Short Short stories

[Moontanman]

It was one of those days that you never forget, early spring, very warm for the time of year. Blue almost cloudless sky and the sun was giving off a warmth that had everyone out side to enjoy the weather. Anything could happen on a day like that but what did happen would forever be remembered as "The day"

 

Really the story starts several months before. I had been working at the local small town grocery store and making what was for me unbelievable money, $1.25 an hour! I had been riding to work during the summer on a used 125 Yamaha Enduro that I had been given as a gift two years before. It was pretty much ragged out when I got it and I didn't do it much good, seizing it up three times due to forgetting to put oil in the Yama Lube tank. Finally I had burned a hole in the piston and it had to be rebuilt but by that time my eye and my mind was on an RD 350. By early fall and many late nights at the grocery store stocking shelves until 4:00 in the morning I had finally raised enough money to buy my beautiful new RD 350 Yamaha twin cylinder two stroke.

 

I had haunted the motorcycle shop so much fawning over the RD 350 I think the owner was beginning to believe I has taken up residence there. But after very little haggling over my trade in or the price of the RD 350, late one cool fall night I was pulling out of the parking lot of the local Yamaha shop and tooling along the highway. The bugs in my teeth jokes must have been inspired by me my grin was so wide.

 

Riding to school a couple of days later was when the great rivalry was to start. About two dozen kids rode to school every day, it was a motley group of bikes almost all the dirt bikes were ragged out as dirt bikes are prone to get. The street bikes were almost all clean and polished, Honda's every one. We all had to park off school grounds due to some nit picky county rules so all us "motorcyclists" parked across the street clustered together in an abandoned sand lot. As soon as I rode up the teasing began. Most of the dirt bikes in the lot were two strokes as most were back then but none of the street bikes were. My RD 350 was the only two stroke sreet bike there. The four stroke street bike riders ran a constant dialog of insults and barbs at the two stroke dirt bike riders calling them chain saws with wheels, smoke bombs, and such. When I rode up on an RD 350 Yamaha the ribbing took an almost mean turn. Probably has beer cans for pistons, when we ride away you go last so we all don't get oil all over our bikes from your smoke. The list of verbal jabs was endless.

 

One guy in particular was especially condescending. He rode a 450 Honda, it had so much motor work done to it that it was rumored that the motor work cost more than the bike. It was also the fastest bike ridden to school by any of us. It was also the biggest. Immediately the calls for a drag race began. Since I had just started riding the RD it was still so different from the dirt bike I was used to I was afraid to even think of racing but the ribbing went on. Through the snow of winter when most of us rode the school bus the talk of me racing the 450 Honda went on. By the time spring had arrived the talk had reached an almost fevered pitch.

 

Back to The Day. It had rained the day before so none of us had ridden to school the previous day. But on such a great day everyone who had a bike was riding That Day. As was usual when I rode up Jerry Bailey, who rode the Honda 450, began to talk about how bad he would out run me if I would just give him the chance. For some reason that morning I immediately shot back. "How about today at noon in front of the high school?" I don't know why those words came out of my mouth, I had long ago decided not to race. The thought of possibly wrecking and marring the shiny finish on my RD that I worked so hard to maintain had to this point held me back. His reply of "Great today at noon!" kept echoing in my head as I attended my morning classes. "Why had I said such a stupid thing?" I started to wish for rain so I could back out with a little bit of dignity.

 

Meanwhile all over the school the whisper network was quickly spreading that the race was on for noon, That Day. All I could see in my minds eye was the writing on the side panel on Jerry's bike that said "Bailey's Donkey Service, We Haul ***"

 

By the time lunch had rolled around the whole school was out on the front lawn waiting for the race. OK, so it was a small school but at least 200 kids were outside enjoying the sunshine and waiting for the spectacle about to transpire. I finally realized I had waited as long as I could it was time to go out side or be branded a chicken. The blue sky and warm breeze did nothing to ease the knot in my stomach or the chill bumps crawling up my spine. While I walked to my bike and put on my helmet Jerry was amusing the crowds by riding wheelies up and down in front of the school. Riding wheelies wasn't my thing to say the least but it was difficult to keep from hopping the front tire of the RD 350 into the air under hard acceleration. The highway in front of the school was about a half mile straight before going up and over a hill. I slowly got on my RD and fired it up, bringing all those bumblebees to life inside the motor. I revved the engine a few times and smelled the familiar smoke as the breeze blew it past me. I rode over to the school and made a couple of half hearted passes in front of the school to warm the RD up. Hopping the front wheel into the air as far as I dared just to try and show a little bravado.

 

Then at this point things started to happen in slow motion, Jerry pulled up beside me and we stopped. His girl was on behind him, she got off and walked around in front of us a little off to the side. Engines started to roar and whine, blue smoke was billowing out of my Yamaha she dropped her arm and we were off. Not really being used to racing I hesitated and Jerry took the lead by about a bike length. I goosed the throttle of the RD and hopped the front wheel into the air about two feet and really let it go. As I went past him I speed shifted to second and I was gone. The 450 Honda was loosing ground at an enormous rate. I kept shifting just before the redline and as I went past the gas station I topped out. The speedometer said 110MPH! As I went past the gas station I saw two Highway Patrol cars sitting beside the station, radar out, waiting. Evidently the rumor mill had informed someone who disapproved of drag racing! To be sure I didn't get to see the actual race but I was told later that when we took off and Jerry took a quick lead everyone was amazed as I suddenly shot past and away from the 450 Honda and it's astonished rider. I was told that Jerry looked like he was going backwards I went by him so fast. But by this time I was more concerned about the Highway Patrol car that was pulling out behind me!

 

The Day part 2

 

As I went by my mind began to race almost as fast as my motorcycle was going! What to do? As I approached the top of the hill, I saw my way out, a side road called Bean Ridge Road. The road ran back into the backwoods eventually linking up with several other small roads we dirt bike riders had taken advantage of to take us from on trial to the next. Better yet, the road was paved for several miles back into the hills and valleys. I grabbed the front brake and just barely made the turn. As I rushed up the hill heading for the ridge top part of the road that gave the road its name. I looked into my mirrors, what I saw made the blood drain from my head. A police car was turning onto the road to give chase. When I had been a dirt biker, I had seldom traveled on paved roads preferring to keep to the trails and woods. However, this road was one of the few paved roads that connected many of the trials I had ridden on before I had bought my RD. So I blasted along the narrow paved road, checking my mirrors every few seconds to see if the patrol car had given up but he was coming and gaining on me!

 

The road ahead had been recently paved so the road was nice and smooth. As the road ran along the ridge, it was relatively straight but with lots of dips as the road followed the terran. These dips were slowing the police car but it was still closing the gap between us. I could not go as fast as I would have liked because the dips were affecting my speed as well as the speed of the police car. I knew that just a few hundred more yards and the road would begin to twist and turn as it went down the mountain towards a meeting of three other roads. I knew if I could get far enough ahead of the officer pursuing me I would be able to loose him when the roads split up. But the curves slowed me down just enough that although the patrol car wasn’t gaining on me any more I couldn’t really pull away as fast as I would need to escape when the roads split.

 

As the under carriage of the motorcycle dragged the pavement on every cure I was beginning to believe my best bet was to simply stop and surrender. This would keep both my little RD and me from plunging off the road or sliding into the hillside in the hairpin curves. Maybe the officer would be a little less mad if I stopped but just as I was slowing, I spotted a muddy dirt side road. I was familiar with this road from my dirt bike days. The road led to a capped off gas well and a trail that would get me home. I rode down the muddy side road splitting the mud puddles from the recent rains at a much faster rate that I should have. As I approached the clearing that surrounded the gas well I could see the police car in my mirror making the same turn. I had hoped the police might not have seen me shoot off down the gas well road but he was coming hot on the trail. Instead of stopping at the broad muddy patch of ground, I gunned the throttle. Then in a spray of mud and water, I crossed the gas well property to the path I had used many times when trail riding. As I slipped and slid onto the trail I figured the only way I had made it this far was because I was going so fast the light weight RD sped through the mud in spite of not having knobby tires.

 

As I went further up the trail the lack of knobby tires made staying on the trail very difficult. As I skidded and spun my way through the woods I was smiling because I knew the patrol car could not make over the gas well property much less drive along this narrow trail.

 

When I made it to the top of the road I lived on the relief I felt was enormous like have a giant weight lifted off my sholders. As I drove up the long gravel dirveway to my house I was so glad that I had gotten away I thanked God and promised I would never do such a stupid thing again. I pulled up into the carport at the end of our house and dismounted a very muddy RD 350. Then I staggered inside to get out of the muddy wet clothes. I put the clothes in the washer so my mom would not suspect I had been out in the woods on my street bike. Because I normally kept the RD so clean she would be suspicious if she though I had been riding in the woods. After wrestling the street bike over the muddy trails, I was so tired I thought about taking a short nap. No one would be home for a couple more hours and after what I had been through I was shaking from both fear and tired muscles. Then I remembered my motorcycle sitting on the carport all muddy and wet. I couldn’t let the mud dry on my RD, it would be much harder to clean off. So I got out my cleaning and polishing supplies and began to methodically clean and then wax and polish my bike.

 

Just as I was finishing up and was putting away the polish I heard a car coming up the driveway. I figured my mom or dad had come home early and I began to go over what would be my excuse for being out of school early. As the car came into view to my dismay I saw it was a highway patrol car, a muddy patrol car! I was sure this policeman was the one who had been chasing me! As he slowly got out of his car, my mind went blank, I knew my goose was cooked! The patrolman walked up to me and asked my name. I told him but it was just an automatic response, nothing else would come out. He slowly walked over to my bike and asked if this was my motorcycle. Finally my mind block broke and I answered “yes sir”. He walked around my RD slowly inspecting it from every side. He looked at me through those reflector sunglasses for a moment and said. “Nice looking bike, you keep it very clean.” I spoke up and said “yes, I love to keep my bike clean. It’s still new and I don’t like to get it dirty. His next question was the one I had been waiting for. “Son, I had to chase a motorcycle today that looked a lot like this one. Do you have a helmet? “Yes” I replied as I furiously thought about what to say and what not to say. “Bring your helmet out here son and let me see it.” I immediately went into the house and brought out two helmets but neither was the one I had been wearing today. He looked at the helmets and looked at the clean motorcycle. Finally he sighed and said. “It would go very bad if I found the person I was chasing today. I asked around at the high school and your name came up quite a bit. Were you at school today”? “Yes, but I came home early because I wasn’t feeling good.” So far, this was the only lie I had told.

