterior of the orbiter, it weighed more than
forty-six tons. Sixteen tons beyond the nominal lift capacity of the shuttle rockets.

The Eighty were marshaled into lines by Marines and nervous or sullen or sardonic NASA people. The weeping was mostly over now. People were awed by the towering beast above them, or depressed, or simply wondering how long it would take to load everyone aboard.

At first 2Face didn�t notice the popping sounds. There was all kinds of noise around; in fact there was a steady background roar. But the Marines noticed. They stiffened at the sound and all looked away to the south. 2Face followed the direction of their gaze and saw flashes of light.

�Gunfire,� Mo�Steel said, just behind 2Face in line. �People shooting down there.�

�Why?� 2Face wondered. A stupid question. She knew why. Or thought she did. Mo�Steel looked surprised. �They want to climb on board the big ride, �miga. This is the big woolly. Nothing woollier. Three g�s on top of a monster firecracker.�

�You think they�re looking for thrills?� she asked, a bit incredulous.

Mo�Steel frowned thoughtfully. �Or maybe they�re just thinking it would save their lives, or whatever.�

Suddenly, there was new shooting, and much closer. Out of the darkness a pair of vehicles raced, engines roaring. Trucks? Humvees? Three hundred yards away, no more. BamBamBamBam!

�Everybody down!� a voice cried.

2Face dropped, hurt her knees on the tarmac, crouched, trying to see what was happening. Automatic-weapon fire blazed from the approaching vehicles. Someone cried out in surprise. 2Face saw a large man stand up and pull his shirt open to see the red stains, the hole in his belly. He took a stagger step and fell.

�Oh, oh, nooo!� a woman�s voice cried. �Someone help! My husband�s been shot.�

2Face saw the strange kid named Billy Weir. He was standing there, standing as if he was unaware of the bullets, or indifferent. 2Face stared, her attention riveted. The man near the boy had been shot. And the boy was standing, arms at his side, doing nothing, saying nothing.

�Get down, you idiot!� someone yelled and dragged Billy down. That broke the spell and 2Face tore her gaze away.

The Marines were returning fire. They were on one knee, aiming carefully, blazing away. Controlled bursts of shattering noise.

Sergeant Tamara Hoyle was yelling orders and firing her own weapon. Suddenly a muffled explosion and an eruption of yellow flames in the night. The humvee spun, teetered as if it would turn over, righted itself and stopped. It burned furiously.

2Face saw a man running from the vehicle. He was on fire. 2Face screamed, screamed, the sound coming from deep within, a sound torn from memories of pain. Her mother grabbed her, held her tight.

A Marine shot the burning man and he fell.

The Eighty were all down now, crawling or just hugging the tarmac as the firefight went on over their heads. Bullets were everywhere.

The second vehicle was still coming on. It, too, was on fire now, but still coming. The violence of the noise was stunning. Hundreds of rounds, all so near. A ricochet. A soft thunpf! as a bullet buried itself in the soft tarmac by 2Face�s arm.

An explosion, louder than the first. This time 2Face felt the concussion, the wave of superheated air.

�Cease firing, cease firing!� Tamara Hoyle yelled. �Weller, that means you!�

2Face raised her head a few inches. The second vehicle was stopped, no more than a few feet from the cowering civilians. Flashlights played over its bullet-pocked sheet metal. A body hung grotesquely out of the driver�s side window.

2Face saw Tamara Hoyle motion two of her men forward. They ran to the vehicle. One of them fired twice.

Pop! Pop!

Then, �All secure here.�

�My husband!� the woman cried, still. �Oh, my God, oh no, oh no.�

�Everyone up!� the sergeant commanded. �There could be more coming. No running! Don�t panic, but keep moving. Keep moving.�

2Face got up, helped her mom to stand.

She stepped past the body of the dead man, tried not to look, tried not to hear his wife�s heartbroken keening. Tried not to imagine seven billion more just as dead.

Things keep getting grimmer!

# ¿ Jan 20, 2024 05:09

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

quote:

CHAPTER 17

�THEY�RE ON THEIR WAY HERE, WELL-ARMED, CRAZY, NOTHING TO LOSE.�

It was never going to be smooth, Yago knew that going in. It was too rushed. Too hurried. The whole crazy enterprise had always had a strong smell of desperation about it. But after the shooting, the blazing guns in the darkness, with more out in the distance, now it was borderline panic.

At least the weeping had stopped. Funny how no one was moaning about what a waste of time the whole thing was. No. Once someone tries to take life away from you, that�s when you really start to care about it. But, that cynical insight aside, Yago was deeply unhappy. Unhappiness expressed itself as anger.

�What kind of idiot is responsible for security here?� he demanded loudly of no one in particular. He focused his rage on the sergeant. �You. How hard is it to stop some ignorant idiots in a pickup truck? I could have been hurt.�

�You still could be,� she snarled. �Now move along.�

�Are you threatening me?�

�No. Just stating facts. There�s a full-fledged riot going on in half the cities in the country right now. The mother of all riots is at the gates. They�re on their way here, well-armed, crazy, nothing to lose.�

�Well, stop them!� Yago shrilled.

Some others had stopped to listen to this news. There was scared murmuring, and, to Yago�s distinct pleasure, a vague support for him.

�There are Marines and airmen out there dying to do just that,� Tamara answered, jerking her head toward the not-so-distant sounds of gunfire. �And just so you know: There are others that have changed sides. You got soldiers shooting soldiers out there, and I don�t know who is going to win. So maybe you�d better move it.�

Yago knew better than to prolong the argument. �All right, everyone, let�s go,� he proclaimed, assuming a mantle of authority.

There was a crush of bodies around the single open-cage elevator ascending the tower. It was definitely intimidating, standing down here almost directly beneath the huge inverted funnels of the rocket engines. Once they lit the fuse anyone still down here would be a pork rind.

Yago shouldered ahead and managed to squeeze aboard the next elevator. Up and up. Up past the disconcerting sight of workmen still using arc welders. They were still working on the shuttle. Using welders despite the fact that the fuel was loaded. Taking terrible risks that spoke of terrible necessity.

Up and up. The elevator jerked to a stop and the gate rattled open. White-coated NASA techs were waiting to usher them out onto a windy platform. Yago looked over the edge. Twelve, fifteen stories or so to the ground. From up here he could clearly see the muzzle flashes of the battle. Closer. Still maybe a mile away, but a mile was a minute to a person in a humvee.

�Okay, listen up,� a white-coated NASA man said in a slurred voice. Was he drunk? Yago wondered. He was! The man was drunk. �You just walk out, one at a time, along the catwalk. Someone�s waiting inside to stow you in your berth. One at a time. Nothing to it.�

Yago watched as the first person stepped out. The catwalk swayed in the warm, moist wind, and swayed some more with each step. The catwalk went out, turned a dog-leg, and disappeared inside the partly open payload bay.
More went. Some with easy, confident strides. Others hesitant. One by one.

The elevator arrived with another load. The last load. The Marine sergeant and half a dozen of her men joined. They lined the rickety platform, weapons aimed downward. A kid, some kid Yago hadn�t noticed before, started to freak out. He didn�t want to go out onto the catwalk.

�I�m scared,� he whispered to his parents, and clung to them.

�Go on, you baby,� Yago snapped. �What are you, three years old? Get out there.�

�He�s always been scared of heights,� his mother said pitifully to the anxious faces around her. �Sweetheart, you can do it. Just hold onto the rails and take it one step at a time.�

But the kid wasn�t buying. �It�ll break. The whole thing will break.�

�Hey, Little Big Man, don�t sweat it.� It was Mo�Steel. �Watch this.�

Mo�Steel took a hop, landed on his hands, and proceeded to walk out onto the catwalk. He turned around, gave the kid an upside-down grin, then executed a gasp-inducing move that involved leaping up onto the rickety railing itself and tight-rope walking.

Someone, presumably the lunatic�s father, bellowed at him to get down, get off of there! Mo�Steel hopped back down onto the catwalk and grinned at the scared kid. �Nothing to it, Little Big: You and me.�

�Supposed to be just one at a time,� the kid argued.

�Hey, it breaks I�ll catch it and tie it off onto the whole rocket up there.�

Somehow Mo�Steel�s infectious, confident idiocy (as Yago saw it) worked. Mo�Steel held out his hand and the boy took it. Yago stewed. Should have just pushed the kid aside. Little creep. And that overgrown monkey showing off like that? Of course, he was on the list already for having knocked Yago down. Now he was on the list with a star by his name.

Across the catwalk. Out over a very long drop. Yago was halfway across when a siren loud enough to break glass erupted at full, fearsome volume. Yago nearly jumped off. The welders, the workmen, everyone on the tower, all dropped tools and ran for it. Yago could see white coats flooding away, down below, rats scurrying to waiting buses and trucks.

�They�re just clearing the blast zone,� someone explained.

Why bother? Yago wondered. Fry now, fry later. Yago kept moving. Into the payload bay, face-to-face now with the big lead cylinder. It looked way too much like a stylized coffin. There was a door-sized opening in it, a hatch. Yago stepped through and was handed along by a NASA person. This one was sober, at least. Through the hatch, and now it was no longer a fear of heights that was a problem, but claustrophobia. Yago had always hated confined spaces. His nightmares were of closed spaces. Being locked in a box, unable to escape. The inside of the Mayflower was about as cramped as the belowdecks of the original Mayflower. It was all garishly lit, but the light only seemed to accentuate the close nature of it.

The pod, the Mayflower, had been built on thirteen levels, with six berths per level. Seventy-eight berths in all, crammed into a space just thirty-six-feet tall by twelve feet wide. Each of the thirteen �decks� was little more than a strengthened wire shelf. A tiny, winding stairway led up and down through the levels. Down, just below him, through the wire mesh, Yago could see faces looking up at him from within their berths. Coffins. The berths were nothing but Plexiglas-topped coffins. Scared faces stared up at him through the glass, scared, buried alive.

Yago felt the panic grab him. His legs went rubbery.

�Move along,� the NASA tech said. �Climb up. All full below.�

Somehow Yago made his legs move. Somehow he climbed the ludicrously small stairway. Another white coat was waiting, straddling the stair and deck.

�In here. You have to crawl across. Come on, keep moving.�

Yago wanted to vomit. Impossible. He was shaking, could anyone see? Did they know? Had to keep moving, couldn�t lose it, couldn�t lose it. He clambered across one empty berth and dropped into the one indicated for him. Number fifty-one. Was that any kind of omen? What did the number mean? He should have been number one. It was narrow, well-padded. Long enough for a six-foot-tall man, but so narrow it pressed against Yago�s shoulders.

He lay there, looking up at the deck above him, looking up at the bottom of another berth, less than a foot and a half from his own nose. Looking longingly at the small empty space between berths, clinging to that miniscule bit of open space. The lid slid closed without warning. Plastic, inches from his nose.

�Don�t cry,� he told himself. �Whatever you do, do not cry.�

I have zero sympathy for this kid. In animorphs, the Vissers were all cartoons, you enjoyed them but never hated them. In Everworld, yeah Senna was loving terrible, but you could see how that happened, even if you could never like her or forgiver her. Yago? I loving hate this guy.

Conversely, I love Mo.

quote:

CHAPTER 18

�WE�RE GOING TO GO AHEAD AND LIGHT THE CANDLE.�

Jobs and his parents were the last to board. They climbed to the highest level. He passed Mo�Steel in berth sixty-two. His friend gave him a wink and said, �Hey, Duck, you finally going to catch some rush with me, huh?�

�Looks like it, Mo,� Jobs said. The lid slid closed over his friend�s face. Mo�Steel made a mock-scared face.

Up and up, past genuinely scared faces, weeping faces, and always sadness. Beneath any other emotion, deepest sadness.

�Or maybe that�s just me,� he whispered under his breath. The image of Cordelia, the last image of her, that horrible vision, was never far from his mind. He had known her in a confession, in a kiss, in memory. But somehow what was real and personal had been superseded by pictures, the ones she had taken. Organic memories overwritten by digital memories. He had to strain to focus on the true memory of her lips on his, and that memory was too painful to reach for.

He ascended and crawled to one of the outboard berths. Above him another mesh deck, but more open. Up there on the final, roomier level were just two berths, flanked by racks that held two rumpled white space suits. Spares, presumably, for the crew. The flight deck was just above, through a tiny hatch. Up there the pilot and copilot were going through a rushed checklist, readying what would be the final shuttle flight. Jobs had never thought of himself as claustrophobic, but he was glad to be next to the stairs.

He had more of a sense of room, more open space, more to �look at� than just about anyone. He lay on his back, said, �Kind of tight, huh?� to his dad. And, �You okay, Mom?�

Then, from the corner of his eye, he could have sworn he saw one of the racked space suits move. Surely not. Someone else would have noticed, too. But no, no, he was the only one at the right angle to see. The Plexiglas lid closed over him, catching him by surprise. There were speakers inside the berth, but no microphone. Just like that he�d been shut off from the outside world. The speakers gave instructions in a neutral, computer-generated voice.
�Please locate the blue tube pinned to the right side of the berth, and pull the end piece toward you.�

Jobs could just raise his head high enough to look down at his feet. He found the tube and
pulled it toward him.

�Place the end of the tube in the back of your throat. The coated capsule on the end of the tube will make swallowing painless and easy. Now swallow the capsule and, using your hands, slowly and gently push the tube down until the red band reaches your mouth. Please take care not to vomit.�

�Sure, no problem,� Jobs grated. He swallowed, like swallowing a very large vitamin tablet. But the tube made his gorge rise. He waited till he was past it. Pushed some more. Gross. A horrible feeling.

�Now draw the transparent plastic helmet over your head, taking care not to tangle the breathing tube.�

This was like sticking your head in a balloon. The plastic was malleable, creepily soft. It stuck to his forehead and pressed down on his eyes, making it hard to keep them open. He adjusted it as well as he could, but it pulled painfully on his hair. He took a tentative breath. Strange-smelling air. Metallic. He could feel his heart pounding. Feel the blood rushing through the veins in his neck.

Another voice. Human, this time. �Folks, this is Colonel Jasper Willett, the mission commander. You were supposed to get training for all this, folks, dry runs and so on. I know this isn�t easy, any of it. But try and follow the computer directions as well as you can. They�ll be repeated.�

Jobs worked again to adjust the smothering helmet to something like comfort. Outside the berth the Marine sergeant loomed into view, making a final check. He felt an acute stab of guilt. She had defended them at risk of her own life. Now she would be left behind. She would die when the Rock slammed into Earth. If not sooner. Jobs wondered how many people would take their own lives before the end. Would the sergeant wait patiently somewhere, find a place to sip a last cold drink, maybe say a prayer, be with a special loved one? The sergeant looked around, met Jobs�s gaze, and actually managed a smile and a thumbs-up.

Things happened very quickly then. One of the space suits moved, just a bit. Tamara Hoyle spun, leveled her weapon, and yelled something Jobs couldn�t hear. Her back was to the other suit. A gun appeared, raised in ghostly style by the white suit, held by the rubber-tipped glove. Someone inside, invisible behind the gold-coated sun shield
of the helmet.

Jobs yelled, �Look out!�

He saw a flash. Heard only a distant explosion. Saw Tamara Hoyle spin and fire all in one easy move. Three holes appeared in the space suit. No blood visible, but the suit sagged. Tamara Hoyle clutched at her shoulder. She pulled her hand away, saw blood.

The speaker crackled. �Okay, folks, we�ve just got the word to cut short the prep. We got some bad guys outside, getting a little too close for comfort. We�re going to go ahead and light the candle.� Commander Willett was trying to maintain the inevitably laconic NASA tone, but he was clearly worried. �Anyone on board who isn�t berthed needs to exit immediately and get into one of the blast-shelters. And I mean right now.�

Tamara Hoyle started to climb down the ladder but she seemed unable to make her arm work properly. Jobs saw her frown. Didn�t they know she was still on board? Did they know? Someone had to help her. Someone had to help her.

Tamara collapsed, all at once, fell onto her back on the deck, head jammed between two berths, legs hanging down the steps. She was almost directly over Jobs�s head. A red splat landed on the plastic lid, like a raindrop. Tamara lay staring up, mad at herself for being caught off-guard. Mad at herself for letting a little bullet stop her. It didn�t hurt all that much, that was strange. She felt the deck vibrating beneath her. Saw the space suit she�d shot. Someone in there. And someone in the other suit, too. The other suit was moving, looking like a marionette worked by a distracted puppeteer. Awkward. Like whoever was in it was trying to get out, or at least get off the hook that held
the suit secure.

D-Caf was trying both. His feet were off the deck, couldn�t move. Couldn�t go to his brother. �Mark! Mark!� he cried. �Mark!�

He writhed, unable to do anything but hang there. Everything was dark, shaded through the suit�s visor. He saw three holes in his brother�s suit. Maybe the bullets had missed. Maybe. It was possible, wasn�t it? But they surely had not missed the soldier. She lay there breathing heavily, unable to move. And now the rumbling of the ship grew very suddenly. Far below, the fire was lit. It exploded downward and outward and billowed up in a geyser of flame and smoke.

The rioters had made it through the determined resistance. They reached the launch pad just as the rocket fuel and liquid oxygen came together to explode in a blowtorch of incomprehensible energy. The rioters turned and ran, turned their vehicles around. Far too late. Superheated gas billowed yellow and orange. It incinerated the rioters in a heartbeat. It reduced the vehicles to tin shells.

The tired, overburdened old space shuttle carrying the Mayflower mission lifted up from the pad.

And again expectations are subverted, I thought Tamara was gonna swap with doctor, but instead she's dead.

# ¿ Jan 21, 2024 01:17

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

/\/\/\That's too long for a thread title

quote:

CHAPTER 19

�YOU�RE WEIGHTLESS, YOU IDIOT.�

Numbness spread outward, radiating out from the hole in Tamara Hoyle�s shoulder. Couldn�t feel one side of her neck. Couldn�t feel her arm. Her brain, too, seemed numb, vague, wandering. And now something huge was sitting on her chest, pressing her down. An elephant on her chest.

The baby, the baby, the baby. God let the baby be okay.

Tamara couldn�t breathe. Couldn�t raise her head. She was being shaken, vibrated. A roar in her ears. There was blood in her eyes, darkness blurring her vision. She saw the space suit she�d shot. It hung low, the three g�s were weighing it down.

She turned her head, a slow, slow movement. The other suit, writhing, but sluggishly. The violence of liftoff made everything blur, like someone holding a jerky video camera. Things left trails. Hallucinatory.

Her legs were dangling down the stairwell and now the deck was tilting sharply. She would slide down, was sliding, slipping. It would kill her. A three-gravity fall was not good. She still had her weapon, felt it in the one hand that could still feel. Had to wedge it. Had to jam it into the wire mesh, use it to hold on. But the deck was tilting further still, way over, like a pitched roof. And she was weak. Slow.

Fuzzy.

The gun was torn slowly, inexorably from her hand. Her strong grip not strong enough. Slipping and sliding on her own blood. She fell, an eruption of stars in her head, and she lay where she fell, crumpled and jammed into a ball.

Jobs banged on the top of his berth. It was like he was lifting weights with each move. Had he been the only one to see? He was at an angle, maybe so, maybe no one else knew. Maybe it was up to him, him and no one else. He couldn�t see what had happened to the Marine. He could see the other suit, though, the terrorist or whatever he was.

The lid didn�t open. Inside release? Surely they�d built in a panic-button? A release? They wouldn�t lock people into these things with no way to get out. But now there was something else happening. Weird. Like when he had his appendix taken out and they�d given him anesthesia. That�s what it felt like, only slow, very slow-working. The hibernation technology was beginning to work. He was being drawn under, down into a state that would be far, far deeper than sleep.

He scrabbled around, searching with lead fingers, unable to turn his head far enough to see around inside the berth. Oh, man, so sleepy. Where was the release? Where . . .

Where would you put it, Jobs? he asked himself silently. Come on, man, where would it have to be? Should be an easy engineering question. Easy. Unless your brain was being shut down. D-Caf could see him. He could see the kid in the nearest berth on the deck below, seemingly panicking, pushing, trying to get out. It only added to D-Caf�s own panic. Mark had been shot and now he was trapped. The g�s were draining the blood out of his head. His feet ached and buzzed. His head was woozy, dreamy, scared, unable to focus, inchoate panic. Had to get out. Mark. Help him.

The ship was tilted over, D-Caf was on his back now, less straight downward pressure, and now he got his heels into a seam and kicked. The suit jerked up and out of its rack. He slid down the wall and slammed way too hard into the pitched deck. His knees buckled. The wind was knocked out of him. But his brain was clearing a little. A little, not much.

D-Caf crawled uphill, more and more uphill toward Mark. Crawled through blood. He clawed his way to his brother, weeping inside his helmet, crying, �Mark! Mark!� And then, quite suddenly, the ceaseless roar stopped. Not silence, but near silence, comparative silence.

And all at once he could move quite easily. Too easily. He smacked his helmet into a bulkhead.

�Weightless. I�m weightless, Mark,� he said.

He pulled himself cautiously up to be level with Mark. How did you open these stupid helmets? The ring. Okay, yeah, he could do it. D-Caf removed his brother�s helmet, talking to him all the while. The helmet came off. A lava lamp of blood bubbled up from inside. Mark was slumped down inside. Dead. Dead beyond any illusion.

D-Caf cried out. He shoved back and floated across the space, slammed into one of the unused berths and bounced upward to slam against the now-overhead bulkhead. What was he going to do? What was he supposed to do now? Mark was dead. And the two empty berths they were going to take away from the pilot . . . The pilots were still alive. That was the problem. They were still alive.

D-Caf was alone, completely alone now. What was he supposed to do? No Mark. No Mark to make the decision.
The gun, Mark�s gun, their father�s gun was hanging suspended in midair. D-Caf reached for it.

He heard a noise, an exhaust sound, air rushing.

He slapped the bulkhead and spun around. He caught the gun, fumbled it, grabbed for it, just as Jobs came flying too fast, too hard up out of his berth, up the stairwell. Jobs had meant to hit the terrorist, because terrorist he surely was, with his shoulder but caught him only a glancing blow. He stuck out his hand, grabbed the gunman, spun him
around, and then himself hit the far bulkhead. The impact stunned him. There was a shocking jolt of pain in his head and neck.

�You�re weightless, you idiot,� he scolded himself, �not massless.� In the middle of it all, fighting an armed bad guy, he still felt a stab of embarrassment at mishandling weightlessness.

Jobs flattened against the bulkhead as well as he could, and now pushed off with much less force. He drifted, spread-eagle. The gunman was spinning in midair, just like a top, maybe twenty rpm�s. Every three seconds or so the gun came around. Jobs drifted. The gunman came around.

Bam!

Flame shot from the muzzle. It canceled D-Caf�s rotation, but knocked him slowly backward. Jobs was helpless, still floating, nothing within reach, slowly descending on D-Caf, who now leveled the gun. The hatch opened. A space-suited astronaut stuck his head in. The gunman jerked, wavered, as if uncertain who to point the gun at.

Jobs stretched with all his might and just tapped a passing support beam. Now his drift was a spin. He could hear a muffled, faraway voice yelling. Something. Yelling, yelling. The astronaut slid into the room, held his hands up in a placating gesture.

The terrorist fired.

The faceplate of the astronaut�s helmet cracked like safety glass. Jobs was upside down now. He kicked at the overhead and hit the gunman from above and behind. The gun flew and banged loudly around. The terrorist slammed into the deck with Jobs now clinging to him, a monkey on his back.

The gunman was yelling, yelling, and now, in direct contact, Jobs could understand. �It�s a mistake! It�s a mistake! I didn�t mean to shoot! I didn�t mean to shoot!�

A kid�s voice! Just the same, whoever he was, he was writhing, squirming, trying to throw off his tackler. But the suit was far too big for him. It was like trying to fight from inside a big canvas bag.

And all at once there was another set of powerful arms added to the struggle. The other astronaut. Jobs caught a flash of the name stenciled on his suit: col. j.w. Willett. Between them the commander and Jobs pried off the helmet. The two of them blinked in surprise.

�I didn�t mean to do it,� the kid cried. �I didn�t want to hurt anyone.�

�You shot him in the face, you lying little �� Jobs yelled. �You shot him!�

�I was scared, I didn�t mean to shoot!�

A floating balloon of blood splashed greasily across the young killer�s face. The copilot�s, the Marine�s, or the other bad guy�s, no way to know. The commander left the sobbing kid in Jobs�s hands and went to check on his copilot. When he came back his face was dark and murderous.

�He�s dead,� he grated.

Jobs noticed a hole in the commander�s right hand. Stray bullet? �They shot someone else, too,� Jobs said. �The Marine. The sergeant, I think she was. I don�t know what happened to her. This guy was in one suit, someone else was in the other suit. It was the other guy who shot the Marine.�

The commander removed his own helmet. He ripped off his gloves and looked at a round, red hole right in the center of his palm. �I have to contact Houston. I don�t have authority to deal with this. There�s nothing about this in the mission plan.�

Jobs nodded. He was completely ready to let the commander decide. And if Colonel Willett said call Houston, that was fine.

�What�s your name?� Willett demanded of the blubbering killer.

�D-Caf. It�s D-Caf. You can call me Harlin if you want to, though,� he answered. �That�s my brother over there. Mark. Mark Melman. He wasn�t trying to hurt anyone.�

�You show up with a gun, you�re trying to hurt someone!� Jobs snapped. �There�s one, maybe two people dead. Not trying to hurt anyone?�

�It was the Rock, not us,� D-Caf moaned.

�First, we get you out of that suit,� Willett ordered D-Caf. �There�ll be air pressure in here for the next few hours. A little less with the hole you managed to shoot in the hull. And after that you can breathe vacuum.�

Okay, maybe Tamara isn't dead, but things sure aren't looking good for D-Caf!

quote:

CHAPTER 20

�GET ME HIS BERTH NUMBER. I�LL THAW HIM OUT.�

The shuttle carrying the Mayflower Project orbited Earth. Those humans below on the planet who knew about them were few. Those that cared, fewer still. Sliding across the day-night barrier into the shadow of Earth, Willett and Jobs could see the lights of a thousand cities and towns. Some were made extra bright by the raging fires of uncontrolled rioting.

The man and the boy were exhausted. They had tied D-Caf up to a support beam. They had maneuvered the unconscious but still breathing Tamara Hoyle into the berth once assigned to the man who�d died on the ground. They�d bandaged the hole in her shoulder. A Band-Aid for a bullet wound.

They had contacted Houston. Houston had said it was up to them. Houston, most of it, most of the men and women who manned the consoles and stood by at the ready, most of them had gone home to family to wait for the end.

Earth was done with the Mayflower. Good luck, Mayflower. Leave us.

�The woman may live,� Willett said. �For a while, anyway. At least we got the tube in her. Maybe the hibernation will help somehow. I don�t know what to do with the kid.�

Jobs shrugged. He didn�t know, either.

�One thing I know: I�m not a jury or a judge,� the astronaut said.

�No,� Jobs agreed.

�I�ll put him in Tom�s berth. Not that it matters much. See this?� He pointed to a readout on the overhead console.

Jobs had been surveying the cockpit with some interest. It was his kind of place: hundreds of knobs and dials and LED readouts.

�That�s the solar sails.�

�The readout�s blank,� Jobs said.

�Yeah. Nothing. No feedback. Could be the readout is just malfunctioning. Could be the processor. Could be a software glitch. My guess? Wire�s been severed. Which means they don�t deploy. Which means we drift out of this solar system of ours at a very leisurely pace.�

�Solar sails?�

Willett nodded. �Yeah. Microthin sheets of some new composite. Supposed to be incredibly strong. And supposedly more efficient, much more efficient. When they were first looking at solar sails as a means of propulsion, most guesses were they�d give us 150,000 miles per hour maximum before we left the solar system. But these are supposed to be different. Don�t ask me how.�

�What kind of speed can we achieve with these new sails?�

�The contractor claims we can loop around the sun and come out the other side doing just under a million miles per hour. Pretty slow, still, considering you�re using light for your wind and the light is moving 186,000 miles per second. And pretty slow if you�re talking about traveling light-years through space. But better than orbital speed by a long shot. Of course, that�s if they were spread. And right now they�re snug in their pods and not going anywhere.�

�Isn�t there some way to fix them?�

Willett smiled. �The standard NASA answer is �can do.� But NASA . . . Well, they hung in there pretty good, you know. They stuck it out till we were off. But they have wives and husbands. They got kids and grandkids they want to spend their last hours with.�

�Yeah.�

For a long while neither of them spoke. Through the windows Jobs could see the sun come up, peeking around the rim of the planet. Daylight somewhere over West Africa. Sunrise, but everyone onboard was fast, fast asleep. They were the only two people awake, aside from D-Caf.

Then Willett said, �We would need an EVA. Someone would have to go out there and literally pry open those pods. There�s supposed to be a manual release there. Supposed to be a crank you can turn, cranks �em right out. So they tell me.�

Jobs said, �Maybe we should try that.�

Willett held up his bandaged hand.

Jobs held up his own hand. �I could do it.�

�It�s a two-man job. Worse than that, it�s a tight space, no room. You�re small enough, maybe, but we�d need a second man, small as you.�

�I have a friend,� Jobs said.

Willett looked intrigued. �Would he do it? Go outside, I mean?�

Jobs smiled. �If I didn�t take him he�d kill me.�

Willett hesitated. Then, �Get me his berth number. I�ll thaw him out.�

Jobs and Mo'Steel do a spacewalk

# ¿ Jan 22, 2024 01:54

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

We're getting 4 chapters today because the last two are super short and that's it for book 1!

quote:

IMPACT

CHAPTER 21

�THAT�S THE ROCK.�

�Mo. Wake up.�

Mo�Steel opened one eye. Then the other. Jobs was leaning right over him. �Are we there?�

Jobs shook his head. �No. You�ve only been under for a couple hours.�

�Huh.� He snorted, rubbed his nose, and sat up. �What�s it about, Duck?�

�Bad stuff, Mo. People getting shot. Some crazy kid and his big brother got in, shot that Marine sergeant.�

�That hot-looking black fem?�

Jobs cocked an eyebrow. �I didn�t really think about whether she was hot, Mo.�

�Mmm. You wouldn�t. So things are screwed up and we�re gonna auger into the sun or whatever and you woke me up so I wouldn�t miss it?�

�Kind of. Here�s the thing: One of the pilots is dead. The other is injured. Some kind of solar sails or whatever won�t deploy. Unless someone goes outside.�

Mo�Steel blinked. Then his eyes lit up. �Outside? Ride the big rocket from the outside?�

For a moment Jobs thought his friend might cry. Mo�Steel grabbed his arm and squeezed. �You�re the best, man.�
seriously love mo

�The commander wanted to know if you�d do it. It�s dangerous. Very dangerous. The suits won�t fit us, the jetpacks are hard to control, we screw up at all and we could end up being separated from the ship. That�d mean we�d probably orbit till we entered the atmosphere and burned up.�

Mo�Steel sat bolt upright. �Let�s go!�

�You�re a dangerously disturbed person, Mo. But one more thing before you say yes: the Rock. It�s coming. We have a very small window for an escape burn to push us out of orbit. The calculations are all based on the sails being deployed before the burn. Colonel Willett may have to light the rockets while we�re still out there.�

�Very woolly,� Mo�Steel agreed, nodding with approval, as though this particular ride had been worked out just for his amusement. �Hey! We�re weightless.�

�Yes. You can thank me later.�

They suited up as quickly as they could with one-armed help from Willett. Slipping into a suit to hide as D-Caf had done was one thing. Actually donning the suit properly so that it would work out in the vacuum of space was another.

Willett walked them through the procedure as well as he could while simultaneously prepping the ship for a burn with his one good hand. Jobs noticed that he had Mark�s revolver on his lap. Jobs wondered how many rounds were left.

�You�ll need to loosen all the bolts holding the sheathing in place. Cast the sheath off. This is important: Don�t throw it forward or back, throw it away from the ship.� He made a motion with both hands and winced at the pain. �And remember your basic physics: equal and opposite reaction, right?�

�Under the sheathing you�ll find the sails coiled up. It�ll look like a big wad of Mylar. Crumpled-up foil. Supposedly this stuff, though, has a shape memory. Meaning, once you crank the �mast� all the way out, the sail should snap into place and spread out on its own. Should. No one�s ever tested this. Like I told you, the calculations � such as they are � call for the sails to be fully deployed prior to escaping orbit. I don�t know how critical that is. Figure we should do our best.�

Mo�Steel nodded. �Don�t worry, Captain. My boy�s got the tech chops.�

Willett looked at Jobs with a flicker more interest. �Steven Jobs, huh? That�s the name you chose? Not Gates or Boole or Eckert or Shastri?�

Jobs smiled. �Steve Jobs made a revolution in a garage.�
DON'T GET ME loving STARTED ON THIS BULLSHIT, JOBS!!

�Fair enough,� Willett said with a sigh. �One of my own boys is pretty good at . . .� He fell silent. He glanced at the revolver. �Okay. I punch up the burn in twenty-five minutes. The Rock . . . it�s going to happen soon. I�ll call you in at the five-minute point. That�s just maybe enough time to get into the airlock and brace yourself.�

�Mmmm.� Mo�Steel rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, anticipating the rush. No time for more. No time for anything like the usual NASA care and caution and endless preparation.

Jobs caught sight of a small framed picture wedged into one of the control panels. It showed a middle-aged woman, a girl, and two boys, all in their early twenties or late teens. He wondered if he should say something. But here, now, more than at any time in his life, Jobs found the right words would not come. He wondered if he should take the gun. But how could he explain it?

Watching a wreck, watching a slow-motion disaster, unable to do anything, anything at all to stop it. Unable even to think of comforting words. Powerless . . .

Jobs turned away. Mo�Steel slapped his shoulder, oblivious, of course, to his friend�s particular concern. They sealed each other�s helmets and stepped into the miniscule airlock. Waited while the air was sucked away, drawn back into the ship.

The indicator light was green.

Mo�Steel threw the latch and levered the hatch open.

Earth was right there, right there, filling the frame. Mo�Steel pushed off very slowly and drifted up through the hatch, or down through the hatch, or left or right or whatever. It was all the same, he thought happily. He drifted through and arrested his movement by reaching down to grab the hatch threshold. He extended outward, legs pointing at Earth. He reached down to lift his friend up/down after him.

Jobs floated out into space, held Mo�Steel�s hand, and they both looked back along the orbiter�s back. The tall tail just touched the rim of the planet. The disorientation was extreme and impossible to resist. The ship was above, below, Earth was down or up, impossible. Hard not to feel like that big old ball, that blue and green and brown ball in the black sky was going to fall on them and crush them. At the same time, it was hard not to feel like you were falling, like you ought to be screaming.

It was impossible to make any sense of it. At least it would be to Jobs, Mo�Steel realized. Funny how you could see tension even through a space suit. It was the way Jobs held himself, all clenched up. Clenched up and hanging upside down above the big ball.

�Don�t think it, Duck,� he advised. �Gotta just do, not think. Follow me.�

Jobs closed his eyes, tried to dispel the sense that he was falling. Opened his eyes again, and this time narrowed his gaze, focused on his friend. This was Mo�s thing, follow Mo. Mo�Steel held Jobs�s shoulder, got behind him, and keyed his maneuvering jets. The two of them eased forward, Jobs balanced like a clumsy but insignificant weight.

