The time was 10:54:31 am. C4 was not facing the walkway.
Photons traveled earthward, absorbed and reflected in various frequencies by metallic surfaces. Water clusters observable in the human visible spectrum were swept along air currents in clusters high above. Bodies defying gravity by manipulation of quantum forces traversed three dimensions along rigid geometric patterns. Nonartificial organisms swarmed over surfaces of hardlight, metal, plastic and concrete in seemingly random patterns that could nevertheless be modeled, and predicted. Vibrations of heat and light formed messages to be interpreted and processed. A matrix of kinetic and potential energy , open to processing and interpretations.
C4 stood along the edge of the walkway surrounding Creaton Tower, overlooking the Mediatrane Chasm. C4 stood below an ornamental lamppost, its light causing minute rises in temperature along C4's head and shoulders, with C4's hands clasped behind C4's back, staring outwards at the view. Behind C4 streamed a chaotic mass of bodies, moving left, right, forwards, back, lacing through one another like colliding molecules. C4 did not need to look at them directly. C4 possessed advanced radar technology that rendered three dimensional models of their spacial relations. Powerful audio equipment detected their conversations, heart rates, palpitations, adding an additional layer of data to the model. Cybernetic receptors processed all electronically stored information originating in the walkers' bodies and appliances: pictures, music, conversations, movies, sensory records, biological manipulators, received and exported signals. With this information, C4 knew the names, ages, locations of origin, species, basic habits and interests—and in some cases plans and goals and destinations—of every person who walked behind, making the application of visual information, the mere modality of color, completely superfluous to their observation, and thus much better applied to the walkway’s view.
The rays shot down deep into the canyon, and the metallic orange tower opposite C4 looked built from sun-kissed sparkling glass. C4 liked the way the buildings sparkled, admired the way the Laws of Physics played out to create something of aesthetic beauty, liked the way flying machines, rendered minuscule by the distance, flew across the vista, creating the sense of a continuity in their travels along their flyways, the way the external elevators and leechcars moved along the surface of buildings and rose and fell in deliberate patterns, the supple graceful curves of the towers that seemed almost grown instead of designed. C4 like these things because C4 was programmed to like these things. C4 had been programmed with a sense of aesthetics.
C4 also appreciated the cloud’s shadows, moving along while stretching down the lengths of the buildings. The moving shadows registered as fascinating, though there was no specific algorithm which lead to the computation that this was so. The precise explanation as to why it was such was elusive, as if the appreciation had merely been included in C4's hardware. Perhaps it had something to do with what could cause such a huge shadow, as it was really only water in the air: the idea that the insubstantial could have an effect on something real. But then, of course, they didn’t really have an effect, did they? Just shadows: phantasmal absences of light.
In another compartment, C4 was analyzing the encounter with the man with the oddly colored hair in the cheap suit who C4 had caught staring at C4 25 minutes ago. C4 was analyzing the man’s actions and calculating whether this was relevant information to report to Central Command.
C4 was a Clockman. The Clockmen were the highest level of Autonomous Automaton1. Clockmen, despite being a unique class of robots, all fulfilled a common function in the city. Clockmen were Peacekeepers. While such functions were not limited solely to Clockmen, marketing and word of mouth detailing the Clockmen’s exceptional attributes and abilities had made them synonymous with that profession.
All Clockmen dressed in well-tailored suits and hats.
Besides their faces, which each robot was allowed to customize to suite their designated personality, the Clockmen all had identical construction. They were all specifically calibrated to be taller than those addressed without being explicitly imposing for the maximum percentage of city inhabitants, which resulted in them all being a height of 76 and 7/8th inches.
The deviations in appearance had been based on carefully conducted studies to make the Clockmen seem personal, but consistent, and distinct among the crowds.
The time was 10:54:34 am. C4 heard a voice inside.
C4? it said.
Yes? C4 replied.
Situation Critical, it said.
What came next was a wide web of hypertext. The information overlapped and unspoiled after entering C4's database in a single strand that, like a geometrically precise contour line drawing, folded over itself until it formed a distinct pattern, simulating four dimensions of information.
Time for a another Memo2.
The web became a facet of the multidimensional database, a point jutting out from C4's brane.
The memo was constituted by a video recording of Dadalus, the Pteranarchist, landing on a citystreet, walking through the citystreet, walking into a diner, sitting at the diner, and harassing an occupant inside. The occupant was obscured, just out of sight of the video recorder. There was also information detailing the exact relation by the diner and street to C4’s present location.
The memo dredged up all of C4’s files concerning Dadalus, who C4 had never seen before in person, as well as all programming relating to Dadalus. C4 switched to High Alert Mode.
The time was 10:54:35 am. C4 bolted instantaneously, running through the street, yelling ‘Disperse! Disperse! Official Concerns, disperse!’
As C4 ran, files explained the shortest route to Dadalus’ location; it was on C4's level, one building over, on the other side of the building from his initial location.
While approaching the opposite side, C4 saw that the holograph bridge joining the two was packed with people moving in both directions, their density slowing their pace to a crawl. C4 was just now receiving this information. C4 cursed the satellite relays. You would think they could get everything in at once, but there is always some lag at some way station or other3! It would take too long to nudge through the people on the bridge.
C4 sent out a signal to the force panels along either side of the buildings to temporarily shut off. The time was 10:57:49 am.
‘Disperse! Disperse! Official Concerns, disperse!’ Continuing to run towards the brink, C4 calculated the physics of a jump, across 110 feet, onto an level surface.
The time was 10:58:05 am. C4 reached the edge, and at the last possible moment jumped. Putting all required force into the jump, C4 swept up into the air, and out, over the gaping whole below. C4 considered how far down it went, on and on below, while traveling up and up, then paused for a moment in air and began to descend, falling down and down, the wind echoing up against legs, a primal hollow howl.
And then C4 felt himself hit a hard surface, and roll, so as not to break the ground, across the far street. C4 heard screams, and intakes of breath. Then C4 was up and coming out of the roll and into a run with graceful precision, and then was off again.
‘Disperse! Disperse! Official Concerns, disperse!’
The time was 10:58:41 am. C4 felt sensors heightening. His systems were running at 95% of maximum, to prepare for the battle coming ahead. C4 had to be ready for anything with Dadalus, ready with a million contingencies plans, ready to act at a moments notice. There was no way to predict exactly was the Pteranarchist would do.
The time was 10:59:06. C4 was rounding the building and coming upon sight of the diner. ‘Disperse! Disperse! Official Clockmen business, disperse!’ He was upon the diner! 30 feet. 25. 20. 15. 10...
Dadalus jumped through the window of the diner and dove off the edge of the building. The time was 10:59:45 am.
‘No!’ yelled C4. C4 followed, jumping right down after him. The time was 10:59:47 am.
Thirty-two.
Thirty-two.
C4 was counting the seconds. Dadalus had two seconds on C4, exactly. C4 found it eerie how precise the timing was. That was three sets of 32 feet per second. Every second, C4 fell 32 feet more than during the last second, and Dadalus became 32 feet farther away.
Thirty-two.
Thirty-two.
Lights from billboards flashed around him. C4 felt as if on a pathway, leading immediately towards some final point, but with numerous routes available to reach it.
Thirty-two.
Thirty-two.
Below was the Pteranarchist, just out of reach, it seemed, yet the distance was growing. If C4 could just grab his boots, maybe something could be done. But they were both accelerating at the same rate, and the Pteranarchist was falling away. The wings were closed, and effected his fall not in the slightest. If he would just catch the wind right, maybe twitched a little, C4 thought, I will have him. But the gray wings and boots remained out of reach.
Thirty-two.
C4 decided to shift concentration away from the feet below, to think of the other things. C4 started looking at the billboards. C4 found them boring, having no interest in products.
Thirty-two.
Thirty-two.
They fell deeper into the ravine; daylight was leaving them behind. Like entering space, but going in, not out. The light of the billboards, the electronic luminescence, became starker in the absence of the natural.
Thirty-two.
Falling faster now. The billboards became indistinct, abstract. Bleeding streams of light passing by. C4 tried thinking of them as separate entities. A part of C4's brane began counting them. The feet lay ahead.