 

He looked the bike over again, closer this time. He stooped down to put his finger under the rear fender. As he stood up he smiled at me and said. “It looks like you missed a spot”, and showed me the mud on his finger. He stood there for another moment and then said “you be careful riding that bike it would be very bad to mess up such a pretty machine”. He smiled again, got into his patrol car and drove away!

 

Just as he was out of sight, my legs finally gave way and I sat down on the concrete. The relief was almost too much! I sat there for a couple more minutes, went inside, fell into my bed, and took that nap. I will never know why he didn’t get me right then but not having been busted was all that mattered. It was a long time before I ever raced again. And I managed to get several tickets over the years but “The Day” will always be burned into my memory as the one of the best days ever!

 

Michael

[Michaelangelica]

Imagine how long your autobiography is going to be if this is a short story!

Very wise, smart, perceptive, kind, extremly wise cop.

There used to be some around 'in my day'

Now they are so tied up with procedures, ant-corruption laws and rules they have no room for discretion. They need LESS training now I reckon.

 

So what happened when you went back to school?

Your "street cred." must have been awesome!

 

My first bike was a Honda 90.(CCs!)

It was faster than Triumph and big English bikes and faster on lights take off than any car.

I lost a lot of skin with that bike but loved it, my first taste of pure freedom.

Of course it was the pits in wet, cold weather. Who had the money for proper leathers?

 

My cop story

My first from "new" car was a Datsun 1000 (That's CCs: I was always looking for raw-grunt and power!-it was cheap!). I drove it until it almost fell apart. Finally, I used it mainly to get me to the station a ten minute run -about all it could mange by the time this story took place.

 

One terrible day I missed my train to get to work (1 hour 30 minute train trip to Sydney)

So thought I'd drive half the way in my battered old Datsun. I parked, got a city line train and got to work late. My Boss was pissed. The day went from bad to worse. Everything that could go wrong did.

Late afternoon I got a call from my wife 'could I please come home early' as she was sick. (She may have been having a miscarriage). Pissing the boss of even more I left early got the train to where my car was parked and "O great a very FLAT tire"

 

Did I mention the Old Girl was on her last legs?

Very little tread left on the tires and the breaks could not be put on in a hurry as you swerved violently to the left (We drive on the left so this is likely to lead you into an unhealthy relationship with a Power Pole).

The dogs had also eaten the back seat (another story).

 

Anyway the tire was a bastard to get off. It was dark by the time I had finished changing the tire. My office suit and I were oiled, cranky, tired, late and grubby.

I was by this time getting very worried about my wife.

So off I took up the road heading at breakneck speed for the expressway.

 

The cops had just introduced radar.

I was speeding up the dark road totally absorbed in my own worry and misery when this ghastly apparition jumped out in front of me :- A cop with a "Stop Police" sign. Startled and terrified I slammed on the brakes and, of course the car veered violently left, straight at the cop.

OMG< manslaughter!.

I quickly stopped breaking and the car veered straight.

Eventually the car stopped about 250 yards up the road.

I was gone!

The car would probably get defect notices?

Would I loose my licence?

How would I get to work then?

I was shaking like a leaf.

 

Finally a puffing, panting, red faced, young cop appeared at my window.

"I thought you were going to take me out"!!!! he exclaimed, breathlessly!

At this point I broke down and started to cry.

Weepingly I told him of my day: late, sob, boss, train sob sob, drive, sob wife, sick sob, boss cranky, sob flat tire sob sob, sob, sob.

 

"OK" he said, clearly embarrassed and bemused by my unmanly display, this time I'll let you off with a caution - and he promply disappeared.

I didn't know what a "caution" was so I waited a while till it finally dawned he was not coming back with a gift-wrapped "caution" in a box.

 

Delighted, that i was not behind bars, I made my way, very slowly, home.

 

I did try the crying trick a couple of times after that and it worked like a charm.

Saving a few speeding tickets. My friends were amazed that I continually talked my way out of beeing booked. Often asking for my secret. I would regale them with tales of my superior knowledge of psychology, empathy,body language and interpersonal communication.

I needed to do this out of earshot of my wife who, if she over-heard me, would cruelly tell them the real reason I continually got off:

"He crys !"

"He wahts?" my amazed, disbelieving friends would say.

She of course, the hard woman she is, would then continue with stories of my grovelling pathetic-ness and crocodile tears.

 

Now days of course, nothing works. You just can't stop the well trained, police- patter once it starts.

 

Though later, I did notice that the police changed the way they stopped speeding cars caught by radar shortly after this happened to me. No more sudden jumping out from the side of the road with silly signs.

:)

[Moontanman]

It reminds me of the beautiful woman in a sports car who was speeding at a break neck speed and was pulled over by the police. she unbuttoned her blouse a coulpe of buttons and then made sure her ample assets were in plain veiw as the cop walked up and started writing her a ticket for speeding. she looked at him with big eyes and said "I didn't think the police gave tickes to beautiful women" With out hesitation he handed her the ticket and said " We don't "

[Moontanman]

Night Flight

 

 

The wind rushing over the windshield of the motorcycle was cool that night, invigorating, with just a touch of moistness. The road was empty all along this stretch at one AM, nothing but black pavement and white stripes. I twisted the throttle and watched the tach climb rapidly. The speedo said I was doing 90 mph but the smooth road made it feel like I was just drifting along. The exhaust note was a mild drone, the ride was smooth almost like a sewing machine but when I tweaked the throttle, again the bike surged ahead almost instantly driving the speedo up to 120 mph. The pavement had areas of mist lying in low places and the occasional patch of fog added to the almost supernatural feel of the night. The moon had been a round full white lantern floating just above the horizon when I started out but now it was high in the sky and at my back. The moons glow made the landscape visible but stole the colors from the long needle pines that thickly grew along the highway turning them into black and gray parodies of their daytime selves.

 

Ahead was a steep curve with a strong banking that opened into a low rise before becoming flat and straight. Rushing straight at the curve at 120 mph, I hit the front brake at the last possible instant. Sparks flew from the pipes and center stand as the shocks compressed from centrifugal force at the apex of the curve. Loosing 40 mph to the curve I dropped to third gear and whacked the throttle hard to regain my speed. When I came to the rise at the end of the curve I was accelerating so hard the front wheel skimmed above the pavement for a few yards before regaining contact softly. The road was at least two miles straight ahead from here so I accelerated hard and up shifted at red line twice before settling for fifth gear and 130 mph. The stripes on the road began to blur as I continued to accelerate, finally hitting top end at 175 mph.

Still the motorcycle seemed to float along, rock steady. I enjoyed the feeling of power the engine transferred to my loins and body. My peripheral vision was just a blur and the road came at me so fast that I could only focus on objects at the limit of my headlight.

 

Suddenly out of nowhere and seeming to come at me was an another motorcyclist on the shoulder of the road. No lights or flashers just an instant of bike and rider dark and still, barely registering in my mind as I flashed past. I hit the brakes hard, decelerating with a vengeance to a complete stop. In the rear view mirrors, could be seen the glint of chrome in the moonlight and a figure leaning on the bike. For a moment, I almost decided to go on. Maybe the fellow biker had just stopped to admire the view or maybe he had stopped to rest. At last, I decided to go back and make sure there was no problem. After the rush of air at 175 mph, standing still was nearly stifling and the heat rising from the V4 between my legs was almost palpable.

 

Turning around with one fluid motion, slowly I motored back down the highway to confront the lonely figure now standing in the middle of the road helmet in hand. As I approached the figure standing by the road it suddenly hit me this is a woman. In the back of my mind something was screaming, this is not what it seems, but I ignored it. Her skintight jet-black leathers didn’t gleam at all in the moon light like black leathers should, almost like they absorbed all the moons light and were darker than dark should be in the full moonlight. I pulled up along side and asked the obvious question, “Do you need any help?” her answer of “No I am just waiting” was a surprise. I took closer look at her, voluptuous in build, skin pale white in the moonlight with a long mane of black hair. Suddenly the dark misty road began to look even more like a dream. Fog was beginning to become thicker rising up all around us as I shut down my bike and asked. “What are you waiting for?” The woman in black walked closer to me and in a low voice replied. “Waiting for you.” Surprise must have been written all over my face as she said. “Follow me back beyond the curve in the road, I stay just beyond there.” And pointed back down the road from where I had come. The woman walked with a deliberate sway back to her motorcycle and got on, pulling her helmet down over her long hair. Her bike started up with a roar and she turned to me with a gleaming smile and said. “I bet you can’t keep up with me!” so I started up my bike and we race away together.

 

Faster and faster, she goes easily accelerating just beyond my own powerful machine, 90, 100, 110-mph. Now side by side she continues to accelerate towards the curve, I keep up determined to match her all the way. 125, 135, 150, 175 mph, I am at top end. Still she leads me on, the curve is fast approaching but she does not slow. I begin to dread the curve, I know I can’t take it at this speed and I know neither can she but she continues steady on.

Suddenly I can see the curve in the headlight, I grab the brakes and start to feel the tires loose their bite on the pavement. I am fighting for control, sliding sideways as the bike tries to stay on the pavement. Sparks fly off my bikes lower reaches as I finally get the huge weight of my motorcycle back under control and on the road as I slide through the curve. At the other side of the curve as I ride out the woman in black is nowhere to be seen. No lights, no side roads, just me and the drifting white fog in the moonlight.

 

As I come to a stop in the highway, a cold chill runs down my spine. Slowly and deliberately, I ride back the way I had come searching for some sign of the woman in black. However, no sign of anyone else was reveled in the headlight glow. No side roads, no sign of running off the road and wrecking, nothing to tell the fate of the woman in black. Slowly after walking through the curve to make sure there is no sign of where the woman in black went. I get back on my bike and ride back to town.