They flew at a snail�s pace. Willett had emphasized conserving the maneuvering jets. So they flew very slowly above the orbiter, passing along the long, tight-closed seam of the payload bay, within which slept the Eighty, oblivious, unaware.

�There are the pods,� Jobs said.

�Left or right?�

�Left.�

Mo�Steel keyed his thrusters and they changed vector to intercept the pod on the left wing.

�I think I can land right on it,� Jobs said and stuck his feet out.

�I don�t think so, Duck. Gotta kill momentum with the jets. You�d just bounce off.�

Moments later they were stopped dead � relative to the shuttle. In reality they were traveling at 18,000 miles per hour, give or take. But the elongated pod now appeared to be hanging vertically in front of them, hanging on a long, curved, white wall.

�Wrench,� Jobs said. He felt more comfortable now. This was man and machine. He could do that.

�Forgot the wrench,� Mo�Steel said.

�What?�

�Joke. Untie the gut-knots there, �migo.�

Jobs cursed Mo�Steel under his breath, took the wrench, and began loosening bolts. There were twelve, all around the edge of the thin sheathing. He took each bolt and stuffed them into a net bag hanging or floating from his waist.
On the seventh bolt he noticed the small round hole.

�There�s what did it, there�s what cut the wire. Bullet hole. Must have been a stray round from the fight on the ground.�

�Hey, look,� Mo�Steel said.

�What?�

�Is that it?� Mo�Steel tapped Jobs�s shoulder and pointed.

Jobs looked. A small, tumbling, moving object that caught and reflected the sun�s light. Small at least compared to the immensity of the planet. How could that rock possibly hurt this beautiful planet? Surely somehow it would stop, or miss, or not really do the damage everyone said.

Surely not.

People wouldn�t die. No. Continents would not be shattered. No. Something would stop it, something, someone would not let it happen.

�Yeah, Mo. That�s it,� Jobs said. �That�s the Rock.�

gently caress me, the kids are actually going to see the earth get destroyed.

quote:

CHAPTER 22

�TWO WHOLE SECONDS TO SIT HERE AND CHAT.�

They pushed the sheath away. Jobs squeezed his arm and shoulder and part of his upper body into the tight gap between the folded mast and the outer shell of the shuttle. Mo�Steel had to squeeze in beside him to hold down a latch-pawl to allow the crank to turn. Jobs turned the small hand crank once. Twice. Almost impossible to get any kind of leverage. He was eating up time and knew it. But the gloves were bulky and way too big, the space too tight.

He turned again and again and nothing happened.

The Rock was in view. Coming. Coming. No drama, no tail of sparks, no swooshing sound. It occurred to Jobs that it was a pretty lame special effect.

The mast began to lift. Now there was more room, and now he could get leverage, with Mo�Steel anchoring him. The crank turned quickly. The mast rose, as thin as a kid�s fishing rod. The crumpled foil sail rose, too, like wadded-up tinfoil.

Up and up.

Slow. Too slow.

�Boys, this is Colonel Willett. I see you�re making progress, but we�re ten minutes to burn.�

Jobs keyed his intercom. �Right. Almost have the left sail extended. Mo, I�m wearing out: Take a turn.�

They traded places and Mo�Steel spun the crank as fast as he could. Each working till he was sweating and gasping, then handing it off. At last the crank stopped. The sail was extended.

They jetted as quickly as they could over the hump of the shuttle�s back to the right wing. Removing the sheathing was easier this time. They squeezed themselves into place and started to turn the crank.

�Gotta call time, gentlemen,� Willett said. �Maybe one sail deployed is enough.�

Jobs said, �Commander Willett, I�m not an astrophysicist, but aren�t we talking about calculations for escaping solar orbit? I mean, we can burn our way out of Earth�s orbit, but then we have to loop the sun and head out without being captured by the sun�s gravity, right? If we mess with the formula we could end up in orbit forever. Or worse.�

�Son, these calculations are half guesswork anyway. You have to understand, this isn�t the usual NASA mission. No one knows anything for sure.�

Jobs looked at Mo�Steel, caught his attention. He lifted his gold visor and pressed his helmet into contact so they could talk without using the mike and being overheard.

�Mo. I think maybe we gotta do this. But he has to fire the rockets. Maybe we can use our tethers, stay alive, hold on . . .�

�Ride the big rocket and Mother G trying to kill us real hard? You asking or telling?�

�You in?�

�What, like you�re going to take a ride while I bunny?� Mo�Steel laughed, but not happily.

He knew the difference between wild risks and sheer suicide. �I�ll ride along with you, Jobs.�

Jobs keyed his mike. �Commander, we�re staying out here.� He began cranking again, winding as hard and fast as he could.

So the book has been so good at subverting expectations that I fully believe one or both of these kid could die.

�Three minutes to burn,� was Willett�s only answer.

Jobs and Mo�Steel cranked wildly, spelling each other every minute to keep the speed up, smooth now, practiced. The mast extended languidly. The sails grew. Not fast enough. Not fast enough.

�Two minutes,� Willett said. �There�s a sort of carabiner on your belts. You can clip it to the loop on your lifeline and then clip the carabiner to the sail crank itself.�

�Roger that,� Jobs gasped.

�Roger that?� Mo�Steel mocked. �You gone astronaut now?�

�One minute. Repeat, one minute.�

The mast rose. Up and out, impossibly far, with spiderweb veins extending much farther still, extending the Mylar for thousands of square feet. Fully extended, each sail could have blanketed a pair of football fields.

�Thirty seconds.�

�Let me in,� Mo�Steel yelled. He grabbed the crank and worked it like a fiend.

Jobs found the carabiner and with numb fingers snapped it through the loop in his own lifeline. Now for Mo�Steel.

�Twenty.�

Where was his friend�s carabiner? �Turn a little, Mo!�

�I�m turning as fast as I can!�

�I mean your body. Turn this way!�

Jobs snatched the carabiner. It spun away, cartwheeling through space. A desperate lunge, a grab with clumsy gloved fingers.

�Ten seconds to burn.�

He snagged the carabiner. Snap!

�Eight . . . seven . . .�

He lunged, drew Mo�Steel�s lifeline up, and snapped the carabiner onto the handle.

�Six . . .�

Mo�Steel yelled, �What are you doing? I can�t turn the thing if ��

Jobs pulled himself up, too fast, slammed his shoulder into the shuttle skin, spun outward, dangling in space.

Mo�Steel grabbed his arm, pulled him down, yanked the lifeline, and snapped it into place. �Three . . .�

�See? Plenty of time,� Mo�Steel said. �Two whole seconds to sit here and chat.�

�One.�

Less than twenty feet away, the orbiter�s engines exploded into life. No smoke, no roiling cascade of superheated gas, just a jet as neat and symmetrical as a gas stove. Jobs and Mo�Steel were slammed hard downward. Suddenly there was a downward.

Suddenly there was weight as well as mass. Jobs was hanging by his waist, feeling like he weighed two tons. It was not the exorbitant acceleration of liftoff, but it still squeezed his lungs, bent him back, turned his spine into a letter U.

He was upside down, hanging head downward now, a tin can tied to a speeding car. The lifeline was extended fully, and stretching. The cone of fire was only a few feet below, blue-bright, weirdly silent. Was he going to die? Was it now, his death?

He remembered the kid, the strange sleepwalking kid, Billy Weir. �You�ll be there,� he�d said to Jobs. �You�ll be there.�

Where? There.

The burn obscured a part of the planet turning beneath him. But the shuttle was rotating slightly at the same time, and now he could see the Rock.

�Mo! Are you okay?�

No answer. Maybe he hadn�t keyed his mike. Maybe the burn was blanking out the signal. Or maybe Mo wasn�t there to answer. The acceleration seemed to go on forever. He had been hanging there, dangling helpless,
straining for every breath forever.

And suddenly, all at once, it ended.

The cone of fire was gone. The acceleration ceased. The ship was now moving at better than 25,000 miles per hour, but once again the sense of speed disappeared along with the sense of weight.

No death. Not yet.

�You boys still there?� Willett called.

�I�m okay,� Jobs answered.

�Aaahhhh! Aaaahhhh!� Mo�Steel screamed into his mike.

�My friend is okay, too.�

�Head for the airlock, you did good,� the commander said.

Jobs moved hand-over-hand with ease up the length of the lifeline. Mo�Steel met him at the crank and they unhooked.

�Okay, that beat The Pipe,� Mo�Steel said.

But Jobs didn�t answer. He put his hand on his friend�s shoulder and pointed. Mo�Steel turned and the two of them hung there, suspended, side by side, as the Rock came to the end of its long trip.

quote:

CHAPTER�IT�S OVER.�

23

Up close, so near Earth, the Rock looked very small. Seventy-six miles in diameter, it was nothing next to the planet measured in thousands of miles. But, up close, so close, Jobs could see the speed of it. Against the backdrop of space you couldn�t sense the awesome speed. But now, as it angled into the atmosphere, in the brief second in which it could be seen outlined against blue ocean, it seemed impossibly fast. The Rock entered the atmosphere and for a flash became a spectacular special effect: The atmosphere burned, a red gash in its wake.

It struck the western edge of Portugal. Portugal and Spain were hit by a bullet the size of Connecticut. The Iberian peninsula was a trench, a ditch. The Mediterranean Sea, trillions of gallons of water, exploded into steam. Every living thing in the water, every living thing ashore, was parboiled in an instant. Portugal, Spain, southern France, all of Italy, the Balkans, the coast of northern Africa, Greece, southern Turkey, all the way to Israel was obliterated in less than five seconds. They were the cradles of Western civilization one second, a hell of superheated steam and flying rock the next.

The destruction was too swift to believe. In the time Jobs could blink his eyes, Rome and Cairo, Athens and Barcelona, Istanbul and Jerusalem and Damascus were gone. Not reduced to rubble, not crushed, not devastated. This wasn�t like war or any disaster humans understood. Rock became gravel, soil melted and fused, water was steam, living flesh was reduced to singed single cells. Nothing recognizable remained. The impact explosion was a million nuclear bombs going off at once. The rock and soil and waters that had once defined a dozen nations formed a pillar of smoke and flying dirt and steam. The mushroom cloud punched up through the atmosphere, flinging dust and smoke particles clear into space.

Jobs could see a chunk of Earth, some fragment left half-intact, maybe twenty miles across, spin slowly up in the maelstrom. There were houses. Buildings. A hint of tilled fields. Rising on the mushroom cloud, flying free, entering space itself.

The entire planet shuddered. It was possible to see it from space: The ground rippled, as if rock and soil were liquid. The shock wave was an earthquake that toppled trees, collapsed every human-built structure around the planet, caused entire mountain chains to crumble. The oceans rippled in tidal waves a thousand feet high. The Atlantic Ocean rolled into New York and over it, rolled into Charleston and over it, rolled into Miami and washed across the
entire state of Florida. The ocean waters lapped against the Appalachian Mountain chains, swamped everything in their way, smothered all who had not been killed by the blast or the shock wave.

People died having no idea why. People were thrown from their beds, dashed against walls that collapsed onto them. People who survived long enough to find themselves buried alive beneath green sea many miles deep. Jobs saw the planet�s rotation slow. The day would stand still for the few who might still be alive.

The impact worked its damage on the fissures and cracks in Earth�s crust. Jobs watched the Atlantic Ocean split right down the middle, emptying millions of cubic miles of water as if it was of no more consequence than pulling the plug on a bathroom sink.

The planet was breaking up. Cracking apart. Impossibly deep fissures raced at supersonic speeds around the planet. They cut through the crust, through the mantle, deeper than a thousand Grand Canyons.

Now the Pacific, too, drained away. It emptied into the molten core of Earth itself. The explosion dwarfed everything that had gone before. As Jobs watched, motionless, crying but not aware of it, Earth broke apart. It was as if some invisible hand were ripping open an orange. A vast, irregular chunk of Earth separated slowly from the planet, spun sluggishly, slowly away. The sides of this moon-sized wedge scraped against the sides of the gash, gouged up countries, ground down mountains.

And now this wedge of Earth itself broke in half. Jobs saw what might have been California, his home, turn slowly toward the sun. If anyone is left alive, he thought, if anyone is still alive, they�ll see the sunrise this one last time.
Earth lay still at last. Perhaps a quarter of the planet was bitten off, drifting away to form a second and a third Earth. The oceans were gone, boiled off into space. The sky was no longer blue but brown, as dirt and dust blotted out the sun. Here and there could still be seen patches of green. But it was impossible to believe, to hope, that any human being had survived.

All of humanity that still lived was aboard the shuttle that now slid slowly toward the distant sun.

The mike crackled to life. �Come on in, boys. It�s over.�

that was some very evocative writing

quote:

CHAPTER 24

�PUT ME TO SLEEP, OR KILL ME, BUT MAKE IT STOP.�

In his berth Jobs swallowed the tube, forced it down into his stomach. The transparent lid closed over him. Sleep. Sleep. Death. What did it matter? How did you live when your world was dead?

He felt the drowsiness of hibernation. Do it faster, he thought, put me to sleep, turn off my brain. Turn the lights out on the movie in my head, the pictures of all the faces, all the people I�ve known, the ones I liked and loved, the ones I cared nothing for, the ones I never knew.

�Put me to sleep, or kill me, but make it stop,� he whispered.

He was still awake to hear the distant, muffled explosion. A gun. Colonel Willett would not be coming along on this trip.

Sleep took Jobs. And Mo�Steel. The hibernation equipment slowed their hearts and then stopped them. Slowed the bouncing electrical impulses in their brains, and stopped them. They were as dead as the people of Earth, but with at least a hope of rebirth somewhere, sometime.

Tamara Hoyle was already deep in the hibernation death-sleep. But the technology had never been designed for pregnant women. The machine knew nothing of the fetus inside her.

2Face slept, her berth between those of her parents.

Yago slept, as alone now as ever.

D-Caf slept, calm at last.

Billy Weir lay unmoving, his body paralyzed. He could not hear. Could not see. Could not move. The hibernation equipment slowed every process, stopped every activity. But Billy Weir did not sleep. His brain did not shut down.
The Mayflower fell toward the sun, accelerating all the while, faster and faster yet still painfully, pitifully slow in the distances of space. It would fall toward the sun for years. And slowly come around the sun, for years. And gain still more speed and race away from the sun and past the shattered remains of dark Earth for years stretching into decades.

Centuries.

And still, Billy Weir would not sleep.

Well that's ominous.

# ¿ Jan 23, 2024 02:02

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

There are 14 books and we will start book 2 tomorrow, sorry for the delay, have been getting hyperfocused on a couple video games the last couple days.

# ¿ Jan 26, 2024 08:36

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

Palworld only started for me yesterday, before that it was a mix of tavern master, dave the diver, and bg3

# ¿ Jan 26, 2024 16:05

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

quote:

DESTINATION UNKNOWN

REMNANTS #2

Prologue

It took less than a year for Billy Weir to lose his mind.

He lay still, absolutely still, unable to move a muscle, unable to move his eyes, unable to control his breathing, paralyzed, utterly, absolutely paralyzed. The technology of the hibernation berth had worked. It was ninety-nine-point-nine-percent successful. It had stopped his heart, his kidneys, his liver. It had stopped every system, down
to the cellular level.

It had failed to still his mind.

The system supplied his minuscule needs for oxygen and water and nutrition. But it did nothing for the sleepless consciousness imprisoned in the all-but-dead body. He raved silently. He hallucinated. He regained his sanity and lost it and regained it as the years passed, as the decades passed, as the very definition of madness became irrelevant.

He was in hell. He was in heaven. He floated, disembodied. He was chained to his own corpse. He rose and sank. He thought and imagined, and he almost flickered out, extinguished.

He begged for death.

And all of it over again, again, again. Time was nothing, leaping by in years and decades, crawling past so slowly that each millisecond might be a century. In his madness he remembered every memory. He remembered when his name was Ruslan, not William. He remembered the cold and loneliness of the orphanage in Chechnya after his
parents were killed. He remembered his adoptive parents, their comfortable Texas home, school, church, McDonald�s, the backyard pool, his room. He remembered every song he had ever heard, every TV show, every friend, acquaintance, enemy, every passing face in the mall. He remembered the wallpaper. The flyspecks on it. Everything.

He dredged everything up out of his memory, everything, every fragment of everything. Memory was all he had. Memory and the unchanging tableau of the hibernation berth�s lid, the wire mesh catwalk above it, the shadow of the berths stacked above his. At some point, after a very long time, he began to remember memories that were not his. The memories that belonged to the other sleepers became his as well. Real, imagined, or it made no difference?

He reached out with his mind, searching, desperate, like no human child had ever been desperate before; he strained to touch something new, anything that would feed the hunger. But the hunger was a bottomless pit, a gulf that could never be filled, a silence that could not be broken.

Real or unreal? he asked himself, wondered, then, after a while, stopped caring. Let any image come, he welcomed it. Let any new idea appear, it was a banquet, and he didn�t care if it was real or unreal.

The years reeled by. He felt the deaths all around him. He felt the dim lights go out one by one. He felt all the awesome emptiness of space as the shuttle rode feeble light waves far, far beyond the orbit of dead Earth. And when at last the new thing happened, the unexpected thing, the impossible thing, he still did not know if it was real.
The unexpected brought hope, and hope shattered him all over again.

Billy Weir lay still.

Waiting.

oh what the gently caress, that is a grim start to book two. We have 62 pages and the first 10 are today.

quote:

CHAPTER 1

�IS ANYONE THERE?�

Jobs opened his eyes.

He closed them again, and slept.

More than a day later he opened his eyes again. Blinked. The blink seemed to last long minutes. His eyelids slid slowly, slowly up, and slowly, slowly down. Like rusty garage doors.

What he saw meant nothing. The rods and cones in his eyes sent messages down a nerve wire that responded as slowly as his lids. Nerve fired nerve in ludicrously slow motion. When at last the images reached his brain they did not electrify his visual centers. The images seeped like a stain, transmitted reluctantly by rusty neurons.

Blink.

See.

Process.

But no one was yet at home in Jobs�s brain. This slow-motion action was carried on automatically, mechanically. A very old car engine being started. Starter grinding. Crankshaft turning resentfully. No spark to light the gas.

Then, all at once, he was there.

He was there. Aware. Aware of being aware. Able to form a question. Able to wonder. To experience confusion.

Where was he?

For that matter, who was he?

His eyes scanned slowly, left to right, practically screeching in their sockets, ball bearings that had not been lubricated in far too long.

Something close. Partly clear, frosted over. And something beyond the partly clear partition. A wire mesh, just a couple of feet above his face.

He was on his back. Arms at his side.

Sebastian Andreeson. That was his name. Yes.

No. Jobs. That was the name he�d taken.

Jobs. Okay.

Now where was he? And why did he feel so awful?

He hurt. Everywhere. From fingernails to toenails and everything in between. His head hurt. Hurt like he�d caught a fastball in the temple.

His mouth hurt. Sandpaper and twigs.

His skin itself hurt, as if someone had removed it, stretched it out, and reattached it badly. It didn�t seem to fit.

Where am I? he wondered, but no sound came out. He knew sound should have come out, but surely that dry, wispy rattle couldn�t be the right sound.

He tried to move a hand.

Exquisite pain. Pain that made his breath catch in his throat, and that in itself hurt. Still, he had to move. Painful or not, he had to find out what was going on. He couldn�t just lie here. Wherever �here� was. He was a little afraid. This wasn�t right. This wasn�t normal. Was it?

He searched his memory. Not like opening computer files. More like prying open the door to a cobwebbed library full of ancient crumbling p-books. He tried again to move his hand. It still hurt. Nevertheless, he moved it, raised it slowly to touch his face. He touched his chin. Not very useful, but reassuring. The other hand. Move it, too. There you go, Jobs, both hands together. There you go. The release switch is right there.

�How do I know?� he wondered aloud.

Doesn�t matter how I know, he told himself, silently now, I just know. The release for the hibernation berth . . .

What? Hibernation berth?

Brain waking up. Door to memory open. Okay. Rest a minute.

Hibernation berth, we know that. Right?

Yes, Jobs, we know that.

Suddenly memory came pouring forth, a waterfall of memory, a drowning surge of memory. Mom � Mayflower � shuttle � asteroid � Mo�Steel � solar sails � the Rock � the commander shooting himself � that crazy kid and his murdering brother and the Rock and oh, god, Cordelia, no, no, no, no, everyone smashed to pieces, Earth broken, broken, all those people dead �

�Ahh, ahhh!� he moaned.

His right hand found the release, pushed it, and the Plexiglas lid slid open halfway and stuck.

He pushed up, hard, both hands, agony!

Tried to sit up and failed. A vast weariness came over him. His head swam, and he slipped back and under, under, under.

Many hours later Jobs opened his eyes again.

He knew who he was and where he was. And even why he was there. The Mayflower Project. Earth�s pitiful, last-second reaction to annihilation. The asteroid everyone just called the Rock. Jobs had seen it hit. There had been problems deploying the solar sails, he and the pilot were the only ones conscious. So Jobs revived Mo�Steel and the two of them had gone EVA to repair the problem. They had been out there, hanging in orbit, with a perfect, uncluttered view as the massive asteroid struck Earth and took seven billion lives.

He sat up. Carefully. Cautiously.

He stared at the hibernation berth next to his own. His dad�s berth. The Plexiglas was dark. The dull yellow lights showed something fibrous, as if the berth had been filled with . . .

Jobs reeled. His stomach heaved with nothing to expel. A weird moan came from his dry throat.

The berth was filled with what could only be fungus of some sort, generations of it, filling the berth. Like bread mold. That�s how it looked. Green and black. No shape visible within, nothing human, just a six-foot box filled with decay.
Jobs�s hands shook. He reached to open the lid.

No. No. No, he couldn�t. No, there was nothing in there, nothing for him to see. Let it be an undifferentiated horror, don�t let some faint outline of the familiar appear. He didn�t want to see his father�s skull, his teeth grinning up through the rot, no.

He turned away.

�Is anyone there?� he croaked.

No answer.

It took forever to roll out of the berth. He moved like the oldest man on Earth. He moved like some arthritic hundred-year-old. He panted, exhausted, on his knees, wedged between his own berth and his father�s. He crawled, gasping with exertion. His mother�s berth. Oh, please, not that rotting filth.

Anything but that.

He pulled himself to where he could look in, weeping without tears. His mother was still there. Her skin was crumpled parchment. Her eye sockets were sunken, eyes gone. Some of her teeth lay in a heap in the back of her throat. They had fallen from absent gums. A gold crown still gleamed. Dead. No possible doubt. Dead. Dead for a long time, dead.

His brother? Edward?

He crawled to his brother�s berth, and there, breathing peacefully, his brother rested, as though napping. Jobs lay half-across his brother�s berth and fell asleep.

okay yeah chapter 1 did not get anymore less grim holy poo poo yall

quote:

CHAPTER 2

�IF THIS IS A DREAM, IT�S THE MOTHER, FATHER, SISTER, AND BROTHER OF WEIRD.�

�You�re alive,� a voice said.

A hand shook Jobs�s shoulder, but gently, seemingly knowing the pain he was in. Slowly he revived. He saw a half-ruined face. A pretty girl, Asian, with half her face melted like wax.

�You probably don�t remember me,� she said. �I�m 2Face. We met back on Earth. Do you remember Earth? Do you remember what happened?�

He nodded dully. He looked, helpless to stop himself, at the filthy decay of his father�s berth.

�A lot are like that,� 2Face said. �I don�t think very many of us are still alive. On my way up here I saw a few who looked alive. Sleeping, still. And there are some that . . . some, I don�t know.�

Jobs searched her face. She looked as if she had been crying. But maybe that was because of the drooping eye on her burned side.

�Do you think you can walk?� 2Face asked.

�I don�t know,� Jobs said.

�I think maybe we should get out of here,� 2Face said.

Jobs shook his head. �We have to help these . . .�

�We�re too weak. I keep falling asleep. I just heard you, so I climbed up here. But we have to get out. Outside. This place is . . . there are dead people everywhere.� Her voice that had been so calm was edging toward hysteria.
�There�s just things, people, stuff you don�t, I mean, I was climbing up here because I heard you moving and I passed by . . . and my mom . . . it�s just . . . and they don�t even smell, you know, not like dead people, like nothing,
or like, like yeast, like bread . . .�

�Take it easy, take it easy, don�t think about it,� Jobs said.

�Don�t think about it?!� 2Face screamed. �Don�t think about it?!�

Jobs grabbed her face in his hands. The melted flesh felt strange. She stared at him, wild. �We start screaming, we�re never going to stop,� Jobs said. �My brain is ready to explode, my mom and dad and everything. But we have to think. We have to think.�

She nodded vigorously, searching his eyes as if looking for reflections of her own panic. �Okay, we stick together, okay?�

�Yeah,� Jobs agreed readily. �We stick together. Help each other. Neither one of us thinks too much, okay? We just try and figure out . . .� He couldn�t imagine what he had to figure out. The images of his parents, the fear that his little brother might awaken and see them for himself, all of it was too much, like he was trying to take a drink from a fire hose, too much data, too much horror.

2Face said, �Okay, come on, we stick together.� Her calm had returned, almost as if it was her turn to be rational while he fought the torrent of fear and grief. �Okay, we need to find out what happened. Are we . . . I mean, where are we, the ship, I mean? Did we land somewhere? Are we still in space?�

�Yeah. Yeah.� Jobs nodded, anxious to come to grips with simple problems. �Yeah. We�re not weightless. Okay. We�re not weightless. So we can�t be in space. Unless we�re accelerating. Then we�d have weight.�

�That�s good, think about that,� 2Face said.

�Let�s go up. To the bridge. We can see where we are.�

�To the bridge. Maybe the captain is up there, he can tell us, if he made it, I mean.�

�He didn�t,� Jobs said, remembering a dull thump, the sound of a gun being fired. The sound of a man�s choice not to live on when his wife and children and home and very species were gone. �Long story. There were some problems. Come on. Let�s go to the bridge.�

Each step up the ladder was painful. But each step was less painful than the step before. They climbed past the place where D-Caf and his brother, Mark Melman, had stowed away. Where Mark had shot the Marine sergeant. What was her name? Jobs couldn�t remember. Had she survived? How could she, she�d been shot, badly wounded when they bundled her into a hibernation berth. His own perfectly healthy parents had not survived, how could a
wounded woman?

And Mo�Steel. What about Mo? He should check on Mo. No. No more hideous Plexiglas coffins. He didn�t want to see any more horrors.

They reached the crawlway that connected the cargo area to the flight deck. The hatch was open. Jobs went in first.
He had to climb up. The tunnel was meant to be used either in a weightless environment or crawled through when the shuttle was at rest horizontally. The tunnel opened onto a space below the flight deck. It was mostly crammed with lockers. What they contained he didn�t know, but water would have been his first choice. He was desperately thirsty.

There was a ladder that in this position was more an impediment than a help. He crawled onto the flight deck. It was designed for horizontal flight, with the seats set in such a way that during the landing phase, the pilots would be positioned like the pilots of any commercial jet.

So when Jobs entered the flight deck the seats were above him, over his back. He stood up and stretched. Looking straight up, Jobs could see a sliver of light through the small cockpit windshield. Like looking up through a skylight. Strange. The sky was blue, and for a moment he felt a leap of irrational hope. They were home! On Earth. All of it a dream.

But the blue of the sky was not the depthless, indeterminate blue of Earth�s sky. The sky seemed to be made up of blue scales. Dabs of blue and dabs of violet. Even streaks of green. And the cloud he saw was no cloud that had ever floated through Earth�s sky. It was white in parts, but also brown, with streaks of brown dragged across the white.

The whole mass of the sky moved, vibrated. As if the wind blew, but blew nowhere in particular, just reshuffled the scales and smears of color.

�What is it?� 2Face asked. She was staring up past him.

�I don�t know.�

He helped her to her feet. They stood on what would normally be a vertical bulkhead. The shuttle had landed. Somewhere. Gravity was downward, which meant that, impossible as it clearly was, it had landed nose up. It had landed in takeoff position. Utterly impossible.

The shuttle had no way to achieve this. The thought had been that the ship�s computers would, on sensing the right circumstances, trim the solar sails to achieve deceleration and enter orbit around some theoretical, hoped-for, prayed-for planet. After that, the thinking was that any orbit would inevitably deteriorate, and the shuttle would then be able to land in its normal configuration under the guidance of a revived pilot.

Of course, the shuttle normally landed on a smooth, paved runway. Not on prairie. Not on water. Not on mountainsides. Not in craters. Jobs knew (just as everyone aboard knew) what a mishmash of faint hopes and ludicrous delusions this mission represented. There never had been anything more than a disappearingly
small chance of success.

Fly through space toward no particular goal, have the solar sails work both to accelerate and decelerate and then have the absurd good luck to land on a planet with reasonable gravity and a very convenient landing strip positioned wherever they happened to touch down?

Absurd.

But to do all that and somehow end up vertical?

�Maybe we�re still asleep,� Jobs muttered.

�I don�t think so, Duck. I don�t have dreams like this.�

The voice was instantly familiar.

�Mo?�

Mo�Steel leaned out into view overhead. He was perched in the captain�s seat. He was smiling, but nothing like his usual Labrador-retriever grin.

�I�m alive,� Mo�Steel reported. �If this is a dream, it�s the mother, father, sister, and brother of weird. We got all of weird�s cousins in on this. Come on up. You gotta see this. You have got to see this.�

Okay, we're in for a ride, gang!

# ¿ Jan 27, 2024 03:01

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

quote:

CHAPTER 3

�OKAY, THIS IS NOT CERTIFIED ORGANIC. THIS IS MESSED UP.�

It took some effort but 2Face managed to climb up to where Mo�Steel sat. He took her hands and hauled her up by main force. He was amazingly strong, especially given the weak-kitten state she and Jobs were in. He must have been awake longer. He seemed more fully recovered from hibernation.

Once up, 2Face helped Mo�Steel pull Jobs up to their now-cramped spot. They squeezed together onto the back-support of the copilot�s chair, with their heads pushed into gray panels of switches and knobs and LEDs. Mo�Steel nodded toward the other seat. A space suit was strapped in place minus helmet. A skull lolled against the collar.

�The commander,� Jobs said. To 2Face he explained, �He decided he didn�t want to come.�

�Yeah,� Mo�Steel said.

2Face stared. It was almost comical. A grinning Halloween skeleton dressed up as an astronaut. Surely it had been there a long time. She tore her eyes away, unwilling to think about it. Her mother was dead. She had no grief to spare for this poor man.

Mo�Steel said, �If you stand up you can look out and around through the side window here. Careful, though, it takes a while before the old body gets hooked up right. And watch this panel here, sharp edges.�

Jobs stood. 2Face stood, held on to what should have been an overhead array of switches. She looked.

She gasped.

The ship stood tall, the only man-made thing. Filling the narrow view was a landscape that seemed to literally vibrate with color and movement. Green and yellow and blue. There were trees with royal-blue trunks and branches, brown trunks, even purple. Leaves that were more like rough smears of color, light and dark greens, honey-golds. The branches seemed to poke in and out of the leaves with only the most rudimentary logic.

Tall grass, or at least something that at first glance looked like grass, extended down a hill to a blue-and-violet river bordered in umber. Beyond the river the grass took over again, offset by a smear of reddish-brown. In the distance was the suggestion of a village, whitewashed walls tinged green and red tile roofs set at improbable angles. Above it all, the pulsating blue sky, so alive, but at the same time flat, without depth.

�Excellent, huh?� Mo�Steel asked.

�What is it?� 2Face wondered aloud. �None of it seems real. I mean, I think it�s real, but it�s like . . . I don�t know. I don�t know how to explain it. I mean, the sky, it�s as if the blue isn�t air but a million small blue birds flying around all packed in close together.�

�It�s beautiful,� Jobs said. �The colors are so intense. How can it be real, though? Look at the way the river moves. Shouldn�t water move like water, no matter where you are? It�s more like . . . like it kind of smears past, like, like big sections of it kind of move together.�

�Maybe it�s ice. Maybe it�s not water at all,� 2Face suggested.

�Or maybe our heads are all messed up,� Mo�Steel suggested. �You know? How long were we asleep? You know your eyes don�t totally focus when you first wake up and stuff sounds too loud and all?�

2Face tore her gaze from the agitated, too-bright landscape. �Maybe you�re right. Maybe it�s all in our heads.�

�This ship is standing upright,� Jobs said cautiously. �That�s impossible. Unless it�s real, I mean. But theoretically it�s impossible. So maybe this is just a dream.�

�Deep,� Mo�Steel mocked.

�Maybe my mom isn�t dead,� 2Face whispered. �Maybe none of them are dead. If it�s a dream. We don�t know, right?�

The three of them sat down, wedged uncomfortably together, hugging to keep from falling, sharing one seat until Mo�Steel leaped the gap to reach the chair occupied by the skeleton.

�We�re going to need to bury him, I guess.�

�No hurry,� Jobs said darkly.

Mo�Steel pulled at the seat belt but it came apart in his fingers. The corpse shifted, slid, fell off the side of the chair, fell to the bulkhead with a sound like a dropped bundle of sticks.

�Sorry, Commander,� Mo�Steel said without seeming very disturbed. �What are we going to do?� Mo�Steel asked Jobs, sounding to 2Face as if it couldn�t possibly be his responsibility to figure it out himself. 2Face wasn�t sure she liked him. She was drawn to Jobs�s quiet, thoughtful way. But Mo�Steel had a way of being jumpy in his own skin, like there were too many calories being burned. He reminded her of the landscape she�d just observed.

�I guess sooner or later we need to go back downstairs,� Jobs said. His reluctance was evident in his look and tone. He didn�t try to hide the fact that what was down there in the Mayflower capsule horrified him.

2Face definitely shared that sense of horror. Pain was down there. Loss. Unimaginable loss. Mo�Steel rocked back and forth on his heels and looked like he�d rather talk about something else. He stood up and looked out of the port-side window and yelped.

�Yah-ah-ah!� He pulled back, blinked, looked again. He pointed accusingly. �Okay, this is not certified organic. This is messed up.�

�We�ve seen it,� 2Face said, feeling a little annoyed.

�Uh-uh.� Mo�Steel shook his head vigorously. He pointed at the starboard-side window. �You�ve seen that. You have not seen this.�

Jobs frowned and with help from his friend made his way across to the far seat. He took a long look, several breaths, and took 2Face�s hand to guide her across. She pushed between the two guys and looked.

No, she had not seen this.

It was in black-and-white. Entirely. Not a splash of color, not a glimmer. The sky was gray with puffy white clouds. The ground was broken up into a series of deep channels or canyons cut deep around precarious mesas. Looming in the distance, rising up from the fractured plain was a massive mountain range, snowcapped at the jagged peaks.
No color. None. Light gray and medium gray and darkest gray shadows edging to black in the deep places.

They raced back at dangerous speeds to check the first view. It was still there, still a wild profusion of greens and blues and golds. Two landscapes. Completely incompatible. Completely impossible.

�The dream thing is seeming more and more likely,� 2Face said.

�There should be a chronometer of some kind,� Jobs said suddenly. He began searching the ranks of dials, readouts, and switches. Most of the readouts were blank. But when he toggled certain switches some of the readouts came to life.

�There should be some kind of mission clock,� he muttered. �Time from launch or whatever. There. There it is.�

A small digital readout displayed a long string of numbers.