Thirty-two.
3.14 x 103. Odd. A very close number. C4 passed a billboard that had been short circuited, a very rare occurance. Irrational.
C4 decided to count the light streams. Number of light streams divided by number of possible light streams…added to the total number of billboards equals…
Thirty-two.
The number was pi x 103 to the 103rd digit. Somehow. Maybe. Was there an error? For a moment C4, contemplated pi. For a moment. The time was 11:00:00 am.
Thirty-two.
Opening up before the viewpoint of C4's consciousness was a perfect circle: the kind that can only be imagined. Its image fixed C4 in place. C4 understood precisely where before lay the circle's center. C4 fell towards it. C4 felt the center grow nearer, and as if came forward, the circumference receded. It occurred to C4 that the exterior of the circle was false anyways. A lone border, imaginary. No thickness, no consequence. You could be outside it or inside it without moving. But a center, a center you could find, it was always there: calculated from what was without, and from what was within. Within a certain space. The center grew larger and larger. C4's being spring out from the center of C4's self, growing out, surpassing C4, going beyond. C4 felt the form—no, not the form, only the cages upon the true self, not this crude metal shell—grow beyond, surpassed by the center which surpassed the circumference. The circumference shrank into nowhere and the center expanded out into everywhere, point and border turned upon each other in an event horizon. An infinite loop, inwards and beyond. A mirror reflecting a mirror reflecting a mirror.... It was so clear now! An illusion! Only an illusion that needed not be followed!
Thirty-two.
The time was 11:00:01. C-4 felt as if he was going to explode.
1. In The City, there are two major classifications of robots; Androids and Automatons. Androids are robots made to seem humanlike in appearance. They range from basic machines with plasticine skin to constructs so intricate and complex they bleed, have organs, and can reproduce: basically silicon-based life forms. Automatons are very evidently machines, and go from vaguely human-shaped to a manifold of outrageous, but functional, shapes.
The Autonomous classification means the robot is endowed with Independent Thought Processors. Non-Autonomous robots have no distinct personality and are either aspects of a larger hive mind or golems receiving all commands from an outside source. Though Clockmen routinely share information and files with fellow Clockmen, and receive orders from a central authority, they each have distinct personalities and are permitted to carry out their instructions in whatever method is allowed within the strictures of their Personality Programming.
2. A Memo, in Clockmen jargon, is a set of instructions from Central Command and the accompanying data to put the instructions in context and aid in their efficient performance. Encoded in memos’s is usually a set of instructions which confer a certain duty upon the recipient. It is often the case with Clockmen that these messages needed not be stated explicitly in the memo, as most memo’s contained information that force a Clockman to follow prior Programming.
3. For the purposes of interrogation and personal interaction, Clockmen are programmed to synthesize emotional states.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Friday, May 21, 2010
Book I: Part 2: Alison
Elsewhere, a clock face flickered blue, marking the time as eleven o’clock . No one in the room noticed because the only occupant was staring at her hands.
The occupant’s name was Alison Amberginnegan, and she was waiting for her 11:30 appointment. Alison was early because she had nothing else to do that day.
The room was sparely furnished. The floor and three of the walls were covered in green carpet. Along one wall a comfortable padded green bench rose seamlessly from the corner, spanned the entire length of the room, and disappeared into the two walls adjacent. Dead-center in the adjacent walls were positioned a pair of identical woody doors, full of knotty spirals and swirls. (Alison had entered from the door to her right.)
The wall opposite the bench appeared crystal clear. It let in streams of sunlight, illuminating every corner and surface. Outside could be seen the city, section 49-FF. Buildings rose and fell randomly in height. Smaller buildings were built upon larger ones, sometimes at odd angles. Some buildings terminated in height only gradually, forming spirals or steppe patterns when viewed from above. Small penthouses and apartment complexes grew everywhere upon everything like fungi. The room was very high up, and the view seemed to stretch out forever, the buildings eventually tapering out along the horizon: it was as if one stood on the high edge of a valley, one whose cracked terrain hinted at untold depths below. Of course, Alison Amberginnegan did not see any of this; she was staring at her hands.
She sat with her legs crossed. On her feet were a pair of green canvass sneakers with white laces. Her legs were covered in a pair of red and green tights, which disappeared under a white linen skirt covered in golden sparkles. She wore a black jacket which was mostly hidden beneath her hair: a large brown scraggly mop overriding her head and torso, through which could be seen a small pale face: a china doll’s head in a barren thicket. Her face hung forward, its shaded eyes staring intently at her hands clasped bloodless in her lap. She looked less like a full-grown adult than a small lost child.
A mimetic fugue filled her mind. A shifting haze, each thought unleashing a flood of possible connections, like hypertext.
The bench felt velvety, the same feeling as the cloth of the dress her mother was buried in. (The shade of green was off though; her mother’s dress was darker.) Alison remembered stroking her mother’s hands, clasped over her abdomen, her face deflated and misshapen. Every so often her fingers went too far and glided over the cuff of the dress. The green fabric felt better than the skin, which was like wax. Cold wax over skin, like that time in her sixth year when she had spilled the candle on her hand. She cried out, but the wax quickly cooled, and then felt fine. But she had knocked the candle out, and sitting in darkness, fingering the wax, feeling the living flesh pulse under it, then fade away as the surface turned cold and hardened, she breathed heavy and became frightened, and called out for her mother.
Her mother, whose name was Igrane Tintagellian. A pale thin delicate woman with doe eyes, (Alison had never seen a doe, or a deer, not really, only in movies) and long dark hair. She remembered the hair hanging across her mother’s face, her eyes peering out from between the strands, watching the rain. Lots of memories of Igrane Tintagellian watching the rain. She would go out on the balcony and watch the superstorms pass over, the invisible forcefields hovering over the skyscrapers protecting them like an angelic cocoon, the lightning passing overhead in streaks, lighting the frictionless chasm of apartments, a view blurred by the raindrops falling in rows along the forcefield's surface. A hundred billion pitters pattering in concert, and her mother standing visible through the open doorway (Alison was always to scared to go outside herself), framed as if meant to stay there, waiting, enraptured.
It was because Igrane Tintagellian died that she ended up working in the store. Suddenly Alison, at 19, had to fend for herself. How very strange. She never saw her mother work, ever. For the last nine years she wondered how her mother, with a child at her side, managed to tie ends together. Where did the credits come from? Who paid for the utilities? Did the credits all fall from the sky? Igrane Tintagellian was always at home, watching over her. No answer came with the funeral, and she quickly found herself having to tie ends herself, and the first place she found herself in her wanderings was Pluta’s Cornucopia.
Pluta’s Corncopia, a used clothing store, owned by Pluta, a small translucent woman with a pug nose and a tail, who wandered deliberately around the interior of the store, crossing people’s paths, trailing strands of black tassely hair, getting side-tracked and drawn into the orbits of various consumers who she haggled with, the detour causing her to spin around the consumer in a flurry to maintain her momentum, rotating them as they followed the force of her argument, until she disengaged, and continued on. One wondered how she managed to stay upright, what with all the spinning.
Always pulled about by her force was her assistant and lover, Prospero, who when not engaged stood in the middle of the store, where he could get a good view of all the surrounding sea of clothes from an island of cleared floor room. Often he stood with a book in hand, trying to distract himself from his circumstance, yet inevitably following his consort's calls, sallying forth into the woods—didn’t the clothes lines look like willow trees?—to answer his mistress’ call, where, like clockwork, Pluta would berate and chastise him for his absent-mindedness, then send him back to his island to silently brood.
Alison once asked Prospero, after a particularly contemptuous spat, why he put up with her bossing, and he stated that it was to keep close to his daughter, who he didn’t want to lose to the wealthier parent by fault of desertion. As Pluta owned the business; Prospero was hers to command.
To vent, Prospero piled orders and frustration upon the other clerk, Urie Dies: a small olive-skinned man-child with black curly hair and a smooth curvy nose betwixt dark pooling eyes, always hidden among the cloths, lurking about, blending in. As if just one more item in the store with a price.