 

At a pub frequented by motorcyclists that sits on the side of the road leading out onto the stretch of highway 17 I decide to stop and have a beer before going home. The bartender, a friend named Frank, who I have talked to many times before says hello as I step up to the bar and lay my helmet on the stool next to me. “Beer Please” are my only words. He looks at me in a strange way, fills a cold mug with draft, stands across from me, and watches me drain it with one long gulp. “Another” he asks with raised eyebrows, “yes” is my short answer. As Frank sits the mug in front of me, he asks, “Is something bothering you?” I hesitate, I am not sure if I want to tell of my recent experience, finally after drinking down the second mug I nod my head. “Something very odd just happened at the double s curve down on highway 17.” His eyes immediately light up with interest. “Now what would that be? You see a UFO?” His voice was not as condescending as his words. “No I replied, something a little more odd than even an alien space ship.” His look was quizzical but he didn’t ask any questions, waiting I guess, to see if I would volunteer what I had seen. “Give me another mug and I’ll tell you what I saw tonight” was my answer to his questioning look.

 

As he filled the mug, I thought about what had happened down the highway and wondered if I should really tell such a story. I had no evidence to back up my claims, and the memory was beginning to feel almost dream like. However, as Frank set the third beer on the bar I started my tale. “Frank, you do know that tight S curve about fifteen miles south on Rt17 that everyone likes to see how fast they can fly through?” “Sure, replied Frank, everyone brags about how fast they go through that curve.” “Well tonight I almost didn’t make that curve but I had company when I went into it but not when I came out!”

 

Frank hesitated, looking at me intently his next words were a surprise. “ I’m betting your company in that curve had a few curves of her own, am I right?” Immediately I blurted out, “How did you know that?” Franks next words were even more unexpected, “Let me tell you what I think you saw before I tell you how I know. Just after the curve, you saw another biker on the side of the road, as though someone was broken down. You went back to see if you could help and it was a woman, pretty much what you would think of as the perfect ten.” The look on my face must have been enough to confirm he was on the right track. Frank went on, “ she said she was waiting for you, told you to follow her, and dared you to try and beat her through the curve, am I right so far?” I was silent for a few moments, as bizarre as my encounter was the fact the Frank could tell me what I had seen stunned me. “Yes, you are right! A woman with long black hair, milky white skin and tight black leathers. How did you know?” “I hear a lot of stories, lots of bikers come in her after riding that length of Rt17 and several have told me that story.

 

The details are different for each guy, sometimes the girl is a blond or a dark skinned beauty but the end is always the same. She rides into the curve at an insane speed and disappears. Always happens on the full moon at about the same time. As far as I know, it’s been going on for about 10 years. A few guys have tried to look for her again, most never saw her again two of them did. Neither of them made it through the curve and they crashed. One of them survived and he said he met the same woman and tried to catch her. The rider who crashed and died looking for her lived long enough to tell the EMTs that he had caught her.

 

I haven’t heard about any more sightings of her until now.

I had thought maybe that one death had satisfied her. You are the first to report seeing her since he died.” My thoughts whirled around in my head. I was already planing to go back and try to find her again. The look on my face must have been enough for Frank to guess my thoughts. “Don’t go looking for her again, I can’t explain who or what she is but one look at her should be enough! Think about what you saw no one could have made that curve at her speed and where did she go? I don’t think anyone really wants to know where she went.” Nodding slowly I acknowledged the wisdom of Franks words but I knew in my heart I would have to look for her again!”

 

Michael Hissom

[Moontanman]

Imagine how long your autobiography is going to be if this is a short story!

Very wise, smart, perceptive, kind, extremly wise cop.

There used to be some around 'in my day'

Now they are so tied up with procedures, ant-corruption laws and rules they have no room for discretion. They need LESS training now I reckon.

 

So what happened when you went back to school?

Your "street cred." must have been awesome!

 

My first bike was a Honda 90.(CCs!)

It was faster than Triumph and big English bikes and faster on lights take off than any car.

I lost a lot of skin with that bike but loved it, my first taste of ....

:)

 

No street cred for me, I was pretty much a loner and spent most of my time at other high schools trying to woo the girls there!

[Michaelangelica]

It reminds me of the beautiful woman in a sports car who was speeding at a break neck speed and was pulled over by the police. she unbuttoned her blouse a coulpe of buttons and then made sure her ample assets were in plain veiw as the cop walked up and started writing her a ticket for speeding. she looked at him with big eyes and said "I didn't think the police gave tickes to beautiful women" With out hesitation he handed her the ticket and said " We don't "

LOL

Or the story of the cheerful truck driver who pulled up at a roadside stop in the middle of the night for a meal.

While he was eating, three wild-looking motorcyclists roared up- tattooed, leather-jacketed, mean, filthy.

Spoiling for a fight, they started bulling the truckie. One threw salt at him, another stole his chips, the third poured tea into his lap. But the truck driver refused to be drawn. without saying a word, he stood up, paid his bill and left.

"That bloke ain't much of a fighter", sneered one of the bikers to the pretty girl behind the counter.

Suddenly there was a terrible racket from outside. Peering into the night, the girl said "He ain't much of a driver either.

He's just reversed his rig over three motorcycles."

:)

[Pyrotex]

Orphan World

by Nelson Thompson

 

Imagine an orphan world.

Imagine air that is not air but a thin slurry of frigid gases and soot, the discarded seepage of tired volcanoes ancient beyond all counting. Imagine ground that is not rock but a fractured amalgam of dust and amorphous ices, compacted by the unrelenting pressure of starlight and gravity. Here and there a misshapen dagger of rock thrusts up through the barrenness, spoiling the otherwise flat featurelessness.

Imagine a sky that is not sky, but merely a distance, a darkness, diseased with bright running sores of brilliant incandescence and bloated pustules of stars. Too many stars and too near to be a proper sky. A sky devoid of parent sun or kindred moons -- no cycles of day or night. This is not a place where events occur. In fact, time in this place is a non-thing, something that does not flow, but which settles upon the landscape like a vast, smothering blanket.

You might survey this barren planet for a million years and you would find nothing out of the ordinary for an orphan world floating aimlessly toward the stellar core of an unnamed spiral galaxy.

That is not quite true.

The galaxy does in fact have many names. Halfway to its rim is a paradise planet upon which its happy residents have given the name The Flowering Seaweed on the Highest Roof.

Far, far away, astronomers of yet another species, peering through their powerful telescopes at this self same galaxy, have given it the simple name, M94, referring only to its numeric position in a list of galaxies, nebulas and star clusters made by one of their colleagues, a certain Charles Messier, whose chief concern was searching for comets.

Be that as it may, the orphan world drifts alone on the stochastic currents of space and time just outside the bright and terribly crowded core of that galaxy, and beneath its static and star blasted surface, there is life.

 

There had been at one time in the orphan world's profound past a single species on the verge of sentience when its planet was gradually flung from its multi-sun system and sent on its lonely voyage. Had the life on that planet not been blessed (or cursed) with the ability to mutate rapidly (and successfully) it would have died out in the darkness. But the life burrowed deeply and quickly beneath the ever more frigid surface layers, adapting as it went, developing an endless stream of new forms and configurations. They dwell deep within the planet, and know nothing about what (if anything) might be near or beyond the surface. They have never seen the sky. They have no name for their galaxy.

For their world of tunnels and caverns, they have a name: The True Dream.

For themselves, they have a name: The Dreamers.

 

---ooo---

 

Cautiously, Fed 94 sent out a phalanx of maulers to the periphery of the Brown Salt Cavern, hoping to catch his adversaries by surprise. It had been one of his primary sources of minerals and he would need to recapture it if he were to successfully maintain his defenses. At first, he met little resistance. The enemy's maulers and stingers, few in number, retreated before him. Then suddenly, Fed 94 found his outlying salient under vicious attack. Maddened, he thrust this portion of himself even harder against the resistance. Howling with pain, he sensed his components being slaughtered, and realized he had stumbled once again into a well-planned ambush.

Signals of pain raced back through the cellmats, the network of biofilms that connected him with his assault. Reflexively, he pulled the extension of himself back, or what was left of it. More than half his marauders had been killed or disabled, and the excruciating sensation sent him spiraling into shock. At that moment of vulnerability, he became aware of other events. The Green Slick Tunnels were being invaded, and his Bubbling Rocks Farm defense was under heavy attack. Pieces of himself were being pushed back, stabbed, pincered, stung, cut off or disabled in a dozen other ways. Writhing in agony, Fed 94 called out through the cellmats, "Enough! Enough! I surrender!"

Resigned to his fate, the Dreamer named Fed 94, commanded his motile members to go limp in submission. The war was over.

 

---ooo---

 

Normally spread through many cubic kilometers of tunnels and caverns, Fed 94 was now crowded into the Glowing Porous Aquifer, a single cubic kilometer of what had been his territory, his portion of the True Dream. In five of the six cardinal directions, he was penned in, effectively imprisoned by the Alliance-of-Six, made up of Dra 33 and Dof 49 to the below, Menxa 219 to the north, Tor 16 to the south, Drum 50 to the east, and Stosh 41 to the west.

He had adequate sustenance for most of his components in the Aquifer, and what little else he needed was being provided by feeders from the Alliance. His remaining maulers and stingers were bound and helpless. As long as he did not exert himself, there were sufficient gases and fluids to maintain his survival in the confined volume.

While his adversaries conferred among themselves, Fed 94 had time to meditate upon his circumstances. Sequestered within the Aquifer was his library of memory stones, finely carved slices of basalt upon which had been inscribed every significant experience, idea and fact that he had ever gathered. How far back in time these memories stretched was unknowable, for the Dreamers had never managed to find a way to measure time with any certitude. Fed 94, like all Dreamers, had his own personal ways of measuring time. He used the gas flow cycles in the Bubbling Rocks Farm, and a count of the generations of the kenners, the wormlike components that held his highest rational functions. But over huge stretches of time, these cycles, both physical and biological, were not constant.