�It�s still running. Look. Not seconds, minutes. It�s only showing minutes,� 2Face said, looking over his shoulder.
�Two-hundred-sixty-two million, eight-hundred-seventeen thousand, nine-hundred-and-twelve minutes,� Jobs said. �Mo?�

To 2Face�s amazement Mo�Steel calculated instantaneously.

�Five-hundred years, twelve days, and some spare change, Duck,� Mo�Steel said.

quote:

CHAPTER 4

�WE HAVE TO DO WHAT WE CAN.�

As they descended into the capsule again, Jobs was grateful for the mysterious landscape of the planet. Grateful for the mystery of how the shuttle carrying the Mayflower capsule had come to land in so impossible a position. Anything that took his mind off the work at hand was welcome.

His father and mother were dead. If his brother, Edward, was still alive at all, he was unconscious.

Five centuries. They had drifted through space for five-hundred years. Not strange that the untested hibernation equipment had failed his parents, more surprising that it had preserved him. Nothing man-made worked for five hundred years.

Another mystery. More unknowns. So much better than the knowns.

�I don�t think we�d better open any of these units,� Jobs said. �Even if we see someone we thinkis alive, we better let them be. I don�t understand how this system works. But it must have a programmed revival sequence.�

�I hear something,� 2Face said. �Listen.�

Jobs heard it, too. A human voice. Groaning.

Mo�Steel scrambled into the �basement,� through the hatch and then down the circular steps as fast as a monkey, sliding more than stepping.

�Someone�s alive down here,� he called up.

Jobs and 2Face followed at a more normal pace.

�How did he do that?� 2Face whispered. �The thing with the minutes, I mean.�

In a low voice Jobs said, �Mo�s crazy, he�s a wild man, doesn�t care about much except the next adrenaline rush. Doesn�t mean he�s stupid, especially with numbers.�

�Idiot savant,� 2Face muttered.

�Mo�s my best friend,� Jobs said. He would have said more, but Mo�Steel didn�t need defending. If 2Face was as smart as she seemed, she�d come to appreciate Mo�Steel. If not, well, that would be her loss.

�Sorry,� 2Face said.

They reached the level where Mo�Steel squatted beside a young woman. Jobs recognized the Marine sergeant. Her uniform, like his own clothing, was brittle and in tatters, but the dark camouflage pattern was still recognizable. She was not alone in her berth. A child lay there, a boy, seemingly asleep on her belly. It wasn�t a newborn. It might have been a two- or three-year-old. And there was a weird, cylindrical, almost translucent piece of skin that seemed to hold them together. It began near the sergeant�s shoulder and snaked its way into the baby�s side. Tamara was awake. Confused, as Jobs had been on waking, sleepy.

�Take it easy, take it easy,� Mo�Steel comforted her in a gentle voice. �No rush. You�re not going anywhere yet.�

The woman blinked and tried to focus. She tried to speak but only a groan was heard. 2Face leaned over. �You�re on the shuttle still. We�ve landed. Somewhere. We don�t know where.�

Jobs pointed to a small round hole in the woman�s uniform near where the long, cordlike piece of skin started, and gave 2Face a significant look. 2Face tugged gently at the cloth. It tore easily. The bullet hole in her shoulder could be clearly seen as a neat round scar, lighter than the surrounding flesh. Tamara seemed to be trying to form a question.

�You were shot. You may not remember it right away,� Jobs said. �A stowaway shot you. But it looks like it healed during hibernation. Maybe the machine . . . maybe just time . . .�

�No,� Tamara said, forcing the word out. �Baby . . . my baby . . .�

�She must have been pregnant when she went into hibernation,� 2Face said in a low voice.

Then, loud enough for Tamara to hear, �The baby was born. God knows how. It�s right here. It�s on you. In fact, it�s attached to you.�

Tamara nodded slowly. Her hands felt blindly and Mo�Steel gently guided her fingers to her baby�s face. The baby opened its eyes. Jobs recoiled, banged his head on the low deck above. 2Face cried out, an expression of pure horror. The baby�s eyes had run, liquid, out onto its mother�s belly. It stared at them now with empty eye sockets.

�Wha . . .?� Tamara moaned.

Mo�Steel was the first to recover. �Nothing. Nothing, lady. Don�t worry, it�s okay.�

Tamara slipped back into sleep. The baby, at any rate, blinked its empty eyes and seemed to be watching them with great interest. Jobs, 2Face, and Mo�Steel pulled back.

�Radiation,� Jobs whispered. �Five centuries in space. This capsule is lead-lined, but five-hundred years of hard radiation while the kid is slowly, slowly somehow growing and, I mean, during cell division and all . . .� He stopped, unable to speak. He felt like a mountain was falling on him. Like a man standing on the beach as a tidal wave hits. He was being buried alive, smothered, crushed.

Way too much.

Jobs felt Mo�Steel�s hand on his shoulder.

�It�s woolly, Duck, but you gotta strap it up and keep moving. We can�t go all slasher chick and start screaming. There�s weirder stuff than this coming.�

Jobs nodded, but he wanted very badly to punch his friend in the face. He didn�t want to be comforted, let alone be told he had to be a good soldier and get on with his life. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to wake up and not be here. It was too much, too much. Impossible to process a tenth of it, a billionth of it. His hands were shaking. A result of the hibernation? No. A result of waking up and seeing.

�We need to get some kind of grip on things here,� 2Face said. �Let�s check every berth. Let�s see what�s what. How about that? One by one, bottom to top, okay?�

�What she said,� Mo�Steel agreed. He was looking very earnestly at his friend.

Jobs covered his face with his hands. �As far as I know we have no food. No water. We�ve probably all taken a hundred lifetimes� worth of radiation. I don�t know what that is outside there on the planet, but it can�t be natural. Maybe no air outside. My folks are dead. Yours, too, mostly. The whole human race is dead. Maybe just the three of us and . . . and that woman and some kind of mutant alien baby.�

�Yeah. Like I said, very woolly.�

2Face said, �Jobs, you said yourself: It can�t be. The planet out there, the ship standing this way. It can�t be. Not unless there�s something else.�

�Yeah?�

�So, what�s the something else, Jobs? Don�t you want to find out?�

He laughed bitterly. �You�re trying to appeal to my curiosity?�

�We have to do what we can,� 2Face said. �You�re right, the human race is all over. Except for us. Me, I�m not going to roll over and die. You want to give up, Jobs, I can�t stop you, I guess, but I have to try. We�re it, however many of us are alive on this stupid ship. That�s not why we should give up, that�s why we can�t give up.�

�Well, good luck, Eve, go forth and multiply,� Jobs snapped.

2Face started to answer back, but Jobs saw Mo�Steel take her arm and shake his head. �He�s coming around.�

Jobs glared at his friend. �You think you know me, don�t you, Mo?�

�Yeah, �migo, I know you. There�s some deep stuff to figure out here. You can�t leave it alone. I know you pretty good, Duck: You can�t leave it alone.�

Jobs nodded dully. He looked up at 2Face. The smooth half of her face was set, determined. The burned side, with its drooping eye, seemed to weep. There was a poem in there somewhere, Jobs thought. He should formulate a plan. He should step up and try to figure it all out. But right now the strength wasn�t in him.

�Lead on,� he said to 2Face.

# ¿ Jan 28, 2024 04:37

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

Coca Koala posted:

Let�s read The Remnants: jesus christ what the gently caress

I think we have our new title!

quote:

CHAPTER 5

�YOU DON�T WANT TO SEE.�

It had taken . . . how long so far? 2Face had no way of knowing. No watch, no clock, maybe no need for them.
It was taking a long time as time is experienced � subjectively. Time dragged when it was measured out in hideous deaths and uncertain lives.

And then there was the thirst. She wanted water. Needed it, and soon. And they had no idea where even to begin looking.

So they kept up the grim task of accounting.

Of the Eighty who had originally been chosen to fly on the Mayflower Project, one had died in the riot on the ground. His berth had been taken by Tamara Hoyle, who had been shot�but not killed� by the stowaway Mark Melman who had, in turn, been killed.

The mission copilot had been killed by D-Caf Melman. D-Caf had been given the hibernation berth belonging to the man he had killed. The mission commander had taken his life into his own hands.

So seventy-nine people had entered hibernation. Of those, they had already confirmed twenty-one who were very definitely dead. Thus far 2Face had counted nineteen, plus Tamara�s �child,� who were either alive and active or in
various states of revival.

Among the confirmed dead were both of Jobs�s parents, Mo�Steel�s father, and 2Face�s mother. Older people had fared worse. Some adults had made it, like Mo�Steel�s mother and 2Face�s father and even Tamara Hoyle.

They climbed up a level.

�Cheese,� Mo�Steel reported, checking the first berth. It was the shorthand term for the death that Jobs�s father had died. A death that filled the berth with green�black mold.

�Cheese� for the moldy ones. �Crater� for the ones, like one young girl, who had been killed by micrometeorites. And �facelift� for the ones who had been dried out, stretched, were nothing but parchment skin over skeletons. It was brutal jargon for a brutal job. They were protecting themselves, 2Face knew. They couldn�t weep for each death. There were seven billion dead.

�Oh, god.� Jobs recoiled from the next berth.

�What?� 2Face asked. She was still worried about him. She didn�t know if he was a strong person who had suffered a moment of weakness, or a weak person. They needed strength.

�You don�t want to see,� Jobs said.

2Face hesitated. But no, she couldn�t start giving in to the fear now. She pressed past Jobs and looked. A man. His body looked like a target, like he�d been shot full of holes, bloodless holes. Something had burrowed tunnels, some as small as a quarter inch in diameter, some three times as big, in every exposed inch of flesh. He was dried out like so many of the others, mummified. But none of the others had been eaten alive like this. Jobs wiped his face with his hands. He looked sick. But then, 2Face supposed she did, too.

This was vile work.

Beside the worm-eaten man was a girl in the early stages of revival. 2Face had met her in passing, just yesterday. Just yesterday five-hundred years ago. A �Jane.� Not 2Face�s kind of girl at all. But what could silly school cliques possibly matter now? She spoke some calming words to the girl, who fell back asleep.

�This one�s alive, too,� Mo�Steel reported from across the aisle.

The occupant of the berth was a kid, maybe twelve years old. Maybe younger. Or maybe he was just small for his age. He had dark, deep, almost sunken eyes. His skin was pale as death, so fragile you could see individual veins in his arms and face. His hair was black. His eyes were open, staring, as blank as a doll�s eyes.

�I know that kid,� Jobs said. �His name�s Billy. Billy something. Weir. Billy Weir?�

�Weird? Billy Weird? Needs to think about picking a new name,� Mo�Steel said.

Jobs leaned in and said, �Billy. Billy. You were right: I�m here.�

2Face exchanged a surprised look with Mo�Steel.

�Before we left, back at the barracks. He was walking in his sleep,� Jobs said. �Talking. I think he was asleep, anyway. He said,�You�ll be there.� He said that to me.�

�Billy, wake up, man,� Mo�Steel said.

No response.

�Are we sure he�s alive?� 2Face wondered.

�He�s alive,� Jobs said. �He�s alive. It takes a while.�

�His eyes are wide open. But he�s not focusing at all.�

�He�s breathing.�

2Face covered Billy�s eyes with her hand, then removed it. She watched the pupils closely. They had widened in the dark and were now contracting in the light. �Okay, he�s alive.�

�Hey,� a voice called. �Hey. Hey!�

�A live one,� Mo�Steel remarked. �Up there. Come on. Old Billy here is not a morning person. Give the boy some time. Let�s go see who�s yelling.�

2Face agreed. But Jobs would not stop staring at the impassive face of Billy Weir. �Come on, Jobs,� she said. �We�ll come back.�

�He said I�d be here,� Jobs said.

�Yeah. Come on.�

�That�s a total of . . .� 2Face hesitated.

�Start with eighty including the baby,� Mo�Steel said. �Looks like thirty-four alive or at least look alive. Forty-six . . . otherwise. You want the percent? Forty-two-point-five percent made it. Fifty-seven-point-five percent passed on.�

�So far,� 2Face said.

So there are going to be adults around. It will be interesting to see how and why the kids are in charge.

quote:

CHAPTER 6

�ARE WE THERE YET?�

Billy Weir�s eyes saw. His brain processed. But all at a glacial pace. The faces were gone almost before he could take notice of their presence. He was still taking note of the ship�s landing. That, too, had happened too quickly to notice.

Had they ever really been there, those faces?

There.

More.

Faces.

Gone.

Fast as hummingbird�s wings. The faces darted into view and disappeared. Impossible to recognize. Impossible when they moved so fast.

More?

Gone.

He wished they would slow down so he could see them. He wished they would stay long enough for him to be sure they were real.

He heard a buzzing sound. Like bees, but only for a split second.

Silence returned. The silence he knew.

The silence he had listened to for five-hundred years.

It was unfair now, not to know, unfair. Or perhaps unreal.

Once before he�d thought he�d seen faces, impossible faces. Once before he�d thought he had heard voices. But those voices had hurt.

He remembered the pain. He had welcomed the pain, blessed the pain. It was something. Something in the valley of nothing. Pain meant life.

Those faces, these faces, they were real, weren�t they?

Are we there? he wondered. Are we there yet?

quote:

CHAPTER 7

�SUFFOCATE IN HERE OR SUFFOCATE OUT THERE. TAKE YOUR CHOICE.�

Yago had a headache that would have killed a lesser person. He wanted a couple of aspirin and a glass of chilled spring water, possibly with a slice of lemon. But that was not happening.

The first thing he�d focused on after waking up was the creepy face of the femme who�d breezed him back into the world. That was no way to wake up. 2Face, that was her name.

He�d fallen back to sleep, and when he revived again it was Jobs he saw first, and that monkey-boy friend of his, and then some old guy named Errol Smith, and a woman named Connie Huerta who said she was a doctor although it turned out she was an obstetrician and didn�t even have a Raleeve or an aspirin with her, which was not all that helpful.

And as Yago regained full consciousness others came by to offer help or just stare balefully. Some weepy dope who was apparently 2Face�s father from the way he kept boo-hooing at her. And then there was a �Jane� who called herself Miss Blake. At least she was nice-looking, not some half-nightmare like 2Face.

For some strange reason 2Face seemed to be the one handing out orders. Her dad, Shy Hwang, and Errol and the doctor, as the only revived adults, should have been the ones to assume command, but none of the three seemed to be up for it. So, somehow, it was 2Face the freak chick who was making the calls, and so far Yago, who was feeling like a squashed bug as he climbed, rickety as a three-legged chair, from his berth, had decided to play along.

The plan was to get out of the Mayflower, which was fine as far as he was concerned. He suffered from a touch of claustrophobia � many great men did. Jobs had said something about the external environment being very bizarre.

�As long as there�s air,� Yago had said.

�We don�t know that,� Jobs answered.

�Um, what?�

Jobs had shrugged and explained in a distracted way that it didn�t really matter much since now that they were off hibernation the air in the Mayflower couldn�t last for long. �Suffocate in here or suffocate out there,� he�d muttered. �Take your choice.�

Fortunately Yago was too dopey still to experience the full-fledged panic that usually followed the word suffocate.

�Strap it up,� he told himself. �Keep it together. Be out soon. There�s going to be air. You didn�t come all this way to suck vacuum.�

Of course, there was the question of how exactly they were going to get out. Jobs and Errol, busy little tool-jockeys, were evidently already at work on the problem and managed to open the cargo bay doors of the shuttle. Which was fine, but it turned out no one had ever considered the possibility that the ship would land vertically. The whole idea had been that the ship would land horizontally, like it was supposed to do. Then the hibernation berths would open and the people would simply step out and promptly fall any number of feet to the nearest external bulkhead, then, having survived those injuries, would crawl to the only exit door.

Idiots.

�We don�t have a way out?� Yago asked in a shrill voice.

�They were in a hurry putting this mission together,� Jobs said in defense of the NASA people. �To be honest with you, I don�t think they really considered there was much to worry about. We weren�t going anywhere.�

Yago felt a surge of rage, rage at stupidity. He hated stupidity. Hated having to tolerate it, hated having to bite his tongue and swallow the bile. But, by god, if they weren�t already dead along with the rest of H. sapiens, he�d like to find a way to hurt the NASA clowns who�d put this fiasco together.

And yet, he was alive. Alive and seething. It reassured him. Anger was an attribute of the living.

�I have to get out of here,� Yago said.

�Yeah. We all do.�

Yago had relapsed back into his berth, too groggy to argue. And some time later he saw Mo�Steel and Jobs come huffing and puffing up the ladder carrying an inert but apparently conscious kid. Jobs kept talking to him.

�We�re there, Billy. We�re there.�

That was okay, but it was the next person to climb past that brought Yago up and fully awake with a jolt. A young black woman cradling a great big baby. The baby stared right at Yago with cavernous eye sockets. And no eyeballs.

�Okay, I�m awake,� Yago said.

He began to climb after the others.

Up and up. Past berth after berth of stomach-roiling death. He hoped no one was going to open some of those berths. The smell would probably be fatal all by itself. As he climbed, he kept a rough count, anything to avoid thinking about the cramped, crowded, airless . . .

Maybe forty percent had died, he estimated, weighted toward older passengers. Good. The fewer adults he had to contend with, the better. He could deal with the likes of 2Face and Jobs. Adults would be tougher to manipulate and eventually control, though useful in the short run.

There was no doubt of the final outcome: Yago would rule these pitiful remnants of humanity. But first, he needed air. Hard to take over a world without air. Kind of pointless.

He reached the narrow platform just inside the external hatch. The dozen people so far revived crowded close together, crammed on the platform and on the nearest stairs. Yago strained to keep away from the eerie baby and to get close to Miss Blake. Being a Jane, she�d be easy to cow.

�Okay, are we all agreed we open the door?� 2Face asked.

Suddenly she was taking a vote? That was weak. A leader should lead, Yago observed. But a rather larger part of his mind was taken up with controlling the claustrophobic panic that kept threatening to boil over and result in shrill screaming and wild thrashing.

Couldn�t do that. Couldn�t panic.

Everyone agreed to open the door. Yago suspected he was not the only one unnaturally eager to push that door open. 2Face nodded. Jobs set down the blank-faced, wide-eyed Billy Weir and worked the lever. Impossible not to hold your breath. Pointless, Yago realized, but impossible to resist. The air outside could be sulfuric acid. Or there could be no air at all.

Jobs swung the door open.

No air rushed out of the Mayflower.

No sulfuric acid rushed in.

Yago breathed. Held it. Breathed again.

Suddenly the baby began to chuckle.

That sound, added to the tension of remaining a second longer in this space-going mausoleum, snapped something in Yago.

�Move!� he shouted.

He pushed past the doctor, elbowed Miss Blake aside, and all at once hung at the edge of a precipice. The shuttle�s cargo doors were open, exposing the lead-lined Mayflower capsule to eerie sunlight. It was a straight drop down the dull metal capsule, a straight drop down to a crash against the back wall of the shuttle�s cargo bay.

Yago windmilled his arms, trying to cancel momentum. The doctor grabbed the back of his shirt but the rotten fabric tore away.

Yago fell forward, screaming.

Mo�Steel�s arm shot out and caught Yago�s spring-green hair. He pulled Yago back inside and sat him down with his legs dangling.

�When you�re right on the edge like that, you don�t want to windmill, and you don�t want to go all spasmoid, you want to sit down,� Mo�Steel advised. �Use your heels, bend at the knees, move your butt back, and sit down. It�ll bruise your butt but that�s a lot better than falling.�

�Shut up!� Yago snapped.

Yago stared at the landscape, panting, and wondering how his body could still produce sweat, as dehydrated as he was.

The view was overwhelming. Overwhelming. Too much color on the one side, too little on the other. The shuttle stood perfectly on the dividing line between the two environments. Yago�s first thought was that it was all an optical illusion. A picture. But he could feel the awesome depths of the gray-shade canyons to one side, and feel, too, the restless movement in the greens and golds and blues and pinks on the other side.

He glanced up at the sky. He had to close his eyes. The sky was similarly divided, all in blue with flat-looking clouds with brown-purple edges on one side, gray on gray over the canyon. The survivors were all silent, staring.

�What is it?� Errol asked.

�Artificial,� Jobs said. �Has to be. Nothing evolves naturally like this. This can�t be the natural state of this planet.�

Shy Hwang said, �Maybe it�s not real. Maybe . . . I mean, maybe we�re dead. Maybe we�re all dead.�

Yago snorted in derision. �Yeah, maybe it�s heaven. Right. We flew to heaven on a magic shuttle full of dead people.�

�The air seems breathable,� a woman said. �Of course, there�s no way to know what the nitrogen-oxygen-CO2 ratio is, or what trace gases may be present.�

Yago, with his junior politician�s memory for names, remembered her as Olga Gonzalez, Mo�Steel�s mother. What was her job? Something scientific, no doubt�most of the Eighty had been NASA or NASA contractors.

�How do we get down?� 2Face asked.

The Marine with the unsettling baby in her arms stepped forward to get a better look down.

�Spot me,� she said to Mo�Steel.

Mo�Steel put a sort of loose half nelson on her and two others in turn held Mo�Steel. Tamara Hoyle looked down at the drop, at least forty feet. She stepped back.

�Rope is out. First of all, I don�t think there�s any aboard, and second�judging by the way our clothes have rotted � even if there was, we�d never be able to trust it. But there should be plenty of wire on this ship. We braid it together and make a cable.�

�We can�t go ripping wire out of the ship,� Errol protested. �This ship is all we have.�

�This ship is never going to fly again,� Olga Gonzalez said.

�This ship is all we have,� Jobs said. �But we should be able to safely harvest wire from the hibernation berths that have failed.�

�Good. Let�s do that,� 2Face said.

And again Yago grated at her assumption of authority. Who was she to be making decisions? But now was maybe not the time for a fight. Although now was definitely the time to start looking at options. Surely one of these adults could be manipulated into pushing 2Face aside.

Yago surveyed the disturbing landscape. Maybe it wasn�t much of a kingdom, but it was going to be his.

# ¿ Jan 28, 2024 23:49

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

Thank you, Bilirubin for the title change!

quote:

CHAPTER 8

�USUALLY THERE�S NO PAIN, BUT THIS MAY BE DIFFERENT.�

It took hours and Mo�Steel was growing ever more impatient. He assumed he�d be the first person down the wire, and he was totally adrenal. Slippy-sliding down a wire to be the first person to step foot on a new planet, that was exalted.

Besides, he had to get away from his mom. She kept bursting into tears over his dad and over the whole world and all. Mo�Steel had loved his dad, but he lived by the creed of no regrets. Sooner or later you were going to miss your grip on the world, you were going to push the limit too far, and Mother G. would grab you, run you up to terminal velocity, and squash you flat.

True, it wasn�t gravity that had killed his dad. But, Mother G. or whatever, the principle was the same: Sooner or later they canceled your account, had to happen, no point in boo-hooing over it. It was the deal, if you wanted the rush of the big ride you had to accept the fact that every ride comes to an end.

Still, he would miss his dad. He�d gone to cheese, and Mo�Steel regretted seeing him that way. He regretted that memory maybe squeezing out the good stuff his dad had been.

�Come here, I need your help.� It was the doctor. Mo�Steel glanced at Jobs to see whether his friend needed him, but Jobs was underneath one of the berths working away at removing wire and optical cable.

�All yours, Doc,� Mo�Steel said.

He stepped over a prone and still-staring Billy Weir, then climbed down the ladder to a berth where the doctor had laid Tamara Hoyle and her baby.

�You don�t faint at the sight of blood, do you?� the doc asked.

Mo�Steel laughed. �I�ve seen my own bones poking out through my own skin and didn�t faint,� Mo�Steel answered. It was something he was proud of. He was the Man of Steel, with more titanium and petri-dish replacement parts than the whole rest of his class put together.

The doctor nodded. �Okay. How about bashful? You�re not going to go all giggly, right?�

Mo�Steel frowned. What did she mean? Then he looked at Tamara Hoyle and her baby. And the weird piece of skin that kept them attached. He swallowed hard and tried not to lose his balance. Blood was one thing. This was
different.

�Uh, maybe you need to get, like, one of the femmes,� Mo�Steel protested.

�I tried. That girl, the one in the frilly dress and the antique shoes? What�s her name? Miss Blake? She agreed to help, but I don�t think she�s physically strong enough. 2Face is stronger, but she�s busy and your mom, she�s . . . she�s upset. I need someone steady.�

�Okay,� Mo�Steel moaned. �Okay. Okay. I can do it.�

She drew Mo�Steel close and spoke in a whisper. �My surgical steel instruments are in decent shape, but I have no bandages, they�re all decayed. I don�t have a lot of confidence in any of my topicals; I don�t know what five centuries does to antibiotics or antivirals. I don�t even have soap or water. And I don�t have any idea what kind of shape our immune systems are in. But the thing I need you for is that this umbilical cord � if that�s what this is � is not
normal. Usually there�s no pain, but this may be different. I need you to be ready to take hold of the sergeant in the event she begins to move around. Can you do that?�

Mo�Steel nodded, not trusting his dust-dry mouth to form an answer.

�Okay, Sergeant Hoyle � Tamara,� Dr. Huerta said to her patient, �this shouldn�t be any problem at all. If you feel any discomfort, just let me know.�

�I�m okay,� Tamara said. She stroked the baby�s head.

The baby opened its empty eyes and yawned. Mo�Steel saw a mouth full of tiny white teeth. Good thing they had a doctor. She could deal with the baby. The baby scared Mo�Steel. Doctors were used to that stuff. Used to giant, silent, eyeless babies. Right.

Doctor Huerta took up position at bedside, kneeling over the young woman. Mo�Steel squatted behind Tamara�s head, arms akimbo, ready to make a grab. Doctor Huerta retrieved a piece of fiber-optic cable Jobs must have given her and began to cinch it around the cord, two inches from the baby�s side.

The baby turned its head sharply to look at her.

Doctor Huerta began tying off the cord close to the mother�s shoulder. Mo�Steel looked studiously away, suddenly fascinated by the bulkhead. The baby stirred and a low, animal moan came from its mother.

�Did you feel that?� the doctor asked her. She held the scalpel poised in her hand, ready for the first cut.

Suddenly the baby lunged. Its chubby fist grabbed for the scalpel. Doctor Huerta yanked it away. The baby bared its teeth in a dangerous scowl and, as Mo�Steel watched in growing horror, his mother�s face mirrored the expression.
Tamara made her own grab for the scalpel and caught the doctor�s wrist. The doctor lost her balance and Tamara let her fall.

Mo�Steel yelled, �Help! Help down here!�

The doctor fell straight back, hitting her head on the edge of the berth. The scalpel flew from her hand. Mo�Steel lunged for the doctor but he was awkwardly positioned and now, as he tried to lean over Tamara, the baby was clawing feebly at his chest and neck.

It didn�t take long to realize that the doctor was not moving. Wasn�t breathing.

�Help! Someone help me down here!�

Mo�Steel coiled his legs and leaped across Tamara, hit his head on the deck, and came up, brain swimming, swirling. The doctor was still. He fished for the scalpel but was knocked violently off-balance by a kick from Tamara.
He went facedown and the Marine was on him. They struggled, shoving and pushing to find the scalpel. Jobs appeared, tumbling down the stairs. He stepped on the scalpel just as Tamara touched it with outstretched fingers.

�Cut the cord!� Mo�Steel yelled. He yanked Tamara back with all his strength. He was strong, but the whipcord Marine sergeant was stronger. Her hands closed around his throat and already he was seeing double as she stopped the flow of blood to his brain.

Jobs knelt, picked up the scalpel. He made a quick, slashing cut, severed the cord, and instantly the death grip on Mo�Steel�s throat loosened. Mo�Steel pushed Tamara back and slid out from under her. The Marine sat up, then bent forward and began vomiting. The baby lay on its back, gasping, staring blindly.

More people arrived, running to respond to Mo�Steel�s earlier cries.

Too late. Way too late. The doctor was dead.

lol. I was just thinking that it was good they at least had a doctor with them. Also, this is an interesting look at Mo's outlook. He's kind of cold, in his way.

quote:

CHAPTER 9

�WE DIDN�T LAND. WE WERE CAPTURED.�

Miss Violet Blake�s mother was alive. Her father was not. Violet had seen her father, and the image had been burned so deeply into her thoughts that she could not imagine ever closing her eyes again without seeing his poor face disfigured by those countless holes.

A hideous death. More horrible for her than for him, perhaps. He would have been, should have been, unconscious when the thing happened to him.

She prayed he�d been unconscious.

So many dead. A world dead. And now, new death, murder even, perhaps. Some said the Marine sergeant, Tamara Hoyle, had struck blindly, a panic reaction in part caused by the confusion of waking from a five-century nap. Mo�Steel said no, it had been deliberate. The woman herself, the sergeant, said nothing and no one had yet questioned her.

What would Violet say to her mother when she awoke? How could she console her? She had never been close to her mother. Wylson Lefkowitz-Blake was her daughter�s polar opposite. An entrepreneur, a businesswoman who had built the software giant Wyllco Inc. from scratch, starting with three employees and some aging tablet computers. Her signature software RemSleep 009 had made Wylson Lefkowitz-Blake a billionaire. And it had made her indispensable to NASA.

It would have been easier for Violet Blake if her father had been the one to survive. She�d always been her daddy�s little girl. It was her father who had first introduced her to art, to serious music, to literature. It was her father who had given her Pride and Prejudice, and it was there, in the mannerly, elegant, understated, and unhurried world of Jane Austen that Violet had found her place in the world.

Violet was a freak in the world of school, because to reject a world dominated by soulless technology, a world where no thought ever seemed to go unspoken, where no feeling went unexpressed, a world devoid of politesse, a world without delicacy or tact, to reject that world was seen as unnatural, perhaps even dangerous. When she refused to wear a link even her teachers turned on her, demanding to know how she could stand being so �out of touch.�

Violet had felt wrong growing up, wrong deep down in her soul. And she�d gone on feeling wrong till she found other girls like herself, girls who wanted to be girls. The frilly dresses and carefully piled hair were just the outward signs of a much deeper sense that the world had conspired to deprive girls of a unique girlness, and to deprive everyone of privacy, peace, contemplation.

It wasn�t about playacting. Miss Blake knew she was not living in early-nineteenth-century England. Unlike some Janes, she did not attempt to copy the speech patterns of Austen characters. And it was not about being passive or witless. On the contrary, Austen�s heroines were strong, determined, unafraid to make judgments or to express opinions. Violet loved art. She enjoyed simple rituals. She enjoyed conversation. She enjoyed silence. And none of that found a place in the world of 2011.

Her father had understood immediately. Her mother had laughed at her, first in disbelief, then with outright contempt. �Well, congratulations, Dallas,� her mother told her once, �you�ve finally found the way to take a shot at me. I guess every teenager has to go through a phase like this.�

�Mom, I am just trying to live my own life,� Violet had responded. �And I would consider it a kindness if you would call me by my chosen name: Miss Blake.�

�Miss Blake? Good lord. What�s that? First name �Miss�?�

�Dallas is not a name that pleases me. And the one great advantage of this day and age is that everyone feels free to change their name. I�ve chosen Violet as my first name. Violet Blake. You can call me Violet, but I�d prefer Miss Blake.�

�Violet? Your name is Dallas. It has meaning. It�s the city where you were born.�

�And with each use of that name I am reminded of an event that I don�t even remember!�

�That�s not the point. I remember, and it�s an important memory. You�re my only daughter. Don�t you understand what I�m saying?�

�Yes, Mother, I do. I always do,� she�d answered, but of course the insult was lost on her mother.

Her father had comforted her. He had called her Violet.

Once she declared herself as a Jane her vague interest in art became a true avocation. Let others delve deeply into the cold minds of machines, let others unravel the secrets of the double helix; she would learn the timeless truths to be found in art. It was a perfectly useless thing to learn, according to her mother. It would never earn her a dime, never get her a place in a competitive university. It would never make her rich.

And yet, now, as Miss Violet Blake gazed out over the landscape below the shuttle, she alone understood what it represented.

The young man named Mo�Steel was descending, hand over hand, one powerful leg wrapped around the thin cable. He landed on the back wall of the shuttle�s cargo bay. Then, still holding the wire, he tightrope-walked out along the declining edge of the tail and finally hopped to the ground.

He stood almost directly on the impossible dividing line between the gray canyon and the brilliant meadow. The canyon was unmistakable to Violet. It was an Ansel Adams. A photograph, not a painting.

The meadow, with the frenetic river cutting through it, was more difficult. Not a C�zanne, the colors were too bold. Van Gogh? Perhaps. Monet? Yes, possibly. But, if she�d had to pick one answer on a multiple-choice test she�d have said Bonnard. Pierre Bonnard.

Mo�Steel was kicking his way through impossible plants that seemed to have been assembled out of swatches of lavender and emerald, apricot and gold.

�Careful, Miss Blake, don�t lean out too far,� Jobs said. He was at her elbow.

Violet drew back. �I suppose you�re right.� She glanced over her shoulder. She kept expecting her mother to come striding up, ready to take charge and begin rapping out orders. But Wylson Lefkowitz-Blake was only in the earliest stages of revival. Two others had assumed complete consciousness, their awakening perhaps accelerated by the horrific event that had resulted in the doctor�s death. In any case, all three had been in berths close to that
tragedy.

Mo�Steel walked a little distance out into the colorful meadow. He looked up and waved, his face a broad, slightly deranged grin. �Come on down. It is deeply weird down here.�

The girl 2Face yelled down, �Okay, Mo, stay close, okay?� Then, in an aside to Jobs and Errol, said, �Weird doesn�t begin to describe it. One or the other, maybe, but two totally different environments divided so sharply?�

It occurred to Violet that there was irony here. 2Face, a girl whose own face encompassed two entirely opposed concepts, the lovely and the hideous, found this bifurcation disturbing.

�It has to be artificial,� Errol said, not for the first time. �You�d almost think it was man- made.�

�If I may . . .� Violet Blake began.

Olga Gonzalez came up the stairs and an-nounced, �We found some water!�

She carried a translucent plastic gallon jug, three-quarters full. �We were able to bleed it off the hibernation machinery.� She was in one of her more manic moods. Violet had seen these moods turn to despair within a moment�s time.

�You think it�s safe to drink?� 2Face asked.

Olga shrugged. �We have the equipment from the storage lockers. The chemical testing strips are all long gone, of course. But the microscope still works and at least I don�t see any obvious microorganisms. It�s as clean as distilled water. Which is not to say there aren�t other contaminants. I gave it a taste. No alkali taste. Nothing obvious. I won�t bore you with a list of colorless, tasteless, odorless pathogens that might be present in fatal concentrations.�

2Face took the bottle and raised it to her lips. She had to use a finger to keep the liquid from dribbling out the disfigured side of her mouth. She handed the jug to Errol. The water made its rounds, everyone desperately thirsty. Only Yago drank too deeply, swallowing more than his share.

�Maybe that water in the river is drinkable,� Shy Hwang suggested. �And there may be edible fruit around.�

�If I may . . .� Violet began again.

�None of the food on board survived,� Olga said. �Not in any edible form, anyway. There�s some powdery residue in some of the freeze-dried packs, but I doubt there�s any nutritive value.�

�Great, so we starve?� Yago said.

�Let�s get down to the ground, then we can see what�s what,� Jobs said. �Who�s next?�

�I�ll stay,� Errol said. �So we can see about belaying this cable in such a way as we can use it to run a bosun�s chair up and down to ferry the weak and the wounded.� He glanced at Billy Weir, who had been propped into a sitting position. His undead eyes stared out across the landscape below.