And above it all, perched upon a stool behind the register like an observant bird, sat Alison, the sea of priced items stretching out before her. The items seemed to writhe en masse, swaying as if alive due to Pluta’s passing commotion. A massive pile of refuse: cast away, discarded, exiled, fallen, unloved, unlovely, torn, rag-tag, bedraggled items, waiting to be reborn again upon new bodies. There she sat, clad in garments rescued from the shelves and hooks: watching, unspeaking, trying to take it all in and catch sight of Urie traveling through the undergrowth. (Before working there, when living with her mother, she was dressed in long flowing simple dresses of moonlight blue, unadorned by frills or patterns.)
Sometimes he would come up to the counter and speak with her. He would always call her Ariel, his secret nickname.
‘My name is not Ariel,’ she said.
‘Ah, but I like Ariel better,’ he said
‘What’s wrong with Alison?’
‘Why be Alison when you could be Ariel?’
‘That’s not a reason.’ Alison rolled her eyes and threw back her head in mock disgust. There was a stain on the ceiling that reminded her of a land formation she had seen while paging through a picture book while she was seven.
‘It’s a name common in my family,’ he said waging his finger. ‘Petulant. You should feel honored.’
She smiled sheepishly. ‘Well, thank you, but what’s wrong with just being myself?’
‘What’s in a name?’
‘I’m used to it?’
‘That’s no reason. You should be open to changes. I bet you don’t even know who you are anyways. You should try being Ariel, take on a bit of my type.’ Then he scampered off.
Sometimes they discussed wanting to quit.
‘Promise if you quit you will take me with you,’ one would say.
‘Only if you promise to take me.’
‘Let’s quits together then. That will show them how important we are!’
‘Oh, let’s.’
It was a slow day—the ninth slowest since she started—last Freyday, when the man entered. He wore a red skintight body suit with arcane copper wire patterns etched all across the surface, and a shallow silver helmet. He opened the door of the shop, letting in a gust of air, and ran straight up to the counter.
‘Alison Amberginnegin?’ he said.
‘Yes? How may I help you?’ she was confused; no customer had ever known her name before.
‘Mizziz Amberginnegin—am I pronouncing that right?—I am here on account of Legacy Corps. Do you know who Legacy Corps is?’
She shook her head.
‘Figures. Legacy Corps is an executing firm. Um,’ and the red-suited man stared off to one side, ‘It is my regret to inform you that your father has passed on.’
‘My father?’ she asked, puzzled.
‘Ayup. He died about three months ago. They have just finished sorting through all the electro work, I believe.’ The red-suited man pulled a small holographic card out of the air. ‘Anyways, I have been asked to give this to you. You have, it seems, inherited something from him. I have been sent to notify you that you need to meet the executor of the estate, a Mosses Meddleson. This is his card, for you. Within it is all the information you need to know.’ The red-suited man handed her the card. ‘Sorry for you loss.’ he smiled, then was gone.
Sorry for your loss. That sounded odd to her. It had never really occurred to her that she had had a father. That is, she was aware that one must have existed (the existence of a father was the excuse for her and her mother’s different last names) but she had never pictured there being a real flesh-and-blood person out there, somewhere, who was her father. It would not have made the slightest difference to her if she had been virginally conceived.
But now she had a father, and as soon as she had found him, he was already gone. For three months. She had lost something without even knowing she had had it.
But what did she lose exactly? She looked at the holographic card. As she flickered it back and forth, different tableaus flashed across the surface.
Mosses Meddleson
Chief Executor, for Legacy Corps!
Located in Room 7A-D, Level 1852
Of Legacy Corps Tower
(LL code 49-FF 2270 1852-7)
Call # 233-377-610-987-1597
The next one looked like this:
The third and final image in the card was a smiling face: cheery, aged, but bursting with youthful exuberance, centered around a thin nose and encircled by a thick wreath of curly hair and beard: an image, she could only assume, of Mosses Meddleson.Hello, Alison! I, Mosses Meddleson, commend and welcome you! I regret inform you of the death of your father, Allathir Amberginnegin. However, old Allathir has left properties to you in his will, and it has befallen on my humble head to explicate for you the intricacies of your inheritance. If you could, please call the number listed on another face of this card, and make an appointment with my receiver, Janet/us, for sometime next week, so that we may explain the details to you. Thank you and have a pleasant evening.
Alison was not allowed to use the store holographone, so she had to wait. Then she had to take the cable car back to her apartment. (She couldn’t afford a telepass.) This all meant that she didn’t get a chance to call back until 5:49 pm .
The holographone pinged twice before answering. The face that came into view was a mannish looking woman with an even complexion and short purplish hair done up in a swirl. ‘Awfully late you are calling, no?’
‘What? I mean, I’m sorry?’
‘Yes, what is it you want?’
‘Well, my name is Alison Amberginnegan? And I have this card, and…?’
‘Alison Amberginnegan?’ The mannish woman turned away from the holographone. Alison heard typing in the distance. That had been an awfully fast reaction.
‘Uh, yes? That’s me?’
‘Middle Initial M?’
‘Yes?’
‘Ah, yes. Messer Meddleson was expecting a call… he has open…. He can see you at 11:30 on Wodensday. According to his notes you will need a ninety minute period. Can you make that?’
She had no idea. To make that, she would need to take a day off, or leave early, and she had never taken a day off, or left early, ever. She had always been too afraid to ask Pluta.
‘Yes?’
‘Good girl. Messer Meddleson will see you then. Come to our offices on level 1848. Not 1852, like on the card. 1848. People are always following the card and getting lost. You can’t reach Messer Meddleson’s offices by going straight to his level. You need to started on 1848. See you next Wodensday.’
The connection terminated. Alison stood in her room blinking.
Why did she have to start five levels down? Why did she agree to an appointment on Wodensday, during the day, when apparently they were still open at night? Couldn’t she have gotten a night appointment?
Why hadn't she said anything?
Sometimes Alison noticed, upon a reflection, her brain coming up with random little decisions that added up to the solution to a larger problem she had been dealing with. That night, Alison wondered, while laying in bed, in her blue-moon nightgown, under her alabaster covers, staring at the ceiling covered in star stickers, if this was her brain doing something like that again. She hated when her brain did that. Usually the decisions she was unconsciously making were highly uncomfortable.
Why hadn't she said anything?
Sometimes Alison noticed, upon a reflection, her brain coming up with random little decisions that added up to the solution to a larger problem she had been dealing with. That night, Alison wondered, while laying in bed, in her blue-moon nightgown, under her alabaster covers, staring at the ceiling covered in star stickers, if this was her brain doing something like that again. She hated when her brain did that. Usually the decisions she was unconsciously making were highly uncomfortable.
‘What do you mean you want an extended lunch?’
For the next four days, Alison acted as if nothing had happened. Things went on as always. Pluta orbited, Prospero came and retreated, Urie popped in and out of view, his absence harassing her. She rode the cable car to and from labor, enjoying the gentle curving descent and ascent as it glided through the streets.
‘Where do you get off asking for something on such short notice?’
Alison hadn’t mentioned to anyone what had happened on Freyday until the end of Tirsday. She had never had the courage to face Pluta until she had no choice.
‘I-I’m sorry,’ she sputtered.
Pluta stared at her crossly. ‘Well, you can’t skip work. It’s not allowed.’
‘A-all I need is a lunch break from 11:00 to 1:00 .’ She figured maybe she could get out of the meeting early, and be back at work by the time it actually ended.
‘You know you don’t get a lunch break!’
‘Well…Could I have one?’ Alison had no idea where this thought came from.
‘No!’
‘Just one?’
‘Of course not! What if consumers come?’
Usually no one came in during lunch hours. She tried counting all the people that ever came in between 11 and 1 but gave up. Some of the time she didn’t keep track of the clock at work.
‘Couldn’t you get someone to fill in?’
‘Hah! Like who?’
‘Well, Urie could, or Melinda…’
‘I’m not making my daughter come in early!’ boomed Pluta. ‘Look here, either come in tomorrow, for all of the day, or you’re gone!’
‘Gone?’
‘Gone!’