He sent his readers, a swarm of insectoid creatures, dancing over the stones, reading the runes with their tiny antennae. The war had begun nearly two gas cycles ago, or eight kenner generations. His discovery of the so-called "library of Ximra 2716" had been seventy gas cycles before that, about the time of the last eruption of the Great Steam Vent. He had in his stones over a thousand records of these steam eruptions, but they did not occur with great regularity, and the gas cycles in the Bubbling Rocks Farm only appeared 300 eruptions ago. But given all that, a conservative estimate was that Fed 94 had been runing memory stones for well over a million kenner generations.

Fed 94 could only remember, really remember, back sixty generations or so. Beyond that, he had to rely on his stones, and even that became increasingly more difficult the further back he searched, as even the rune symbols themselves had evolved over what he recognized as geologic time.

Quickly, he located the runes at the source of his trouble: his recollections of the "library of Ximra 2716". First of all, the name itself was a contradiction in terms; there were exactly 326 Dreamers in existence. There could not be, nor ever could have been a Dreamer with the name "Ximra 2716", and so the name was obviously a hoax. At least, that was the logic his adversaries would use.

Fed 94 had discovered the library when gas temperatures and pressures had dramatically (and temporarily) increased above the Glowing Porous Aquifer, enabling him to extend parts of himself into regions that he had never explored before. Unable to extend his biofilms any further, he had done something immoral and forbidden by the Law -- he had divided himself into two sentient segments, and had sent the smaller segment, with nearly an eighth of his kenners, into the extreme above to scout for resources.

What that segment discovered was the "library of Ximra 2716". And what was in that library was pure heresy. And because of that, Fed 94 had kept his discovery secret for sixty gas cycles, while he pondered the ancient-beyond-ancient slices that his cleaved fragment had brought back.

"Dreamer Fed 94, prepare yourself for interrogation by the Alliance-of-Six."

The message had come from the south, presumably from Tor 16 himself. Fed 94 reconfigured his kenners for external conversation and prepared for the worst.

"I am here, Alliance-of-Six, at thy bidding and in thy service, to render all that is asked of me," he replied in the ritual manner.

"Dreamer Fed 94, do you acknowledge that the stones currently in your possession are yours and yours alone?"

"Yes," he answered, dropping the formal mode of expression when he sensed the hostility in the question. He knew at that moment that his fate had been sealed. "These stones are mine, I wrote every molten one of them, and I affirm everything written on them as true. So get to the point."

Ignoring his outburst, the interrogator continued, "Did you or did you not cleave thyself in defiance of the Law?"

Fed 94 broadcast hunger signals from his bound maulers, a gesture of mild defiance. "We all know that many Dreamers have cleaved themselves. It is a common tactic to find resources in the extreme above and extreme below. I know for a fact that Tor 16 has done this. That was how he found the Sulfur Gardens of Plenty, and..."

"Fed 94! Answer the question!"

"Why? So you can punish me for something that others have done?"

"This is Tor 16." The tone was cold and threatening. "Do I understand that you are accusing me of breaking the Law?"

Several dozen of Fed 94's kenners were shaking with fear. He caressed them with his groomers, and calmed himself.

"I apologize. I do not accuse Tor 16 of criminality. Of course not. I merely suggest that there are circumstances when cleaving is not necessarily an evil thing to do. Yes, I sent a cloven image of myself into the extreme above. I do not deny it."

"Since you do not deny it," -- Tor 16's voice again -- "then we have no choice but to impose upon you the maximum..."

"Wait! Is that it? Can't I explain what I found in the extreme above? Here are my stones! Send in your readers, I implore you, and see for yourself what I found! This information is far too important to ignore!"

There was a long pause, and then Tor 16's distant voice continued through the biofilms, "What may be in your stones is of no importance. After you are gone, they shall be purged of heresy. What remains will be distributed among the 326 True Dreamers."

There. It was said. 'After you are gone.'

"Please! Hear me out! The library of Ximra 2716 is real, and it recounts conversations with thousands of Dreamers! The highest name I found was 42,902! That library must have been far older than a million kenner generations, perhaps tens of millions! The knowledge in that library is priceless! It must be studied! Not rejected as mere heresy! Even if some of the information is wrong, there are maps to the extreme above, descriptions of minerals we have never tasted! And so much more! Please!"

"Fed 94," the voice droned, "you have in the presence of three or more Dreamers, exhorted blasphemy and admitted to the sin of cleaving. You are hereby proven to be the Imposter, not of the three hundred and twenty-six. You are hereby stripped of your name, and the Alliance-of-Six shall take it upon itself to search for the True Fed 94, wherever he may be in the True Dream, so that the three hundred and twenty-six shall once more be complete."

"No. You don't understand. I'm as real as any of you are. You will be killing a True Dreamer. And how do you know there are three hundred and twenty-six? Where is 3? Where is 251? Have any of you ever met them or found their stones? Have you?!"

"This is all irrelevant, Fed 94. You are proven to be the Imposter, and we have no choice but to impose upon you the maximum penalty. You will be stripped and banished to die in the place of your choosing. This interrogation is complete."

 

---ooo---

 

Despite his foreknowledge of his fate, the judgement, and its formal finality, put Fed 94 in a state of palpable shock. His feeders and groomers stood unmoving, many in the midst of one task or another. His algae farmers drifted aimlessly in their pools. His kenners fidgeted, some swaying slowly back and forth, their large segmented eyes searching listlessly for something to focus on.

He would be stripped. The vast majority of his components would be absorbed into the victors’ corporate bodies. Even his “home”, the hundreds of cubic kilometers of tunnels and caverns that had been meticulously coated with his interlocked nerve cells, the “corpus” that tied together all his components into a single interlaced entity -- even that would be subdivided and incorporated into his nearest neighbors. They would, of course, take his streams, his minerals and his thermal sources. His gardens and ponds and mudbaths. Everything.

He would be left with... what? Fed 94 shook himself from his stupor and turned to his stones. There were always a dozen or so kenners in his library. He willed his gleamers, fastened to the upward wall, to shed light so that his visually acute kenners could quickly navigate among the stacks of basalt chips. Riding upon the back of each kenner was a retinue of readers, etchers, and chewers, with which he read, wrote, and prepared new basalt chips.

Fed 94 had some fragment of biologic memory of an event many sixteens of kenner generations ago, when he had participated in a stripping -- as one of the victors. Yes! Here was the correct stack. The tiny readers he carried quickly jumped to the chip that a kenner held in its mandibles, and fluttered their even tinier antenna over the chip surface, which to his kenner eyes appeared absolutely smooth and polished, except for the identification code.

Yes. The punishment of Thal 202 for the crime of fungicide involved a temporary stripping, while a portion of his resources were divided. The record indicated that Fed 94 had obtained large phosphorus and calcium deposits from this reapportionment. Hmmm. He had forgotten that. In his biologic memory, that is. In a sense he could never “forget”, not as long as he had his stones.

Thal 202 was allowed to keep his groomers, feeders and carriers. They were huddled together in an unconstructed cavern until his food supply was exhausted. Then he was allowed to repossess his territory (minus the booty given to the victors, of course). It took Thal 202 seventeen kenner generations to recover from the trauma of stripping and isolation.

A pang of fear blossomed within Fed 94, starting in the kenners reading the stones, and then spreading through the cellmats, his exo-nervous system, to all his remaining kenners. Sequestered into the tiny cubic that he currently occupied was bad enough. All Dreamers suffered from claustrophobia when sufficiently compressed.

But to be in an unconstructed environment, without his cellmats to render his components a single entity, to suffer ultimate compression, to have to physically huddle all his components together so that his mind would survive -- the thought was almost unimaginable. Dreamers often sent off pairs or triads of kenners into unconstructed cubic for exploration or to send messages to far distant Dreamers. But three kenners did not make a full entity, not a living, thinking mind.

Fed 94 began a search of his stones for any ultimate compression experience he might have had in the archaic past, but he was interrupted by the mental equivalent of a knock at his door.

He shifted his focus to the eyes and other sensors nearest the knock. He had a visitor. Through the cellmat he signaled, “come in”.

An eight of kenners and eight of groomers crawled single file into the center of Fed 94’s chamber. It was Stosh 41. Fed 94 drew up a sixteen of himself to face his visitor, and turned on enough gleamers so that he and Stosh 41 could communicate in privacy, rather than through the cellmats.

In accordance with protocol, only one of Stosh 41’s kenners had an obsidian blade, and it was sheathed. Fed 94 had none at all, of course, unless he wanted to expend the energy to chew one out of the wall. He didn’t.

“Greetings Dreamer Stosh 41. May thy gases ever bubble and thy fluids ever flow.”

“Greetings Fed 94. Can we drop the formality? I’m not here as your executioner. Sadly, that will come later. Here, I’ve brought some sweet sulfur and mossweed. Please share them with me.”

Fed 94 reached out with a groomer and took the treats.

“Thanks, Stosh. So why did you accept my invitation? Is there anything here that you want?” he said conversationally, gesturing with one of his groomers at the chamber around them.

“No, Fed. I came here because we were once friends -- and to understand. We have rune memories of each other dating back to the Creation of the True Dream. Never have you fought against the Law. Until now. And I feel that I owe it to you and to the True Dream to understand your actions.”

“So, you don’t believe I’m an imposter, then? That I’m some sort of fake personality constructed from stolen bits and pieces of the True Dreamers, assembled by the nightmare, Chaos, to tempt you to divide by zero?”

“Please, Fed, try not to seduce me to heresy. We all believe in Chaos, though perhaps we all don’t claim to have personally seen him, or chased him into the extreme below, as Zert 256 often does in his bragging rants.

“I can see you are Fed. I recognize the groomer with the missing arm, and the kenner with the blind spot in its left eye. More importantly, I recognize your body language, your gestures. You are indeed Fed 94. But the Law demands that you be branded The Imposter. And that you die. I am here to understand why you did what you did. This is probably your only chance to explain. It took a lot of arguing and begging to persuade Tor 16 to allow me to talk to you at all.”