�And the dead folks,� Jobs said. �Sooner or later I guess we�ll have to get all these people down and bury them.� Jobs continued, �I�ll stay here with you, Errol. I can work on the bosun�s chair. We have some tools now, from the chest. I can strip panels from the bulkheads and make a frame from decking.�

He actually seemed mildly excited by the project. A true techie, Violet thought with distaste. One of those people.

�I wish I knew what was down there,� Shy Hwang said. �It�s so . . . there could be anything. Wild animals, deadly snakes, things we haven�t even thought of.�

�If I may . . .� Violet said a third time.

�What? You want to say something, Jane?� 2Face snapped at her.

�If I may, I was going to offer some reassurance. I doubt you�d find wild beasts in early-twentieth-century France.�

2Face stared at her. �Uh-huh. Well, thanks for the update on France.� She shot a look to Jobs, a look suggesting the possibility that Violet was crazy, possibly dangerously so.

�I believe this landscape was derived from a painting. Monet or Bonnard, I think.�

�What are you talking about?� Olga demanded.

�The gray-shade is derived from an Ansel Adams photograph. Or at least from someone mimicking Adams�s style. The detail can only be photographic. But this sky, this meadow, that river are all clearly derived from a painting. Pierre Bonnard was a ��

�She�s right!� Yago cried. �It�s a painting. It�s not even real. We�ve been worrying about a painting.�

�Mo�s walking around down there,� Jobs pointed out. �It�s not flat. It�s not a painting.�

�I suggested it was derived from a painting, not that it is a painting,� Miss Blake said patiently. �I think it�s likely that whoever created this place used an Adams photo and an Impressionist painting to . . . to imagine . . . these environments.�

�Who are you talking about?� Shy Hwang asked.

Violet was feeling a bit put out. They were staring at her accusingly. She was flustered and couldn�t think of a ready answer.

�Aliens?� Jobs whispered.

�Well, someone,� Miss Blake said. �Surely you see that this meadow and this gray-shade canyon, not to mention that sky, did not occur naturally.�

�Aliens,� Jobs said more confidently now. �That�s how the ship came to be standing upright. That�s what happened. We didn�t land. We were captured.�

�Captured by art lovers?� 2Face demanded, incredulous.

�Most likely that this was done for our benefit,� Violet suggested. �Perhaps the aliens are merely trying to be polite.�

Jobs said, �We found a rack of DD�s�data disks � in the lockers, along with the tools and the decayed food.�

�Presumably an effort on NASA�s part to keep alive some portion of the human cultural legacy,� Shy Hwang suggested.

�Including art?� 2Face wondered. �Fine, but you�re saying someone created this environment for us? Using the DD�s? How? The data was in the locker. It wasn�t loaded into any accessible system.�

�They were on the ship,� Jobs said. �Whoever did all this, whoever created this environment? They had to have been aboard this ship.�

So the Janes are interesting huh? I wonder if that could be a sort of metaphor for somethings that could not be talked about in a YA book of this time peroid?

# ¿ Jan 30, 2024 04:00

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

quote:

CHAPTER 10

�THE BABY . . . SOMETHING�S NOT RIGHT.�

Jobs was one of the last to set foot on the planet�s surface. He had stayed behind to fashion a bosun�s chair that was used to ferry some of the less-agile Wakers, as they were now called. Now he was ready to go down himself.
He was reluctant. It wasn�t that the surface frightened him � it fascinated him. The poet within him found it stirring. But the poet was a subset, a mere file within the hard-core techie.

This ship was Earth. This ship was human technology. He could unscrew panels and look inside and understand what he was seeing. He could follow fiber-optic pathways and know why they went where they went. It was like a museum, of course. The shuttle and the Mayflower capsule within it were a strange mixture of cutting-edge toys and antique systems. Old and new. Somehow, it had actually worked. It had carried them for five centuries and more through space. Jobs felt intense admiration for that, for what it represented in terms of human ingenuity.

Their numbers had grown. Jobs�s little brother, Edward, had awakened, and by a stroke of luck Jobs had been able to keep him from seeing their parents. Or what was left of them. Miss Blake�s mother was awake now, as well as three other kids, a ten-year-old who called himself Roger Dodger, a fourteen-year-old girl named Tate, and a sixteen-year-old guy named Anamull.

And D-Caf had awakened.

That made seventeen people in all. Seventeen thirsty, hungry people.

Emotional breakdowns were common. Grief was a virus that spread from one to another, was suppressed only to mutate, take on some new aspect, and attack again. Jobs and Errol had worked out a pulley system to allow them to reascend to the Mayflower. That way people could serve watches aboard, waiting for others to revive.

But now it was time, at last, for Jobs to leave the ship. Jobs slid down the main cable. He would have liked to use the bosun�s chair, but he was unwilling to look like one of the lame. Not with Mo�Steel grinning up at him.

�So. What do you think, Duck?� Mo�Steel asked, indicating the landscape.

Down at ground level the weirdness of it was infinitely more pronounced. Jobs straddled the line between environments. One foot was planted in gray dust. The other crunched thick, irregular grass. To the left a vast canyon yawned, impossibly deep, impossibly steep. Silent, immeasurably huge. Perfectly detailed until you looked too closely, and then you could see quite clearly that the dust was not dust but identical round pebbles. And everything, the rocks, the few gray cacti, were all made up of those same gray-shade pebbles.

�Pixels,� Jobs said. �The original photo was predigital. This is the max resolution, I guess.�

Mo�Steel nodded sagely. �Watch this.� He picked up a small rock and threw it as far out into the canyon as he could.

�Uh-huh,� Jobs said.

�Shh. Listen. You hear that?�

Jobs heard the rock hit bottom. It had hit bottom long before it should have. Together they walked into the gray world. They stood at the edge of the canyon and looked down. Impossible not to believe it was real. You could feel the depth of the canyon in your soul. But when Jobs threw a second rock after the first it, too, fell for no more than five seconds before landing with a tiny rattling sound.

�Know what else? Look up at the sky. Look at that cloud up there.�

Jobs obeyed. He saw a puffy white, lavender-edged cloud moving serenely toward the border between environments. It reached the edge of the gray-shade environment and keptblowing. As it crossed the line it lost all color, gained clarity, and was absorbed into the sky above the canyon.

Mo�Steel seemed to expect him to say something penetrating, but all he could manage was, �Huh.�

Jobs walked back into the world of color, bent down, and stroked a single shaft of grass. Of course it was not grass. It was three inches across, a quarter-inch thick, smeared with green and blue. He pulled at it and it came free. He stared at the root structure with Mo�Steel leaning over his shoulder.

�Look at that, Mo. The root structure looks normal. The dirt looks normal. Not like the dirt over in the canyon. This is like actual dirt. The roots are like actual roots. The leaf, though, no way.�

�Tastes like grass,� Mo�Steel said.

�You tried to eat it?�

Mo�Steel shrugged. �Hey, we gotta eat, right? I thought maybe you could eat it. But it�s like eating what the lawn mower left behind.�

Jobs sighed. He looked at the lost, confused, wondering, grieving gaggle of humans, all together in the Impressionist environment. They looked shabby and dull in this vivid landscape. Hard-edged, definite, almost vulgar in their detail. His brother was staring up at a sketchy tree.

�What are we going to do?� Jobs wondered.

Mo�Steel shook his head. �I was hoping you�d know.�

�I am lost,� Jobs said. He took a deep breath. �No food. No water. Not much, anyway. Whoever put this all together, aliens or whatever, they got the air right. They got the roots of these plants right. But I doubt there�s real water in that river over there.�

�Let�s go see.�

But Jobs was too distracted to answer. �They�re playing mix and match, that�s the problem.�

�Who is?�

�Them. The aliens. They don�t have a context. They downloaded our data, but they don�t know what�s real and what isn�t, what�s actual and what�s just, you know, art or imagination. See, they found technical data on air quality so we have air. Or maybe it�s just the natural air of this planet. Maybe they have scientific descriptions of plants, so they got the roots right, but they don�t know what to do about the pictures and stuff.�

Mo�Steel said, �Hey, there must have been stuff about us, right? About humans? Like what we are, what we need to eat and drink and all?�

�I don�t know, Mo. You look in an encyclopedia under �humans� you don�t exactly find a guide for the care and feeding of same. Probably says we�re omnivorous. If they access a dictionary they can figure out that means we eat anything. That may not be a good thing, depending on how these aliens interpret it.�

Jobs looked up at the shuttle. It was stupendously out of place. The white-painted shuttle was pockmarked with a thousand micrometeorite holes. The solar sails hung limp and crumpled, like carelessly hung laundry or broken arms. The Mylar sheen was gone, the microsheeting was dull.

Jobs and Mo�Steel had gone extra-vehicular to deploy those sails. Hanging there in orbit around Earth they�d seen the Rock slam into it. They�d seen the planet ripped apart, shattered into three big, mismatched, irregular chunks.
Yesterday in Jobs�s mind and memory. It had happened yesterday.

Jobs�s parents were up there in the Mayflower. Dead. Yesterday he�d seen them alive, yesterday they had walked aboard the shuttle with him and settled into those berths beside him. But that was five-hundred years ago. When had they died? Had it happened right away? Or had they survived for centuries, only to die at the last minute?

There came a sound of raised voices from the dozen Wakers. An argument. Yago�s voice was heard most clearly.
Jobs and Mo�Steel joined the group.

�What�s the beef?� Jobs asked Errol in a whisper.

He and Errol had formed a working relationship based on mutual respect. Errol was an actual rocket scientist, a fuel systems designer. An engineer. He had come aboard the Mayflower with his wife and their one child, a girl. The girl�s berth had been perforated by a micrometeorite. It had drilled a hole right through her heart. His wife was cheese.
It was something else Jobs shared with Errol: a need to keep busy in order to hold the avalanche of grief at bay.

�It�s the sergeant and her . . . her baby,� Errol said. �The baby . . . something�s not right.�

The baby was still in its mother�s arms. Not crying. But looking around with its empty eyes as though searching for something. And the more its searched, the more agitated its mother became.

�Something is going to happen,� Tamara Hoyle muttered. �Something is happening right now.�

quote:

CHAPTER 11

�YOU MAY NEED A SOLDIER.�

�It�s some kind of a freak � if it�s even human!� Yago cried. �Look at it! Look at the two of them. Am I the only one seeing this?�

2Face was already sick of Yago. He was a pampered monster, a spoiled brat with DNA-manipulated good looks and an awesome level of selfishness. But he was right about the baby. There was something wrong.

The baby turned its head to look left. Tamara Hoyle turned her head to the left. Puppet master and puppet? Or just some exaggeration of the natural sympathy between mother and child? The baby stared right at Yago and Tamara�s eyes drilled into him. Identical expressions of fixed focus.

�Look! Look at that! Don�t you people see? They�re connected!� Yago yelled.

Olga said, �The umbilical cord�s � if that�s what it was � has been cut.�

�Cut?� Yago shrilled. �And do you see a difference? You want to know the difference? The difference is the doctor is dead.� He stabbed an accusing finger at Tamara and her baby. �She�s a killer. A killer and a freak.�

�What is it you want?� 2Face calmly asked Yago.

�A little order, that�s all,� Yago said. �We need some rules here. And we need those rules right from the start. Rule number one in any society is: You don�t let murderers go free.�

�We don�t have a judge or a courtroom,� 2Face pointed out. They�d been over this. And they had other, more pressing problems. �We don�t have any way to lock her up. And we need her to care for her baby. Are you going to do it?�

�We don�t need a court. Eye for an eye,� Yago hissed. �She�s a freak. A murdering freak. She should be driven out. Exiled. You let her and that freak alien baby stay, you�ll regret it.�

�All right, no one is exiling anyone,� 2Face snapped. This was hitting close to home. If the baby was a freak, so, maybe, was 2Face. �We�re all that�s left of the human race; we�re not going to start drawing lines and saying who�s in and who�s out.�

�I see,� Yago said. �And you�ll take responsibility if this woman and her so-called baby create more trouble?�

2Face swallowed, hesitated. She�d seen Yago�s trap too late. He was putting her together with Tamara and the baby. He was making her responsible for whatever they did. �Yes,� she said at last.

�We won�t forget you said that,� Yago said. �And anyway, I suspect most people here don�t agree with you. How about you, Ms. Lefkowitz-Blake? What do you think? I know my mother always admired your judgment.�

Wylson Lefkowitz-Blake blinked, surprised and flattered, but quickly seized the tendered opportunity. �I think it�s too soon to foreclose any options. Let�s get the facts first, then we can reach a reasoned judgment.�

Yago let 2Face see his triumph, his sneering �gotcha� look. Tamara Hoyle seemed to ignore the drama entirely. �Something is coming,� she whispered.

She and her baby stared toward the distant river. The baby smiled.

2Face knew she�d been outmaneuvered. She�d known to expect it, known that Yago would make a move sooner or later. He was a bully, but not a simple one. He was, after all, the president�s son, someone raised in the political life.
She told herself it didn�t matter because now that more adults were awake her tenuous, accidental authority would have been displaced anyway. But she resented that Yago had engineered it. He had acted as the kingmaker. Or queenmaker, in this case.

It had happened in a heartbeat. Yago had neatly pulled the rug out from under her. Within ten minutes after Yago�s move Wylson Lefkowitz-Blake, the Jane�s mother, was confidently pushing people around, bringing order out of chaos, detailing a search party, setting watches for duty back aboard the ship, organizing the unpacking of the shuttle�s tools and instruments.

Fine, 2Face told herself. Truth was, the woman was better qualified to be in charge; she was the founder of a multibillion-dollar empire, of course she was in charge. That wasn�t the problem. The problem was that 2Face didn�t like being outmaneuvered by Yago. And she didn�t want to be made responsible for the actions of the Marine sergeant and her eerie child.

Yago was right: There was something wrong there. But not only there. There was something wrong with Billy Weir as well. 2Face couldn�t put her finger on it, but Billy made the hair stand up on the back of her neck. He was alive, his pupils reacted to light, but he�d said nothing, moved no muscle. They�d given him water and he�d swallowed some of it, that had been his greatest accomplishment so far.

2Face was as hungry and thirsty as anyone, as disturbed by the impossible landscape of this alien world. But she�d taken comfort in the distraction of being in charge. Now she was �one of the kids� in a world where the adults were reasserting themselves, especially Wylson Lefkowitz-Blake. With less to do, there was more time to think. She didn�t want to think.

Wylson wasted no time getting rid of her. �Okay, Mr. Hwang, you take your daughter and this one� � Wylson pointed at Mo�Steel � �over to take a look at the river. Come back and let us know if it�s actual water. Carry some jugs with you, might as well not waste a trip.�

�Send me, too,� Tamara Hoyle said.

�I don�t think we�re going to be using you,� Wylson said, making no attempt to disguise her contempt.

�I�m a trained soldier,� Tamara argued. �You may need a soldier.�

�You�re a murderer with a freak baby,� Yago said. He had attached himself to Wylson.

Tamara�s baby turned away, and a moment later, so did Tamara, as though the issue no longer interested either of them.
�Okay, you�d better get going,� Wylson said to Shy Hwang.

Shy Hwang nodded to his daughter and Mo�Steel. He looked a little sheepish, but determined. 2Face saw he was ready to reassert his prerogatives as her father. That was good,actually. 2Face loved her father. He had a right to be a father. They picked up a couple of empty gallon jugs and set off through the brilliant cornhusk �grass.�

Mo�Steel forged ahead, the only one of the three who was remotely excited by the adventure. Let it go, 2Face told herself. She touched her face, quite unconsciously, as she recalled the price that could be paid by the vengeance-seeker.

# ¿ Jan 31, 2024 05:03

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

You don't want to draw the eyes spilling out of murder baby's skull?

# ¿ Jan 31, 2024 14:02

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

quote:

CHAPTER 12

�THEY�RE HEADING FOR OUR PEOPLE!�

�It was peaceful,� Shy Hwang said to his daughter.

It took her a moment to track. Was he talking about Yago�s coup? The disturbing landscape? No, of course not. He meant her mom�s death. 2Face blushed with the good half of her face.

�I know, Dad. We were all asleep. She was asleep. It was peaceful.�

Her father let out a stifled sob. He wiped tears from his eyes and set his face in a parody of determination. 2Face had never thought much about her parents� relationship. It had always been there. They argued occasionally but made up quickly. But of course they�d been together for seven years before 2Face was born. Not that 2Face wasn�t devastated by her mother�s death. But, to her shame, she had to admit that her father�s grief was deeper, more personal.

She resisted the insidious edge of contempt for her father. It was right that he grieve. She was the bad one, she was the one who was failing her mother�s memory. Her father was reacting the way a man who loved his wife should. And yet, he had to be able to see that there was a crisis before them, a mess that required action.

He�d be okay. He�d be okay in time. That was it, he needed time. Why didn�t she? How had she turned so quickly away from grief? Maybe she was more resilient. Or maybe she was just more cold-blooded, less feeling than her father.

She reached for her father to take his arm, to comfort him, but something held her back. Instead she said, �Maybe we should hurry up or Mo will get way ahead of us.�

Shy Hwang shook his head, trying again to resume the mantle of parental authority. �No. I�ll call him back. We should stick together and take our time. We�re in a strange place.�

He yelled to Mo�Steel, who pretended not to understand his words and simply waved back. So 2Face and her father accelerated their pace, passing beneath a sketchy tree whose trunk seemed to have been constructed of three or four irregular slices of bark piled together. Brush strokes. Miss Blake might be a simpering throwback, but she was right about this. It was all some weird 3-D representation of a painting. How had they done it, the aliens? Holograms and force fields? Genetic manipulation? Or was none of this real and the Wakers were still sleeping, sharing the same dream?

One thing was for sure: If any of this was real, the aliens, if aliens they were, had vast powers. It had to require enormous energies to excavate the gray-shade canyon, enormous power to grow this fabulously strange landscape.
Why? Why would an alien race want to do this? What was the motive � there had to be one. At least it wasn�t an aggressive move, that much was obvious. The aliens had gone to a lot of trouble to create an environment for their human guests. That had to be good news. In fact, very good news.

No, 2Face told herself, the real dangers were from within, from Yago and Billy Weir and Tamara and the baby.

Mo�Steel had reached the river and was waving them forward enthusiastically. They pushed on through the clinging pseudo-grass. At least it was downhill now. The river was like the trees, a jumble of agitated, moving, tumbling brush strokes. Up close you could see that it wasn�t liquid at all, not in the way it behaved, not in the way it moved. It reminded 2Face of watching clothes in the dryer, tumbling, roiling bits of blue and green and flecks of white in motion.

�It�s not water,� Shy Hwang said, disappointed.

But Mo�Steel grinned. �Watch this.� He knelt down and pushed his plastic pitcher into what seemed so solid. The brush stroke of blue came apart, sprayed around the obstacle, and to 2Face�s amazement, water, actual clear water began to fill the jug.

�Is that water?� 2Face asked.

Mo�Steel tipped the jug up to his mouth and drank. �It�s not Pepsi,� he said and passed the jug to 2Face.

It was water. Or something that sure tasted and felt like water, though unpleasantly lukewarm.

�Water,� Shy Hwang agreed.

�Hey,� Mo�Steel said. He was frowning, staring off into the distance. �Hey, scope that.�

The creatures were on the far side of the river and about a thousand feet upstream. They were moving, standing it seemed, but moving swiftly, effortlessly. Almost as if they were riding horses that were obscured by the grass.
They were the color of rust or dried blood. It was impossible to gauge their size. From a distance they appeared to be no more than man-sized, but with a multiplicity of spidery legs and very possibly more than one head.

They were surely not anything envisioned by Miss Blake�s Pierre Bonnard, the artist who had painted this meadow and this river. They veered suddenly and zoomed effortlessly across the water.

�They�re heading for our people!� 2Face said. �Come on!�

They started running. Running and yelling. There was no sign that the others had spotted the alien Riders.

�Hey! Hey!� Mo�Steel yelled. �Look! Look!�

But it was too far for voices to carry clearly. It looked as if the main group was huddled in some sort of debate. The Riders moved swiftly, faster than a running human, not so fast as a car. They were three points of a collapsing triangle: 2Face and her group, the main group of Wakers, and the Riders. The Riders would reach the Wakers first.
Then, the Wakers noticed. 2Face thought she saw Tamara pointing. There was a faint sound of yelling.

2Face was gasping, panting, as out of shape as . . . as a person who�d been asleep for five- hundred years. Mo�Steel had farther to run but he�d caught up with 2Face and Shy Hwang and was now pulling ahead. 2Face saw the Wakers drawing closer together, instinctively gathering their strength. The Riders � there seemed to be half a dozen� slowed and stopped twenty or thirty feet from Wylson Lefkowitz-Blake, who stepped out front, hands held out, palms up.

2Face saw Wylson shake her head. Then again, more violently. One of the Riders was on the move, zooming back and forth in front of her, seeming to taunt her, waving a curved stick like a dull-bladed scimitar at her. It was a challenge. A challenge to battle.

Wylson shook her head adamantly and Errol moved forward, the gallant, seeking to put himself between Wylson and the gaunt Rider. The Rider tossed the curved stick at Errol and Errol snatched it out of the air. He looked at
it, seemed to be trying to figure out what it was or how to hold it. There was a horrific shriek, an unearthly cry that was like metal gears grinding on ball bearings.

The Rider zoomed forward and stabbed a spear into Errol�s thigh. Errol fell to one knee. Mo�Steel was almost there. He was going to charge the Rider but two other Riders swooped in to block him. 2Face could see now what they rode. Not animals, but nearly flat, circular disks less than four feet in diameter. There was no obvious engine. No way for the Riders even to hold on but by careful balance. They seemed to steer with their weight, leaning this
way or that. The disks would scoot, with gathering speed, just inches above the grass tops.

The two outriders blocked Mo�Steel and he came to a confused stop. 2Face caught up with him, grabbed his arm to keep him from doing anything stupid. Up close now, 2Face�s impression was confirmed: The creatures had two distinct, but different heads. At least one of them did. The other Rider had a stump, six inches of neck and
nothing on top.

They stood on two jointed legs, each split into two short calves or elongated feet. The legs were jointed at the hip, at the split, again halfway down the calves, then at what might be ankles. The upper body was narrow and rigid, almost glossy, like a beetle�s carapace. They had two long arms, jointed much like human arms, and four-fingered hands.

The heads were the only break with symmetry. One head was little more than a mouth stuck on a neck, a hideous, razor-toothed sock-puppet of a head. The other, what had to be the main head, was dominated by two large, glittery gold compound eyes, like a fly�s but with fewer facets. Directly below, a row of four smaller eyes, black irises in gold orbs. The mouth was small, round, and seemed to be the origin of that terrible metallic voice.

The lead Rider, or surfer as he now seemed, zoomed a circle around Errol, taunting him in his harsh voice, jabbing a hand at the weapon in Errol�s hand. Errol used the weapon as a crutch, stood hobbling on one leg. Then, far too slowly, with no possible way to fool his antagonist, Errol swung the scimitar, caught nothing but air, and was
carried over by his momentum. He fell facedown on hands and knees. The alien stabbed him in his back and Errol cried out.

Again the taunting, the circling.

�Stop it! Stop it!� 2Face screamed, and realized she was not the only one. Almost everyone was yelling or crying, but no one could move as the gliding Riders formed a sort of moving circle around the two combatants. Errol was panting, sobbing, facedown in the brilliant grass. He made a feeble attempt to stand up. That movement was all the alien needed. He swept in, stabbed his spear into the back of Errol�s neck, and twisted it savagely. Errol was no more.

The aliens rode away a few paces, stopped, grouped together. 2Face had reached the others. Everyone stood, waiting, helpless. Mo�Steel started for Errol�s dropped scimitar.

�No!� Jobs yelled. �Mo! Don�t do it. Don�t touch it! It�s a challenge, let it lie, let it lie.�

Mo�Steel hesitated, fingers just inches from the hilt. The aliens watched him.

Slowly Mo�Steel took a step back. �Not this time,� he said to the killer. �Later on. We�ll see.�

The aliens took a last look, turned, and sped away out of sight.

another consistent through line of all these books: cool weird aliens

quote:

CHAPTER 13

�YOU DON�T GO DEER HUNTING WITH A TANK.�

Night came to the meadow, a night of strange amethyst clouds and orange swirls in a troubled sky. Violet Blake found it fascinating. Was this scene an actual painting? Or were the aliens riffing on a theme? It might be Bonnard, or not. Was whoever or whatever operated the machinery on this strange world now composing its own art?

No one else seemed to care. They�d managed to make a small fire of the improbable grass and even more improbable wood. They were beside the river now, and so everyone had water to drink, and even wash in. The shuttle stood at a distance, unlit except by starlight. It seemed strangely small. Lonely. Violet�s mother was still in charge, as much as anyone could be said to be in charge of the scared, shaken, disorganized rabble. They huddled together talking endlessly, planning, abandoning plans, plotting, squabbling. Violet�s mother was trying to hold a board meeting.

Trying to transfer the skills she had honed in big business to this situation. Demanding concrete answers from people who had only speculation to offer. Yago was her toadie, seconding every motion, clinging tightly to what power there was, calling her �boss.� He was a work of art himself, Yago was, artificial, at least to some degree.
Cat DNA in his petri-dish golden eyes caused them to glow in the dark. Maybe his perfect bronze skin was a natural product of his African-American mother and Caucasian father, but Violet doubted it.

In return for the shameless toadying, Violet�s mother favored her one sure ally, complimenting Yago�s good sense. They were getting to be quite an act. Olga Gonzalez, Mo�Steel�s mother, had little to say except on matters to do with biology, her scientific speciality. She had a great deal to say about the anomalies in the plant life � the mismatch between what was taking place at the cellular level and what was observable in the developed species. But when Wylson demanded information on the aliens, Olga could only plead ignorance.

�There�s no such thing as an expert on alien biology,� Olga snapped after repeated questioning. �We�ve never encountered aliens. You know as much as I do.�

Shy Hwang sat cross-legged with head hung down, lost in memory. From time to time he would reach for his daughter, to hold her close, to hug her, and at those times Violet felt a twinge of jealousy and resentment at 2Face�s grudging response. 2Face seemed a cold little creature to her.

Another adult Waker had emerged from the shuttle, a man named Daniel Burroway, yet another scientist, an astrophysicist. He was an arrogant man, convinced of his own brilliance, and, it seemed to Violet, almost brutally indifferent to the fact that the three other members of his family had not survived. He talked a lot. If there was anyone who would challenge Wylson, it would be Burroway.

Billy Weir lay silent. Still. Jobs tended to him, paying more attention to him than to his own brother, Edward, who hummed to himself while making little collections of leaves and rocks. Some of the other younger kids sat crying, as alone as kids could be. The newly awakened sixteen-year-old named Anamull stared, slack-jawed, into the fire. A
burnout, Violet guessed. A big, hulking kid with brown hair and steroid arms, and no affect.

D-Caf sat by himself, too, ignored, excluded, shunned. According to Jobs, D-Caf had fired the shot that killed the mission�s copilot. A killer, though he seemed more pathetic than dangerous to Violet. He kept smiling at people, looking for an acceptance that no one would offer. He was jumpy, energetic, a shaggy puppy who couldn�t understand why he�d been spanked and put in the corner.

It was not a group to inspire confidence, Violet thought.

And then there was Tamara Hoyle. Along with her own mother, the type of woman Violet disliked most. A mannish woman. When she stood it was at parade rest, when she sat it was with legs precisely folded and back perfectly straight. She looked as if, all other things being equal, she could fight any of the men and win.

But all other things were not equal. Tamara Hoyle held the eyeless baby that never ate, never cried, only chuckled from time to time, as if at some secret joke. The baby was a cherub with a knowing, leering, too-wise face. The mother might almost have seemed indifferent to the child. She never looked at her baby. She never comforted it. She carried it easily, place to place, always holding it face-out as if she were allow-ing it to see the world. Of course the baby could not possibly see.

�They can�t be the ones who created all of this,� Daniel Burroway was arguing in his loud and pedantic tone. �These aliens you describe, Riders or surfers, whatever appellation you choose, were clearly warriors of some sort. It requires a subtler intelligence to imagine this environment, to meld the biologically functional with the artistic. As Dr. Gonzalez has confirmed, these are, biologically speaking, common plants. The grass is grass, despite the overt physical differences. That all argues for a larger intelligence than the sort of brutes you describe.�

Violet Blake could dispute that point � many violent societies had created great art and shown great intellectual creativity. But she didn�t have the will or the energy to be argumentative at the moment. She was desperately tired and hungry. The talk was going nowhere, accomplishing nothing.

If her opinion was asked for she would give it. But anything she said would almost surely lead to a clash with her mother and her sycophant, Yago.

Jobs evidently felt no such hesitation. �I agree with Dr. Burroway, but not for his reasons.�

Burroway frowned. �Then please, do tell,� he said with a mock bow.

�It�s that any warrior society uses its cutting-edge technology for fighting. I mean, humans, right? The military had planes before civilians, used rockets before civilians did, set up the Internet, global positioning, nuclear power plants, lasers, on and on. Now, those surfboards the Riders are using, it is cool technology, no question, but it�s not the cutting edge for whoever did all this terra forming. Or art forming, whatever you call it. I�m just saying, anyone who can split the sky right down the middle into a gray sky and a blue sky, or cause water to flow in packets. . .they can do better than antigravity skateboards, or whatever those things were. Not to mention spears and swords.�

Violet was amused to hear such a ready flow of words. Jobs was not a great talker, unless the subject was technology.

�The Riders might be the aliens� pets, for all we know,� 2Face said. �Or maybe . . .� She paused, sending a direct question to Violet. �Maybe those Riders are part of the scene. I mean, maybe they�re images drawn from the same data the aliens took this environment. Is that possible?�

Violet heard her mother snort dismissively. �I think maybe we should stick to talking about ways to deal with the situation. This is not an art seminar.�

�Could be those Riders just didn�t think it was woolly enough using ray guns or whatever,� Mo�Steel suggested, speaking for the first time. �Maybe they weren�t looking for a gimme. Maybe they were looking to squeeze the A gland.�

Pretty much everyone stared at him, mystified.

Jobs translated. �He�s saying maybe I�m wrong. Maybe the Riders do have better technology but this isn�t them making war against us, this is just them, you know, engaging in a sport. Maybe they were looking for a challenge, a thrill. Squeeze the A gland � you know, adrenal gland.�

�You don�t go deer hunting with a tank,� Anamull agreed.

Violet hadn�t thought he was even listening.

Then, �What�s that?� D-Caf cried and leaped to his feet. �Shh! I heard something.�

Silence.

The sound of something moving through the grass. And then, �Hello? Is anyone there?�

Two people staggered into the firelight. One, a big man, was leaning for support on a smaller man. Violet could see that the larger man�s right leg was unable to bear any weight. The big man dropped to the ground and panted, unable to speak. Then he noticed Billy Weir and uttered a gasp or a sob. He crawled over to him. �Billy! Billy! It�s Dad!�

No answer. Billy Weir just stared.

The smaller man said, �Glad to see all of you. I�m very, very glad to see all of you. We saw all the empty berths, we knew others had awakened before us. But we couldn�t figure out where you were. Then we saw the fire.�

Violet noticed a distinct accent, a sort of lilt. The man was dark-skinned but with Caucasian features. Indian, Violet guessed. Olga stood up and carried a water jug to the injured man, then offered it to the other newcomer.

�My name�s Tathagata Rajagopalachari. I am afraid that my American friends call me T.R. My companion there is William Weir. He said to call him Big Bill. He is hurt, as you can see.�

�Welcome to both of you,� Wylson said. �What do you do, T.R.?�

�Do? Oh, yes. I am a psychiatrist.�

Violet almost laughed at the silent consternation that announcement caused. The other man moaned in pain and grabbed his leg hard, as though trying to squeeze the pain out of it. He paid no attention to the group but kept up his effort to get a response from his son.

�Do you have a doctor?� T.R. asked. �As I said, my friend here is not well. And I am afraid that my medical training occurred a very long time ago indeed.�

�You�re the closest thing we have to a doctor,� Olga said. �I�m a biologist but I don�t have an M.D., not even one from a long time ago.�

T.R. nodded. �Oh, that is distressing. Perhaps among the other survivors?�

Wylson shook her head. �So far we�re it, Doctor. We expect a few more Wakers like the two of you, but as you saw, the rest did not survive the trip.�

T.R. frowned. �As I saw? But I saw nothing to suggest any such thing.�

�We�re talking about the variously decomposed corpses in the berths,� Burroway said impatiently.

�But . . . But I looked carefully. I observed five more individuals in states of rest, two of them beginning to awaken, but there were no dead. The other berths were empty.�

UH OH!!!

# ¿ Feb 1, 2024 01:10

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

Yeah, they all moved down towards the river after the encounter with the aliens, since it had water for them.

# ¿ Feb 1, 2024 16:57

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

Oh boy, we got a pair of chapters coming up. These books do a great job of ratchetting up the tension!

quote:

CHAPTER 14

�AND MAYBE WE�RE ANTS TRYING TO FIGURE OUT A PICNIC.�

Jobs descended the circular stairway slowly, cautiously, on guard despite the fact that Mo�Steel was already halfway down the length of the Mayflower capsule. The berths where Jobs�s parents had been were empty. Not only empty, clean. No trace of the hideous mold. No fragments of decayed clothing.

Level after level, empty berths that had once been coffins. All of them gone but five. Three in deep slumber, two more, as T.R. had said, were waking. It was hard to accept. The horrific images were permanently copied onto Jobs�s brain. The ones who had been cratered, the cheesers, the facelifts, the wormers. All gone.

Jobs and Mo�Steel went to the two newly emerging Wakers. They were groggy, confused, scared. Jobs filled them in on the basic facts: the vertical landing, the artwork landscape, the five-hundred years, the deaths. He left out the vicious aliens, the freakish baby, the silent Billy Weir, the deaths of Doctor Huerta and Errol. Plenty of time for that later.

Of the two Wakers, one was a kid, one an adult. They were father and son. The father was Alberto DiSalvo, an engineer who had worked on the solar sails. His son, age fifteen, called himself Kubrick. Jobs motioned Mo�Steel to follow him out of hearing of the new Wakers who, in any event, seemed to be falling back to sleep in the familiar pattern.

�How many does that make?� Jobs asked Mo�Steel.

�Twenty-three Wakers. Minus the doctor and old Errol. Twenty-one up and running.�

�Three more still on ice,� Jobs said. �Where�d the others go?�

�The dead ones?�

�Uh-uh. Twenty-one awake, plus the doctor and Errol, plus three asleep, right? Twenty-six? We counted thirty-four we thought were alive. That leaves eight people gone who we thought were alive who aren�t here or back outside.�

Olga was up above them, watching from the entryway. She leaned over to call down the stairwell. �You kids okay in there?�

�Yeah, Mom,� Mo�Steel yelled. �Got two more live ones coming around.�

�Eight live ones gone,� Jobs muttered. �What�s going on here? The Deaders are all vacuumed out and so are eight live ones, but five are left behind, undisturbed. Seven left behind, actually, because it was T.R. who told us the dead were gone. So at that point we had seven people on board. The aliens � or whoever � take the dead and eight live ones. Why?�

Mo�Steel shrugged. �You got me, Duck.�

�This is unnecessarily weird,� Jobs muttered. �I�m not getting a picture. Maybe my brain is still fuzzy.�

�Maybe reality is fuzzy,� Mo�Steel said.