‘But, I need to go…’
‘Well, make your decision now. Either you work all of tomorrow, or you can leave, right now!’
Alison froze. Could she reschedule? What if she couldn’t reschedule? Was there a penalty for not following the schedule? Did she forfeit her inheritance? What if it was a big inheritance? What if it was pittance, not enough to keep her rent, and then she was out of a job? Maybe nothing would happen if she missed the appointment. She could reschedule. But for when?
‘I’m waaaiiiit-tinnnnng.’ Pluta stood hands-on-hips glaring.
She couldn’t lose what was left of him. Not for this.
‘Well, what’s it going to be then?’
Slowly, shaking, Alison turned. She began walking for the door, concentrating on placing one foot in front of the other. Behind her was silence. She remembered Urie then, their promises to quit together.
Now she was quitting.
She was at the door. Would he follow? She turned: a slow revolution.
And there was Urie, a few feet from her. Staring at her. His face pained, eyes wide. Silently she pleaded. ‘Don’t let me be alone.’ His face twitched, and went blank. As if pulled by an external force, he retreated behind a hanger of clothes, disappearing into the masses. Crestfallen, Alison turned, and with moist eyes, opened the door and walked out.
‘I’m not paying you for this week!’ yelled Pluta. The door closed. A bell chimed. Alison ran off. It was raining gently all the way home, which steamed the air and hid her tears.
She remembered a dream she had had the night before. She was in a boat, weighted down low along the water, full of hooded forms rowing. Fog drifted off the water’s surface and obscured the distance. Then suddenly the fog parted, and a tower appeared in the air. She heard yells and shouts and saw a giant flame on the nearing shore. Dim figures danced around it in a circle. She looked up towards the tower, then back down toward the dancing figures, and began to feel afraid.
Sometimes, she felt an intuition of future tidings, as if she knew, just knew, what would happen next. This feeling of fate or fortune filled her with dread. Dread of the unknown, dread of her powerlessness. She was feeling that feeling right now.
Alison blinked. Her clenched hands were as pale as the grave. From the periphery of her vision she saw the window, the source of the light blanketing her. It was obviously very sunny. She did not look up.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Book I: Part 1: Arthur
Arthur stared into his reflection in his cup of coffee and tried not to look at the huge gelatinous blob behind the counter.
He was sitting at the bar in a diner with a nineteen-fifties feel to it. The floor alternated black and white squares like a chessboard. A shiny blue jukebox sat along the side wall. The walls and corners were filled with paraphernalia for some beverage called Clock: metal posters, old calendars; a giant bottle with the logo emblazoned on it (an orange clock-face) sat in the corner. The only other patrons had granite-hued faces, square jaws, and Cro-Magnon brows. They wore white coveralls stained with some kind of slick that, instead of black, shined vibrantly in all the colors of the rainbow. The rock-people stood like pillars around the diner, drinking Clock and watching some unfamiliar sport on a flatscreen floating lazily in the air. Glasses floated in formation behind the counter, attached to nothing and immobile. The huge blob wore a dirty white chef’s uniform and was cleaning glasses with several pseudopodia.
Arthur was an accountant from Chicago, Illinois, USA, in the twenty-first century, AD, and he had no idea how he had gotten here. He worked for the accountancy firm Edgars, Eggers, and Edwards, and had recently been driving to an appointment to be held at the office of the firm’s newest client, a Mr. Maxwell. The appointment was at five, and on the way Arthur had gotten stuck in rush hour. Desperate not to be late, he pulled over and attempted to cover the last couple of blocks on foot. Whether he made it or not he did not know; the next thing he could remember was stepping out of a green tube that went far down past the floor and up into the sky, and finding himself on a sidewalk several thousand feet in the air.
He was staring at a vast, dizzying cityscape, comprised of untold levels of colossal curved metallic buildings. Cars suspended on cables or flying through the air swooped and whizzed across canyons that fell into darkness, the height of the buildings finally blocking out the light of the sun. Multiple levels of enormous terraces with shops and walkways lined the buildings’ exteriors. Huge billboards and floating video screens displayed products Arthur didn’t recognize; bright flashing colors hung in the air like radiation, an afterglow that bounced off stained glass, plastic, and mirrored surfaces of multiple hues. Venders called out products; newsstands and restaurants were mixing olfactory emissions of decomposition and steamed comestibles. City-noise and music formed abstract avant-garde soundscapes that fought against the wind-tunnel vacuum echoing up the chasms. The wind was pushing forcibly against his body. Arthur began to feel confused and frightened. He had lived in Chicago all his life, but this was a little too much to take.
He started to notice the people. His eyes fell randomly from one pedestrian to the next, constantly being drawn to the next by some bizarre new feature. One person was dressed in what vaguely resembled punk fashion, with a Mohawk that didn’t seem to be a Mohawk at all, but a red shark’s fin sprouting from his skull. Another wore a business suit not unlike Arthur’s, but instead of Arthur’s drab brown patterning, the suit was neon purple. Another seemed to have a skin disease resembling the surface of a microchip. One had eyes of an opaque solid color, another mechanical arms, another wires growing from her back. Arthur saw a pair of dogs walk by holding a conversation in what sounded like German; a six foot humanoid dog creature stared at them and grimaced. A small dinosaur scampered by. One eight foot tall creature had no eyes, nines fingers and black shiny skin. It wore no clothes, and walked with an unnatural grace—as if gravity were a source of minor annoyance.
As Arthur watched these and other strange people walk by, he started to drift into a state of shock. His mind going blank, his eyes fell upon a figure that stood under a lamppost growing unbidden from the edge of the ledge. The figure wore a loose-fitting yellow suit with red and off-white pin-stripes, a white boater hat with suit-matching ribbon, and alligator shoes. Tall and solidly built in a masculine fashion, the figure stood stock still in stark juxtaposition to the flurry of motion behind it, staring out over the canyon before it, it hands held behind it, its head moving slowly back and forth across the panorama with the precision of a metronome. It was a sight that was, if not completely familiar, at least relatively mundane.
The figure turned and, across the stream of bodies between them, looked directly at Arthur. The face was a shiny metallic egg-shape, with only the faintest hints of nose and cheekbones. Instead of a mouth there was a long rectangular speaker, protected by a sturdy metal grill. Instead of eyes there was a pair of deep-set clock-faces, illuminated from behind by a dim blue light. As if to mimic human puzzlement, the robot tilted its head slightly to the side.
With the sudden realization that he was being watched, and embarrassed that he himself had been caught watching, Arthur quickly looked away, then wandered off into the crowd.
Arthur was not aware of how long he wandered, but eventually he came to the diner, which was the first thing that looked even vaguely familiar. Above the front window, which was the size of the entire establishment, was a red canopy with the words Joe’s Diner written in white. Whatever part of his brain was still working at that point ordered a coffee, and it wasn’t until afterwards that he noticed he was being served by a huge gelatinous blob.
While sitting there staring into his coffee, his brain started to calm down, his initial shock at his situation started to subside, and he started trying to think through just what kind of situation he had gotten into.
He decided to take things slow.
Okay, he had coffee, or at least he thought it was coffee. It looked like coffee. So wherever he was, he was in a place that had coffee. And he had ordered coffee, which meant that they understood what he said—the huge gelatinous blob understood what he said—so people spoke English around here. Things spoke English around here. Other than that he couldn’t really think of anything he could definitely say about wherever he was.
He put his head in his hands and ran his fingers over his hair, which he felt sure was thinning. He looked at the wall beside the bar, which was a mirror that ran all the way to the ceiling. His suit looked worn and sweat-stained. Well, he had run to Mr. Maxwell’s building, hadn’t he? No, his suit was too worn for it to be just that. It looked like he had been living in it for months.
He checked his watch. The date function had stopped working but the time read 10:51. He checked the clock on the wall of the diner, which also read 10:51. Perhaps only eighteen hours had past? Or maybe eighteen plus some unknown multiple of twelve? Maybe not. Maybe his watch had just somehow matched up with the time where he was, skipping ahead or backwards or something. He couldn’t think of why that would happen. Still, maybe he couldn’t trust his watch.
How long had he been gone?
Where was he?