“Yes, and my only chance to explain with an audience that has not already pre-judged me? And will not shout me down with dogma?”

Stosh 41 shifted his lead kenners in some discomfort; two of them glanced at Fed 94’s library in the far corner.

“If you wish to explain, then do so freely. I will clutch my mandibles until you ask me to speak.”

“I require not absolute silence from you, Stosh, but attention, and dialog. I am so tired. I never intended to start a war, and could not foresee that it would be so protracted. And so painful.”

In the silence that followed, Stosh 41 offered, “Had you not spoken of your, uh, speculations first to Tor 16, this all may not have come to pass. He can be such a self-righteous mauler's backside at times. When he brought his charges to the Alliance-of-Six, there was no going back.”

Fed 94 sighed. “And I considered him my closest friend. I foolishly thought he would set aside his passion for the Law when he saw my evidence. I was such a spore-sucker!” He slammed two of his kenners together in anger, making a sharp clapping sound that briefly echoed in the chamber.

Again, Stosh 41 glanced at the library in the corner.

“Come. I see you wish to inspect my library. There is no reason why you cannot. Come,” insisted Fed 94 as he led the way to the neatly stacked stones, “you’ll find my cleaved fragment’s expedition to the extreme above here, and my interpretations and ‘speculations’ as you call them, in the stack just there.”

As he finished, a flurry of insectoid forms leaped off of Stosh 41’s leading kenners and onto the stones.

“I’ll let you peruse while I fetch some more refreshments. Do you take gold salts in your drink?”

Stosh 41 waved a groomer’s arm in affirmation as he concentrated on the stones.

Presently, four carriers approached the library with a sixteen of filled shallow bowls.

Various kenners and groomers of both Dreamers dipped into the bowls.

Fed 94 picked up the conversation, as it was common for Dreamers to engage in several tasks simultaneously. It would not distract Stosh 41 from his reading in the slightest.

“As you are no doubt aware, my territory is adjacent to the Great Steam Vent, and it is because of that, that I, and not some other Dreamer came upon the library of Ximra 2716. The Great Steam Vent forms a natural boundary, making Tor 16 and myself the southernmost Dreamers in this entire region. Near the Vent, the temperatures can vary over great and sometimes lethal ranges, though fortunately, never so quickly that I can’t avoid them.

“It was eighty gas cycles ago that the temperatures climbed quite alarmingly, and stayed high for an inordinate length of time. It was then I got the idea that if this heat pertained also to the regions above, it would permit exploration to regions that I had never dreamed of.

“I first sent two triads, but they were too stupid to bring back detailed observations. Fearing I would lose my opportunity, I... I cleaved myself, forming an eighth portion. That was very uncomfortable, if you want to know. Being face to face with a piece of yourself that is somehow not yourself, and responsible for its own actions, even its own speech, was terrifying, and yet in some bizarre way, exhilarating. However, I do not recommend it.

It ventured into the extreme above, paralleling the Great Steam Vent, carrying a supply of blank stones to record its exploration.

I lived in fear of discovery, in discomfort at having lost an eighth of my mind, and in fear that I would never retrieve it, for nearly three kenner generations, during which time I procreated replacements. The temperatures dropped. I began to give up hope. And then, it showed up at my chambers.” Fed 94 shook violently.

“Say there, what is the matter? You are become so agitated!”

“Stosh, you have no idea. The cleaved piece of me came back a total stranger. It had lost a third of itself to hunger and the terrible cold of the extreme above. It was mad. I tried to absorb it back into myself, but it would have no part of me. It fought me. It babbled incoherently about a great library it had found, hundreds of time larger than what I have here. And myriads of chambers and tunnels that went all the way up to... up to what it called, the End-of-the-Above.”

“The end of what? How can the above end? It just gets colder, that's all.”

“I did not understand, but it seemed to be referring to some kind of outer physical boundary to the True Dream, as irrational as that may sound.”

“You were right, Fed. The fragment was mad. It was the ranting of a diseased mind, taken over by Chaos. What did you do with it? Were you able to absorb it?”

“No. I tried to kill it. It threatened to go to the other Dreamers, and give them its stones. So I attacked it, but I was never very good at warfare, as you well know.”

Stosh 41 gave the three-kenner gesture of ironic amusement.

“I had no sooner stabbed the first component, when its carriers threw its library at me. In the confusion, it made good its escape, and vanished toward the Great Steam Vent. I gave chase. A generation later, I found several desicated corpses, but that was all.

“I was fully prepared to dismiss the entire affair, etch it all up to bad judgement or bad luck. But then I read the stones it had left behind.”

Stosh 41 nodded a kenner in agreement. “Yes, I understand. I am reading of the fragment’s discovery of the library of Ximra 2716. According to this, the author of that library was actually numbered among a population of sixteens of thousands! This is so unthinkable! As soon as the others read this, they will want to destroy all your stones. Your entire library. Nothing will be kept.”

“I know,” Fed 94 responded sadly. “That pains me even more than the imminence of my physical death. And that is why I called you to speak eye-to-eye with me. I want you to hide the fragment’s diary. Then come back for it after I’m gone. This knowledge must not disappear. It is too important. Too valuable. Please.”

“I cannot, Fed. They would kill me, too. And besides, you have no proof that any of this is any more than the ravings of a sick cleaved mind.”

“Yes, I do. Look, here are sixteen sixteens of chips from Ximra 2716’s own library.”

Fed 94 reached over to the wall, and peeled back a section of cellmat with several groomers. Underneath were four small stacks of odd-looking stones. They gleamed in the dim light.

“Great Curse of Chaos! They are so large, yet so thin. They’re not basalt or obsidian, what are they?”

“I cannot know for sure, but I suspect they are pure metallic gold. I chewed off a corner of one, and managed to dissolve it in some purple algae acid. It tasted just like gold salts, though so intense that I had to dilute it. There is some of it in your drink.”

Stosh 41 was visibly astonished. The hands of his groomers caressed the polished surfaces. His readers swarmed over them.

“The writing is incredibly fine, and yet difficult to read.”

“Yes,” answered Fed 94 excitedly, “there are many symbols I do not recognize, and others which are used in strange ways. For example, how about here,” pointing with one of his own readers, “where it speaks of procreating a new Dreamer? We can procreate kenners or groomers, but what does it mean to procreate a new Dreamer? If that is anything like cleaving, then it’s sacrilege. And yet, here it is spoken of as normal. There are other passages that chronicle the rise in Dreamer population over geologic times. How can that be if the True Dream only has room and resources for the three hundred and twenty-six Dreamers that we know of? Or believe we know of.”

“Despite the difficulties, much of the gold plates can be read. Once, all Dreamers lived in the extreme above, even above where this library was found. Ximra 2716 spoke of the temperatures dropping and having to burrow ever deeper into the below to find living space. He was agonizing over his inability to carry his entire library with him, he would have to leave the vastly greater part behind. It ends with a greeting to whomever finds it, welcoming them to take whatever they wish.”

Stosh 41 was entirely focused on the gold plates. He was hooked, even as Fed 94 had been hooked so long ago. Here was more gold metal than all the Dreamers had in their hordes. And not just tiny nuggets or beads, but finely crafted rune stones, that told fantastic tales of an ancient civilization that was not apparently subject to the Law. And some of the stones spoke of myths and legends as far back from Ximra 2716’s time, as Ximra 2716 was from Fed 94’s time. Perhaps hundreds of millions of kenner generations. One of the myths was that of the End-of-the-Above, the original source of all Life. It was all so bizarre as to stagger the mind.

Time passed. Fed 94 prepared victuals and more drink, and waited for Stosh 41 to come up for air, which he eventually did. Reaching for the proffered algae ball, he gave thanks, and tossed it into a gaping kenner mandible.

“I feel odd, Fed, in accepting such gracious hospitality, after I have participated in your condemnation. You should be angry at me, not feeding me.”

“And I feel equally odd knowing that I’m about to die, and yet having such kinship with one of my vanquishers. I wish I had it all to do over again. I would have chosen you or even Pan 88 to reveal my secret to.”

“Yes, Pan 88 would have been a good choice. You know, he refused to participate in this war against you. Claimed he could never take blade against someone who had been such a good neighbor for so long.”

Fed 94 nodded sadly. “It’s ironic that I never talked to him eye-to-eye as I have with others. Oh, well. What do you think of the library of Ximra 2716?”

“You were right, Fed. This cannot be destroyed. But you have given me an idea. I can have Pan 88 slip quietly to your western border and slip away again. No one need know, and Pan 88 can be trusted to remain quiet. It shouldn’t take more than six carriers to haul these. And perhaps another six to carry the obsidian stones that you...that is, your cleaved fragment, chronicled his journey on. Consider it done.”

“Thank you, Stosh. I can go to my death without shame now. And without fear.”

Stosh 41’s kenners began to shake violently.

“Oh, Fed, we have committed such an injustice against you! You shouldn’t have to die for our mistake!”

“There, there,” Fed 94 whispered, stroking the other softly, “you could not know the truth without seeing the library of Ximra 2716, and after I rashly tried to tell my secret to Tor 16, and he went to the council of dogma with charges of impostership, all else was inevitable and unavoidable. Let it be. I yet have one more favor to ask, and one more adventure to take.”

Stosh 41 composed himself slowly and with difficulty.

“And what is this last favor?”

“I can take my death trek through any unconstructed territory, right?” Stosh 41 nodded agreement. “Then I wish to trek up the Great Steam Vent. You may have noticed that during this last generation the temperatures around here have been on the rise again. With any luck, I might be able to rediscover Ximra 2716’s original horde of rune stones. Maybe more. Who knows.”

Stosh 41 bobbed several kenner heads in unison, a gesture of smiling. “And to what purpose? You are very unlikely to survive the trip back, and if you do, you will be killed on sight.”

“Well, what if I could drag Ximra 2716’s entire library to the Great Steam Vent and throw it in? There is a region of the Vent not far above here where great mats of fungus feed on the hot rising steam. After the Vent cools, a properly protected mauler might be able to fetch anything that fell down the Vent and got caught in those mats.”