�Some aliens bring us neatly down for an easy landing. They invent this bizarre landscape. They or some other bunch come by and kill Errol. Then the Riders or the first aliens or some totally new bunch of aliens, or some combination of them, carry off all the bodies plus probably eight people still coming out of hibernation. And leave seven behind. What�s the game?�

�Maybe games. Plural.�

�Yeah. And maybe we�re ants trying to figure out a picnic. Wait a minute. When did they do it? When none of us was looking this way? When the Riders attacked?�

�Or else any time since we hauled butt for the river and it got dark.�

�Still, the Riders could have been a diversion.�

�Yeah. Kind of a mystery, huh?� Mo�Steel said. �Kind of thing you like to climb all over. You love to try and figure out stuff.�

Jobs smiled. His friend was not subtle. �You can stop worrying about me, Mo. I�m not going to go nuts or whatever.�

�That�s good. What are we going to do?�

�You and me, or all of us?�

Mo�Steel shrugged. �Big picture. I mean, it�s like we have problems inside and out. Aliens and all, like the ones who killed old Errol. But the serious stuff is like in us, you know? People losing it from sadness. People fighting over who�s going to rule. That baby, too.�

�Billy Weir,� Jobs said.

�Yeah, he�s strange but he�s not bothering anyone at least.�

�I think he�s ��

Mo�Steel�s mother interrupted, �Kids! Something is happening. Back at the camp.�

Jobs glanced at the two Wakers. Both dozing still. �Come on.�

The three of them were almost back at camp when they saw Big Bill Weir staggering away from the fire. Daniel Burroway, Yago, and Anamull were wielding burning brands. The bright tips drew lurid arcs in the night. Someone threw a stone or a chunk of wood and hit Bill Weir in the back.

�You�ve got my son, I have a right!� Big Bill roared.

�Stay at least a hundred yards away,� Wylson shouted. �I am deadly serious about that, Mr. Weir.�

A burning stick flew, twirling through the air toward Big Bill. Mo�Steel caught the brand and looked to Jobs for guidance.

�What�s going on?� Jobs demanded.

�Stay out of it and stay away from him!� Yago snapped. In his other hand he brandished the scimitar the alien Riders had left behind. Jobs had forgotten the weapon. Yago had not.

�They have my son,� Big Bill pleaded. He started to say more but his face contorted in pain and choked off his words.

�What is this about?� Olga Gonzalez shouted. �What is going on with you people?�

Yago stepped forward just a few feet, still armed with his torch, and stabbed an accusing finger at the man writhing in pain. �He�s got it. You want it, you deal with him.�

Daniel Burroway tried to sound reasonable, an impossible task for one red in the face and waving a glowing red branch. �He may be contagious. He�s being quarantined. If you come in contact with him you�ll be quarantined as well.�

Olga was not easily cowed. �Where�s the doctor, then?�

�He�s a shrink, not a real doctor,� Burroway said.

Big Bill moaned and Jobs knelt beside him. �What is it, Mr. Weir?�

�The leg,� he gasped.

Jobs hesitated. Maybe they were right. Maybe whatever it was, it was contagious. Or maybe they were just hysterical. Gingerly he lifted the hem of Big Bill�s pant leg and tugged at it. The rotten fabric tore easily. Mo�Steel moved close, bringing the feeble, flickering light of the torch. Bill Weir�s leg was riddled with holes. Tunnels. He looked just like Violet Blake�s father and others. A wormer. A live wormer.

Swallowing hard, dreading, not wanting to show it but unable to conceal his horror, Jobs tore the pant leg some more. The holes were everywhere through the calf muscle, up through the knee. The lower thigh was untouched. But as Jobs stared, he saw a round, red spot of blood appear just above Big Bill�s knee. A moment later the spot became a hole and the hole was filled by the pea-green head of a worm.

lotusflower.jpg

quote:

CHAPTER 15

�DON�T LET ME LIVE.�

Jobs didn�t know what to do. Once again his tenuous grip on certainty had been torn away. He�d been engaged in the mystery, trying to understand, and now all that he could see and feel and react to was the foul reality of the killing worm.

He wanted to run away. Should run away. There was no hope for Bill Weir. Was there? Where was Mo? Right there, steady, but grim. Olga? Of course, Mo�Steel�s mother stayed by his side.

�It�s some kind of worm,� Jobs whispered harshly, hoping Big Bill�s cries would keep him from overhearing.

�It�s nothing I�ve ever seen or heard of. Not that size, not that fast. Not as a human parasite.�

�Can you do anything?� Jobs pleaded.

�I�m not a doctor.�

�Mom, it�s a bug, right?� Mo�Steel said. �Maybe you could think about how to kill it.�

Olga Gonzalez drew her son and Jobs a few paces away. �Look, you need to understand it�s very unlikely that this parasite you saw is the only one. That leg may be riddled with them. I have nothing to work with. We have a microscope but we�d need full daylight for that even to work because we don�t have a light. No lab. No equipment.�

�It�s going to eat him alive,� Jobs said. �He�s conscious. He�s not in hibernation like Miss Blake�s dad. He�s feeling this. And it�s only in his leg � it could take a long time for him to die.�

�Maybe we cut off his leg,� Mo�Steel suggested. �We got Dr. Huerta�s scalpel and all.�

�That could kill the man,� Olga said. �Loss of blood, shock, infection . . . and any way, it might not stop the parasite. They may have advanced farther than you can see.�

�Mom, do we have any other choice?�

Olga looked hard at her son and called him by the name she had given him. �Romeo, this thing could kill all of us. I want to help this man, but you have to understand that the parasite could be capable of infesting anyone in contact. God knows what it is. It may not even be of terrestrial origin. This could be an alien life-form. There�s no telling what it might do.�

�Oh, oh, help me,� Big Bill moaned. �Oh, help me. Oh, help me!� he shrieked, then subsided in sobs.

Jobs said, �Yago has that sword thing the Riders threw to Errol. May be better than a scalpel. Quicker, anyway. In and out fast.�

Olga shook her head. �Someone would have to sew up the arteries in his leg or he�d just bleed to death. Someone would have to get in there and do that, with all the risk involved.�

�I can do that,� a voice said.

Jobs was startled to see Violet Blake. He hadn�t noticed her joining them.

�My . . . my dad died from this,� Miss Blake said, assuming that clarified her motive.

�You could end up going the same way,� Olga said harshly.

�I�ll hold him down,� Mo�Steel volunteered.

�We don�t have any thread,� Jobs pointed out. �But we might be able to use optic cable to tie off the arteries.�

�Look, this is not the time or the place for self-sacrifice,� Olga argued. �That man is probably going to die anyway, no matter what.�

�We�ll have to get the sword from Yago,� Jobs said. �Ms. Gonzalez, that would be better coming from you. Being an adult. We just need to borrow it. And some more light from the fire.�

Olga Gonzalez hesitated. �I can�t endanger all of us. I can�t endanger my son.�

�Hey, danger is my middle name,� Mo�Steel said, trying to josh her along.

Jobs could see she was hardening in her opposition. He knew what he felt and what he wanted to say, but putting it into words defeated him. He said, �Ms. Gonzalez, this is . . . We are all that�s left of the human race. We have to act like humans. Right?�

�We have to survive,� Olga said with finality.

�No, we don�t,� Violet Blake said. �We don�t have to survive, we have to be worthy of survival. I know you�re a biologist and maybe you see survival in purely evolutionary terms, but we�ve evolved beyond being just another bunch of primates, haven�t we? Isn�t human culture, human morality part of our evolution? Isn�t it part of what defines us as a species? If we give that up and start behaving like savages and survive by being savages, have we saved human life or just devolved into some lesser species?�

Jobs stared at her openmouthed. He was struck by intense jealousy, an out-of-place emotion, surely, but undeniable just the same. He�d have given anything to be able to speak that way. He noticed Mo�Steel grinning at him.

�Maybe I should be reading more,� Jobs muttered under his breath.

Mo�Steel took his mother�s hand and held it gently. �Mom, you�ve never been able to stop me from doing stupid, dangerous stuff that was just about me squeezing the A gland. Now I�m trying to do what�s right. Don�t stop me now.�

�Okay, honey,� she said quietly. �Okay. I�ll get the sword, or whatever it is.�

When she was gone Jobs said, �That was a pretty good speech, Miss Blake.�

�Thank you.� She knelt beside Big Bill and used the lacy sleeve of her dress to mop sweat from his brow. �We�re going to try to help you, Mr. Weir.�

The only response was a bellow of pain, a noise so loud that Violet jumped back. Jobs saw the worm. Or one of the worms, if there were several. It was half out of one hole and digging its way back into untouched flesh. Like a dolphin going in and out of the waves.

�It�s fine to be noble,� Jobs said to Mo�Steel, �but if that thing gets me . . . don�t let me live.�

�Don�t think about it, Duck. The Reaper can smell fear.� He laughed and patted Jobs on the back. �You have to put your brain into some other place. Stay happy and the Reaper can�t find you.�

Despite himself Jobs laughed. �You just make this stuff up to fit the occasion, don�t you?�

�Pretty much.�

�So you�re scared?�

��Migo, I am seriously scared.�

# ¿ Feb 2, 2024 01:13

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

Jim the Nickel posted:

I'd say we're on about a 3-4 out of 10 on the weirdness scale for these books

:yeshaha:

quote:

CHAPTER 16

�I�LL COUNT TO TEN SO YOU�LL KNOW WHEN IT�S HAPPENING.�

Jobs heard heated words coming from the main camp. Burroway�s loud, grating tone. Wylson Lefkowitz-Blake sounding imperious, but less sure of herself than before. Olga demanding. In a moment, though, Olga returned carrying the sword. For the first time Jobs looked closely at it. It was curved, almost a scythe. It was perhaps three feet long, very broad, the inside edge was ornate, decorated with cutouts and filigree. There was what might be writing all over the blade. The hilt was never meant for a human hand; it had a clumsy angle in the middle and was too short overall.

�Here�s our scalpel,� Olga said dryly. �The edge seems quite sharp. I suggest the cut be made about eight inches above the knee. That won�t leave him much of a leg, but we have to remove all the affected portion of the limb. There�s no point doing this unless we do it right.�

She took a deep breath. �I don�t know that I have the strength to handle this thing, or the eye- hand coordination.�

�I can do it,� Jobs said.

Olga nodded. �Okay. Romeo? Take Mr. Weir�s shoulders, hold him down, don�t let him jerk free. I�ll try to hold his other leg, I�ll sit on it, I guess. Miss Blake, you stand ready with the �thread.� Jobs, you know what to do.�

When Mo�Steel and his mother were in place, Violet Blake spoke to Big Bill. �Mr. Weir, we�re going to amputate your leg and try to save you. I�ll count to ten so you�ll know when it�s happening.� She turned away and mouthed the words On three to Jobs.

He understood. Big Bill would think he had another seven seconds before he needed to panic or try to break free.

�One . . .� Violet said.

Jobs felt an urgent need to throw up. Later, he told himself. Throw up later.

�Two . . .�

Jobs raised the sword.

�Three . . .�

Jobs took careful aim and brought the sword down with all his might.

Jobs breathed.

Mo�Steel stood up and kicked the detached limb away.

Violet Blake moved in to begin suturing the wound. Then she began to scream. She leaped to her feet. She held her right hand out before her, screaming at it. Jobs saw the worm as it drilled its way down into her index finger. Mo�Steel bounded across the prostrate man and grabbed Violet�s wrist. He closed his strong hand around her
fingers, leaving only the index finger extended.

�Jobs!� he yelled.

Jobs swung the sword on pure reflex. The blade stopped less than an inch from Mo�Steel�s face. Mo�Steel hauled Violet back and threw her violently into the grass. Jobs yanked Olga to her feet and dragged her away.

Big Bill cried piteously, quietly, �Oh, god, oh, god, it�s still here. I can feel it. I can feel it,� just before he lost consciousness.

Olga snatched a branch from the fire and blew out the flame leaving only an ember at the tip. She told her son, �Hold her hand. Hold it still,� and quickly pressed the coal-hot tip to the stump of Violet Blake�s finger.

Violet screamed and fainted, and Jobs missed catching her. She slumped to the ground. �Back away, back away,� Jobs yelled.

They dragged Violet with them, dragged her through the grass and stopped only when they were twenty yards from the hysterical, now-awake Bill Weir. And then, from the main camp came a new sound, like nothing Jobs had ever heard, a collective moan, a cry of fear and disbelief. Outlined against the fire a dark form seemed to float through the air. Human? No human moved like that.

And yet with growing dread Jobs realized that he recognized the form, knew what face he would see when at last the shape was close enough. Billy Weir floated, moved without benefit of muscles, simply floated through the air. He
still stared, blank, as though blind, still showed no expression on his vacant face. He floated with his limbs all limp, with his head upraised, till he was above Big Bill.

Big Bill was shrieking now, shrieking like a lunatic thing, his voice no longer human. And it seemed to Jobs as though a shadow extended down from Billy Weir to his adoptive father. The shadow enveloped them both. For a heartbeat Big Bill was silent. And then Billy Weir screamed.

Jobs thought at first it was Big Bill again, but no, this voice was different, raw, hoarse, but at least an octave higher, a young voice screaming in pain.

Then silence.

Billy Weir sagged, fell to the ground.

Jobs ran back to him, ran and grabbed his nerveless arms and pulled him away, dragging him back from Big Bill.
He stopped, panting, shaking. Big Bill was silent. And Jobs knew the man was dead.

I'm surprised that they shyed away from describing the amputation.

quote:

CHAPTER 17

�TEN�S ONLY A MAGIC NUMBER IF YOU GOT TEN FINGERS.�

�We have to get out of here, right now,� Olga said. �Those things could be capable of moving across the ground. Once they�re done with Mr. Weir . . .�

Violet Blake heard the words but as if from far away. The pain in her hand was unlike anything she had ever experienced. She would not have believed that a single finger could possibly cause so much agony. She held her wounded hand with her free hand, using tattered, decaying bits of her dress as a bandage. The blood wouldn�t stop. But there was no way to tie a tourniquet, the finger had been lopped off right at the base.

She would have liked to try and sew up whatever vein was producing the endless flow of blood, but she knew she didn�t have the nerve for that. The cauterization had been only partly successful.

There was no one to help her. They had dragged the once more prostrate Billy Weir back toward the fire, but they�d been stopped by a solid front presented by Yago, D-Caf, Anamull, Burroway, and the psychiatrist, T.R.

�Wylson says you�re quarantined,� Yago said. �The worms could be in you.�

Violet wanted to scream at him. But the truth was, her mother and the others had been right, the fearful ones, the safe ones, they�d been right and she and her idealistic compatriots had been dangerously wrong. And now even her own mother believed she was contagious.

�The point is we all have to get out of this area,� Olga said through gritted teeth.

�Suddenly you discover prudence,� Burroway drawled. �A little late, I should say.�

Olga erupted. �We�re not asking to mingle with you people, we�re saying, move. Move! Move now! You want to play gotcha? Do it later.�

That seemed to get through. It got through to Violet. She could swear she felt the worms crawling up her legs. She had seen the one in her finger. She had seen it and felt it and known the terror and the pain of it. Burroway, having gotten off his snide remark, seemed unsure how to proceed. It was Violet�s mother who made the call. �Okay, we move out. We follow the river.�

�We should go back to the ship,� Jobs said. �There are more Wakers there.�

�And maybe more worms,� Burroway argued.

�We can�t just go off and disappear and leave those people,� Jobs argued. �Not to mention the ship. There�s a lot of useful things there still. We need tools. We need to make weapons. We need to figure out what happened to all those people who just disappeared. And we have to be there to help the Wakers.�

Violet sensed a desperation in Jobs�s voice. Of course: He was a techie, leaving the only technology in sight to head out into the wild.

�Forget them,� Yago snapped. �Or else you go back, Jobs. You want to be Joe Responsible, you go. But leave the sword with us.�

Olga put her hand on Jobs�s shoulder. �They�re right: We have to get out of this area. We know nothing about these worms. We don�t know how they move, how they reproduce. They could be on the ship. They could be all around us soon. We don�t know if these are even true parasites: They could be predators. They could hunt us.�

Violet let loose a small sob that went unnoticed. There was a battle in her mind between pain and fear, and in that battle fellow-feeling, compassion, concern were all just minor players. She wanted to run away. And more, she wanted to be somewhere else. Back in the world, back on Earth, back in a place where there were doctors and the smell of disinfectant and bright, clean stainless steel gleaming under fluorescent lights.

Suddenly she felt weak. Her knees buckled. She caught herself, terrified of letting any part of her touch the dark ground that in her imagination teemed with the killer worms. Mo�Steel was at her side in a flash. He caught her around the waist, very chastely, and held her up.

�Strap it up, Miss B., I know it hurts. With pain and all you have to kind of ride right into it. Don�t fight it, don�t try and look away. You go right straight into the pain. Eat it up, make it yours.�

Violet blinked, not understanding the words, but appreciating the tone and the sense that someone was helping her. Mo�Steel stood close, put his face right into her field of vision. �Don�t run from pain. You have to be like,�Bring it on. Show me what you got.� �

Violet nodded. Defiance, is that what he meant? She felt a little stronger and Mo�Steel, evidently sensing this, let her go. Jobs yelled across the distance to his little brother, telling him to be good and careful and listen to 2Face and do whatever she said.

It was an interesting note, Violet thought. Jobs trusted 2Face to watch over his brother. Not one of the adults.

The group, two groups, actually, were moving now. The bulk of Wakers carrying whatever branches they could rescue from the fire. A shifting mass of fireflies in the darkness. Violet�s group followed at a distance. She noticed that Jobs had retained the alien weapon. And they had their own burning brands that cast almost no meaningful light and indeed seemed only to deepen the impenetrable blackness.

They marched through the knee-high grass, fugitives again, running again. Leaving behind the shuttle, their only physical connection with the world, with their world. Jobs and Mo�Steel were carrying Billy Weir by his hands and legs, like a sack of grain. Violet wondered whether it had been a dream, an illusion. The sight of the boy floating in
the air, rising above his doomed father, a black energy flowing from the boy to the man. Big Bill�s sudden silence. Billy Weir�s anguished cry.

�The nights could be twenty hours long,� Jobs was saying. �We don�t know when the sun will come up. Or if it will come up. Or if there is a sun.�

The main group was pulling ahead. They were unencumbered by the need to carry anyone. They had more light.

�What are we doing?� Violet wondered. She was surprised to hear her own voice. She hadn�t meant to speak.

�We�re running away,� Mo�Steel said cheerfully. �We are hightailing it. We are preboarding. Click on the X.�

�No. I mean, what are we doing?� Violet repeated. �What are we going to do? In this place, this planet? Those Riders, the worms, someone taking the bodies, someone taking the eight people who might have been alive. All we do is react.�

�Your mother seems to have a plan,� Olga muttered.

Violet doubted that but didn�t say anything. She doubted anyone had a real idea of what they were doing. And her entire hand hurt. And she was in no mood to just run and be terrified and be shoved this way and that.

�We need to figure it out,� Jobs said.

It took Violet a while to realize he was reacting, belatedly, to what she had said. �Figure what out?�

�We�re getting jerked around,� Jobs said. �We fly for five-hundred years, end up here, and all that�s happening is we�re getting jerked around.�

�You assume there�s some consciousness behind all of this?� Olga said. �That may be a mistake. People look at nature and assume there is intentionality. They used to think the sun was carried through the sky by a god in a flying chariot. Order does not necessarily imply conscious design.�

�Isn�t that what you used to tell your students?� Mo�Steel teased his mother.

She laughed, a melancholy sound, but welcome in the darkness. �Straight out of my intro to biology class at Cal State Monterey.� Then, in a more somber voice, �All a trillion miles away.�

�You may be right, Ms. Gonzalez,� Jobs said.

�But you don�t think so?� When Jobs didn�t answer, she said, �Me, neither.�

�The eight disappeared,� Jobs said without explanation. �Ten percent of the Eighty.�

�A message?� Olga wondered.

�I need to rest,� Jobs said. He and Mo�Steel knelt to gently deposit Billy Weir on the ground. Jobs shook his arms, trying to get the cramps out.

�It�s a base-ten message,� Mo�Steel said. �I mean, ten percent, right? If someone�s picked ten percent as some magic number, why is that? Ten�s only a magic number if you got ten fingers. Otherwise, why not six or two or twenty-nine?�

�I�m in base nine now,� Violet snapped. Then, the absurdity of it struck her and she laughed.

�Maybe it�s intentional. Maybe it�s partly intentional, partly accidental, coincidence,� Olga mused.

Violet said, �If you�re all right, then someone wants us away from the shuttle. They took the bodies away because they figured out that we were tied to them. They took the eight, the ten percent, that was to say, �Follow us.� Follow us away from the shuttle.�

�And leave the other five Wakers behind?� Mo�Steel wondered.

Violet shrugged. �Maybe they didn�t expect us to leave so soon. Maybe they didn�t know we�d panic and run.�

Jobs grunted and knelt down to pick up Billy Weir�s feet again. �I guess we sent a lousy message, then: Push us and we run away.�

Violet could see that the main group, marked only by the ever-smaller points of light from their torches, was pulling steadily away. By daybreak, if day ever did break, they might be miles away.

Her finger hurt. Well, what was left of it.

bleak end to these two chapters. I appreciate that this is playing out how we all expected it to do.

# ¿ Feb 3, 2024 03:11

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

quote:

CHAPTER 18

�WHO ARE YOU? WHAT DO YOU WANT WITH US?�

Billy Weir knew he was being carried. He felt as if he was flying. Skimming low like a jet coming in under the radar. Fast. Moving so fast, no time to even look, no time to really see. Just a blur of darkened colors.

He felt hands wrapped around his ankles, hands around his wrists, he felt the strain of his weight. From time to time he heard the buzz of talk, and when he tried very hard he could pick out a word here or there, no context, just words. And he couldn�t even be sure of those. The sky was different. He could see the sky. They were carrying him faceup and he could see the sky. Not a sky. No, not a real sky, that was obvious. He could see what were supposed
to be stars, what was supposed to be a moon, but of course they were no such thing. And beyond the illusion? Could he force his mind through the illusion, see what was real?

He tried, but gave up quickly. He was tired. Weary. Draining the consciousness from his father had taken enormous energy. Big Bill was a forceful man, he had a great will, and that had made it harder. Billy doubted he could have done it if Big Bill had not been so weakened. And of course he never would have but for his father�s agony.
The pain had been a blinding glow, a green light enveloping Big Bill. As the pain surged, the light shaded toward deep purple, shattered into a rainbow of lurid green and luxuriant purple and night black. It was a strobe in Billy�s brain, insistent, the rhythm irregular, but stronger and stronger, firing his own nerve endings.

Big Bill had taken him from the orphanage and given him a decent life. He and his wife had given Billy love. Billy owed his father an easy death. He knew how to do it, though it meant spending the energy he had been hoarding.
Do you want to die? he had asked his father silently. But Big Bill never heard or understood the question. He, like everyone but Billy, was a spark, electric, so fast, too fast to hear his son�s slow voice in his head. So Billy reached into his brain and found the answer himself. It wasn�t hard. He had long ago learned to fire the neurons of another brain. He had long ago come to understand the architecture of the creased gray matter, the billion billion switches within, the ghosts of memory and ideas.

�Yes,� Big Bill�s brain wanted to say. �Yes, let me die.�

It was like sucking a milk shake through a straw. Big Bill fought for life though he longed for death. Life and mind were separate, and life fought to persist, no matter how much logic argued for surrender. In the end, though, Big Bill was too weakened by pain, by loss, and by fear. Billy had been able to give him peace.

Billy could feel the fear around him. Some of it was fear of him. When he let himself go, when he released, he could open himself to the minds that hovered like bright fireflies, like candlelit jack-o�-lanterns floating in the night. The words in their heads were too quick, but Billy could read the deeper meanings, he could sense the emotions, the basic truths. So much grief, so much fear, so much guilt. So much they didn�t understand.

But then, there was still so much Billy didn�t understand, either.

Who are you? What do you want with us? Billy asked, and he reached out, searching for the answer, feeling in the dark for synapses, trying to illuminate the architecture of a mind unlike any he had yet encountered. The mind was out there, but beyond Billy�s reach.

And not that mind alone. There were others.

So yeah, Billy is scary

quote:

CHAPTER 19

�YOU DON�T LIKE THE WAY THINGS ARE, YOU CAN GO, TOO.�

They kept moving through the night. 2Face kept Edward close to her. He was a decent-enough kid, and she felt Jobs had placed the burden for his well-being on her. In any case, it compensated somewhat for her fall from authority.

She fretted as she saw the faint lights of Jobs�s group falling farther and farther behind. Jobs at least was a potential friend, her only potential friend aside, of course, from her father. Now here she was under the thumb of Wylson Lefkowitz-Blake and Yago.

Daniel Burroway was more a pouter than a fighter, 2Face thought. He would make sniping remarks, but after one particularly vehement dispute, Wylson had dismissed him curtly with the remark that he was �an academic, a book-jockey. This is the real world, not a seminar.� Since then Burroway had done little but stew silently as they walked along through the darkened landscape.

Wylson had absorbed the shrink, T.R., into her coterie and Yago had begun to draw D-Caf to him: a toady for the toady-in-chief. 2Face imagined that D-Caf, shunned by everyone else, was glad for any acceptance. Wylson had dictated the gathering of wood for new torches, the assembling of any sharp stick or edged rock for weapons. She had directed that the line of march stay beside the river. They were wise policies, 2Face couldn�t argue with that. But she did object to leaving Jobs�s group behind. At a rest stop, as everyone drank deeply, she approached Wylson.

�Ms. Lefkowitz-Blake? It�s been hours now. If Jobs and Ms. Gonzalez or any of them had been infected by the worms, surely they�d show signs by now. We�d be hearing yelling or screams or something.�

�That�s not necessarily true,� Wylson answered. �Parasites can lie dormant.� She turned away.

�Your own daughter is with them,� 2Face pressed.

T.R. intervened. �What you�re feeling is healthy. You want to unite everyone, and that�s very understandable. Besides, those are your friends, no?�

2Face suppressed a desire to tell the psychiatrist to take a jump. She�d had to talk to shrinks after she was burned. She had no respect for the profession. But this wasn�t the time for antagonizing anyone. She said, �I don�t think we have the right to just kick people out of the group.�

�Is it about rights?� T.R. asked. He wore a pitying smile. �Perhaps it�s more about an unresolved feeling of guilt? We call it survivor guilt. The feeling that one has sinned merely by the act of surviving when others have died.�

�I�m talking to Ms. Lefkowitz-Blake,� 2Face grated.

�No you�re not,� Yago said flatly. �You�re talking to air.�

D-Caf giggled, then stifled the sound with his hand, looked at Yago for approval, giggled again.

Yago pushed past D-Caf and came right up to 2Face. �And, by the way, I wouldn�t push your luck, wax girl. You and the freak-show Madonna and Baby Yikes would maybe fit in better with Jobs and the Monkey boy�s crew, you know what I�m saying? They already have that . . . that whatever he is, that Billy the Weird. You don�t like the way things are, you can go, too. You can hook up with Jobs�s freak show.�

2Face fought to keep from showing the fear she suddenly felt. The threat was clear. Unmistakable. There were two classes of people: the normal and the not. And she was in the latter group. She faded back from the torches, back from the clique around Wylson. She looked for her father. He was slogging along, head down. He wouldn�t understand. Would he?

2Face stopped and turned to search the darkness for Jobs�s group: If she was going to be exiled, maybe it was better to go voluntarily. She didn�t want to be driven out like a leper. She saw faint light, maybe the torches of the other group. Maybe not. A mile of darkness separated them. A mile of worms, maybe, and the alien Riders. Besides, Jobs had asked her to take care of Edward. Where was he, anyway? She had to do that. Had to live up to her responsibilities. She couldn�t run away. Why should she?

She touched her face. The burn had been horribly painful. The recovery had taken forever. But she�d understood it as an atonement for her sin. And after a while she�d come to see the disfigurement as a useful device for confronting, shocking, disturbing people.

She had abandoned her birth name, Essence, and taken the name 2Face. She had chosen not to hide her face. She thought of herself as an anthropologist studying the strange, inconsistent, hypocritical reactions of the people she met. Here is ugliness, look at it. Let me see your reaction.

But that was back in the world. That was back in a world where physical ugliness was all-but-erased by cosmetic surgery and DNA manipulation. Her split face, ugly and beautiful, had been a statement. And, she had always known, it was temporary � once the healing was complete the surgeries would begin. Twenty-eight square inches of 2Face�s own skin had already been grown in culture at the hospital, ready for transplantation. That world was gone. This was a simpler world. A more primitive world. �Unique� was no longer a virtue. Here people were powerless, and being powerless, were afraid.

No. She was not going to be pushed out. She was Essence Hwang. She had a scar. But she was not a freak. Not like Tamara and the baby. They were freaks. If anyone was going to be exiled it would be them, not her. 2Face threaded her way through the tired, footsore, hungry survivors in search of her father. He at least would stand by her. That was one. And Edward. Two. Who else?

Nooooo, 2Face, you are learning the wrong lesson!

quote:

CHAPTER 20

�THIS IS AN AWFUL LOT OF TROUBLE FOR OUR ALIENS TO GO TO.�

The sun rose, small, distant, and weak. A winter sun. No longer a Bonnard sun. Jobs called a halt and laid Billy Weir down. He was getting mightily sick of carrying the boy. They had taken shifts, but there were only the three of them, Mo�Steel, his mother, and Jobs. Violet, with her hand still leaking blood, was in no condition to carry anything.

They stood on a rise, not a hill so much as a low plateau overlooking a long, shallow valley. The river had slowed and now meandered toward a green, unhealthy-looking bay dotted with wooden ships that might almost have been the Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria.

There was a village directly ahead. Strange, ungainly buildings, some little more than rough lean-tos, others patched plaster houses with steep, dormered roofs. Jobs saw a brick bridge, arched, with a square tower. The perspective seemed odd; the relative sizes of buildings were wrong.

Within the village, people, all in costume, or what seemed costume to a modern eye. Men wore tunics and feathered caps, some wore crimson tights and brocaded jackets. The women wore white linen head wraps and voluminous peasant dresses and aprons.

There were pigs running in the dirt street, gaunt dogs, and chickens. The people were busily engaged in a series of odd activities. One man in a close-fitting felt cap was facedown on a wooden table, stretching his arms to the left and right. Another man wearing only one shoe appeared to be trying to crawl through a sort of transparent globe. A
man was shearing a sheep while beside him a man tried to shear a pig. A man armed with a curved knife was slamming his head against a brick wall.

It was ritualized, unnatural, not for a moment to be confused with anything real. The people were identifiably human, but behaving more like automatons. A man waded into the river waving a large fan and with his mouth open as if he was shouting. But no sound came forth. Another was perched on a steep roof and shot a crossbow at what looked like a tumbling stack of pies.

This unsettling, strange tableau extended into the distance, melding into a less-detailed vision of a crowded city. But dominating it all, overwhelming all with its sheer size was a massive building. It was round, built like a wedding cake but one that might have been carved out of a single mountain of yellowed rock. It was seven layers of arches, each set back from the lower one, so that the whole thing might in time have risen to a point.

But the structure was imperfect, asymmetrical. The top few layers of this stone cake had been slashed and within the gash, a sort of tower-within-a-tower, more arches, more layers. Jobs turned to Violet. She held her disfigured hand up at shoulder level, trying to help the blood to clot. She was an incongrous sight in her tattered feminine finery, stained with blood. Her hair, once piled high, hung down unevenly, a fallen souffl�. She was dirty, like all of
them, in pain, hungry, scared. And yet, Jobs thought, she had a determined dignity that he admired. And the truth was, her knowledge of art was proving at least as useful as his own technological facility.

Violet stared at the scene, awed, rapt, eyes shining. �I know this,� she said. �I�ve seen this!�

Mo�Steel was salivating. �I see piggies down there. Where there are piggies there is bacon. And chickens. That means eggs. I am seeing bacon and eggs. I am seeing about a dozen eggs and maybe a pound of bacon, all hot, all hot from the pan.�

Jobs was hungry, too. But to him the tableau was just creepy, impossible, absurd. Unnatural. �Talk to us, Miss Blake,� Jobs said.

�I�m trying to remember,� she said. She frowned and shook her head. �I forget what it�s called. The style, I mean.�

�I don�t care,� Mo�Steel said. �Question is: Are we going to get us some bacon and eggs?�

�It�s like a video loop,� Jobs said. �Each of those people keeps doing the same thing over again.�

Miss Blake nodded. �It�s an allegory, or a series of allegories. It�s the kind of thing that would have meant more to a person of that era. Each of those people is demonstrating a fable or a saying of some sort. I don�t recall the specifics. And of course there�s the Tower of Babel, that�s obvious.�

Jobs blinked. He was exceedingly tired and maybe stupid. �The what?�

�The Tower of Babel. You know, Old Testament? Man builds a tower to reach up to heaven?�

�Jobs is a heathen,� Mo�Steel explained. �If it isn�t from either a technical manual or a poetry book, my boy here don�t know it.�

Olga Gonzalez said, �They�re cooking fish. See? Not in the tower, down in the village.�

�The Tower of Babel?� Jobs repeated.

�There has to be food, that�s the point,� Mo�Steel said.

�Brueghel!� Violet Blake exclaimed suddenly.

�A bagel?�

�It�s a Brueghel. Fifteen hundred something. Sixteenth century, anyway,� Violet said. �Look at the detail.�

�Can we eat the pigs and the fish?� Mo�Steel wondered.

�Where are the others? Where is the main group?� Olga wondered. �I wonder if . . . oh, look. There they are.�

Jobs followed the direction of her gaze. Perhaps half a mile away, a small, vulnerable-looking knot of people in shabby modern dress stood gaping down at the same scene from a different angle. They were closer to the river, just at the edge of the village.

�This is an awful lot of trouble for our aliens to go to,� Jobs said. �I mean, did they do this with the whole planet? This all extends out to the horizon.� He glanced at Billy Weir. He had formed the suspicion, the hope maybe, that Billy Weir had some profound knowledge he simply couldn�t share with them. Certainly he possessed some sort of incredible power. Unless that had all been a dream. Jobs could no longer be sure. He was exhausted.

�You slept for five-hundred years and you�re tired?� he muttered under his breath.

�I guess we had better see if we can find food down there,� Olga said.

Jobs had opened his mouth to agree when it happened. A beam of brilliant green light, no more than two inches in diameter, blazed from the village. It drew a line at an angle to the ground. It seemed to originate from the small,
crenelated tower at the end of the bridge.

�Laser,� Jobs said. He frowned.

The tower blew apart.

Bricks flew everywhere. The half-dozen peasants closest to the tower were thrown through the air, tumbling, landing in the river, on the roof of a house, smashing into walls.

�What was that?� Violet cried.

With a shocking concussion, far larger than the first, the village exploded upward. It was like a bomb going off. Buildings were flattened. Livestock was tossed carelessly, twirling. The concussion was a hot wind in their faces, an oven blast.

�Look out!� Olga cried.

Twenty feet behind where they stood, a second beam of green light shone straight up out of the ground. The first laser had been followed by two explosions.

�Run!� Jobs yelled.