“No, no. Take it simple,” he thought. He looked around for his briefcase. He knew he had had his briefcase. He remembered clutching it against his chest as he ran. But it was nowhere in sight. Maybe he left it behind in the green tube. Now that was depressing; there went all the papers for—
His appointment with Mr. Maxwell.
He grimaced. He had never missed an appointment before, and had prided himself on being punctual. So much for that.
But maybe that was the least of his problems. What if he never got back? What if he stayed lost wherever he was? What if he died here?
“No, no. Focus, Arthur,” he told himself. “You’re used to dealing with this kind of thing. You can deal with this. You’ve been through therapy. Just, just concentrate on the little things.”
He checked for his wallet. Still in his side pocket, where he always kept it. There was his driver’s license, his picture of mom and Gwen, the picture of father, credit and debit cards, about sixty dollars cash …
Then it hit him. The weird people, the aliens, the futuristic buildings …. Wherever he was , or whenever he was, there was very little chance that they would accept his currency.
He had no way to pay for his coffee.
“Ya want anythin’ else?”
The huge gelatinous blob was staring down at Arthur, who stared back up with an ashen, quivering expression.
“No,” said Arthur, tersely, feeling ill. “No thanks, I’m fine.”
“Ya sure? Ya don’t want pie or anythin’?”
“No! No, I’m fine. Just the coffee, thanks.”
“Well, if that’s all then, yer bill is thirty credits.”
“Uh, ok.” Arthur stared at the mirror again. Maybe if he didn’t look at the blob, it would go away.
“Would ya like ta pay now?”
“No.” Arthur started to sweat.
“Ya sure? I can just ring up the transaction if ya produce yer credits card.”
Credits card? Not credit card, but credits? Maybe it was just a colloquialism, but Arthur felt sure he was in very big trouble. “No, no thanks, I’ll pay later. When I’m ready to go.”
“Well, if yer only gettin’ the coffee, why not pay now? That way, ya can just leave when yer ready. No hassle. I can take care of it while yer drinkin’ yer coffee.”
“No, no that’s all right. I’ll just pay when I leave.”
“But if ya pay now, ya can leave whenever ya feel like. And ya can sit there as long as ya feel like. No rush.”
“Well I don’t want to inconvenience you right now…”
“Nah, don’t worry about it. I’m not doing anythin’ right now. In fact, I might be busy whenever ya want ta go, so …”
Arthur stared at the countertop. His hand tensed around his mouth, and his cheeks ballooned. He wondered how exactly they dealt punishment in this place. Did they cut off your hands? Lock you in jail? Maybe the blob would just make him wash dishes. Why, oh why, did he have to come in here and ask for coffee? He could have just kept walking.
He felt the huge gelatinous blob’s hoards of eyes stare down at him, its head draw closer. “Ya are planning on payin’, aren’t ya?” it asked, a edge creeping into its voice.
A bell rang behind Arthur.
“Oh, quiblaatz,” muttered the huge gelatinous blob.
Arthur turned around and saw what looked, at first glance, like a giant gray moth walk through the door. An anxious murmur rippled through the rock-people.
Arthur looked again. It appeared to be a man, tall and athletically built, wearing some type of suit made of thick gray material with the texture of felt—except stiff, like armor. It wore a helmet with large opaque eye-coverings reminiscent of a fly, or a fencing mask. Where a mouth presumably would be were three vertical slits, the middle one slightly longer than the exterior two, all three between one and two inches. On its back was what could only be a rocket pack, which was positioned between a formidable pair of large mechanical wings which, though taking up as much space as they were, appeared to be folded up. It walked up to the bar and sat down next to Arthur.
“Hey Joe, how is it going?” asked the moth-man, with voluminous warmth and cheer.
“Listen, I thought I told ya ta stop comin’ here,” said the huge gelatinous blob. (The blob was Joe?)
“Really?” The moth-man leaned back in surprise, then shrugged. “Must have slipped my mind. May I have the usual?”
“No, ya can’t have the quibblin’ usual. Yer a menace ta society and, and wanted by the Clockmen. I’m not servin’ ya, just like I told ya last time. Now, zoom off!” The huge gelatinous blob was quivering.
“Menace to society?” The moth-man sounded confused, but no less cheerful. “Says who?”
“Says everyone.”
“I doubt very much that everyone says much of anything. They disagree too much.”
“Oh, crips what everyone says. It’s still a fact that yer a menace.”
“On what evidence?” The moth-man sound hurt.
The blob seemed astonished by the question. “Ya destroy everythin’ ya come in contact with!” it spurted.
“This place is still around,” said the moth-man casually.
The blob paused. “Is that a threat?”
“No, an observation. I’ve come in contact with this place before and it’s not destroyed, therefore I do not destroy everything that I come in contact with. May I have my usual?”
The huge gelatinous blob—Joe—looked flummoxed. Several of the rock-people had quietly slipped out of the bar.
“Can I just have my usual? You know I’ll pay.”
“Look, I can’t serve ya. Yer a terrorist.”
“No I’m not.”
“Yes, ya are!”
“I never try to terrorize anyone. It’s not one of my goals. I am trying to set people free from the totalitarian forces controlling their lives and choices.”
“Well, it’s still a fact that ya terrify people.”
“That’s not my fault. I make no attempt to control anybody’s mind but my own.”
Joe sighed.
“Look at it this way, I will be out of your hair sooner if you just serve me.”
“I can’t serve ya, yer a terrorist!”
“Fine. Serve me my usual or I blow this place up. See? Now you are serving me under duress. You are now longer responsible for your actions.” The moth-man said this with no more malice than he had placed in his initial greeting.
Joe sighed. “Fine.” He turned around and started fiddling around with utensils and levers.
Arthur stared quietly into his coffee, not moving. He didn’t want to attract any attention from a terrorist. The moth-man sat with his chin resting on his hand. Arthur started to sweat again.
“My my my,” said the moth-man, “it’s so hard to obtain sensible service in these parts.” He was looking right at Arthur.
“W-what?” said Arthur.
“I said, it’s so hard to obtain sensible service it these parts.”
“Uh, yes, I suppose so,” replied Arthur, shaking.
“It seems sometimes as if we have all gone mad, lost all sense of perspective,” said the jolly moth-man. “And thus, afflicted by our delusional perceptions of the dimensions of reality, are rendered incapable, or are made unwilling, of giving aid to our fellow creatures.”
“Uh, yes,” said Arthur, still hesitant. “I suppose so.”
“Ah! A kindred spirit!” cried the moth-man. He offered Arthur his hand to shake. Arthur, not seeing any way out of it, returned the gesture. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” said the moth-man, shaking vigorously. “My name is Dadalus, by the way.”
“Daedalus?” asked Arthur, waiting for the shaking to stop and thinking only about his crushed hand.
“Oh, no-no,” said the moth-man, stopping immediately. Da-da-lus. I am dactylic, you see, not amphibrachic.”
“What?”
“Nevermind.” Dadalus waved his hand, as if shooing off a pesky bug. “Enough about feet. And your name is?”
“Uh, Arthur.”
“Just Arthur?”
“Uh, no. Arthur Walpole.”
“Ah, I knew it! Most people have more than one name. Mind you, nothing wrong with singular names of course. It is just that people usually have an honorific, or a patronymic, or a professional title, or some vestigial remnant of one of the above, that they tag onto their given name. Sometimes they have additional ones they often leave out of conversations. Any interior names Arthur Walpole? Or just a pair of bookends?”
“Uh, well, I have a middle name. Luther.”
“Oh, excellent! Very appropriate! I myself have at the moment no additional names per se, but I have developed a tendency towards picking up titles. I am most often called Dadalus, the Pteranarchist.”
“Ah,” squeaked Arthur, nodding to himself. He stared down at his coffee. What had he gotten himself into? He looked back up. Dadalus was still looking at him, his head resting on his fist. “Look, can I help you with something?”
Dadalus started. “What?”
“Uh, can I help you with something?”
“Hmm, what an interesting question.” He stared directly at Arthur. Into Arthur’s eyes, maybe, but Arthur couldn’t really tell. “You know, I don’t think I have been asked that in a very, very long time. ‘Can I help you?’” He looked off in wonder.