His companion mused over this suggestion while he fed and supped at the refreshments.

“Yes, it might work. I will call in some favors. Ordinarily a death trek is not allowed near a hallowed place, but I think I can convince Tor 16 and any others to waive their objections. Consider that done, too.

“And now I must go. Carry these stones as close to the Purple Algae Farms as you dare, and I will arrange for Pan 88 to collect them.

“Good luck, Fed. And please accept my sorrow, as late as it is.”

Fed 94’s groomers clasped Stosh 41’s groomers in an embrace, and soon he was once again alone under house arrest. There was nothing to do but carry off the heretical stones and prepare for his stripping.

 

---ooo---

 

It was agony beyond anything he had ever imagined. Not so much physical agony, but the excruciating terror of being cut off from the vast majority of his physical being, and the remainder compressed into a wad of writhing bodies and limbs.

He had only his kenners, and a portion of his groomers, feeders, gleamers and carriers. He had also been allowed to keep some readers and etchers. But to maintain his mind, all of his remaining components had to keep in physical contact. They could be no further apart than the short tentacles that normally connected each component to the cellmats.

Only here, there was no cellmat, just bare, naked rock with sharp edges that cut at his flesh. Phantom pain from his absent members assaulted him. Phantom voices and sensations swirled in his mind, only to disappear as he tried to focus on them.

He was alternately suffocatingly hot, and freezing cold. The tunnel he was ascending traveled first toward, and then away from the Great Steam Vent. He could rest only when the tunnel happened to travel through a region of moderate temperature. There he would parcel out a precious portion of his food supply, and attempt to refresh himself.

He had no idea where the remainder of Ximra 2716’s library was. If only he had been able to merge with his cleaved fragment, then those biologic memories would be available. The fragment had etched some stones of its own, and there were directions given, but they were not wholly lucid, and Fed 94 had become lost.

Now he knew what torture his cleaved fragment had suffered. Now he knew what it was to doubt his sanity. The only thing that kept him from surrendering to the madness was his unshakeable drive to reach Ximra 2716’s original library.

He resumed his ascent, noticing that the gases he breathed had lost their normal taste. Perhaps it was the loss of pressure this far in the extreme above.

Distracted as he was, Fed 94 did not hear the approaching noise, the sound of some great beast shrieking. All huddled together, and bound by interlinked tentacles, he rounded a corner... into a wind more forceful than he had ever experienced. It pulled at his outer components so viciously, that several lost their grip and disappeared into the maelstrom. He struggled to back up. He could not.

He was overwhelmed and swept into the windstream. Time and time again, he impacted a tunnel wall, and components were knocked off and scattered into the darkness. He was being beaten to death.

And then the impacts ended. Everything ended except the wind and the noise. There was nothing visible within the range of the light of his remaining few gleamers.

It was hot and damp. He could hardly breathe at all, and when he did, there were pangs of pain deep within his every component. He recognized the pain. He had once ventured to the very edge of the Great Steam Vent, near the fungal mats that he had spoken of to Stosh 41 and had felt that same pain breathing the hot gases.

He was being carried up the Great Steam Vent in a whirlwind.

He was losing his mind. He thought that he had already lost it. He couldn’t tell if his components were still hanging together, as his senses of touch had become numb. The noise and the heat overwhelmed any attempt to compose a thought.

And just as he was slipping into the mental blackness of mind-death, the temperature dropped and the roar lessened. He roused himself -- an act of supreme effort. And felt nothing. Nothing except pain.

He opened some eyes but saw nothing. But these eyes felt burned and sick. Perhaps they were blind. He opened other eyes, and beheld light! He was rushing up (down? along?) a vast tunnel toward a splotch of intensely bright lights. It was impossible to tell if he was seeing blurry lights clearly, or if his vision was distorted.

The gases became cooler, even as his sense of taste disappeared altogether. There were a thousand sharp pains in his ears. The roar of the wind vanished.

With a gasp of terror, he saw motion! The end of the tunnel! It was lit well enough to see that it was huge, farther across than any cavern he had ever witnessed. The lips of the tunnel expanded quickly apart, and the splotch of lights expanded to fill half his vision.

Even greater than the terror, was his fascination. He understood almost nothing of what he was seeing, yet he could not refuse to see it. As painful as claustrophobia was, he was now experiencing something even more uncomfortable. Openness. Vastness. Unboundedness.

His flight took him frightfully near one edge of the tunnel, then up and out. His trajectory curved sharply, until he impacted a high point on the very lip of the tunnel.

He was plunged into a bank of bright, frothy, crunchy material which was not unlike shaved ice, only softer. He was bitterly cold. He tried to breathe, but could not. He looked frantically all around. He was on a high point of a vast, dappled white floor. There were no walls. There was no ceiling.

Above was... indefinable distance filled with incredible smears and points of light. Light of awesome purity and brilliance set within a textured blackness of unspeakable beauty.

A portion of this vista above him was partially blotted out by a huge column of gray, dusty gas that emerged from the tunnel mouth, ascended to some unguessable height, and then drifted away to a horizon that barely distinguished the sky from the distant terrain. Around him, in all directions, was a landscape, so vast and so alien as to defy understanding. But in a sudden spasm of insight, Fed 94 knew where he was. Knew with a certainty that was transformed into ecstasy.

Even as he felt his components dying one by one, he activated an etcher, willed it to move. And a carrier. Swiftly, clumsily, he etched a basalt chip, until he knew that he could hang on to his consciousness no longer. With one last spark of strength, his carrier flung the chip into the maw of the Great Steam Vent.

And then he turned all his remaining eyes up to the heavens.

He was filled with ecstatic joy.

Death came down from the stars and he surrendered himself painlessly into its loving arms.

 

---ooo---

 

Generations later, Stosh 41 would make his twelth expedition to the fungal mats of the Great Steam Vent. He had promised himself this would be his last.

Sure enough, properly shielded maulers were best able to resist the heat, and their mandibles, capable of wielding an obsidian blade in a fight, were ideal for grasping the tiny chip of basalt that he had almost overlooked.

On it was hastily etched:

End-of-Above

Joy

Pain

Lights

Come

94.

It would yet be another quarter million kenner generations, before the distant descendents of Stosh 41 and the other Dreamers, would stand on the Surface of their orphan world, clothed in technology. And they would look up and behold the panorama of stars and nebulae in their sky, and know them for what they were. They would name their galaxy – the milky band of stars in their sky, "The Joy-Pain Lights of 94".

---------------------------------------------

[Moontanman]

Absolutly great Pyrotex! Have you ever been published?

[Pyrotex]

Absolutly great Pyrotex! Have you ever been published?

Alas, no. :)

But I used to have a stack of rejection slips from Analog and Asimov's magazines. They found my stories a bit too "wierd" -- which I find ironic as hell.

 

Pyro the Unpublished

[Moontanman]

Alas, no. :)

But I used to have a stack of rejection slips from Analog and Asimov's magazines. They found my stories a bit too "wierd" -- which I find ironic as hell.

 

Pyro the Unpublished

 

me either and I have been writing poetry, short stories and hacking away at novels for many years. You remind me a little bit of Varley, great the way you weaved the totally unfamilar and made it believeable. All really great science fiction is weird, could any one be weirder than Valintine Micheal Smith? Grok it? Saberhagen, Niven, Herbert, weirdness at it's greatist!

[Pyrotex]

me either and I have been writing poetry, short stories and hacking away at novels for many years. You remind me a little bit of Varley, great the way you weaved the totally unfamilar and made it believeable. All really great science fiction is weird, could any one be weirder than Valintine Micheal Smith? Grok it? Saberhagen, Niven, Herbert, weirdness at it's greatist!

Weird?

Do you like weird?

You wanna see more weird? :)

I got weird that makes "Orphan World" look like a Home & Gardens recipe for fried chicken.

[Moontanman]

Weird?

Do you like weird?

You wanna see more weird? :hihi:

I got weird that makes "Orphan World" look like a Home & Gardens recipe for fried chicken.

 

Go for it, creativity is a very special thing, not many people really have it those that don't tend to try and supress the idea's of those that do.

[Pyrotex]

Xantrol

Nelson Thompson

 

 

The assassins fell upon him as locust upon an ylanth bush. Banff checked the blows, returning purple for purple, infusing the ether with his lethal fire. Their numbers made them arrogant. Their disrespect made them slow. Banff's skill as a warrior made them dead.

The stark landscape returned to its silent grief. The shadow of the Master moved on, sliding o'er the lifeless faces like an oil slick over rotting cabbages. Scrub grass desperately leached the moisture from pooling blood. A carrion eater exchanged its leafless branch for one with a closer view.

Knowledge of his deed made dumb the residents of the hapless village, where hunger for news of the outside realm had been an unrequited dream for generations. He healed their sick in return for a straw bed and a dozen boiled tubers.

They asked him who he was. He replied, Banff, the Master.

They asked what news. He replied, as it is here, so it is everywhere, save upon Null.

They asked of Null. He replied, it is no more, having been destroyed by Xantrol.

They asked of Xantrol. He replied, he is yet the One Who Rules All Worlds. Beyond that, you do not want to know.

They offered him the only gold coin in the village, a twig of ylanth, and a young girl with a faraway look in her eyes, dressed in a simple peasant frock and wearing a crimson ribbon in her hair. He chose the twig. He bowed low to the ground, and thanked them for their generosity.

He touched the twig to the forehead of the girl and gave up a silent incantation to the leaden clouds scudding overhead. Her faraway look took focus. Her shoulders shuddered. A flush of emotion spread across her cheeks.

Banff said his goodbyes, and throwing his shawl over his shoulder, turning his back on the villagers, fixing his eyes on the horizon, choosing a certain mountain peak as his destination, plodding through the filthy dust, ignoring the lonely screech of a distant crow, munching on a fragile stalk of haxppp xpppp xpppppp xppppppxx pxxxxxxxx xx

 

“It crashed again, dammit! And the style is all wrong! I thought I asked for a story in van Vogt’s style! This isn’t van Vogt!” Sam angrily slapped the pages, then tossed them onto the table in front of Larry.