They bolted, racing away from the beam, racing the only direction open: downhill toward the village. The first, smaller explosion caught them, ruffled their hair, and rang bells in their ears. The second explosion hit Jobs like a mule�s kick in the back. He flew forward, landed on his face, rolled in the sparse grass, rolled down the slope. Violet Blake landed almost on top of him.

Jobs wiped dirt from his eyes and blinked. He was deaf to everything but a roaring sound in his ears. His head throbbed. He felt a sharp pain in his back. All at once a hurricane was blowing. Olga Gonzalez was just standing up and the wind picked her up like she was an empty paper cup. The wind rolled her across the ground, faster and faster toward the ruined village.

Jobs snatched at grass, at rocks, roots, anything, but the wind had him, too. He was sliding backward, clawing, unable to hold on. The wind got beneath him, lifted him up. He somersaulted backward and for a moment was
airborne, flying.

He bellowed and flailed and slammed hard into a ruined brick wall down in the village. Couldn�t breathe, air sucked out of his lungs, grabbing at the bricks but they were coming free, each one he grabbed, falling, slipping. Then, a solid purchase. He hugged the half wall and dug his fingernails into the mortar. He could see right into the
village from here, right into all that was left of it.

He stared in horror as the wind picked up pigs and sheep, wood and stone, men and women, and sucked them all down into a ragged hole in the ground. It was a whirlwind. A tornado. Irresistible. Where was Mo? Where were Violet and Olga and Billy?

He had caught a hallucinatory flash of Mo�Steel running at mad speed, running with the hurricane at his back, propelling him. Then, nothing. Jobs felt his lungs gasping, drawing futilely on thin air. He could not fill his lungs. No air. No air!

He crept up the wall, climbed on battered knees and bloody hands, gasping for breath, up till he could look down in the crater left by the explosion. Already he suspected, already his brain was putting it together. The crater was a hole, fifty feet across, a ragged, gaping gash.

And in the hole, down through the hole in the ground, Jobs saw stars. Black space and the bright pinpoints of stars.

�Not a planet,� Jobs whispered. �A ship!�

Tomorrow we have the last 2 chapters of this book

# ¿ Feb 3, 2024 23:25

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

quote:

CHAPTER 21

�THAT WAS ENOUGH OF A RUSH.�

Mo�Steel saw his mother lifted by the wind and hurled with shocking force toward the hole. He jumped up to grab her but the wind hit him like a train. He did a Road Runner, milling his legs as fast as he could, but it was the wind that was in charge. His feet barely touched the ground, sufficed only to keep him more or less upright. It was, a corner of his mind thought, a very woolly ride.

He flew-ran down the hill, into the village, unstoppable, unable to offer any resistance. He flashed on Jobs, saw a blur that might have been Violet Blake, blew past, wind rushing in his ears. If he hit anything at this speed he�d crush the last of his natural bones.

All at once the hole was there, right in front of him, right below him, down he went, down into a field of black, dotted with stars. It was a whirlpool, a sink drain, a vacuum hose, sucking him out into space.

Space?

Down and through and all at once Mo�Steel was sucking on nothingness. His skin was freezing cold. He knew he�d be dead in a matter of minutes, if not seconds. He tumbled, weightless, twisted, saw forty, fifty strange, hovering creatures, liquid blue-steel, floating in space below the hole. He turned, unable to control anything, nothing to touch, twirled, and into his field of vision rose an object so massive, so vast it seemed as big as a planet. It was a maze of protrusions, towers, bubbles, clefts, doughnuts, cubes, and pyramids. It extended far beyond his field of vision in every direction. And it was beautiful.

Some surfaces were blazing bright as though filled with the light of a sun shining through green or red or yellow glass. Other parts were mirrored, showing nothing but distorted, twisted reflections of the stars. There were transparencies, opacities, glowing milky translucences. There were long streams of living light that bounced and curved and danced. There were shadows so deep they seemed to swallow light.

It was impossible to take in. He was an ant clinging to the undercarriage of a car, too tiny and insignificant even to be able to imagine the size and shape and purpose of the vast object above him.

Mo�Steel wondered if he was already dead. Wondered if his mind was already gone. Then pain reminded him that he still lived. His frostbitten flesh slammed into something hard and unyielding. He grabbed, reflex taking over. He grabbed and his hands slipped, numb, insensate fingers clawed at a surface that allowed no purchase. But he could wrap his arms around it. He wrapped his arms and held on, with his head swimming, lungs starving, draining the last molecules of oxygen into his heart.

He held on to the creature, the smooth, glossy, liquid-metal creature, as it fired engines within its hind legs and zoomed up toward the ragged hole in the bottom of the ship. Mo�Steel saw the others, a cluster, rising all together with what seemed grim determination, up through the hole into the village, up through the hole in the hill. Farther down the ship, a quarter mile away, a second band of the creatures. More beyond that. At least four, five separate assaults, all taking place at once.

Mo�Steel held on with the last of his strength. Up and up, up through the hole. Up toward a pale-blue, Brueghel sky.
Then they were through and Mo�Steel could feel the warmth, not warm but warmer than empty space. But still no air. Still his lungs seized and his diaphragm convulsed. As if it had belatedly discovered his presence, the creature shook him off. Mo�Steel was ten, fifteen feet above �ground level� when he lost his grip. He fell. He had weight again. He fell back toward space. Back to the hole. Back down/up into the stars.

He reached feebly, woozy, half-blind, trying to grab the lip of the hole. But there was no way, too far, emptiness beneath him. And all at once a square of steel appeared.

Mo�Steel landed hard. His knees crumpled. He fell facedown, slid, jerked the wrong way, confused, and now his legs were dangling out into empty space. Squares. Appearing all around. Ten-by-ten-foot squares, running around the hole, racing in a circle, filling in the gap, appearing out of nowhere, simply appearing. Like dominoes, they
rippled. Coming toward him! He yanked his legs up and a second later rested them on a solid surface.

Steel? Hard, anyway. The hole was closing, healing itself. He was thinking. Yes. Breathing! Air, thin, but there. Thin better than nothing, a lot better. He had to expand his lungs to the max with every intake, gasping like a fish on land, but awareness was returning, oxygen was in his blood once more.

With an audible snap the hole was closed. And now a wall of dirt was appearing, materializing. Mo�Steel was lying in a hole, facedown on steel, and the soil beneath the village was being replaced. It was like a wave rushing toward him, a ten-foot tsunami of dirt.

He got to his feet, ran straight toward the advancing wall, scrambled up, riding the wave of dirt like a surfer. He rose on the swell, windmilling his arms, kicking frantically with his feet. And then, it was over. He was on his knees behind a rough-hewn stable. Two peasant women were doing something with a large copper pot.

He was gasping, sick, stomach convulsing, retching dry heaves, and still so cold his body was shaking like he had malaria. There was blood draining from his ears, blood seeping from his nose and eyes.

�Okay,� Mo�Steel said, �that was enough of a rush. Even for me.�

Was it an attack or an accident? Was he in space or just a giant ship wth multiple �worlds� in it's hold? We obviously had a repair happen and it seems like there were multiple holes throughout the �world�?

quote:

CHAPTER 22

�WELL, SOMEWHERE THERE�S A BRIDGE.�

Jobs watched as the blue-black creatures rose up through the hole in the village. Up through the hole in the hill above. Machines or creatures or something in between, it was impossible to tell. They were quadrupeds, four sturdy legs supporting a high-arched body. They reminded him of Halloween cats, backs high. A head was carried forward, like any grazing animal might, but from the sides of the head grew two tentacles. They waved like snakes, like guardians of the face.

They were armored, metallic, blued steel that moved like plastic. Or perhaps the seeming armor was actually the creature. The rear legs fired short bursts, like maneuvering rockets. They flew but not fast, not like missiles or even like jets. They lumbered. Like helicopters perhaps. Clumsy.

Up through the two holes they came, dozens of them. And Jobs thought he saw more in the far distance, behind the Tower of Babel. They rose above the landscape, a blurry nightmare to Jobs�s oxygen-deprived brain. Then, air. A little at first, more. His lungs drew greedily. His head began to clear.

The hole was being filled. Squares of steel were appearing, plate against plate, rimming the hole, healing the scar, shutting out space. The steel plates simply materialized, entire, one after another. Like something out of a cartoon.
Now dirt appeared, eight or ten feet of it, covering the plates. Upon the dirt, right behind its advance edge, the buildings of the Brueghel village were once again taking shape.

The hole was healing. But the quadruped aliens had made it through. They assembled in the air. Jobs counted. Hard to be sure, but he thought there were thirty-six. Thirty or forty, any way. They reminded Jobs of his own people, of the Wakers. They seemed hesitant, hovering, unsure.

�Mo! Miss Blake!� Jobs yelled. The risk seemed acceptable: The aliens were ignoring the peasants that reappeared to populate the village.

�Olga? I mean, Ms. Gonzalez?� Jobs called. No answer. Oh, god, had they all been pulled out into space? What about the others, the main group? What about Edward? He yelled again. No answer. He got to his feet and scanned in every direction.

Then he spotted Mo�Steel rounding a stable and felt a flood of relief. His friend was walking though the reconstituted village, carrying half a dozen pies.

�Mo! Over here!�

Mo�Steel came at a run, pausing only to glance up repeatedly at the hovering armada of armored aliens.

�Is my mom with you?� Mo�Steel demanded.

�I don�t know where she is, Mo. Or Miss Blake, either,� Jobs said.

�This ain�t a planet, Duck,� Mo�Steel said.

�Yeah, I noticed.�

�This is a ship. We�re inside some whompin� big ship.�

�Yeah. And those guys up there just boarded it forcibly.� He looked closely at his friend.

He and Mo�Steel watched the aliens.

�I was outside, �migo. Caught a ride back inside with one of those Blue Meanies. You should see this ship, Jobs. God, I hope my mom�s okay.�

The more Jobs watched, the more he became convinced that the Blue Meanies were space suits of a sort, small, individualized spacecraft almost. It was in the way they moved: not with the ease of a biological creature or with the speed and assurance of a sophisticated robot. They were clumsy, uncertain. Creatures within machines.

The hole was completely repaired. The village was back. The wall Jobs was on rebuilt itself, like a video on rewind. Bricks appeared, piled one atop another. He jumped to the ground and winced at the pain in his back.

Mo�Steel yelled, �Mom! Mom! Can you hear me?�

There came an answer. �Over here. In the barn.�

They found her with Violet Blake and Billy, all in the darkness of what might have been a barn but for the absence of animals, or even animal smells.

�Everyone okay?� Jobs asked.

�What about those creatures out there?� Olga asked, ignoring Jobs�s query and hugging her son.

�I don�t know,� Jobs said. �They don�t seem to care about us.�

�This is not a planet,� Violet Blake said. �I was looking at space out there. Stars. We�re in space.�

�Seems like,� Jobs said. He was distracted. Of course it was a ship, not a planet. Why hadn�t he figured it out before? That�s why the shuttle showed no reentry scarring. That�s why the solar sails hadn�t burned away. They hadn�t landed, they�d been picked up by a ship that could simply match velocity. It was the scale that had thrown him off. It was impossible to conceive of a ship vast enough to contain a tenth of what they�d already seen.

�Hey, you can eat these,� Mo�Steel announced. He held out a pie for Jobs.

�What�s it taste like?�

�Like you care? You live on jerky and chips. Tastes like . . . I don�t know, maybe some kind of meat.�

Jobs hesitated, but there was no point resisting. He had to eat. He took a tentative bite.

�Tastes like . . . I don�t know. Like chicken?�

�That�s original,� Violet said. She took a pie for herself. �It does taste like chicken. Maybe it is.�

Jobs edged back to the door and peeked outside. He expected to see the aliens still hovering. They were, but now they had formed up into a V. Like geese heading south.

�They look like they�re getting ready to leave,� Mo�Steel observed.

�Hard to tell. They aren�t exactly human.�

The �V� formation hovered and rotated slowly counterclockwise. Then, with sudden,shockingly smooth speed, they jerked back clockwise. They fired their jets and the entire formation shot ahead. The lead alien ran smack into a steel plate that appeared in the air before him. Jobs could hear the ringing of metal on metal. The alien crumpled and fell.

They were all moving now and as each advanced, a steel square appeared to block him. But now the clumsy moves were abandoned. The aliens shot forward and up and around, dodging, zooming, accelerating, and decelerating. Some dropped down to just above ground level and blew between buildings, smacking carelessly into peasants.

�It was a ruse!� Jobs said. �They were playing dead! Hiding their speed. They were hiding their capabilities, playing lame.�

It was a dogfight, a melee. The plates materialized, floating steel walls. The Blue Meanies evaded them. The plates caught many. Many crumpled and fell to the ground. But others escaped.

As Jobs and the others watched, a dozen or more of the blue-steel space suits burned jets and disappeared beyond the Tower of Babel.

�I wonder where they�re going?� Olga mused.

�To the bridge,� Jobs said.

�The what? What bridge?�

Jobs watched them disappear from sight. Their flight was no longer obstructed. The defenses of the ship had either been exhausted, or the ship had simply decided to let the Blue Meanies pass.

�This is a ship,� Jobs said. �We didn�t land, we were picked up. We were picked up, we were attacked, eight of us were kidnapped. We�re separated from the others. Now this. Well, somewhere there�s a bridge, or the equivalent.� He nodded as if to himself, accepting his own analysis. �Someone or something flies this ship. Someone or something�s got an agenda. Someone or something is in charge. That�s where those Blue Meanies are going. And I�ll tell you what else: It�s where we better be going, too.�

It was a long speech for Jobs and he felt a little embarrassed. He was going to ask if anyone else had a different opinion, but Mo�Steel slapped him on the back and grinned.

�Sounds good, Duck. To the bridge, so my boy here can figure it all out. Let�s travel.�

And that does it for book 2!

What do we think so far, this is a crazy mystery? Puzzle box? I have no idea where we're headed. (except to the bridge)

# ¿ Feb 5, 2024 01:29

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

The unreality and confusing nature of things is really working for me as like lovecraft-lite. Things are strange and unknowable and horrors are everywhere. I WOULD like more time with the characters instead of POV changes every 1.5 page chapter, but I also feel that most of our characters have strong enough voices that I am attached. I love Mo' Steel, and seeing his almost nihilisitc outlook on life and grief earlier was a great flavor to the carefree daredevil we've seen. 2Face with her manipulation of other's perception of her is also a favorite, and seeing her cling to safety instead of stand up for herself is an interesting direction. Even Miss Blake and Jobs are intriguing for me.

I'm already enjoying this more than Everworld and the only thing that puts it above Animorphs for me, is that this uses a little more of an adult dialogue instead of the kid friendly animorphs prose.

# ¿ Feb 5, 2024 19:25

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

quote:

THEM

REMNANTS #3

CHAPTER 1

�HOW DOES BUGS BUNNY DO HALF THE STUFF HE DOES?�

They named the pony Eeyore.

He was a skanky-looking beast, shaggy and slumped over and hangdog. He was harnessed to a wagon that might fall apart at any moment. The big solid wheels creaked and wobbled. Neither pony nor cart would ever break three miles an hour. But they had managed to load the comatose Billy Weir into the back of the wagon.

They had food in the form of pies. Not fruit pies or cream pies, but meat pies, and the exact nature of the meat was anyone�s guess. But it was food and they were hungry. They also had water. The water was in crockery jars that were no doubt supposed to contain mead or ale, but what did the ship know about any of that?

Jobs, Mo�Steel, Olga Gonzalez, who was Mo�Steel�s mother, Violet Blake, who liked to be called Miss Blake, and Billy Weir, who managed to be entirely catatonic and then, at unpredictable times, frighteningly powerful, were the most normal creatures in view. There were other humans all around, but not humans as they were in reality, humans as they had been imagined by a long-long-dead painter named Brueghel.

Pieter Brueghel the Elder had painted at about the same time that Nostradamus had written his prophecies, in the mid-1550s and early 1560s. That was, give or take, four-hundred-fifty years earlier than Jobs had been born, and not quite a thousand years earlier than the present moment. Jobs was fourteen years old. Or five hundred and fourteen years old, depending on your perspective.

The Dutch painter could not have foreseen that his work would be inscribed on data disks that would find their way aboard a space shuttle called the Mayflower and from there end up being downloaded into an alien spaceship so vast it had at first seemed to be a planet. Jobs and his companions were walking through a live-action version of an old painting. A live-action, 3-D, solid-to-the-touch, undeniably real version created by who or whatever was in charge of the alien ship.

�Why?� That was the question. And also �how?�

The improbable set of circumstances had begun with the destruction of Earth by an asteroid. Jobs and Mo�Steel had seen the impact from space. Earth was a watermelon dropped from the third floor. When last seen, Earth had been smacked into three big, irregular chunks flying apart in stately slo-mo.

But before that cosmic annihilation, humans had tried a desperate, last-minute, utterly doomed effort to save some tiny remnant of Homo sapiens. They had hauled a nearly antique shuttle out of storage, fitted it out with experimental solar sails and even more experimental hibernation equipment, and loaded up the so-called Mayflower Project with eighty humans chosen, according to time-honored ritual, from among those who had ties to, or influence over, NASA.

The Mayflower had no possibility of succeeding and indeed no one had expected it to. It had no destination, no goal. It had merely been fired into space, fired away from Earth. And despite this it had been found far, far beyond the orbit of Neptune, out in cold empty space where good old Sol, Earth�s sun, was just another twinkly star.

Found, recovered, picked up by the ship, by whoever or whatever ran the ship. Those of the Eighty who had survived the moldy death called �cheesing,� and death by mutated carnivorous worm, and death by micrometeorite, and death by mummification, had revived to find themselves in an environment created out of humanity�s own creative patrimony. The ship had downloaded the Mayflower�s data and created an environment based on human art.

It must have seemed like a good idea to the ship. But at the moment, Jobs and his friends were walking beside a rickety pony-drawn cart through a gloomy landscape dominated by what was, according to Miss Blake, the Tower of Babel. Brueghel�s vision of the Tower of Babel, at least.

It looked a bit like a wedding cake. A wedding cake constructed of crumbling sports arenas piled one atop the other. A wedding cake done in the colors of old parchment and iced tea stains. It was circular and there were layers, each one smaller in diameter than the one below. If construction had continued indefinitely it might have, in time, reached a sharp point. But construction had stopped at seven layers. It was a gigantic spiral ramp, and if construction had
been sensibly completed it would have been possible to walk around and around the building and ascend to the top. But the Tower of Babel was a mess, with massive, tumbled-stone spurs defacing one side and blocking the rampway on at least three levels.

And toward the top of the tower it seemed the builders had changed their minds, cut away the outer layers, and begun construction on a tower-atop-a-tower, a sort of miniaturized, modest version of the tower rising from the tumbled wreckage of the original building. This mini-tower had the look of a castle�s keep, or perhaps a sort of grandiose penthouse.

Each layer was penetrated by high-arched doors and windows, and the mini-tower likewise. The doors on lower levels were tall enough to allow a giraffe to walk through without ducking. Doors higher up were of more human dimensions. The Tower of Babel fronted a harbor on one side. It had a low stone quay. The remaining three hundred degrees of arc was on land and loomed huge above a squalid, medieval city.

It was this city that Jobs was walking through, leading the pony. From this distance the tower was so tall, so vast in extent, so massively heavy that it seemed impossible that the ground could support it.

�Big,� Mo�Steel remarked.

�I wonder how tall? If we had a stick, we could cut it to the length of my arm and figure it out,� Jobs said. �All you have to do is hold the stick vertically and move back or closer till it appears to equal the height of the building. Then you just pace off ��

�Or we could just agree that it�s really big,� Violet Blake said.

Jobs knew her finger was bothering her. Her missing finger. The empty space where her tenth finger would have been. She unwound the bandage and Jobs looked away, squeamish. The wound was still bleeding; it might go on bleeding forever. It was down to a slow seep now, a red ooze from beneath the cauterized crust and around the scab. It wasn�t gushing at least. He winced just thinking about it.

�Strange how it doesn�t just hurt at the knuckle where it was lopped off,� Violet said through gritted teeth. �It hurts at the tip. I mean, the former tip. The no-longer-there tip.�

�Phantom pain,� Olga Gonzalez said sympathetically.

�You should change that bandage,� Mo�Steel said. He left the road and walked up to a peasant woman who was carrying a heavy bucket. �Excuse me, ma�am, I need your scarf.�

Mo�Steel unwound the white cloth from the woman�s head. The woman said nothing. In fact, she never slowed or stopped or responded. Beneath the scarf was blank space, no hair, no head, just emptiness. A second later a new scarf appeared, wrapped just like the one Mo�Steel had taken.

Mo�Steel handed the scarf to Violet. �Would you like me to help you with that?�

�No. No, thank you,� she answered.

Mo�Steel caught up with Jobs. �I�d feel bad about taking stuff from these people, but they don�t seem to mind.�

�I don�t think they mind anything,� Jobs said. �I don�t think they have minds. They�re not real in the usual ways. They may not even be anatomically human, let alone have functioning wills.�

Mo�Steel shrugged. �Maybe not.�

�It never hurts to be polite,� Olga, Mo�Steel�s mother, opined.

�I was raised right,� Mo�Steel said with a wink for Jobs and a sincere smile for his mother.

�The system conserves energy,� Jobs said thoughtfully. �That�s why when you take the scarf away there�s nothing underneath. The system doesn�t need to create matter to fill in beneath the scarf; it saves energy, it just does what it has to do. I�d bet some of these people don�t weigh more than twenty pounds or so. You could pick them up and carry them. The system probably doesn�t fill them in.�

�They�re three-dimensional illustrations,� Miss Blake said.

Olga looked skeptical. �So how is it Eeyore can pull Billy? He shouldn�t be strong enough if he�s hollow.�

�The strength doesn�t come from muscles. It comes from the matter-manipulation system directly,� Jobs said. He liked this sort of puzzle. It gave him a sense of satisfaction being able to construct a theory and defend it.

�They�re like cartoons,� Mo�Steel said. �Because they�re drawings they can do stuff that doesn�t make sense. I mean, how does Bugs Bunny do half the stuff he does?�

Jobs gave his friend a dirty look, which Mo�Steel reflected back as a gapped grin. Jobs knew when he was being teased.

�Why exactly are we heading for the tower?� Miss Blake demanded.

�It�s tall. We climb it, maybe we�ll be able to get the lay of the land,� Jobs said. �Besides, the others will head for it. Maybe we can hook up with them.�

�Are you sure you want to?� Violet muttered.

Violet�s mother, Wylson Lefkowitz-Blake, had taken charge of the Remnants. She was a dynamic, impressive woman. It had not escaped Jobs�s notice that mother and daughter didn�t get along at all.

�My brother�s with them,� Jobs pointed out. �Besides, strength in numbers and all that.�

�Who do you think lives in the tower?� Olga wondered.

�More Cartoons,� Jobs said with a shrug.

�Maybe they have a cartoon bath,� Violet said wistfully. �A hot bath. With soap. And shampoo.�

They turned a corner and suddenly there was no more town between them and the base of the tower. Jobs hauled back on Eeyore�s bridle. They stood for a moment staring up at the structure, imposing and impossible and threatening.

�What was the story of the Tower of Babel? Does anyone know? It�s a Bible thing, right?� Jobs asked.

Mo�Steel shook his head pityingly. �You are such a heathen, Duck. The people made a tower to reach all the way up to heaven. God didn�t like their attitude, getting above themselves and all. So he turned them against one another by making them speak all different languages. That way they couldn�t cooperate and make any more towers to heaven.�

Jobs made a face. He was on the verge of saying that it was a stupid story. But Mo�Steel would be offended.

�An allegory of human pride,� Miss Violet Blake said. �A pretty good allegory if you wish to instruct people in humility.�

�But not as good as an asteroid,� Jobs said dryly.

boom, checkmate libs!

Okay we have our set up chapter, the group is still split up, but I like this small band of survivors.

quote:

CHAPTER 2

�YOU�RE REALLY JUMPY, YOU KNOW THAT?�

Yago liked the tower. No one else seemed to, but he did. One thing was for sure: If you wanted to be king you needed a castle. And this tower was the mother of all castles. It totally dominated the landscape, the biggest thing around by a factor of ten thousand percent or so.

The upper floors had possibilities, definitely. He could see setting up a throne room there. He would have the whole mini-tower to himself. All the lower floors would be for various servants, functionaries, soldiers, and so on. Okay, it was a daydream, but what empire ever started without some crazy dream?

�I think we should see if we can make it a center of operations,� Wylson Lefkowitz-Blake said, hands on hips. �Depending on whether it�s already inhabited. I mean, it�s pretty impressive, isn�t it?�

Tamara Hoyle was standing stolidly with her creepy baby cantilevered out on one hip. Such a chubby baby, such a hard, bony, bodybuilder mother. They fascinated Yago. Why didn�t the baby ever eat? How could it seem to see with those empty craters where its eyes had been? And surely it was too big to be natural. He was no expert on babies, but that was one freak of a baby. He edged away from Tamara and the baby, eased around to the other side of Wylson Lefkowitz-Blake. For the moment Wylson seemed to be running things. Which was fine with Yago: He would play the loyal number two for now.

�I think it would be perfect,� Yago said. �I mean, look, the only way up is by following the spiral pathway, right? So couldn�t you defend it with just a few people?�

The baby made a giggling sound and Tamara Hoyle snorted. �If we had five hundred troops, yes, you could hold it. But altitude and interior lines only go so far. How do you even know if someone is climbing the far side of the thing? It would take a hundred men just to monitor the perimeter.�

�We need to be someplace,� Wylson countered. �We need a corporate headquarters. A base of operations. I�d far rather be up there than down here. If we can find a way to get some kind of radio system going, well, that�s the highest point.�

Yago looked away to hide his laugh. Radio? Corporate headquarters? Where did Wylson think she was? �Good thinking, boss.�

The baby looked away, bored, and Tamara shrugged, indifferent.

Yago suppressed a shudder. He was right: In the end it would be the freaks against the normals. Tamara and the baby were the definition of freak. Them and Billy Weir, wherever he was, and of course, 2Face. He searched for and found her over by her father, Shy Hwang. Shy Hwang had a permanent mope glued onto his face, as though the death of his wife was a unique tragedy beside which the death of the entire human race paled to irrelevance. 2Face
didn�t seem as depressed, although who could tell with that half-melted face of hers? Hard to read her, though Yago had the definite impression that 2Face was a tough chick. Probably hot, too, back before her face was blowtorched. Half a nice face.

And she�d blown him off, that�s what stuck. He�d tried to recruit her, back in the world, back in the before, he�d offered her the chance to be his first fan. He, Yago, universally hailed by every teen fanzine as the best-looking guy in America. He�d been Teen People�s Hunk of the Year two years in a row, unprecedented! Half the kids in the country had copied his spring-green hair and golden, cat�s-DNA eyes.

And Candle Face had chilled him.

Yago bit his lip and tried to move past it. It was five hundred years ago, after all, and it wasn�t like it mattered. On the other hand, no one ever slammed Yago. He had dated Leonessa. He had dated Pet Proffer. Celebrities. Models.
Chilled by a freak? Yago?

He sensed D-Caf sidling up beside him. D-Caf was a natural toady, a born bootlicker. Plus he had not an ally in the place. He was a killer, he was, the little twitch. That didn�t bother Yago. Much. A leader used the human material he was given.

�Are we going up there?� D-Caf asked.

�What do you care?� Yago asked.

D-Caf shrugged. �I was just wondering. It�s kind of creepy, isn�t it? I mean, I don�t know, it�s just creepy. Isn�t there somewhere else we can go?�

�You�re really jumpy, you know that?� Yago said. D-Caf grinned and ducked his head. �I guess I am.�

�Here�s what you do: Don�t worry about where we go. Just do what I tell you.�

D-Caf frowned and looked uncertain.

Yago drew him closer, leaning in for a false confidentiality. �Your job is to watch 2Face. See, I think maybe she�s a problem. So you keep an eye on her, and you tell me if she does anything.�

�Like what?�

�Just keep an eye on her, okay, Twitch?�

D-Caf nodded. Yago slapped him on the back. �Good deal. Now get lost.�

Wylson said, �Yago, tell everyone we�re going.�

�Everyone� consisted of Wylson and Yago as leaders; 2Face and her father, Shy Hwang, and her temporary ward, Edward, as likely enemies; Tamara and the baby, just out-and-out freaks; D-Caf, who was already halfway coopted; and then some unknowns: a kid named Roger Dodger who couldn�t be much over ten, a kind of tough-looking chick named Tate, and a sixteen-year-old beast of a guy named Anamull, who looked like he might be of some use as an enforcer; finally, the two other adults, Daniel Burroway, who was some kind of scientist, and T.R., who was a shrink. Of the two, Burroway might be trouble someday, but T.R. was a worm.

Yago made a mental note: Work on Anamull. Muscle was always helpful. As Anamull was demonstrating. He had cornered one of the automaton people, one of the fake creatures who inhabited this weird artscape, and was busy stealing the man�s dagger.

Not a bad idea, Yago thought. They should acquire whatever weapons they could, while they could. Who knew what was up in that tower?

�Anamull,� Yago yelled. �As soon as you get that knife, let�s go. Tate? Shy? Let�s go, boys and girls.�

�Where are we going?� Tate demanded.

Yago jerked a thumb. �Up there. Saddle up or be left behind. Where�s that kid, Roger?�

Just then he spotted Roger Dodger. The kid was a block away, down the disjointed street. He was running and yelling. Yago assumed he�d gotten into some trouble with one of the automatons. Which was strange, because the �locals� never objected to anything you did. They weren�t really humans. Yago strained to hear what Roger was shouting.

�Riders!� Tate translated. �He says Riders are coming!�

And here's the rear end in a top hat group. Good to see Yago completely missing the point of the tower of babel, and the corporate ghoul being useless. I'm actually looking forward to her eventual betrayal by Yago

# ¿ Feb 7, 2024 00:47

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

quote:

CHAPTER 3

�I�M THE PRESIDENT�S SON, YOU KNOW.�

Yago froze. What? Here?

�Wylson!� he cried. �Riders! Riders!�

That got everyone moving. They formed into a mass and the mass started stampeding. Through the narrow, pig-dropping-dotted streets, tripping over uneven cobblestones, careening off indifferent locals. They ran, with Wylson, like any good leader, out in front. Yago had to admire the fact that her muscles, acquired during daily workouts with a personal trainer, had survived five centuries of hibernation. She was strong. Yago glanced back over his shoulder but he couldn�t see anything. At least nothing but Roger Dodger, steadily gaining.

A cart pulled out of a side alley. Piled high with hay, a moving haystack. Yago jerked left and jumped the yoke. He caught his foot and went sprawling. Elbows on cobblestones and a sharp jolt of pain. Then he was up, scrambling, Roger Dodger even with him now. He was falling behind! He was in the rear! They were going to leave him for the Riders. No way, no way he couldn�t outrun Shy Hwang, who was a wheezy chub.

Then it occurred to Yago: He�d taken a wrong turn. He�d lost them! He couldn�t see anyone but Roger Dodger.

�Hey, kid! Hey, kid!� he yelled. No answer, no look. The kid was a rabbit.

Had to head for the tower, no other way, no other way, but where was the tower? Ahead? Left? To the right? How had he gotten so turned around? Yago bolted down an alley, even filthier than the street, even more narrow, with the
buildings leaning drunkenly out till their upper stories almost touched. A sudden, looming horror, straight ahead.
Rider!

Coming straight down the street. He was atop his surfboard, shifting his weight minutely to keep the antigravity board from striking the walls on either side. Yago took in the bifurcated legs, the cockroach-shell upper body, and most of all the two heads, fraternal not identical twins, one little more than a mouth on a stump, and the other
dominated by six spider eyes. He squeezed his legs together to keep from wetting himself, spun, and ran.

The Rider couldn�t move at top speed in the alley, but he could still outrun Yago. Yago was screaming as he ran and the Rider let loose with his horrifying, metal-on-metal shriek. Yago almost collapsed right then, but the memory of Errol�s disconnected head kept him running.

Where were the others? Where was that kid? Let the Rider take the kid! Why didn�t the alien eat the automatons? How did he know that Yago was food and the locals weren�t? Glance. Ten feet!

Slam. Into one of the locals, tumble, fall, roll, and look up as the Rider skimmed overhead, unable to stop in time. The Rider braked, spun his board, eyeballed Yago with his larger faceted eyes, grinned with his vicious mouth.
Yago whimpered, rolled, kicked himself up, stumbled and fell, up again, crying, no no no no.

A side alley. Even more narrow. Narrow enough?

Yago lurched, tripped. The Rider turned, stopped, couldn�t go any closer. Yago was on his butt, kicking, sliding backward away from the Rider. The alley was too narrow! Too narrow for the Rider�s board.

�Yeah!� Yago yelled triumphantly.

Then the Rider jumped down off his board.

The Rider bounded toward Yago, a weird stride, two feet on either side, or else two legs on either side, hard to define which. The Rider bounded and stopped, gathered strength, bounded again.

Yago was already running but he was encouraged that at least the Riders weren�t all that fast on foot. The Rider hesitated with each jump. A ten-foot leap, a five-second pause, a ten-foot leap, five-second pause. The distance between Yago and the Rider kept going from fifteen feet to five feet and back. Yago wasn�t gaining but he wasn�t losing ground, either.

He staggered into a woman carrying a large clay pot on her head. The pot went flying, smashed to bits. Yago kept running, out into an open space. Not quite a square, but at least a place where a maze of streets joined from all angles. Which way? The tower! He could see it.

The Rider had stopped. Maybe he was worn out. Then Yago spotted the hoverboard. It was flying just above the rooftops and now swooped down to rejoin its master.

�No fair!� Yago yelled.

He ran for a doorway, open for a man who was exiting. He shoved past the automaton and stopped dead. There was nothing inside the building. Just open space. The building was a shell.

Yago blinked.

Suddenly the building had an inside. It had an inside filled with soft, golden candlelight, ornate, plush furniture, and a woman reclining on a brocaded couch. A painting in 3-D. It even looked familiar.

�What?� Yago wondered.

The ship was improvising. The ship had seen him go into the building, and, having no obvious interior scene to construct, it had grabbed one from some other file.

�Excuse me,� Yago said to the indifferent, unreal woman. He ran up the stairs. Up another floor. Another interior, gloomy this time, but with a huge window at one end of the room. The window was open. Yago crept to the window, trembling, jittery, wanting to throw up but too scared of the noise it would make.

He peered out at the street below. Left. Right. No Rider.

Then, coming down the street, Wylson Lefkowitz-Blake and the rest of the bunch.

�Hey!� Yago yelled. �Hey, I�m up here!�

Wylson frowned. �What are you doing up there?�

�I was chased here by a Rider.�

�We assumed he�d gotten you,� Wylson said without revealing any particular concern.

�No, I�m still alive,� Yago snapped.

�Then you�d better come down. The Riders must still be around. We need to get to the tower.�

�Yeah, and it sure is good to know you survived, Yago,� Yago said, but under his breath. �Thank god you made it, Yago.�

The Wylson woman just didn�t get it: He was important. Yago was not one of the herd. He was important. He glanced at the reclining woman on the couch as he passed by.