Why had he said that? Why was he talking to this, this thing? Was it just politeness?
Terror. It was terror. He didn’t want to be destroyed.
Best to be polite.
“Well,” said Arthur. “It’s just, you know, you were staring at me, and it seems, that is, I mean, you had trouble getting served and, well, I don’t know what exactly I could actually do, but I thought it appropriate to…” Dadalus was now staring directly at Arthur again. “…ask?”
Dadalus put his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “I know exactly what you mean,” he said.
“You do?”
“Of course.” Dadalus solemnly raised a finger. “For you see, Arthur Walpole your question is a perfect encapsulation of the state of Anarchy.”
“What?” Arthur was not expecting this at all. “It is? How?”
“Well, you see, Arthur Walpole,” began the winged creature, settling into his seat, “when we are faced with the stark reality that we are lost, hopelessly lost, in an ocean of chaos, in a winding twisting labyrinth of experience, and we feel so turned and twisted and tossed that we have no idea where we are or where we are going, we occasionally, briefly, come upon that startling realization that all those we see, that seem like the crashing waves and the hard, high walls, are just as lost as we are. In the same predicament. And like the rays of the sun, the realization hits us that we are all one. Our suffering is theirs, and we are all in this together. And when this inspiration is followed down its pathway, we arrive at the center of all things: the beatific state of Anarchy.”
At this point Joe the huge gelatinous blob, glaring angrily at Dadalus, came by with a coffee and pie.
. “Thank you!” said Dadalus cheerfully.
“Curl ya thank yous,” said Joe the blob, and turned toward Arthur. “Don’t listen ta a word he says, ya hear? He’s a terrorist.”
Dadalus sighed. “We’ve been over this already. And some of your other patrons need help at the other end of the bar. Shoo.”
Joe slid to the opposite end of the bar grumbling. Dadalus turned back towards Arthur, bouncing slightly, and continued.
“You see Arthur, Anarchy is not a state of Chaos, as it is commonly misrepresented. It is a state without rulers. For when we all realize we are one, the need to place one being above another disappears. The real state of Chaos is this.” Dadalus waved a handed outward, toward the diner window and the vista beyond. “When people submit to rulers, they submit to Chaos, for they are deciding that they need control to be kind. Rulers are not order; rulers are control. In Anarchy, one decides not to submit to Chaos, but to be oneself. In such a state, rulers become unnecessary. You see?
Arthur shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
Dadalus shrugged. “That’s ok. I’m certain it will make sense eventually. I’m fine.”
“What?”
“You asked me earlier if I need anything. I never got around to answering until now. And I am fine. Thank you for asking.”
Arthur nodded. “Oh.”
“And how are you?” Dadalus leaned forward.
“Me?” asked Arthur sheepishly.
Dadalus nodded solemnly. “Yes. You asked me if I needed help. It is only sensible that I ask you the same.”
A flickering hope appeared in Arthur that this could be a way out of his predicament. Perhaps he would be ok! But … he really couldn’t see himself getting mixed up with a terrorist or an Anarchist or something, so.… “Uh, well, I really don’t want to trouble you for anything….”
“Nonsense!” said Dadalus waving a hand in the air. “Let me pay for your coffee.”
The hope flickered bright again, then went dim. “Oh, no, I couldn’t.…”
Dadalus threw a couple of orange coins on the bar that he seemed to draw by sleight of hand. “Oh no, I insist.…”
Suddenly, a commotion could be heard from outside. The sounds of running and low metallic voices were coming closer, the voices speaking loudly but indistinctly to people as they approached. Dadalus looked up, leaned back and stared out the window.
“Oop,” He said. “Looks like I have to be going. It was fun chatting, Arthur Luther Walpole. Pity we couldn’t continue this conversation, but then, existence is fleeting and transitory, isn’t it?” He threw some more orange coins on the bar. “Keep the change, Joe! Arthur, you are welcome to my coffee and aval pie.” Then, turning and looking straight at Arthur, he said “Be seeing you.”
Dadalus jumped up and ran through the window. Glass flew everywhere. He ran towards the edge of the terrace and, his wings expanding, jumped off without a moment’s hesitation, diving down into the vortex of billboards and street lights below.
“Jesus, he just broke all that glass!” cried Arthur. He turned to Joe, momentarily forgetting that Joe was a huge gelatinous blob. “He just broke all that glass!”
“Yeah, he does that a lot,” said Joe, sighing glumly. “Don’t worry, the glass will reform in a bit.”
Arthur turned back. As he watched, the shattered fragments floated up into the air from the light blue pavement. With patient precision, they each retraced the path of their descent and took their original positions in the windowpane. Silently, the fissures disappeared. It was like watching a film played backwards in real space.
“Oh,” said Arthur. “Neat.”
He turned back towards Joe, who was absorbing the orange coins into his protoplasm.
“Well, glad that’s over with,” said Joe. “Ya want anythin’ else?”
“Uh, no. No thanks.”
“Awight, well, take yer time.” And the huge gelatinous blob slid away.
“Well, that certainly was odd,” thought Arthur. He stared down at the counter, where sat two coffees and a slice of pie. Carefully, he took a sip from one the coffees. It tasted exactly like coffee. He tried the pie, which, despite being a bluish grey paste upon a yellow crust, tasted uncannily like it was made with fresh apples. Feeling better, he ate the rest of the pie, gulping it down in huge mouthfuls, and drank both of the coffees in quick succession. On the wall, the clock hands changed from 10:59 to 11:00. The clock face lighted up a dim shade of blue.
He was sitting at the bar in a diner with a nineteen-fifties feel to it. The floor alternated black and white squares like a chessboard. A shiny blue jukebox sat along the side wall. The walls and corners were filled with paraphernalia for some beverage called Clock: metal posters, old calendars; a giant bottle with the logo emblazoned on it (an orange clock-face) sat in the corner. The only other patrons had granite-hued faces, square jaws, and Cro-Magnon brows. They wore white coveralls stained with some kind of slick that, instead of black, shined vibrantly in all the colors of the rainbow. The rock-people stood like pillars around the diner, drinking Clock and watching some unfamiliar sport on a flatscreen floating lazily in the air. Glasses floated in formation behind the counter, attached to nothing and immobile. The huge blob wore a dirty white chef’s uniform and was cleaning glasses with several pseudopodia.
Arthur was an accountant from Chicago, Illinois, USA, in the twenty-first century, AD, and he had no idea how he had gotten here. He worked for the accountancy firm Edgars, Eggers, and Edwards, and had recently been driving to an appointment to be held at the office of the firm’s newest client, a Mr. Maxwell. The appointment was at five, and on the way Arthur had gotten stuck in rush hour. Desperate not to be late, he pulled over and attempted to cover the last couple of blocks on foot. Whether he made it or not he did not know; the next thing he could remember was stepping out of a green tube that went far down past the floor and up into the sky, and finding himself on a sidewalk several thousand feet in the air.
He was staring at a vast, dizzying cityscape, comprised of untold levels of colossal curved metallic buildings. Cars suspended on cables or flying through the air swooped and whizzed across canyons that fell into darkness, the height of the buildings finally blocking out the light of the sun. Multiple levels of enormous terraces with shops and walkways lined the buildings’ exteriors. Huge billboards and floating video screens displayed products Arthur didn’t recognize; bright flashing colors hung in the air like radiation, an afterglow that bounced off stained glass, plastic, and mirrored surfaces of multiple hues. Venders called out products; newsstands and restaurants were mixing olfactory emissions of decomposition and steamed comestibles. City-noise and music formed abstract avant-garde soundscapes that fought against the wind-tunnel vacuum echoing up the chasms. The wind was pushing forcibly against his body. Arthur began to feel confused and frightened. He had lived in Chicago all his life, but this was a little too much to take.