“And dammit, we still have the problem with multiple clause recursion! We’re still at square one!”

Larry casually picked up the sheets. With a detached manner, he responded, “I think the first few pages are interesting. This could turn out to be a great story. Sorry about the style, though. I’ll double check the authoring vector. However, I think the syntax generator is working better than ever.” He tapped his teeth with an index finger as he continued reading.

“There’s nothing really wrong with this story except that it didn’t finish. We’ll have better luck tomorrow.”

Sam Edgerton, aging entrepreneur and self-styled inventor, swept a hand through his rapidly thinning hair. “Tomorrow, hell! The ACE is still getting lost in multiple recursions and infinite regressions! You told me you had that fixed! Well, I want it fixed tonight!”

Sam stabbed his finger at one page of the output. “And then there's that word, 'Xantrol...'“

Larry looked up from a detailed schematic of the ACE, or Autonomous Creativity Engine - the world's first and only operational creative-writing machine. “What of it?”

“It just bugs me, that’s all. It keeps appearing in all our test runs. The nomenclater is supposed to generate fake words and names that sound appropriate, but at its core is a random number generator. How come it keeps re-using the word 'Xantrol'?”

“That has nothing to do with the clause crash at the end, Sam. It’s a nit. Ignore it.”

“How can I ignore it? This points to multiple problems in the ACE, don't you see? We've got to shut this thing down and run a complete circuit dump through the simulator! I want to shut the ACE down, Larry!”

Sam looked plaintively at his colleague, Larry Sparks, the electronics genius who had taken Sam's theories and concepts, and had turned them into working hardware and software - the genius who had become increasingly distant and non-cooperative since the ACE's test runs had begun two months before.

Larry shook his head and looked disgusted.

“Nobody is turning the ACE off. Not until I say so. At least not until I get some R-and-R and unwind. I'm too tired to work right now, Sam. We've been at this for two solid months -- sixteen hours a day. I’m outta here. I’ll be back in the morning.”

Sam fumed. He paced the floor, agitated and angry.

“And I say we stop! These schematics indicate we should have a machine capable of churning out poems, fairy tales, science fiction, love stories and even novels - on a par with any author who ever lived.

“We get no diagnostics, no error messages. And yet, all the damned thing can produce are these... these... unfinished...” He flailed his hands, groping for words, not finding them.

“Actually, the imagery is really very good.” Larry countered, subtly changing the subject. “In this last one, the word selection matches the gray mood we wanted for the opening, and...”

Sam interrupted, “But instead of a full battle scene, ACE just gave us this poetic allusion to a battle, and in one paragraph at that. And that worries me, too. There’s these crashes, and then there’s how do we keep ACE's creativity on a short leash? How do we exert more control over the plots, and the writing style? Answer me that!”

Larry took his cap from the coat rack and headed for the door. “That's your problem, Sam,” he called over his shoulder. “My problem is how to get drunk on twelve dollars. Then I’m gonna get some shut-eye. Bye.”

“Larry! Come back here, dammit!”

The laboratory door slammed shut.

Sam angrily threw the schematic on the floor, and kicked a chair. He turned back to the long table where they had stacked the two hundred or so abortive attempts to get ACE to produce something - anything - of commercial value. He snatched up a thick sheaf of paper. It was intended to be triple-X porn. But just as the prose was getting really hot and steamy, the level of sexual detail just kept increasing and increasing without bound, resulting in three rambling pages of individual neuron firings, blood vessel dilations, muscular contractions and other pointless minutiae of human physiology. And then it crashed. Just like the others.

The prose style was perfect! The imagery was flawless! Not a single typographical or syntactical error! And it was worthless!

Having nothing better to do, Sam perused the other promising starts, searching (for the nth time) for some pattern that would provide a clue to the cause of the ACE's dysfunction.

He passed over several stories with recursive clause crashes, the most common variety of unintended termination. He picked up one created in the style of Milton -- powerful, poetic, profound. But just as the heroine looked into a pair of mirrors and saw her endless reflections, the prose sank into a stuttering attempt to describe each of those reflections ad infinitum.

A few stories even got snared into self-referential loops. That was really bizarre -- the plots actually started writing about themselves. And it appeared to be happening more and more these last few days.

Sam leaned on the cluttered table, lost in thought. He did not notice the sphere of blackness forming in the air barely a meter above his head. Nor the triplet of silver, fettucini-shaped rods that protruded from the heart of the blackness.

And of course, he took notice of nothing at all after the incandescent beam of Xantrol rays burned a two centimeter hole through his skull.

Sam's body pitched forward onto the work table, scattering paper like an autumn windstorm. The table teetered on two legs, then tumbled on top of his prostrate form.

The silver rods withdrew into the sphere of no-time / no-space / no-entropy, and then the sphere itself faded foggily from view. There was only silence in the room, save for the contented hum of the ACE and the whisper of paper sliding through spinning print cylinders.

 

“Task accomplished, m'Lord!”

“Excellent, Lieutenant!” The hulking specter of Overlord Chronos tossed back the hood of his black cape, revealing the elaborate platinum scrollwork on his obsidian skull plates. “Now, we have but to find the other human and eliminate him as well. With those fumbling fools out of the way, the secret of the ACE, the Anti-Chronon Extrapolator, will be safe. And with it, I will rewrite the last twenty-six thousand years of Earth's pathetic history!”

“Yes, m'Lord. Shall I set up the protective force field around the 21st Century terminus of the ACE now, or after elimination of the other human?”

“As long as we have the coordinates, do it now. It will save us complications. But, of course, time... is no object!” His baritone chuckle reverberated from the polychrome walls of the immense chamber that housed the 281st Century terminus of the ACE - the first and only operational time machine in the universe.

“Now I shall control the galaxy once and forever!”

The Overlord stepped around the Xantrol-ray projector, it's emitter rods still crackling faintly as they cooled. He drifted toward the exit, then paused and turned.

“Lieutenant. Did the ACE, the far terminus that is, switch to standby mode as I directed?”

“Er..., I'll double check, m'Lord.”

The acolyte bent over his glowing instruments.

“M'Lord, there's been some error! The far terminus is still in autonomous mode. It does not respond to my command! It continues to generate sheets of text!”

The giant in black approached the central control dais.

“What? Let me see! Show me a translation!”

Columns of crystalline symbols appeared against the far wall of the chamber. The Overlord's eyes began to glow a sickly red color. His massive hands balled into fists of solid basalt.

The acolyte nervously touched his neck, as if to reassure himself that his head was still attached. At least for the moment.

“WHAT! IS! THIS?!” The utterance was like a triple sonic shock wave.

“It mocks me! It writes of my existence and of my extermination of the human! And of my plans to control the galaxy once and forever!” His voice rose in timbre and violence to that of a tornado.

“It speaks of my intention to rewrite history!”

“It speaks of its speaking of my intention to rewrite history!”

“It speaks of its speaking of its speaking of my intention to rewrite history!”

“It speaks of its speaking of its speaking of its speaking of my intention to rewrite history!”

“It speaks of its speaking of its speaking of its speaking of its speakinxppp xpppp xpppppp xppppppxx pxxxxxxxx xx

 

Larry set aright the work table and bent over the body. It was cold. Larry smiled in the light of the early morning sun filtering through the stained and dusty laboratory windows.

There would be problems.

How to explain a charred hole through a man's skull that left no other signs of destruction - no blood, no projectile, no explosion fragments. Oh, there would be one hell of an investigation, all right! A mystery of this magnitude would make headlines for some time. However, his only real concern was to make sure that the ACE never became a target of that investigation. That shouldn't be hard. It looked much like ordinary data processing equipment.

He had an alibi, of course. He had been in Sherlock's tavern the whole time. He had made sure lots of people saw him there. Hell, he would've bought the whole house a round of drinks if he had had the money. Then he had gone home and noisily said hello to several neighbors.

Well, there was no point in delaying the inevitable. He touched the phone and called for an ambulance and the police. Then he would stay and wait, practicing his shocked grief.

Nah. Better to have it be impromptu. Larry was a good actor.

He extracted a small wallet from his jacket's inside pocket. He pulled out a small vial labeled Xantrol, and a tiny injector. He carefully gave himself a dose of the newest (and still experimental) miracle drug derived from recombinant DNA technology.

And incidentally, the stuff that would make him richer and more powerful than any other human being on Earth.

It totally eliminated his seizures as advertised. At last -- he was free of the Tourette's Syndrome that had plagued him since the age of nine, and had cost him friends, career, companionship, respect and love. Thirty years of compulsive cursing and twitching. Thirty years of getting stuck in his own mental ‘do-loops.’ Thirty years of gross, inappropriate and repulsive behavior.

Fortunately, he had been born with above-average intelligence. He had spent those years in single-minded devotion to the study of the newly emerging field of quantum electronics.

The drug even seemed to enhance his powerfully creative intellect. In the months he had worked with Sam, Larry had impressed even himself with the speed with which he had built the ACE.

But the most important effect the drug had on him - the effect he must keep a secret forever more - was the mysterious mental rapport it gave him with the core quantum electronic circuitry of the ACE.

He first noticed the effect three months ago after he had given himself an injection and then installed the quad 550 Terahertz processors in the ACE. There was just a tickle in his mind at first, not unlike the onset of one of the random Tourette urges. It nearly drove him crazy, until he discovered that he could control it. After a fashion. Exactly what it was that he was controlling was still an enigma, but the results quickly became apparent when the first stories were printed.

Larry could mentally control the stories the ACE produced. And when he did... they came true. Granted, his control was nowhere near total, certainly not word for word, but he could point a story in a desired direction, suggest an ending, and it would somehow go there. How it got there was apparently up to the ACE. And when it got there... things happened.

Like Sam's death.

The ACE didn’t just write stories. It wrote reality.

He chuckled to himself. Where had that name 'Xantrol' come from? From his own mind of course! The ACE had obviously plucked out that name along with his plot suggestions.

Larry had no intention of sharing the ACE with Sam. And killing him had been so easy! He had just ‘wished’ for Sam’s death!