�I�m the president�s son, you know.� He pointed at himself. �Yago. That�s me.�

drat, almost had one problem solved/

quote:

CHAPTER 4

�I HATE THIS PLACE.�

Jobs had seen no Riders. At one point he�d been sure he heard someone yell, �No fair!� which seemed like an unlikely thing to come from the mouth of one of the automatons � or Cartoons as Mo�Steel called them. He no longer entirely trusted his senses. They had reached the base of the tower and found steep walls and no easy way up. But there was the strange stone abutment that ran the height of three levels. It looked as if the tower had been carved from living rock and this jagged outcropping was all that was left of what had to have been a mountain.

It was steep, a hard climb, especially now that they�d had to say good-bye to Eeyore and transfer Billy back to his stretcher. The climb would have been impossible but for the fact that Mo�Steel was quite strong and hauled Billy up almost single-handedly over the roughest parts.

It was perhaps a two-hundred- or two-hundred-and-fifty-foot climb and in places was like crawling up a cliff. At the top Mo�Steel sweated and grinned and gave Jobs a last yank up and over.

�That was good,� Mo�Steel said, wiping his brow. �Drain the pores, strain some muscle, pop some veins. Burning the C�s.�

Jobs looked at Billy. His gaunt, pale face showed nothing new. The shadowed eyes continued to stare. Olga flopped down, tired. Violet Blake took a moment to find a tumbled rock to sit on. Her skirt was frayed at the hem. Her frilled sleeves were stained with blood and sweat.

All in all, Jobs thought, the whole ultrafeminine �Jane� look really didn�t work for rock climbing. Besides, she was a very pretty girl, especially now that she�d given up on keeping her long, sandy hair tied up. It looked better down over her shoulders.

Violet Blake saw his smug look. She carefully folded her hands in her lap and favored him with a defiant smile. Jobs looked down, not wanting his admiring grin to be misinterpreted as condescension. Then he scanned the horizon. He was looking back over the direction from which they�d come. At the far range of his vision he saw the sight that stabbed at his heart: the shuttle, a white stiletto, far away now. He looked long, storing up the image for later. It was worth a poem. Someday, somewhere, maybe.

�Should have stayed with the shuttle,� he muttered. �It was home.�

Mo�Steel overheard and slapped him on the back. �Don�t sweat it, Duck. We�ll make a new home.�

Jobs didn�t want to be jollied out of his mood. He was tired and he wanted for the moment just to savor the melancholy. There was nothing wrong with sadness. Sadness was a good emotion. It was a tribute to all that had been lost: to family, to friends, to the billions of people, long dead now, who were only family in the sense that they shared human DNA.

A planet destroyed, a million species obliterated, the human race reduced to these Remnants, lost, that was worth some sadness.

�It�s been five hundred years,� Jobs whispered.

�Not to us,� Miss Blake said. �To us it was only days ago.�

�Hey, look,� Olga said. She stood up and pointed. �It�s the others.�

They could be clearly seen, a gaggle of people in colors too bright and with too many blond heads to be Brueghel Cartoons. They were at the edge of the town below, and they were running toward the tower.

�Riders!� Mo�Steel yelled and jumped to his feet.

Three of the rust-red aliens were pursuing. Two more were coming in from an angle, racing to cut them off.

�We have to help them,� Miss Blake said.

�It took us an hour to climb up here,� Olga said. �It would take almost as long to get back down, and then we�d have to traverse over to them.�

The four of them stood at the edge of the drop, staring, eyes bulging, straining as if straining would slow the Riders down or lend speed to the rest of the group. One of the fugitives was smaller, slight, and moved with the slight ungainliness of a child. The wispy, almost translucent blond hair could be clearly seen.

�I see Edward,� Jobs said grimly.

The running, panic-stricken crowd was hidden from view by the tower itself. Four sighs, four worried looks.

�Maybe they can find a place to hide,� Violet said.

Jobs nodded, silent. He was sick with worry. His parents were gone. He was all Edward had in the world. His little brother was his responsibility now, and Jobs wasn�t down there but up here. He should have tried harder to find the others and get back together. Should have done something. He squeezed his eyes shut tight trying to keep out the image of Edward being taken, killed by the Riders.

�I hate this place,� Violet said with sudden passion. �Why is it this way? Why go to all the trouble of creating these environments and then let those alien murderers run rampant? Is this stupid place trying to save us or kill us?�

Jobs shook his head. �Maybe neither.� He rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. �Maybe the ship isn�t all that in control. Look at how the Blue Meanies got in. How can whoever or whatever is running this ship have all this power and then be unable to stop the Blue Meanies?�

�You always say whoever or whatever, Jobs,� Olga said. �You know something we don�t?�

�No.� He was about to add that he had a feeling, an instinct. But he had nothing to go on. And in any case, it was too easy to talk about abstractions. His brother was down there somewhere, without a mother or a father or a soul in the world to help him, down there facing the ruthless, murdering savages called Riders. That�s what he should be thinking about.

He glared at Billy. �Can�t you do something? I know you can hear me. We know you�re not dead, Billy. We saw you floating around in the air and trying to help your dad when you had to, when he was screaming � why can�t you do that now?�

No response, not even a flicker.

�I hate this place,� Violet repeated savagely.

Jobs wanted to agree. This place was probably killing his brother, right now, right this second. But he didn�t hate it. He couldn�t. Not till he knew for sure what it was.

quote:

CHAPTER 5

�EVERYTHING DIES, HUMAN.�

�Get in! Get in! Get in!� Wylson yelled.

They got in. They ran like a herd of gazelles with a lion hot on the trail. Into the dark-on-dark archway, into the tower.
No door, Wylson thought. No way to block the Riders. Was everyone in? Had everyone made it? 2Face, Shy, Burroway, T.R., Roger Dodger. Who else? No time to worry.

A glance around. Where were they? A vaulted chamber, nothing around but space, an echoing space like a gothic cathedral, high-arched space. Keep them running, that was all.

�Keep moving, keep moving,� she shouted. Her voice was shrill, she hated that, it was the fear. They kept running, but where? A Rider appeared, a shadow in the archway.

�Stairs!� someone yelled.

�Go!� Wylson cried.

The Rider was moving cautiously, unsure of himself in this interior environment. The hoverboard inched forward. What Wylson thought of as the creature�s �spider head� craned, back and forth, upward. The alien almost seemed to cringe. Doesn�t like it, Wylson thought. Doesn�t like being enclosed. Or maybe it�s the dark. A second Rider joined the first.

The people were on the stairs now, narrow, hacked from stone, a sheer drop if you strayed, no handrail. Someone tripped and those behind plowed into and over him. It was the kid, Edward. People were always bumping into him, clumsy brat.

2Face snatched at the kid�s collar and yanked him after her. Up and up and Wylson glanced back to see that three Riders had entered the chamber, huddling together, uncertain. Then, one of them hefted a spear and threw it with shocking speed. It missed T.R.�s head by a whisker and jammed hard into the stone wall.

Wylson reached the spot and tried to yank the spear out. She didn�t have the strength. Tamara Hoyle grabbed the shaft and pulled. It came free. The baby chuckled and Tamara handed the spear to Wylson with a mocking little bow.

Wylson nodded and took the steps two at a time, holding the spear high like a prize. When she glanced back she saw the three Riders apparently still undecided. Then she noticed Tamara. The Marine sergeant was standing, facing the Riders, the baby on one hip, a fist propped on the other.

�Tamara! Don�t be stupid!� Wylson yelled.

Tamara showed no sign of having heard her. The three aliens were now focused entirely on the woman and child. One hefted a spear, hesitated. Tamara made a little gesture with her free hand. Bring it on. The alien snarled and threw. Tamara moved with liquid grace, dodged, and snatched the spear out of the air.

The Riders gave her a cold look. A mean look, with one head staring and the other gnashing its razor teeth. One of the Riders urged his hoverboard forward. It flowed easily up the first dozen stairs, but then it slowed and seemed to be straining to keep climbing.

Tamara Hoyle waited, confident. She sat the baby down on a stair. It was the first time Wylson had ever seen them separated.

�What are you doing? They�ll kill you!� Wylson shouted.

But Tamara was indifferent. She kept going toward the Rider, taking the steps with feline grace, with a feline�s air of power-within-grace. The Rider let loose its glass-shattering shriek. Tamara replied with a feral laugh. Sitting on
the edge of its stone step the baby clapped its hands.

Tamara was now almost face-to-face with the alien. The hoverboard quivered, unable to climb farther. In a rush, the alien leaped onto the stairs. It swung a bladed weapon like a scimitar. Tamara caught the blow with her spear, twisted the spear, threw the Rider off-balance, and stabbed the spear into one if its heads.

The alien shrieked again but in a very different tone.

Tamara pulled back, spun her entire body, and slapped the alien�s other head with the butt of the spear. With blinding speed she jabbed the butt into one of the larger fly eyes. The Rider swung his scimitar again, but Tamara easily ducked the blow and buried the point of her spear in the Rider�s chest, in a narrow gap between halves of its beetle armor.

The Rider staggered, fell back onto its hoverboard. The hoverboard clattered down the stairs, as lifeless as the Rider. Tamara ignored her kill and stared instead at the two remaining Riders. To Wylson�s amazement, the two aliens executed what could only be a salute, a sort of half-genuflection in the direction of the Marine sergeant.

No, not to Tamara. They were bowing to the baby.

One of the Riders turned and flew away. The other stayed behind, waiting, not trying to ascend the stairs. But not giving way, either. Tamara retrieved the baby and came up the stairs, spear shouldered, unconcerned by the
purple blood oozing down its length.

�You killed it,� Wylson said stupidly.

�Did you think they were immortal?� Tamara said. �Everything dies, human.�

uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

# ¿ Feb 8, 2024 03:10

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

quote:

CHAPTER 6

�I THINK WE NEED TO HAVE A MEETING.�

Wylson ran up the stairs, up to rejoin the others who had already moved ahead. Some of them had seen the fight. Had any of them heard the Marine�s last remark?

�Everything dies, human.�

Had she heard it right? Everything dies, human? Everything human dies? Everything dies that�s human? Tamara was stressed from the combat. The words came out wrong, that was all. Not a time to start going soft-headed, Wylson, she told herself. Time to focus on solutions.

The stairs arrived at the next floor. It was brighter here, though still gloomy. 2Face and Roger Dodger had fanned out to check the limits of the room.

�No way out,� 2Face yelled at Wylson when she appeared. �Except for that way.� She indicated the high, arched doorway that led outside.

Wylson stuck her head out of the arch. It opened onto the spiral path that circled the tower. To the right, downhill, uphill was left. She craned her head up, nothing but blank, yellowed stone wall above. The path was perhaps thirty feet across at this point. Equally far to the left and right were arched doors superficially similar to the one she was in.

�There�s a door over here,� Roger Dodger yelled from back inside.

Wylson pulled her head in. She still held her own spear awkwardly, across her chest. She�d done nothing with it to help Tamara. Tamara twirled her purple-blooded spear with unconscious ease and lounged by the top of the stairs as if waiting for the remaining Rider to come up after her.

Wylson went to where a crowd had gathered around Roger Dodger. There was a door there, too short, too small. It was wood bound with iron.

�Should we open it?� Burroway wondered aloud.

Wylson was on the verge of saying yes, but there was something about the door. Something that made her insides twist.

�Alice in Wonderland,� Tate said. She shrugged. �Maybe there�s a garden on the other side.�

�I don�t think so,� Wylson said. But it bothered her, not being able to pinpoint a reason.

When the Wall Street Journal had done their big feature on her company, they had described Wylson Lefkowitz-Blake as a CEO who could demand the most meticulous research and yet still decide to �go with her gut.� It had been a great piece. A high point in her life, along with getting the cover of BusinessWeek, and of course the first couple of days when her personal wealth had gone from less than a million to better than fourteen million.
What was she worth now? More than a billion.

A billion dollars issued by a government that no longer existed on a dead planet. Wylson had always trusted her instincts and her instincts said not to open that door. But these weren�t her business instincts, these were something else from somewhere else deep in her brain. This was a voice she�d never heard in her head, a shivering, pleading voice.

Don�t open the door.

Don�t open the door.

They were all looking at her. Looking at her and glancing back to the stair where Tamara and the baby stood guard.
All waiting for her to decide.

�Well, open it,� she said impatiently.

Anamull, the big kid, the sixteen-year-old who looked like he should be playing for the NFL, grinned and grabbed the wrought-iron latch. He pulled. Nothing. He pulled harder and the door opened. Inside squatted a creature with a woman�s face, a white scarf, a red dress, and legs and feet that must have belonged to a frog. The woman held a long-handled iron pan over a charcoal fire.

In the pan was a human head, hand, leg. The head was screaming in agony. Behind the woman stood an antlered deer, standing on its hind legs, wearing a robe. The deer just stared at them. Wylson cried out, jumped back. Anamull wailed and slammed the door shut. It bounced open. 2Face slammed it again and this time Anamull leaned his weight into it and the door stayed closed.

�What was that?� Burroway demanded, his voice quaking.

�Not a garden,� 2Face said, breathing heavily.

Wylson was trembling. What was that, what, what? She swallowed hard. Some kind of trick. Some kind of illusion. Not real. Obviously. Her insides had gone liquid. The vision � illusion, surely, special effect � had turned reality inside out for a moment.

Shake it off.

She pried her hands apart, couldn�t look like she was scared. She was in charge.

�We�re trapped in here,� Shy Hwang said. �Can�t go back down the stairs, sure can�t go through that door.�

�There�s the path outside,� Wylson said, recovering enough now to take offense at Shy�s despairing tone. One thing was sure: His daughter had all the spine in that family.

Yago said, �You go right on that ramp path, it takes you back down to the town. You go left, it takes you up. Except we don�t know that for sure because you could see that the tower was damaged.�

�Sergeant? Are the Riders still down there at the bottom of the stairs?� Daniel Burroway demanded.

�Only one,� Tamara answered. �I killed one. One took off.�

�Why?� Wylson wondered aloud. �I mean, why did one take off?�

�Why do you think?� Tamara replied sardonically. �They don�t like the stairs. I don�t think their boards can do stairs very well. So they�re looking for another way.�

�Up the ramp,� Yago said. �They�ll come right up the ramp.�

The baby nodded, eager, excited. His mother smiled.

�You killed one of them?� 2Face demanded skeptically.

�She did,� Wylson confirmed. Feeling she needed to add an explanation, she said, �She�s a professional soldier, after all. Trained with weapons.� The explanation reassured her. That�s all it was: Tamara Hoyle was a Marine sergeant. Of course she�d be able to fight. Nothing unnatural in that.

�We have two spears and one �professional soldier,�� Burroway said darkly. �If the Riders come after us in force, up that ramp, we can�t hope to stop them.�

�Thank you, Mr. Happy,� Yago muttered. �Hey, we�ll just put the freak here in the doorway � that�ll scare them off.� He jerked a thumb at 2Face. �Put Half �n� Half here, and the baby out there, hey, that�d scare anyone. What�s the point of having freaks if we can�t use them?�

Wylson shot a look at Tamara to see if she�d taken offense. Tamara seemed bored. 2Face�s face was turning dark, at least the normal side of her face.

�Hey, did you see those Riders? They�re so ugly even she couldn�t scare them,� Anamull added.

Wylson knew she should shut Yago up; he was sowing discord. But however crude and cruel he might be, Yago was on her side. Besides, Wylson told herself, she was the boss, not some kind of preschool teacher promoting good behavior.

2Face looked as if she could take care of herself, after all; her own father hadn�t exactly jumped in to defend her. And anyway, she surely could have had plastic surgery. She didn�t have to look that way. What am I supposed to do? Wylson asked herself. The boss has to know. The boss has to be in charge. Unless . . .

�I think we need to have a meeting,� Wylson said, trying to sound decisive. �T.R., Burroway, Shy, Tamara, if you . . . and Yago, you, too, to speak for the younger people. Meeting in five minutes: We need ideas, people.� She clapped her hands together sharply.

That was the right thing: a meeting of senior staff.

Get organized. Set priorities. Assign tasks.

She was the woman who had taken on AvivNet and Microsoft and SpongeCom and won. She could do this. Of course, a suppressed part of her mind commented, this really was worse. Business competitors didn�t decapitate their victims and suck the flesh from their skulls. Or fry people in cast-iron pans.

Not even Microsoft.

Do we know that for sure about Microsoft? And just lol about assembling a board meeting in a moment of crisis when every second counts, loving business brain.

quote:

CHAPTER 7

�AN ALL-OVER SQUIRM.�

�This is new damage.� Jobs pointed at the crushed rock, then at the long burn scar. Mo�Steel watched his friend closely. He could see that Jobs was scared for Edward. Maybe for himself as well. That was a surprising thought. Mo�Steel thought of Jobs as fearless, but now that he considered it, that didn�t seem quite right.

�Yeah, it looks like it just happened,� Mo�Steel agreed. They had come to a rest, having circumnavigated about half of the tower. This side of the tower was much more regular in appearance. Miss Blake had explained that they were now on the side that was not shown in the original painting.

�The ship is extrapolating,� Jobs said.

Mo�Steel was fairly sure he knew what Jobs meant but the word extrapolating was not one he used. Anyway, the idea seemed to be that the ship was filling in the blanks in the original painting.

�At least that proves whoever is doing all this has an imagination,� Olga said.

�Not necessarily,� Jobs argued. �The continuation of a pattern doesn�t imply imagination. Program a computer with a grid, it can figure out how to extend the grid.�

Violet sighed. Mo�Steel had noticed that she had no patience for Jobs�s explanations. And she showed no particular interest now as Jobs walked deeper into the arched opening, following the scorch mark.

Jobs pressed his hand against the stone. �It�s still warm.�

Mo�Steel put his hand on Jobs�s shoulder. �We don�t want to be going in there any farther.�

�Why not?�

�It�s dark.�

�Not yet it isn�t,� Jobs said.

Mo�Steel shook his head. �You don�t get a wiggle off this place?�

�A what?�

Mo�Steel pointed at his own stomach. �A wiggle worm in the guts, �migo. A bad feeling. An all-over squirm.�

Jobs shrugged. �It�s an environment derived from a painting. A creepy painting. That�s all. Some artist was going for a look. That doesn�t make it anything real.�

Mo�Steel shrugged and felt a little foolish. Of course Jobs was right. �Besides, maybe there�s an interior ramp. It would have to be easier than walking the circumference of this whole tower, right?�

�Yeah, well, then we all go together. I�m not leaving my mom back there.�

Jobs nodded. �Of course. Let�s just go in a ways, see what we see. We can always back out.�

They returned to gather Olga and Violet and to lift Billy once more. They entered through the arch, talking animatedly all the while to ward off the sense of being too small for their surroundings. The place had an echoing hush to it, a feeling Mo�Steel associated with class trips to the State House in Sacramento. The room was huge, but finite. There was a pointed archway at the far end, narrower, taller, sharper than the archway they�d entered through.
They peeked through this new arch and found the space beyond no darker, despite the fact that the weak sunlight was far away now.

�Look at this.� Jobs pointed down at the floor. There was a dark smudge, like someone had dragged charcoal. Jobs frowned and moved off to the right, leaving Billy behind.

�It hit here!� he yelled.

Mo�Steel joined him.

�See? So whatever it was, it came flying in through the arch, scraping the wall the whole way, burning, slammed into this wall, fell. Then dragged itself through the pointy arch.�

�Why are you talking like you knew what it was?� Mo�Steel demanded.

�Because I think I do know. I think it was a Blue Meanie. They came this way, we know that. Some of them were damaged. Maybe one crashed here.�

�So why aren�t we going the other way, outta here?� Mo�Steel asked.

Jobs grinned. �Mo, man, these Blue Meanies haven�t done us any harm. And one thing�s for sure: They know more than we do about what�s going on.�

�Uh-huh. Let�s keep going, then.� The bad feeling had not gone away. Didn�t Jobs feel it, too? Maybe not. Jobs could feel when a computer program was wrong. Maybe that ability obscured the more primitive ability to sense danger.

�Shh!� Jobs held up a finger.

Everyone froze and listened. A distinct sound of movement, of heavy steps, irregular, syncopated. Like a horse�s walk, maybe. Mo�Steel handed his half of Billy�s stretcher to his mother and moved out front. His mom gave him a �be careful� look and he winked back.

They had reached the end of the second empty, echoing chamber. Another doorway, not an archway this time, just a big rectangular doorway. Mo�Steel poked his head through and motioned everyone else to stay back. The room
beyond was roughly circular, with two sets of steps climbing the walls, and dark holes where other stairs must be heading down.

And there, turned to face them, waiting at bay, charred and banged up but still alive, was a Blue Meanie.

�Hi,� Mo�Steel said.

# ¿ Feb 9, 2024 14:35

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

Tree Bucket posted:

As noted by Remalle- Heironymous Bosch's Garden of Earthly Delights. The top right corner looks an awful lot like a night time WW2 air raid, for something painted in the year 1500....

Oh yeah those demons def reminded me of Bosch, but perhaps we should read on?

quote:

CHAPTER 8

�IS HE SOME KIND OF MUTANT?�

This would probably be a great opportunity, Yago thought. Except for the very real possibility of getting killed. Wylson knew nothing about fighting a battle. She was out of her depth. Lost, confused, and afraid, and trying unsuccessfully to hide it.

This was the moment when a real leader like Yago could seize the moment. Only he had no idea what to do, either.
They had two spears. Anamull had his dagger. The Riders were likely to appear at any moment. And for the last forty-five minutes Wylson had been conducting a staff meeting that involved the adults plus Yago squatting in a corner, equally far from the arch, the stairs, and the tiny door to hell.

Most of the ideas they came up with had to do with organization. Wylson wanted departments with department heads. Burroway kept talking about a more military structure: platoons. T.R. favored a less hierarchical structure. Shy Hwang said nothing, just maintained his distant silence punctuated by grief-stricken sighs. Tamara Hoyle and the baby were ignored since she�d refused to join the meeting. But Tamara was the point as far as Yago could see. They had one fighter: Tamara. They had one asset: Tamara. Wylson had told them all how the Marine had dispatched the Rider. The meeting was going nowhere in increasingly desperate circles. Time for Yago to offer
his own ideas.

�The first thing we need to do,� he said, �is to make sure we�re all on the same team.�

�Obviously we are,� T.R. Said.

�No,� Yago said. �You think the teams are human versus alien. My question is, how can we be sure some of us aren�t really some of them? You going to tell me the baby is a regular old baby? You can�t win a war when you have to watch your back.�

�This isn�t the time,� Burroway said impatiently.

�Why can�t we at least ask Tamara what�s going on?� Yago asked reasonably. �Don�t we have a right to know what side she�s on? Her and 2Face, both.�

Yago watched their faces and refused to let a smile of triumph appear on his own lips. So easy. It was a lesson he�d learned in his mother�s White House: When people can�t figure out how to come to grips with a hard thing, give them an easy thing to do.

Wylson looked thoughtfully at Tamara. �We do have a right to know what she�s about. Her and the baby.�

�And 2Face and Edward,� Yago added. �The issue here is who is with us and who is against us.�

�There�s no reason to doubt 2Face,� Burroway grumbled.

�Quit picking on my daughter,� Shy Hwang said. �You hate her because her face is burned. You�re a sick person, Yago.�

�There�s nothing wrong with 2Face,� Wylson pronounced with finality.

�Really?� Yago waited till he had everyone�s attention. Then he nodded toward 2Face and Edward. �Look at the kid. Edward. Watch him closely and you�ll see it.�

They watched. Stared. Edward was amusing himself, jumping over cracks between the paving stones. His clothing was torn and tattered like everyone�s, but his seemed to match the color of the walls. He passed in front of the small door. And for just a flicker of time he seemed to be part of the door. Then he was past it and his face and arms and clothing all resumed a coloration similar to that of the stone.

�What was that?� T.R. Demanded.

Yago said, �He�s been doing it for a while now. It�s subtle so you don�t notice unless you look right at him, and since he�s so quiet mostly no one looks. He�s some kind of chameleon. Now that you�ve noticed . . . but you know who would have noticed a long time ago? Who�s been taking care of Edward? 2Face has.�

In fact, Yago hadn�t noticed, either. It was the Twitch, D-Caf, who had pointed it out.

�Is he some kind of mutant?� Wylson demanded.

�And maybe not the only one,� Yago said in a low voice. �Tamara and the baby, Edward, and probably 2Face since she�s been covering up for Edward. Like I said: We have to know who is with us, and who isn�t really even like us.�

�I�m not listening to any more of this,� Shy said and shuffled away. He didn�t go straight to his daughter, but Yago knew he would soon enough.

Fine, let him report back to 2Face. Let her make her move. Yago had things well in hand. Unless the Riders came and killed them all. In which case political game-playing wouldn�t matter very much.

Have to stay focused on the future, Yago told himself. Maybe the Riders would come and kill them all. But maybe they wouldn�t. And in that case Yago had laid the foundation for his own rise to power.

Sure enough, Hwang was sidling over toward his daughter. And she was turning her good ear to hear him. She stared daggers across the room at Yago. Yago made a little kissy-mouth at her and then laughed. Tamara suddenly stood up, baby on her hip, and sauntered to the arch. It was growing dark outside. She seemed to be listening, and while she did, everyone watched. The baby made its obscene little chuckle.

�Pretty soon,� Tamara remarked laconically. �Pretty soon, and a lot of them.�

uggggghhh I hate yago, this is very good!

quote:

CHAPTER 9

�WE COME IN PEACE?�

The Blue Meanie stared. Waited.

He was smaller than a horse, maybe pony-size. Four legs without evident feet. Powerpuff Girl legs. Two serpentine tentacles, one on each side of his low-slung grazer�s head. He might have been made out of liquid night, so black that he was blue only where light touched him directly. He had eyes, one on each side, again like a horse, but there was no life in those eyes, no sign of a soul burning through.

Jobs was probably right: It was a suit of some sort, Violet thought. Something was alive inside it, something presumably more vulnerable than this frightening apparition. One tentacle seemed to have been chopped in half. The midnight armor was scarred and scraped. The rocket-powered hind legs moved stiffly; both were charred black. The Meanie had definitely experienced some trouble. But he didn�t look as bad as he should, for slamming into a stone wall.

The creature waved its tentacles in quick, intricate patterns. Maybe some kind of language, communication. But when none of the humans responded in kind it stopped and simply waited.

�Go ahead,� Mo�Steel urged Jobs. �Talk to it.�

�I don�t know what to say,� Jobs admitted.

�We come in peace?� Olga suggested.

�Actually, we do,� Jobs said.

Violet took a step forward. �He may recognize that I�m female. Maybe that will reassure him.� That was her stated reason for taking the lead. The real reason was that she felt she wasn�t carrying her part of the burden. With her finger she couldn�t carry the stretcher, and that had meant the two boys had done most of the work. Violet was perfectly content with the notion that men and women had different abilities, different duties, and different avocations.

But she wasn�t content being a burden. She had to contribute something beyond her ability to recognize the artistic antecedents of the environments. Besides, she didn�t feel that the Meanie was threatening. It was wary, yes. But it wasn�t interested in killing her.

�Hello. I�m Miss Blake. Violet Blake.� She pointed slowly to herself and repeated, �Miss Blake. I�m very pleased to make your acquaintance.�

The Meanie watched with its soulless eyes. She pointed at Jobs and said his name, at Mo�Steel and Olga, saying each name in turn.

Then at Billy Weir.

She held her hands open, the universal sign (she hoped) that she carried no weapon and meant no harm.

The Meanie stared.

�Hey,� Jobs said.

�What?� Violet snapped, frustrated by the alien�s total lack of response.

�It�s Billy,� Jobs said.

Violet stepped back two steps, turned, hoping this wasn�t some sort of culturally offensive move, and looked at Billy Weir. His eyes were closed. His mouth was moving. Like slow, slow speech. From the corner of her eye, Violet caught movement. The Blue Meanie. It rose slowly, standing awkwardly on its hind legs. This revealed a flat oval panel on the front of its suit, on its chest, assuming always it had a chest.

Violet looked from Billy to the alien. There was no beam of light between them, nothing anyone could see, but something was happening. And then, looking past Billy, through the rectangular door, through the distant peaked
archway beyond, through the nearly forgotten arch that led outside, Violet saw something that brought her heart to her throat.

In a blaze of orange and red, the far-off sun was setting.

Darkness obliterated the outer door. Night had fallen. The darkness did not deepen inside the tower, but night was felt nevertheless. From all around now, from every shadowed corner, came sounds of shuffling, movement, dragging, and now malevolent whispering and sharp, hysterical tittering laughter that rose to a shriek.

�What the . . .� Olga cried.

�Someone�s there,� Jobs hissed.

Filling the rectangular doorway and cutting off any escape, standing on the steps, edging into the room, came every nightmare of a brilliant, twisted, poisoned mind.

Demons and monsters.

�Last Judgment,� Violet whispered.

quote:

CHAPTER 10

�BOSCH.�

�Ya-ahh!� Jobs cried.

�Whoa!� Mo�Steel yelled.

The demons skittered into the room, circling, keeping their distance but getting closer all the while.

�Bosch,� Violet said. �Oh, lord. It�s Bosch.�

An antlered deer stood on its hind legs and stared at her. Across the floor moved a huge fish head. The fish head had two human legs attached. The legs wore black boots and propelled the monster with kicks and scuffs. Protruding from the fish�s gaping mouth was the lower half of a human torso. The fish seemed to be trying to finish the human meal, kicking with its booted feet, trying to swallow more.

A huge rat walked erect and wore a Tin Man funnel hat.

A monstrously big mallard duck waddled past. A man�s hands protruded from either side like an extra pair of wings. The man�s spectacled face was trapped within the duck�s shoulders by a silver net. It was as if a duck had been grown around a man. The man�s eyes were desperate. He said nothing.

There came a rush of tiny demons that looked like children mutated with frog DNA. A blue- faced gnome. A shriveled man pierced through and through with a tree branch. Small, swift, red-skinned demons with cat whiskers. A green dragon carrying a tall, smoldering torch.

They were nightmares of deformity. Perverse creations made of animals and body parts. Walking tableaux of pain and suffering. And worse, delight in pain and suffering. There was no standing before them, no resistance possible, no way to hold on to any brave resolve.

Jobs felt his will dissolve in sheer, bloody panic. He turned and ran. He ran into Mo�Steel, who stood there, transfixed, horrified.

The impact stopped Jobs for just long enough.

�We have to get Billy!� Jobs yelled. He grabbed Mo�Steel�s arm and shook him. �Get Billy! We have to get out of here.�

�Got that right, Duck,� Mo�Steel yelled, voice quavering.

They fumbled for the stretcher handles, hands shaking, eyes bulging. Demons were filling the room. There were screams, giddy laughter, groans of deep agony.

�Let�s get out of here,� Olga moaned, sounding like one of the poor, tortured creatures.

�They�re just Cartoons,� Violet said, but without conviction.

One of the little red demons darted forward and stabbed at Jobs with a sharp stick. Jobs dropped his grip on the stretcher and Billy slammed head-down. Jobs wailed and held up his arm, showing the bleeding cut. The demon had skittered back, laughing and cavorting happily.

�Down the stairs!� Mo�Steel roared.

The Blue Meanie was already moving, heading for the stairs. But he stood aside as the panicked humans rushed past. From behind, Jobs heard a whirring sound, metallic, sudden, short. Then screams of pain and rage and the heavy tread of the Blue Meanie chasing down the stairs after them.

The stairs didn�t go far, maybe twenty feet to the next lower level. This time Jobs saw the Meanie turn and raise one front leg or hand or whatever it was. The whirring sound came again and a cloud sprayed from the Meanie. One of the demons, the fish-headed monstrosity, had descended the stairs. The Meanie�s cloud hit and the demon was shredded.

Fl�chettes, Jobs realized. The Meanie had fired a fl�chette gun, thousands of tiny, sharp-edged shards that hit like buckshot. The demons didn�t follow, but that didn�t stop the panicked flight. Through the only door. Down another stairway. Left. Left again and down farther.

Jobs felt as if he could keep running forever. The horrors were too fresh, too specific, not some vague nightmare feeling but things of flesh and blood that couldn�t be, couldn�t be anywhere outside of a psychotic�s imagination.
But at last exhaustion stopped them. Jobs was sobbing with each breath. His throat was raw, his arms like lead, his feet felt battered. His heart would not slow down, would not stop the hammering.

They dropped Billy none too gently and collapsed onto the stone floor. The Blue Meanie stayed with them, waited, watched.

Jobs raised himself on one elbow, looked fearfully around, saw no demons. He started to speak but knew his voice would come out shrill and hysterical. He closed his eyes, forced himself to think. They were Cartoons. Just Cartoons. Matter suspended and manipulated within very sophisticated force fields. The question of the science, the technology involved, calmed him.

�Okay, Violet,� Jobs said, �what is this? Where are we?�

�Bosch,� she said, eyes wide.

�What�s that mean?�

�Hieronymus Bosch. He inspired Brueghel. But no one ever beat Bosch for coming up with weird, scary . . . for sheer fantasy, for strange and disturbing images . . . Did you see that back there? Do you know where those things are from?�

Jobs shook his head.

�They�re from hell,� Violet whispered. �A painting called Last Judgment. Bosch painted hell. And now we�re in it.�

I did not know Brueghel, but the description of his painting reminded me of Bosch and now I know why!

# ¿ Feb 10, 2024 03:01

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

Okay, we're gonna have to keep a lookout for flechettes!

quote:

CHAPTER 11

�HERE THEY COME! HERE THEY COME!�

2Face waited, ready for her move, but waiting for the right time. Yago�s goal was clear and simple: By dividing the group, he hoped to rule. It wasn�t even subtle or original. It was high school. If he could decide who was in and who was out, he could basically create the �popular� clique. He would decide who was cool and who was uncool.

And just like any high school clique, the main criterion would be looks. Tamara and the baby were different, mutated, perhaps not entirely human. 2Face was deformed. Edward � unfortunately, Yago had finally noticed Jobs�s little brother � was some kind of mutant. So they were the early targets. If Yago could succeed in defining the four of them as outsiders, uncool, rejects, he would gain power.

That couldn�t happen. Stopping it would be close to impossible. 2Face knew enough to know that there is no appeals process for being labeled an outsider, uncool, a dork, a freak, whatever. Once the label was applied it was almost impossible to scrape it off.

She couldn�t count on her father for much. He didn�t get it. Besides, he was lost in mourning for his wife, 2Face�s mother. He was so preoccupied with one loss that he would do little to stop another one.

�Fine,� 2Face told herself. �I�ll take care of it myself.�

And she knew how.

2Face was going to draw a line between herself and Tamara. Tamara and the baby were real freaks. 2Face was a victim of an accident. There was a difference. If she could turn everyone against Tamara, she could save herself by becoming one of the persecutors instead of one of the persecuted.

It wasn�t pretty or elegant. It wasn�t moral. It would probably work.

Wylson had organized an early-warning system. T.R. and Tate had been sent down the ramp about three hundred yards. Half that distance away were 2Face�s father and Anamull. If the Riders came, T.R. would yell to Shy and Shy would yell to the main group as both sets of sentries raced for cover.

It wouldn�t provide much warning, but it would provide some.

That was it, 2Face had realized with a contemptuous sneer, that was all Wylson had managed to arrange. No doubt Wylson was a good businessperson. She was no general.

�I hear something,� Burroway hissed from his position by the arch.

Then, everyone heard it: Anamull and Shy bellowing, �Here they come! Here they come!�

Every face was turned to Wylson. Wylson was blank, staring. She licked her lips and glanced desperately at Tamara. The time had come. 2Face said, �We only have one soldier.�

Yago frowned, confused.