He started to notice the people. His eyes fell randomly from one pedestrian to the next, constantly being drawn to the next by some bizarre new feature. One person was dressed in what vaguely resembled punk fashion, with a Mohawk that didn’t seem to be a Mohawk at all, but a red shark’s fin sprouting from his skull. Another wore a business suit not unlike Arthur’s, but instead of Arthur’s drab brown patterning, the suit was neon purple. Another seemed to have a skin disease resembling the surface of a microchip. One had eyes of an opaque solid color, another mechanical arms, another wires growing from her back. Arthur saw a pair of dogs walk by holding a conversation in what sounded like German; a six foot humanoid dog creature stared at them and grimaced. A small dinosaur scampered by. One eight foot tall creature had no eyes, nines fingers and black shiny skin. It wore no clothes, and walked with an unnatural grace—as if gravity were a source of minor annoyance.
As Arthur watched these and other strange people walk by, he started to drift into a state of shock. His mind going blank, his eyes fell upon a figure that stood under a lamppost growing unbidden from the edge of the ledge. The figure wore a loose-fitting yellow suit with red and off-white pin-stripes, a white boater hat with suit-matching ribbon, and alligator shoes. Tall and solidly built in a masculine fashion, the figure stood stock still in stark juxtaposition to the flurry of motion behind it, staring out over the canyon before it, it hands held behind it, its head moving slowly back and forth across the panorama with the precision of a metronome. It was a sight that was, if not completely familiar, at least relatively mundane.
The figure turned and, across the stream of bodies between them, looked directly at Arthur. The face was a shiny metallic egg-shape, with only the faintest hints of nose and cheekbones. Instead of a mouth there was a long rectangular speaker, protected by a sturdy metal grill. Instead of eyes there was a pair of deep-set clock-faces, illuminated from behind by a dim blue light. As if to mimic human puzzlement, the robot tilted its head slightly to the side.
With the sudden realization that he was being watched, and embarrassed that he himself had been caught watching, Arthur quickly looked away, then wandered off into the crowd.
Arthur was not aware of how long he wandered, but eventually he came to the diner, which was the first thing that looked even vaguely familiar. Above the front window, which was the size of the entire establishment, was a red canopy with the words Joe’s Diner written in white. Whatever part of his brain was still working at that point ordered a coffee, and it wasn’t until afterwards that he noticed he was being served by a huge gelatinous blob.
While sitting there staring into his coffee, his brain started to calm down, his initial shock at his situation started to subside, and he started trying to think through just what kind of situation he had gotten into.
He decided to take things slow.
Okay, he had coffee, or at least he thought it was coffee. It looked like coffee. So wherever he was, he was in a place that had coffee. And he had ordered coffee, which meant that they understood what he said—the huge gelatinous blob understood what he said—so people spoke English around here. Things spoke English around here. Other than that he couldn’t really think of anything he could definitely say about wherever he was.
He put his head in his hands and ran his fingers over his hair, which he felt sure was thinning. He looked at the wall beside the bar, which was a mirror that ran all the way to the ceiling. His suit looked worn and sweat-stained. Well, he had run to Mr. Maxwell’s building, hadn’t he? No, his suit was too worn for it to be just that. It looked like he had been living in it for months.
He checked his watch. The date function had stopped working but the time read 10:51. He checked the clock on the wall of the diner, which also read 10:51. Perhaps only eighteen hours had past? Or maybe eighteen plus some unknown multiple of twelve? Maybe not. Maybe his watch had just somehow matched up with the time where he was, skipping ahead or backwards or something. He couldn’t think of why that would happen. Still, maybe he couldn’t trust his watch.
How long had he been gone?
Where was he?
“No, no. Take it simple,” he thought. He looked around for his briefcase. He knew he had had his briefcase. He remembered clutching it against his chest as he ran. But it was nowhere in sight. Maybe he left it behind in the green tube. Now that was depressing; there went all the papers for—
His appointment with Mr. Maxwell.
He grimaced. He had never missed an appointment before, and had prided himself on being punctual. So much for that.
But maybe that was the least of his problems. What if he never got back? What if he stayed lost wherever he was? What if he died here?
“No, no. Focus, Arthur,” he told himself. “You’re used to dealing with this kind of thing. You can deal with this. You’ve been through therapy. Just, just concentrate on the little things.”
He checked for his wallet. Still in his side pocket, where he always kept it. There was his driver’s license, his picture of mom and Gwen, the picture of father, credit and debit cards, about sixty dollars cash …
Then it hit him. The weird people, the aliens, the futuristic buildings …. Wherever he was , or whenever he was, there was very little chance that they would accept his currency.
He had no way to pay for his coffee.
“Ya want anythin’ else?”
The huge gelatinous blob was staring down at Arthur, who stared back up with an ashen, quivering expression.
“No,” said Arthur, tersely, feeling ill. “No thanks, I’m fine.”
“Ya sure? Ya don’t want pie or anythin’?”
“No! No, I’m fine. Just the coffee, thanks.”
“Well, if that’s all then, yer bill is thirty credits.”
“Uh, ok.” Arthur stared at the mirror again. Maybe if he didn’t look at the blob, it would go away.
“Would ya like ta pay now?”
“No.” Arthur started to sweat.
“Ya sure? I can just ring up the transaction if ya produce yer credits card.”
Credits card? Not credit card, but credits? Maybe it was just a colloquialism, but Arthur felt sure he was in very big trouble. “No, no thanks, I’ll pay later. When I’m ready to go.”
“Well, if yer only gettin’ the coffee, why not pay now? That way, ya can just leave when yer ready. No hassle. I can take care of it while yer drinkin’ yer coffee.”
“No, no that’s all right. I’ll just pay when I leave.”
“But if ya pay now, ya can leave whenever ya feel like. And ya can sit there as long as ya feel like. No rush.”
“Well I don’t want to inconvenience you right now…”
“Nah, don’t worry about it. I’m not doing anythin’ right now. In fact, I might be busy whenever ya want ta go, so …”
Arthur stared at the countertop. His hand tensed around his mouth, and his cheeks ballooned. He wondered how exactly they dealt punishment in this place. Did they cut off your hands? Lock you in jail? Maybe the blob would just make him wash dishes. Why, oh why, did he have to come in here and ask for coffee? He could have just kept walking.
He felt the huge gelatinous blob’s hoards of eyes stare down at him, its head draw closer. “Ya are planning on payin’, aren’t ya?” it asked, a edge creeping into its voice.
A bell rang behind Arthur.
“Oh, quiblaatz,” muttered the huge gelatinous blob.
Arthur turned around and saw what looked, at first glance, like a giant gray moth walk through the door. An anxious murmur rippled through the rock-people.
Arthur looked again. It appeared to be a man, tall and athletically built, wearing some type of suit made of thick gray material with the texture of felt—except stiff, like armor. It wore a helmet with large opaque eye-coverings reminiscent of a fly, or a fencing mask. Where a mouth presumably would be were three vertical slits, the middle one slightly longer than the exterior two, all three between one and two inches. On its back was what could only be a rocket pack, which was positioned between a formidable pair of large mechanical wings which, though taking up as much space as they were, appeared to be folded up. It walked up to the bar and sat down next to Arthur.
“Hey Joe, how is it going?” asked the moth-man, with voluminous warmth and cheer.
“Listen, I thought I told ya ta stop comin’ here,” said the huge gelatinous blob. (The blob was Joe?)
“Really?” The moth-man leaned back in surprise, then shrugged. “Must have slipped my mind. May I have the usual?”
“No, ya can’t have the quibblin’ usual. Yer a menace ta society and, and wanted by the Clockmen. I’m not servin’ ya, just like I told ya last time. Now, zoom off!” The huge gelatinous blob was quivering.
“Menace to society?” The moth-man sounded confused, but no less cheerful. “Says who?”
“Says everyone.”
“I doubt very much that everyone says much of anything. They disagree too much.”
“Oh, crips what everyone says. It’s still a fact that yer a menace.”
“On what evidence?” The moth-man sound hurt.
The blob seemed astonished by the question. “Ya destroy everythin’ ya come in contact with!” it spurted.
“This place is still around,” said the moth-man casually.
The blob paused. “Is that a threat?”
“No, an observation. I’ve come in contact with this place before and it’s not destroyed, therefore I do not destroy everything that I come in contact with. May I have my usual?”