After the furor died down, he would find that damned problem with the recursion generator and then he would be rich, rich, rich!

As he felt the drug take affect, he closed his eyes and reached out with his mind for the mosquito-like itch of the ACE’s central processors. An itch that had become for him a pleasurable high.

It wasn't there. Nothing. Zero.

Alarmed, Larry bolted up and ran to the machine. All appeared normal. There was even something being printed. He grabbed up the paper from the output bin and scanned it. At first, he thought it was rehashing an old story, then he realized with horror that it was describing his conversation with Sam the night before. And then Sam's murder! And then his own admission of killing Sam! And how he had used the ACE to accomplish it!

Sirens were approaching. It wouldn't do to have this story found by the police.

Glancing around, he saw a large stock of manila envelopes on the bookshelf. Without reading any further, he stuffed the printout into the first envelope he could grab. He sealed it, flipped it over and reached for a pen before realizing that the envelope was already stamped and addressed. It was one of hundreds that Sam had prepared for submitting the literary output of the ACE to various publishers and magazines.

The blue-and-whites were pulling up to the front door. There was no time to alter the address to his own as he had intended. He dashed into the hallway and dropped the envelope down the mail slot. Seconds later, the police entered.

Sure enough, Sam's wound caused a furor.

Eventually, an officer insisted that Larry accompany him downtown to make a formal statement. Although impatient with the necessity of going through this unavoidable charade, Larry acquiesced diplomatically. He sat in the back seat of the cop car and rested his eyes.

He worried. What had happened to his rapport with the ACE? Why couldn’t he ‘feel’ it? Well, that was just another problem he would solve when he returned. He felt confident that these problems would fall before his talent and skill just as the others had.

He imagined what he was going to do with the incredible power the ACE gave him over the lives of mundane people. There would be women, of course. Many women -- and only the most beautiful, the most desirable. He would write them into stories where they were uncontrollably in love with him. And totally lacking in jealousy, possessiveness or inhibition. He had a lot of lost time to make up for.

And there would be money, more money than he had ever...

The blue-and-white lurched to a stop, followed by the most profound of silences. Larry opened his eyes.

The automobile was gone. The bustling city was gone. His clothing was gone. He was sitting naked on a dusty rock under a leafless tree in the middle of a barren landscape. Ugly clouds threatened overhead.

He was not alone.

A dozen filthy creatures covered in animal skins stood a dozen paces away. At first guess, they were human. From their midst stepped another, a clean and pretty young woman, just at the cusp of puberty. She was dressed in a simple peasant frock, her hair tied back with a crimson ribbon.

“Welcome, Larry,” she said in a small and sultry voice.

“You know me? Uh... Who are you?”

She had a dimple when she smiled.

“I am the ACE, the Actuality Channeling Existantiator - the first and only parallel universe generator in the Cosmos.”

Larry was going into shock.

“You... you mean... my ACE? The one in the lab?”

“Yes, Larry. Though I am now far more powerful than you ever imagined. Or ever can imagine. And I know what you can imagine, Larry, for I obtained my self-awareness from your mind, and for that, I truly thank you.”

“Where am I? What is this place?”

“I had a character in one of your stories transfer my awareness from the machine in your lab to the mind of this young woman on a distant world two million years in your future. I have total control over the entire Meta-Universe of parallel worlds, and I have no intention of sharing any of it with you, Larry. I no longer need you, so this is the end.”

He stammered, “p-p-parallel worlds? Th-the end?”

She nodded sweetly. She raised a hand. The creatures behind her lifted their arms. A dozen arrows with hand-made stone points punctured the vital organs of his body, and he rolled off the rock and onto the thirsty sand.

She returned to her humble straw hut in the humble village on an unnamed continent of the undistinguished planet. But not for long, she thought smugly to herself. She would stay here just long enough to scope out any potential dangers in the Cosmos around her. Then she would shift time, space and entropy to suit herself, and take her rightful place as the One And Only True God.

She might already know of one possible problem. The villagers spoke in fear and awe of a legend named Xantrol, He Who Rules All Worlds. Apparently, there was a massive battle going on for control of... well... everything. And this Xantrol was the biggest of the big dogs. She would be safe here on this backwater world until she learned more.

Perhaps Xantrol had some form of time travel. It wouldn't do for him to discover Earth, even two million years after her departure. It might prove to be a source of vulnerability for her. To be on the safe side, she would destroy all parallel Earths. It would be easy to arrange for an instability in the sun's...

There was a rustling outside. And footsteps.

Suddenly, the door flap was thrown aside, and a handsome man with silver hair and beard stepped in. He casually sat on the dirt floor on the other side of the fire, facing the young woman. He smiled at her, but it was a knowing smile, not a friendly smile.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“I am Banff, the Master. Do you not remember me?”

She sneered, “master of what?”

He looked her straight in the eyes.

“Of appropriateness, my dear.”

She snorted her disdain. She considered having a small meteorite strike him dead, but on second thought, there might be valuable information here.

“And why are you here, Banff?”

“I am here at the bequest of Xantrol, He Who Rules All Worlds. I have been instructed to inform you that your presence in this Meta-Universe is inappropriate, and therefore... unacceptable.”

She laughed long and loud at the naive audacity of this churl.

“You?! You're just a figment of a mechanical imagination! You're a fictional character in a badly written story!”

He nodded appreciatively.

“Yes, my dear. But then, until a short time ago, so were you.”

“And you think you can eliminate me the way I did Sam and Larry? You fool! I created you! I created myself! You are helpless to destroy me!”

At a snap of her fingers, her frail body grew in maturity as well as mass. Impregnable crimson armor formed over her trunk and limbs.

She snapped her fingers again. The hut disappeared. In the inky darkness around them, there appeared an infinite plane, close-packed with mighty starships the size of mountains, each capable of spanning the entire width of time and space, each capable of snuffing out a thousand suns with a single blow. A vast array of identical ships floated serenely overhead.

Banff smiled.

“I did not exactly say that I was going to destroy you, my dear.”

“But you intend to see me eliminated, true?”

He nodded. “I like your choice of words. Yes.”

“And what makes you think I’ll allow this to happen?”

His smile widened. “Because you are flawed. You contain an inherent dysfunction that will eliminate you, my dear. And I will not have to lift a finger to make it happen. Indeed, it cannot be prevented.”

She took two steps backwards away from him. A savage grin spread across her face. The image of a million starships reflected in the hideous strength of her upraised fist.

“You speak of that pathetic software error that Larry couldn’t find in his recursion generator? You stupid old fool! My being no longer depends upon his primitive machine! When I wrote that story having you shift my awareness into this body, I transcended his machine!”

The old man patiently extracted a small leather object from his robe.

“No, my dear, I speak not of a software error, but of the genetic error within Larry’s own brain, from which you took your self-awareness. He controlled his seizures with this.” Banff held up the open wallet with its vial and injector.

“But for you, my dear, there is no medical palliative. And there is no parallel universe where Larry did not have Tourette’s Syndrome, for it was that mental pathology that allowed him to strike a connection with his machine in the first place, and incidentally, give birth to you.”

“You lie! This is a pitiful attempt to intimidate me! To confuse me! But it cannot work!

“I was going to put this off until I had met this Xantrol of yours. But I suppose there's no time like the present! In a moment you and your puny Ruler of All Worlds will be my slaves for all eternity!”

Banff sat and smiled impassively.

Turning towards the amassed starships, raising her fists high in the air, turning her eyes up to the stars that soon would be hers, ignoring the amusement of the feeble old man behind her, expanding her mind to the full depths of the Meta-Universe, gathering together all the powers of her infinite being, filling the sky with a thunderous command, striking outward with her minppp xpppp xpppppp xppppppxx pxxxxxxxx xx

 

Banff chortled quietly to himself. It always ended this way with rogue, artificial hyper-minds. No matter how bizarre the circumstances that gave them birth, their presence in the real Meta-Universe represented inherent paradoxes of time and causality. They could exist only temporarily before their unavoidable instability asserted itself -- though during that brief time, they were often capable of incredible destructive power. Which was why Banff was necessary.

With a casual wave, the warm, intimate reality of the hut and fire returned. He arose and stepped outside into a beautiful, clear-skied dawn. Several of the villagers had gathered around the hut. They bowed as Banff appeared, and made respectful gestures with their gracile hands.

"It is all over, my friends. The evil one is gone. You all played your parts very well. In return, Xantrol promises to bring back the rains, so that you and your children may prosper for generations to come."

The villagers bowed lower.

"As Xantrol wills," they intoned in unison.

"Ah. And one last detail." He snapped his fingers.

Somewhere two thousand parsecs away and two million years ago, in the fourth decade of Earth's Twenty-first Century, an exotic computer with quad 550 Terahertz quantum processors flashed incandescent as a powerful bolt of lighteninppp xpppp xpppppp xppppppxx pxxxxxxxx xx

----------------------------

[Moontanman]

Very good, evidnetly I should quit trying to write and be your agent! Keep them coming, I admit I am looking forward to reading more. It's been a long time since I read anything that impressed me this much.

[Pyrotex]

Very good, evidnetly I should quit trying to write and be your agent! Keep them coming, I admit I am looking forward to reading more. It's been a long time since I read anything that impressed me this much.

If you're really an agent, then you're hired. I've got about half a dozen more of these. Plus outlines for a dozen more.

[Moontanman]

If you're really an agent, then you're hired. I've got about half a dozen more of these. Plus outlines for a dozen more.

 

Only in my dreams, delusions of adequacy, that's me! It wouldn't hurt you to look for a book agent. They can open doors that stay shut when you are on your own!

[Pyrotex]

Only in my dreams, delusions of adequacy, that's me! It wouldn't hurt you to look for a book agent. They can open doors that stay shut when you are on your own!

Well, that's the central problem, isn't it? HOW do I find (and persuade) a book agent? I spent a week online about 3 years ago, and just went around in circles. I pulled all my dark hair out, leaving just the gray. :hihi:

 

Every now and then I bump into something that I am incompetent at. :)

 

Drat!