2Face plowed ahead quickly. �When they killed Errol the Riders took him on in single combat. Same when Tamara fought them downstairs. They seem to have some kind of code. Maybe some kind of alien chivalry.�

�So what?� Yago asked, anxious to regain the initiative.

�So why doesn�t Tamara challenge their leader, one on one?� 2Face said. �After all, not only is she a trained soldier, she�s . . . she seems to have . . . some special powers. We all know she�s different. Her and the baby both. Why don�t they go challenge the Riders?�

The sentries came racing breathlessly in.

�What are we going to do?� Anamull wailed.

�How many are there?� Wylson asked.

�I don�t know, like, like, ten,� Tate said.

�More,� Shy Hwang said, panting, hands on knees.

�Ritual single combat,� 2Face said, trying to keep the desperation and self-loathing out of her voice. They were all that was left of Homo sapiens. All that was left of Earth. They could be building a new civilization. Instead they were playing high-school games. �It�s the only way.�

The baby cooed.

Tamara said, �We�ll do it. We�ll do it for free. This time. But if we win, well, there may be a next time. And next time, there�ll be a price to be paid.�

2Face should have stuck with Jobs and crew, she's taking a turn for the worse!

quote:

CHAPTER 12

�DON�T MESS WITH A MAKER.�

Sergeant Tamara Hoyle heard the words coming out of her mouth and they scared her.

�And next time, there�ll be a price to be paid.�

What did that mean? Why had she said it? What was the baby up to? She had grown accustomed to the presence of the baby inside her head. She could feel it all the time.

At the start, back when she had first awakened from hibernation, she�d believed it was the normal connection of mother to child. At first it had been a tendril touching her own consciousness. A gentle touch, welcome, pleasurable, reassuring.

Then they had cut her umbilical cord and the baby�s touch had become a grasp. The tentative finger had become a fist. At first she�d been confused. Not knowing what was baby and what was Tamara. But as the baby�s control had grown, she�d been more and more clear in her mind about what was Tamara and what was baby. There was very little now that was Tamara, except when the baby became bored or distracted.

The baby never ate.

The baby wasn�t interested in small talk. The baby wasn�t interested in the minute-by-minute matters that were handled by Tamara�s brain. She was free to eat or not, sit, stand, sleep, smile, or frown. The baby had no interest in her as a person. The baby cared only for the serious decisions.

The baby had a goal, though Tamara didn�t know what it was. She could sense it. She could feel the energy, the will. The baby was determined. The baby was confident, but scared, too. Malice. That�s what she felt from that other consciousness. Malice and intent and determination.

One thing Tamara knew, or thought she knew at least: The baby wasn�t really interested in the Remnants. It had other goals and the humans were shadow figures, objects to be used or discarded. All except Billy Weir. Billy was no shadow to the baby. Billy was bright and sharp-edged and dangerous. But Billy was no longer here.

The others . . . Yago, Wylson, 2Face, all of them with their transparent games, they were all beside the point. The baby played a different game. What was the baby? Tamara didn�t know. She thought she saw parts of herself in him, parts of his father. She wanted the baby to be her own flesh and blood. It was. It wasn�t. Her feelings changed from hour to hour. It was human, it wasn�t. It was something else. Something unnatural, or perhaps a natural result of the terribly unnatural circumstances of its birth. She�d been shot, wounded, collapsed. She�d been placed into hibernation, shot and pregnant.

And five hundred years later she�d been revived and the wound was healed and the baby had been born. How long ago? And how had it been born at all from a body that was, to all intents and purposes, dead? An unnatural natural consequence of unnatural circumstances. A mutation. An adaptation. Or something else.

Either way, the baby was in her mind, and she could not resist it.

And when she�d fought the Rider, when she�d done battle, she�d had strength and speed that she knew had not come from her Marine Corps training or her rigorous fitness routine. It was wonderful. Whatever the source, it was wonderful.

Power. From somewhere else.

She felt it now as she sauntered out through the arch. Felt the calm that power brings. Tamara had placed the baby inside the arch. It didn�t matter. The baby�s control did not rely on touch. Tamara shouldered the spear, nonchalant, and stepped out onto the ramp. She took up a stance, legs apart, knees slightly bent, free hand resting on hip.

The Riders � she counted six, not the ten or dozen that Anamull and Shy had imagined. They were skimming along on their hoverboards, holding in a rough line abreast. It was happening again. A weirdness in her vision. Like she could see a million miles. No, that wasn�t it, either. It wasn�t super vision, just different vision. She saw the Riders in detail, detail that went below the skin and the bone. She saw them down to their muscles and tendons. It was as if she could see the very nerves, the connection that ran from brain to hand, from hand back to brain. She saw into and through the Riders. She felt she could almost see the thoughts taking shape in their heads.

The Riders saw her and reined in their hoverboards.

�Hi, boys,� Tamara said. �Nice night, huh?�

The Riders glared at her. They could glare, the Riders could. They stared at her with an array of insect eyes, small and large. The writhing snake head, the second head, though Tamara knew it was not a true head, more like an animated mouth, gnashed razor teeth.

The lead Rider � you could tell because the leader�s hoverboard bore a series of small blue daubs attached to the leading edge � let loose the earsplitting shriek. Tamara did not quail. She pointed one long finger at her own chest, then turned it to the leader. �You and me.� She spread her hands wide to make the invitation clear. Right here,
right now, one-on-one.

The Rider�s face turned a darker shade of rust. Anger? No, the baby knew, worry. The Rider�s eating head extended a black tongue and tasted the air. Anxiety. Behind her, Tamara could sense and hear the group gathered in the archway, the bolder ones, anyway. The baby was there. Tamara could see the scene through his eyes. His impossible, eyeless eyes. She could see herself, all alone, before the towering, hovering Riders.

The baby laughed.

Tamara cocked her head. �Well? You here to fight or just to enjoy the view?�

The Rider could not possibly understand her words, of course, but he knew that he was being mocked. A guttural series of clicks issued from his mouth and the other Riders withdrew, forming a semicircle a hundred feet behind their leader.

Now the blood surged through Tamara�s muscles. Now the nerves tingled. Now her every sense was trained, not on the Rider�s face or arms, but within him, down into his core. He would strike with his boomerang.

A flick of movement and a curved, toothed stick flew. It was thrown at Tamara�s head, but meant to miss. It was a trick: The return flight of the boomerang would slice her neck. Tamara didn�t flinch as the boomerang passed the first time. She waited, eyes on the Rider.

The boomerang curved and returned without any seeming loss of blinding speed. Tamara could hear its flit-flit-flit sound. She stuck her spear back, slapped the boomerang�s leading edge, killing its speed. It dropped straight down and she caught it in her free hand and threw it back without drawing breath.

The boomerang flew. The Rider chief dodged. The boomerang flew on and caught one of the other Riders full in his face. A shriek of pain. The injured Rider fell from his hoverboard, landed hard. He tore at the boomerang, firmly wedged into his main head, just between the large upper eyes and the smaller lower eyes. The chief glanced back at his fallen comrade.

�Yeah,� Tamara said with a laugh that echoed from the baby.

The chief surged at her, slid back on his board, and used the underside of the board as a battering ram. The board shot through unoccupied space. Tamara leaped straight up, high, impossibly high, more than her own height. She sliced her spear horizontally. Missed! The Rider chief had dodged just in time.

Tamara fell, but as she fell she ripped the spear point down and scored a deep cut on the Rider�s left forefoot. She landed, stabbed up and at an angle, and buried the point of her spear in the chief�s lower belly, just beneath the beetle carapace.

Things began to happen to her. Things that those who watched would never later be able to explain or even sequence. She rolled beneath the chief�s hoverboard and threw her spear. It hit one of the Riders and skewered his eating head.

On her back, upward kick, she connected with the back edge of the wounded chief�s unstable hoverboard. The chief toppled off and landed face first in the dust. His board shot away, unguided. Tamara back somersaulted, landed, kicked, and flew high to land with both boots planted on the chief�s shoulders. There was a crunching sound, a bundle of twigs being snapped. She snatched the chief�s scimitar and ran, screaming, straight at the remaining four Riders.

She leaped with far more than human muscle and flew at the nearest Rider, sword point straight out in front. The Rider backed up, reared back, and Tamara changed direction in midair. Changed direction without touching anything. Part of her mind registered this fact as impossible. And yet, her wild leap changed direction like some mad curveball and she swept her scimitar across and sliced both heads from one of the Riders.

The last three uninjured Riders turned their hoverboards and raced away at full speed, shrieking, yowling. Tamara landed easily and calmly walked back to the chief, who was fatally injured, but was taking a while to accept that fact.
Tamara knelt by him and looked down at him with interest, right into his faceted, emotionless eyes.

�Don�t mess with a Maker,� she whispered.

�Get their weapons,� she instructed the slack-jawed onlookers.

She winked at 2Face, gathered up the baby, and only with greatest effort of will concealed the exhaustion that was like the ground opening up to swallow her.

Well poo poo.

I guess it's good that Tamara is still in there, but poo poo.

# ¿ Feb 11, 2024 00:22

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

Hard agree

# ¿ Feb 12, 2024 18:09

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

Sorry had a couple early days and went to bed without posting. We are half way through this book.

quote:

CHAPTER 13

�MOTHER IS CONFUSED.�

�They�re coming down the steps!� Violet said tersely.

Jobs had seen them. The demons, the tittering, creepy, skin-crawling mob of them were shadowing the humans, following. Lower, always lower. Every path going up was blocked. Every door leading to the outside was filled with demons. Impossible not to conclude that the demons were herding them. Guiding them ever lower. Down and down. To some inferno? To some vision of hell?

Jobs resented it. Beyond being scared, he resented it. This is what came of superstition, he told himself, knowing he was being unreasonable. Some late-Middle-Ages painter didn�t know his painting would become a real-life horror a billion miles away from Earth. Still, Jobs resented it. This is what came of believing nonsense.

The Blue Meanie had become a part of the group. It wasn�t something anyone had decided, it had just happened. They moved together, Jobs, Mo�Steel, Violet, Olga, Billy, and now the Meanie. Down stone steps. Across echoing chambers. Through doors. Around open wells that might go down forever.

No, Jobs reminded himself, the wells didn�t go down forever. They could go no farther than the outer hull of the ship. This was a ship. This was not some version of hell wrapped up inside the Tower of Babel. This was the ship�s attempt to invent an environment based on input it could not possibly understand.

The ship � whether person or machine � was merely using the data it had available. It probably didn�t even understand that the data was art, not some representation of reality. The ship was building a world for them, for humans, and may not know that it was using data derived from an outrageous imagination.

That�s what Jobs tried to tell himself, but a different feeling was growing, a suspicion. What rational creature could fail to see the difference between fact and fiction? The ship, the alien or computer, or whatever it was, could see actual humans, could see what they were, how they looked, how they moved, spoke, ate, drank. Surely the ship noticed that there was a disconnect between the actual humans and the artistic re-creations of them. Surely in all the terabytes of data the ship had downloaded from the shuttle, all the culture and history, the books and photos and recordings, surely the ship had been able to figure out what was real and what was not.

The ship was messing with them. That�s what Jobs felt, though he couldn�t prove it. The ship had an agenda. The ship was up to something.

Or else the ship was just stupid.

Could it � machine or organism � be this powerful and sophisticated and yet be stupid? Possible. Termites made huge mounds, self-contained civilizations of enormous complexity, but no termite had yet learned to read. Powerful and stupid? Was the ship some sort of intelligence so profoundly alien that it simply couldn�t understand the data? Could only plug it in and hope for the best?

�We need a rest,� Jobs said.

Mo�Steel nodded. �I have blisters on my blisters.�

�Okay, right here, then,� Jobs said and he set down the stretcher none too gently. He was also bitterly resenting Billy now. The guy should either wake up or die. Instead he lay there like a vegetable.

�Let�s close that door at least,� Olga said. She slammed a wooden door behind them. It would only delay the appearance of the demons who would eventually arrive via a stairway to the left or perhaps appear in the following open door. Jobs lay back flat on the cool stone. The Meanie stopped, stood apart, but did not move away.

�How is there light in here?� Jobs wondered. �There�s no light source.�

Violet said, �There�s no painting without light.�

�We�re in a maze,� Mo�Steel said. He jerked a thumb at the Blue Meanie. �Maybe he knows where we are.�

�Why don�t you ask him?� Jobs said, snappish.

Violet sat hugging her legs to her. In his present resentful mood Jobs was glad at least that the �Jane� had not managed to find anything to sit on but floor.

�We should never have left the shuttle,� Jobs muttered, daring anyone to argue the point. No one took the bait.

�I kind of hate to bring this up,� Mo�Steel said awkwardly. �But I need some privacy.�

Jobs shot him a frown, then realized what Mo�Steel was talking about. �Just turn away.�

�Not that. The other,� Mo�Steel said primly.

�Sweetie, it�s a natural thing, we all have to go,� Olga said.

Mo�Steel blushed and glanced at Violet.

Jobs rolled his eyes. The truth was, he could use some privacy himself. But the room was nothing but bare, blank stone. There was a well, one of the open holes on the far side of the chamber, but there was nothing blocking it off.

�We�ll all turn away,� Olga said. �Miss Blake? We�re all turning away.�

Violet shook herself out of a reverie. �Excuse me?�

�We�re all turning away. That way,� Olga repeated.

�Ah,� Violet said, grasping the situation at last.

Mo�Steel moved off and Jobs focused his attention on the alien. The Blue Meanie stood at rest. He seemed to be looking, insofar as he could be said to be looking at anything particular, at Billy. And once again, Billy�s lips were moving silently.

Suddenly the Meanie reared up, not standing on its hind legs, but seeming to lengthen its front legs to bare the oval panel on its chest.

This again, Jobs thought.

The panel brightened. Like a low-wattage light had gone on behind it. A stream of letters and symbols appeared, racing by.

�Hey!� Jobs yelled. �Look at this.�

The letters scrolled, widened to fill the screen, shrank, split into multiple lines, then resolved back to one. The scroll slowed. Individual letters could be seen, then clusters forming nonsense words.

Then . . .

I AM FOUR SACRED STREAMS.

Jobs was on his feet. Violet came and stood beside him.

�It�s communicating,� Violet said.

�It�s writing,� Jobs agreed. �How? And what are we supposed to do, write back? We don�t have anything with a keyboard.�

�Or pen and paper,� Violet added.

�Yeah, that would have worked, too, I guess,� Jobs said. He yelled, �Mo! Are you done? The Meanie�s communicating.�

�Can I have a minute here?� Mo�Steel yelled back, sounding uncharacteristically petulant.

�My name is Violet Blake,� Violet said to the alien.

No answer. The message remained fixed: I AM FOUR SACRED STREAMS.

�Maybe that�s all the language it�s acquired,� Jobs suggested.

Mo�Steel rejoined the group, refusing to meet anyone�s eye. Another time Jobs would have been amused by his friend�s embarrassment. Mo�Steel wasn�t just old-fashioned, he was positively Victorian.

�What�s up?� Mo�Steel asked.

Jobs pointed at the glowing oval and the five printed words.

�Huh,� Mo�Steel said. �Is that his name? Like a Native American name? Or is he saying he actually is four streams?�

�Four streams of what?� Olga wondered.

�Sacred streams,� Violet said with a shrug. �Oh!�

The message had changed.

MEANING UNDERSTOOD VIOLET BLAKE.

�How does he know my name?� she wondered.

�You told him,� Jobs pointed out. �A few minutes ago. You said, �I�m Violet Blake.� It just took him this long to decipher your response.�

�It�s hard to see how we�ll ever have a good conversation at this speed,� Violet said.

Jobs knelt down beside Billy. He turned so he could see the alien and the boy at the same time. �Hello, Four Sacred Streams. What is your species called?�

Billy Weir slowly, silently repeated the words. It took a long time. The alien replied.

WE ARE THE CHILDREN. THE TRUE CHILDREN OF MOTHER.

�Doesn�t clear up much,� Mo�Steel said. �We�re all our Mother�s children.�

But Jobs smiled, deeply happy. He gently smoothed Billy�s hair. �Good job, Billy. Ask him what he wants.�

This time Billy�s lips did not move. The answer came immediately.

I MUST STOP TRANSMISSIONS FROM THIS NODE.

Jobs was more surprised by the speed of response and Billy�s failure to mouth the question. Touch? Was that it?

Jobs pulled his hand away from Billy. �Ask him what he means by node.�

Billy began mouthing the words, slowly, painfully slowly.

NODE 31 PROJECTS THIS ENVIRONMENT.

Jobs held his breath, touched his hand to Billy�s arm, and said, �Why must you stop transmission from this node?�

The reply was immediate.

THIS ENVIRONMENT WILL KILL ME, the Meanie wrote. Then it added, THIS ENVIRONMENT WILL KILL YOU.

Jobs felt his hand trembling. He was communicating with an alien species. How he was doing so he couldn�t say. He�d worry about that later. �Are you saying this ship is trying to kill us?�

MOTHER WILL KILL US.

�Is . . . when you say �Mother� do you mean the ship? Is the ship Mother?�

Yes.

�Why would the . . . why would Mother want to kill us?�

MOTHER IS, the Meanie wrote, then hesitated over the next word before adding, CONFUSED.

Jobs frowned, intent on getting to some understanding. But just then the demons reappeared, a rush of them, running down the steps, led now by a tall, painfully thin man with a bare skull for a head. Mo�Steel yelped.

�Mother has to have downloaded Monet, Utrillo, C�zanne, O�Keeffe . . . but she picks Bosch?� Violet complained.

COMMUNICATE MORE LATER, Four Sacred Streams said.

�Yeah. Run now, talk later,� Mo�Steel agreed.

quote:

CHAPTER 14

�THE CHAMELEON.�

Bad move, 2Face told herself. It had been a monumentally bad move. She had tried to save herself by sacrificing Tamara and the baby. She had played the game of high-school politics and lost. Tamara owned the group now; no one was going to expel her.

Tamara was the toughest kid in school now. She had respect. Which left 2Face and Edward as the designated freaks. With the threat of the Riders receding, Yago would make his move against 2Face. He would win. 2Face would lose and become the all-purpose goat. It was inevitable.

In this place, scared, disoriented, hungry and thirsty, and with shaky leadership, the people were reverting to more primitive models. Good-bye to liberal civilization with its tolerance and inclusiveness. Scared, powerless people needed scapegoats. Yago knew this and Yago knew that the one who is different is always the first choice to play the role of scapegoat.

Burn the witch.

2Face touched her face. Touched the crenellated line where whole flesh met scar tissue. Another few weeks and she�d have been through the surgery and treatment. Another few weeks and she would have been normal. She�d made a virtue of being a freak, back on Earth. In a place where ugliness was merely a curable medical condition, her jarring, disconcerting face was almost a statement: Look, here�s pain, here�s ugliness, deal with it.

In tame, secure, enlightened, early-twenty-first-century America, it was safe enough to be provocative and different. This place was a long way from all that. 2Face looked at the others, scanning, hoping to find some angle she could work. She had to avoid becoming �the other,� the outsider. The only way to do that was to find a substitute victim.
She�d tried to make Tamara that victim, but that was before Tamara had single-handedly slaughtered the Riders.

2Face knew what she was thinking was wrong. Obviously it was wrong. Or would be, back in the world, but here she was fighting for her life. She was the freak. She was the ugly one. By the relentless logic of Yago�s need, 2Face would be the one to be shunned, excluded, blamed, and vilified.

2Face slumped, head in hands. Yago was carefully not looking in her direction. He was waiting till the rush of the victory had worn off. He was waiting for his moment. Hours? A day, even? He hated her for nothing, for a casual blow-off way back on Earth. And for being smart enough to see him as he was.

2Face rocked slowly back and forth on her heels, glared at her father, raged at him silently. Didn�t he know they�d go for him next? He was the father of the freak, after all. Only one thing to do. Only one way. She had to leave. Walk now, before they could make her run. Go to Jobs and his group � if they were still alive somewhere. Exile. Take Edward and go to Jobs. It would be humiliating, but 2Face could work with Jobs and Mo�Steel. Even that �Jane,� Miss Blake.

No other way.

But how? Which way? Not through that little door, that was for sure. The only way was out onto the ramp. She got up and found Edward. �Edward, we have to go.�

�Where?�

�We�re going to find your brother.�

�Sebastian?�

2Face frowned. �Sebastian? Oh, is that Jobs�s birth name?�

�Yeah. His name is Sebastian. Only sometimes people call him Jobs.�

�A good name to change,� 2Face muttered. �Okay, look, I need you to do something first, before we can go. You know that thing where you kind of make yourself look like whatever is around you?�

Edward stared blankly. �What?�

�That chameleon thing. You kind of blend in. I need you to do that because we have to take the spear that Ms. Lefkowitz-Blake has, okay? See the spear? The long, pointy thing leaning against the wall by her?�

Edward rolled his eyes. �I know what a spear is, 2Face. But what were you saying about chameleons?�

�Edward, sometimes you seem to kind of change a little and look like the stuff around you. Didn�t you know? Your skin and even your clothes and all will kind of look like the walls or whatever is near.�

Edward looked down at himself, searching for some evidence of this. He found a gray line that ran up his arm. He touched the line and looked up at 2Face in wonder. �It�s like the line between the stones.�

2Face nodded. �Yes, it is.�

�How did this happen?�

He looked as if he might start crying. 2Face took his hand and held it. �Hey, look, it�s not a bad thing. I mean. . . hey, don�t you ever watch cartoons or whatever about superheroes? Spider-Man? This is like a superpower you have.�

Edward looked unsure, teetering on the edge between crying or embracing this new idea. His eyes went shrewd. �A superpower?�

�Yeah.� 2Face nodded and winked. �Now, look, we need you to get that spear. Try not to let anyone see you. Or at least not notice you.�

�The Chameleon,� Edward said, trying out the name.

�Whatever. Get the spear. We need some kind of weapon. Meet me just outside the archway. I�m going to grab one of those meat pies. We need to move fast.�

Edward headed toward the spear, stopped, looked back, saw 2Face�s encouraging smile, and opted to creep along the wall.

Not a true chameleon, 2Face thought. Not yet, anyway. He still looked like the boy he was; he didn�t look like the wall. It was just that his skin color changed somehow. He blended in. It was like a soldier in camouflage � the camouflage didn�t make you look like a bush, but it made it hard for the human eye to pick you out. Edward was helped by the fact that Wylson had decided to call yet another meeting of her board of directors, or whatever she called it. The adults plus Yago.

2Face saw her father, head bowed under the weight of his grief, join the group. His every physical movement broadcast the fact that he would make no trouble for anyone, that he was lost in his own world.

2Face was furious with him. But at the same time, the prospect of setting out alone in this terrifying place, maybe never seeing him again, was daunting. She�d lost too much to want to lose any more. Edward was standing by the arch, spear in hand. 2Face herself had lost sight of him at some point.

She shook herself, tried to push away the intruding edge of self-pity, and went to Edward. No one cried out to stop them as they stepped, alone, onto the ramp.

�Up or down, left or right?� 2Face wondered.

To the right, downhill, were the remains of the slaughtered Riders.

�Up it is.�

# ¿ Feb 14, 2024 01:42

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quote:

CHAPTER 15

�BACK TO THE SHIP.�

2Face and Edward walked up the ramp. The world was dark, stars were few, and the moon was nowhere in sight. But the ramp, the very ground under their feet, seemed to glow enough to remain visible.

At any moment a troop of Riders might loom up in front of them and then, 2Face knew, it would all be over very quickly. She was not Tamara. She could not fight and win, despite the comforting heft of the spear in her hand.

She looked back from time to time, half expecting pursuit. Yago would be furious: He�d be deprived of his intended victims. It was a victory for 2Face, but a pitifully small one.

They walked for a time, maybe a half hour, maybe less. And now 2Face was just weary. The rush of escape was long past and the exhaustion was causing her feet to stumble and the spear to lie very heavy on her shoulder.

�You�re probably tired,� she said to Edward. �Anyway, we won�t find Jobs in the dark, right, kid?�

�I guess not.�

�Okay, well, let�s see if we can find a place to lie down.�

There was an archway, one of the endless series of archways always to their left, always threatening. �We can�t lie down out here in the open,� 2Face said, trying to convince herself.

Truth was, neither choice looked good. Out in the open they might be seen by Riders. But who knew what lay beyond any of the arches? 2Face hushed Edward unnecessarily and strained to hear. Nothing. She stepped closer to the dark, open door. Nothing inside.

�I�m scared,� Edward said.

�Don�t be scared,� 2Face said. �The Riders will worry about the main group back there. They don�t even know we�re here, right?�

She took Edward�s hand and led him through the archway. Her foot landed on nothing and she pitched forward. Instinctively she tightened her grip on Edward and drew him after her. They fell, tumbling, head over heels, screaming, falling farther than she had ever fallen before. Long seconds, flashes of dark red shapes, eerie forms,
and still they fell.

Smothering!

2Face had fallen into something sticky, into and through something that felt like warm taffy covering her entire body. She couldn�t breathe. Then, air! She sucked in deeply. Air. She could breathe and see and yet she felt the sticky,
pliable covering over her entire body, every square inch and �

She fell away from the ship. Fell into space. Fell toward a raging inferno of exploding gas. A billion nuclear explosions. A sky-filling, universe-filling mass of seething yellow and orange fire. She slowed, stopped, hung in midair, only it was not sky but space.

The ship was above her. The hole she�d fallen out of closed and disappeared. With a psychic wrench that left her wanting to be sick, the ship above became the ship below. Her perspective shifted and now she was floating above the ship, above a vast, endless topography of dull metallic extrusions, and glowing bubbles, and snapping arcs of what seemed to be red and purple neon.

It was impossible to understand. Impossible to make sense of. Above her head now, the star. So close she could see whirlpools in the superheated gases, trembling seas of light, and sudden volcanic eruptions that shot planet-sized streamers into space.

The star seemed close enough that she could reach out and touch it. She held up her hand and saw clearly the transparent goo that covered her, that fed her oxygen, that bled away the blowtorchtip heat, that she hoped and prayed would shield her from the murderous storm of radiation.

She saw Edward, just a few feet away, like herself encased, like herself staring wide-eyed. The ship was passing so close to the star that it could only be deliberate. The galaxy was a big place and so empty that all the stars and planets together didn�t amount to more than dust. Yet, here she was, within cosmic millimeters of a star.

The ship slid past the star, fast enough that 2Face could actually see the star passing by beneath them like the ground seen through a car window. It was an impossible speed. A speed unlike anything any human had achieved.
2Face cried out in awe. She was an insect crushed between hammer and anvil. A cinder twirling above the fire.

Suddenly two massive pillars of blinding yellow light stabbed from star to ship. It was impossible to tell the size because it was impossible to tell the distance, but 2Face felt their vastness, felt them to be miles thick, an energy stream of sufficient power to light Earth forever.

Just as suddenly the beams of light terminated. The ship had replenished its energy. 2Face found she was panting, gasping. Not for lack of air but overwhelmed, stunned.

�Back. I have to get back,� she said and heard her voice vibrate through the bone. She began floating back down, falling in slow motion toward the ship. How? A body in motion . . .

What had moved her?

�Have to get Edward,� she said, once again feeling rather than hearing her own voice. She began to drift toward Edward, who still stared at the sun. He could go blind, 2Face thought, but at the same time she realized that she had not. The goo, the film around her had shielded her eyes.

Some kind of space suit for going outside the ship. That was clear enough. She and Edward had fallen down a hole that must have been part of the original architecture of the ship, not part of its art-derived artificial environment.
Whoever had built the ship must use the wells as a quick means for exiting the ship. The gooey suit was applied automatically.

Why? For the ship�s crew to do maintenance? Surely not. A ship this advanced must have easier ways to deal with external maintenance. And was it mere coincidence that the ship was passing so close to a star? What were the
odds?

Sight-seeing? Was that it? Was the ship merely providing her with an awesome sight? Jump down the well and see a star up close and personal from the cozy safety of a high-tech space suit? A trickle of suspicion. A ship with the power to create vast artificial environments, a ship that allowed passengers to literally jump out into space as she had done? It was like an amusement park: rides and Sims and animatrons. It was Disney World and Universal Studios.

Surely not. That couldn�t be it. Who built a ship this vast for entertainment? 2Face reached Edward. She tapped him with a goo-covered hand. �Edward. Can you hear me?�

He turned in response to her touch. When he spoke she could not hear his words. She motioned back to the ship. She mouthed the words, �Back to the ship.�

The two floating bodies began falling once more, slow but steady. The visual field shifted once more as 2Face�s brain struggled to cope with the irrational. Her stomach lurched and she vomited. The vomit passed through the goo. In seconds it steamed and evaporated, leaving nothing but a smudge of dust behind.

Now the ship was definitely above her once more and she felt herself no longer to be falling, but rather being sucked upward. The hole, or at least a hole, appeared again. Together 2Face and Edward fell/rose toward a round, black cave. Shadow wrapped around them, the hatch closed, the absolute loss of the star�s light left 2Face feeling blind.

She could feel the goo covering sliding away, slipping off her body, puddling, and then whisking off on its own. A current of warm air billowed beneath her and she and Edward floated upward.

�That was cool,� Edward said.

That was cool!

quote:

CHAPTER 16

�GET UP OFF YOUR KNEES AND DEAL WITH IT.�

It was one thing for Jobs to act like the demons were just figments of someone�s imagination. Mo�Steel wasn�t so sure. Who was to say that Bosch or whatever his name was, the old, dead artist, who was to say that he hadn�t gotten a sneak peek at what the real, actual hell looked like?

If these things creeping and slithering and chattering in the dark weren�t actual demons, actual residents of the inferno, they were close enough. They were all that Mo�Steel�s grandmother had ever led him to expect of the real, actual hell.

He hadn�t heard much about such things from his parents. The whole family was Catholic, but Mo�Steel�s mother and father were Catholic by way of M.I.T. and U.C. Santa Cruz and Northwestern University. His nana was Catholic by way of a tiny village in the Chiapas region of Mexico.

Olga would have been shocked and a little offended to find such ideas occupying a place in her son�s mind. But Nana�s stories had made a bigger impact than Olga�s lukewarm reassurances. Mo�Steel had always favored the more extreme version of just about any story. Eternal damnation wasn�t much of a peril in Olga�s version of events. Like jumping over a puddle as opposed to leaping a bottomless canyon. Nana�s view was extreme and bizarre and
imaginative, and Mo�Steel liked his risks big. A desire for comfort and security had never registered with Mo�Steel.

Nana had an imagination. She had been a cleaning woman most of her life, married to a handyman. She looked older than she was, probably. To Mo�Steel she looked about ninety, though that couldn�t be the truth. And Nana told great stories. She could have been a writer. But she�d come up with nothing any weirder and more disturbing than the distorted, insane, absurd, half-man, half-beast things that shadowed Mo�Steel and his friends through the Tower of Babel.

That�s what made Mo�Steel wonder if they might not be real. At least real in the sense that the artist had somehow gotten a glimpse of the actual hell. He didn�t mention any of this out loud. Jobs would have rolled his eyes. Olga would have made a face. Violet would have patiently explained that what they were confronting was only an animated version of a painter�s vision.

Mo�Steel wondered about Billy Weir, though. What did he think of it? What did he see?

�Always down,� Jobs muttered, not for the first time. �They�re definitely forcing us downward.�

�Our alien friend seems not to object to the direction,� Olga observed.

�Why don�t they just move in and force us to fight?� Jobs wondered.

�Because the devil don�t live in the attic, �migo,� Mo�Steel said.

�What?�

�Nothing.�

�I wonder how far down we�ve come?� Jobs asked no one in particular. �There has to be a bottom eventually.�

�Four-hundred-nineteen steps,� Mo�Steel said. �The risers probably average about nine inches, so that�s three-thousand-seven-hundred-seventy-one inches, or three-hundred-fourteen feet and three inches.�

�That�s quite a talent,� Violet said. �Do you do square roots?�

Mo�Steel grinned. �Pick a number.�

�Four hundred and seventy-one.�

Mo�Steel considered for a moment. �Twenty-one point seven oh two five.�

�How do you do that?�

Mo�Steel shrugged. �In goes the question, out pops the answer. Just one of those things.�

Olga came over and gave her son a walking hug. �I should have had you earlier. You could have helped me through calc.�

Mo�Steel felt his mother trembling. She kept glancing back at the pursuing shadow. So, Mo�Steel thought, Nana told you some stories, too.

�More stairs,� Violet reported from slightly ahead.

The demon army edged in closer now, just a few arm�s-lengths away. A wall of grinning, insinuating, leering, deformed faces. The Blue Meanie limped down the stairs at an unhurried pace.

�It�s lighter down there,� Violet reported.

Mo�Steel shifted his grip on the stretcher. He glanced back at Jobs, who shook his head, indicating that he didn�t need a rest. Mo�Steel saw the Blue Meanie below. He�d stopped. He was waiting for them to catch up. The mirrored surface of his armor gleamed. They started down the stairs. The demons set up a sudden loud, triumphant squall of catcalls and laughter and curses, and Mo�Steel almost dropped his hold on the stretcher.

They reached the bottom of the stairs and were no longer in a blank stone chamber. In the distance, what looked very much like an old picture of a bombed-out Berlin from World War II. Wrecked buildings, smoldering fires, a landscape buried in ash, air full of sparks, shadows within shadows. Within the blasted landscape Mo�Steel could see things moving, writhing, like maggots on a piece of meat.

Closer at hand, a more vivid nightmare. Scenes of torture, scenes of horror, sights that made the flesh creep and the mind recoil. At the base of a tree a hand reached up out of the dirt, a hand belonging to someone buried
alive, a hand that beckoned for recusal.

On the flat tabletop roof of a low building scurried a creature with a white-bearded human head that seemed to be attached with a sharp stick to two scurrying rat legs. Two men were yoked to a massive red millstone. They pulled it around and around on a spiked turntable. Where the millstone should have been crushing wheat it crushed people.
An army of goblins drove herds of starved men while others were swallowed into the dirt or cooked alive or . . .

Mo�Steel dropped the stretcher from numb hands.

There was a sound coming from him, a low keening sound, a weird unnatural sound like nothing his own voice could produce. Mo�Steel backed up the stairs, slipped, and fell hard. He turned and on hands and knees scrabbled up, stopped when he saw the army of demons descending toward him.

Mo�Steel heard Jobs�s voice coming from somewhere, far away, another planet, a million miles from this place.

�Strap it up, Mo, strap it up.�

Mo�Steel couldn�t answer, could only wail, could only cringe and cry. He felt someone holding his head and heard singing. Singing that couldn�t begin to drown out the screams and shrieks and cries of agony from everywhere.
His mother was holding him, rocking him, but she was crying, too, whimpering like him. Suddenly rough hands shoved Olga away. A startling slap. A sharp pain on his face.

Another slap. Another.

And then all he saw was Violet Blake�s furious face, right in his.

�We already have one coma patient, we don�t need another,� Violet barked. �It�s just a painting. It�s just a painting. Get up off your knees and deal with it.�

Mo�Steel stared, uncomprehending.

Violet Blake slapped him again and winced at the pain it caused her. �Move!� she yelled, furious, red in the face. �Get up and move!�

Mo�Steel stood up on shaky legs. He moved.

Miss Blake is quickly becoming my favorite character. Although, if I were faced with a living, breathing Bosch painting, I think I'd shut down too.

# ¿ Feb 15, 2024 02:12

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