The huge gelatinous blob—Joe—looked flummoxed. Several of the rock-people had quietly slipped out of the bar.
“Can I just have my usual? You know I’ll pay.”
“Look, I can’t serve ya. Yer a terrorist.”
“No I’m not.”
“Yes, ya are!”
“I never try to terrorize anyone. It’s not one of my goals. I am trying to set people free from the totalitarian forces controlling their lives and choices.”
“Well, it’s still a fact that ya terrify people.”
“That’s not my fault. I make no attempt to control anybody’s mind but my own.”
Joe sighed.
“Look at it this way, I will be out of your hair sooner if you just serve me.”
“I can’t serve ya, yer a terrorist!”
“Fine. Serve me my usual or I blow this place up. See? Now you are serving me under duress. You are now longer responsible for your actions.” The moth-man said this with no more malice than he had placed in his initial greeting.
Joe sighed. “Fine.” He turned around and started fiddling around with utensils and levers.
Arthur stared quietly into his coffee, not moving. He didn’t want to attract any attention from a terrorist. The moth-man sat with his chin resting on his hand. Arthur started to sweat again.
“My my my,” said the moth-man, “it’s so hard to obtain sensible service in these parts.” He was looking right at Arthur.
“W-what?” said Arthur.
“I said, it’s so hard to obtain sensible service it these parts.”
“Uh, yes, I suppose so,” replied Arthur, shaking.
“It seems sometimes as if we have all gone mad, lost all sense of perspective,” said the jolly moth-man. “And thus, afflicted by our delusional perceptions of the dimensions of reality, are rendered incapable, or are made unwilling, of giving aid to our fellow creatures.”
“Uh, yes,” said Arthur, still hesitant. “I suppose so.”
“Ah! A kindred spirit!” cried the moth-man. He offered Arthur his hand to shake. Arthur, not seeing any way out of it, returned the gesture. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” said the moth-man, shaking vigorously. “My name is Dadalus, by the way.”
“Daedalus?” asked Arthur, waiting for the shaking to stop and thinking only about his crushed hand.
“Oh, no-no,” said the moth-man, stopping immediately. Da-da-lus. I am dactylic, you see, not amphibrachic.”
“What?”
“Nevermind.” Dadalus waved his hand, as if shooing off a pesky bug. “Enough about feet. And your name is?”
“Uh, Arthur.”
“Just Arthur?”
“Uh, no. Arthur Walpole.”
“Ah, I knew it! Most people have more than one name. Mind you, nothing wrong with singular names of course. It is just that people usually have an honorific, or a patronymic, or a professional title, or some vestigial remnant of one of the above, that they tag onto their given name. Sometimes they have additional ones they often leave out of conversations. Any interior names Arthur Walpole? Or just a pair of bookends?”
“Uh, well, I have a middle name. Luther.”
“Oh, excellent! Very appropriate! I myself have at the moment no additional names per se, but I have developed a tendency towards picking up titles. I am most often called Dadalus, the Pteranarchist.”
“Ah,” squeaked Arthur, nodding to himself. He stared down at his coffee. What had he gotten himself into? He looked back up. Dadalus was still looking at him, his head resting on his fist. “Look, can I help you with something?”
Dadalus started. “What?”
“Uh, can I help you with something?”
“Hmm, what an interesting question.” He stared directly at Arthur. Into Arthur’s eyes, maybe, but Arthur couldn’t really tell. “You know, I don’t think I have been asked that in a very, very long time. ‘Can I help you?’” He looked off in wonder.
Why had he said that? Why was he talking to this, this thing? Was it just politeness?
Terror. It was terror. He didn’t want to be destroyed.
Best to be polite.
“Well,” said Arthur. “It’s just, you know, you were staring at me, and it seems, that is, I mean, you had trouble getting served and, well, I don’t know what exactly I could actually do, but I thought it appropriate to…” Dadalus was now staring directly at Arthur again. “…ask?”
Dadalus put his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “I know exactly what you mean,” he said.
“You do?”
“Of course.” Dadalus solemnly raised a finger. “For you see, Arthur Walpole your question is a perfect encapsulation of the state of Anarchy.”
“What?” Arthur was not expecting this at all. “It is? How?”
“Well, you see, Arthur Walpole,” began the winged creature, settling into his seat, “when we are faced with the stark reality that we are lost, hopelessly lost, in an ocean of chaos, in a winding twisting labyrinth of experience, and we feel so turned and twisted and tossed that we have no idea where we are or where we are going, we occasionally, briefly, come upon that startling realization that all those we see, that seem like the crashing waves and the hard, high walls, are just as lost as we are. In the same predicament. And like the rays of the sun, the realization hits us that we are all one. Our suffering is theirs, and we are all in this together. And when this inspiration is followed down its pathway, we arrive at the center of all things: the beatific state of Anarchy.”
At this point Joe the huge gelatinous blob, glaring angrily at Dadalus, came by with a coffee and pie.
. “Thank you!” said Dadalus cheerfully.
“Curl ya thank yous,” said Joe the blob, and turned toward Arthur. “Don’t listen ta a word he says, ya hear? He’s a terrorist.”
Dadalus sighed. “We’ve been over this already. And some of your other patrons need help at the other end of the bar. Shoo.”
Joe slid to the opposite end of the bar grumbling. Dadalus turned back towards Arthur, bouncing slightly, and continued.
“You see Arthur, Anarchy is not a state of Chaos, as it is commonly misrepresented. It is a state without rulers. For when we all realize we are one, the need to place one being above another disappears. The real state of Chaos is this.” Dadalus waved a handed outward, toward the diner window and the vista beyond. “When people submit to rulers, they submit to Chaos, for they are deciding that they need control to be kind. Rulers are not order; rulers are control. In Anarchy, one decides not to submit to Chaos, but to be oneself. In such a state, rulers become unnecessary. You see?
Arthur shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
Dadalus shrugged. “That’s ok. I’m certain it will make sense eventually. I’m fine.”
“What?”
“You asked me earlier if I need anything. I never got around to answering until now. And I am fine. Thank you for asking.”
Arthur nodded. “Oh.”
“And how are you?” Dadalus leaned forward.
“Me?” asked Arthur sheepishly.
Dadalus nodded solemnly. “Yes. You asked me if I needed help. It is only sensible that I ask you the same.”
A flickering hope appeared in Arthur that this could be a way out of his predicament. Perhaps he would be ok! But … he really couldn’t see himself getting mixed up with a terrorist or an Anarchist or something, so.… “Uh, well, I really don’t want to trouble you for anything….”
“Nonsense!” said Dadalus waving a hand in the air. “Let me pay for your coffee.”
The hope flickered bright again, then went dim. “Oh, no, I couldn’t.…”
Dadalus threw a couple of orange coins on the bar that he seemed to draw by sleight of hand. “Oh no, I insist.…”
Suddenly, a commotion could be heard from outside. The sounds of running and low metallic voices were coming closer, the voices speaking loudly but indistinctly to people as they approached. Dadalus looked up, leaned back and stared out the window.
“Oop,” He said. “Looks like I have to be going. It was fun chatting, Arthur Luther Walpole. Pity we couldn’t continue this conversation, but then, existence is fleeting and transitory, isn’t it?” He threw some more orange coins on the bar. “Keep the change, Joe! Arthur, you are welcome to my coffee and aval pie.” Then, turning and looking straight at Arthur, he said “Be seeing you.”
Dadalus jumped up and ran through the window. Glass flew everywhere. He ran towards the edge of the terrace and, his wings expanding, jumped off without a moment’s hesitation, diving down into the vortex of billboards and street lights below.
“Jesus, he just broke all that glass!” cried Arthur. He turned to Joe, momentarily forgetting that Joe was a huge gelatinous blob. “He just broke all that glass!”
“Yeah, he does that a lot,” said Joe, sighing glumly. “Don’t worry, the glass will reform in a bit.”
Arthur turned back. As he watched, the shattered fragments floated up into the air from the light blue pavement. With patient precision, they each retraced the path of their descent and took their original positions in the windowpane. Silently, the fissures disappeared. It was like watching a film played backwards in real space.
“Oh,” said Arthur. “Neat.”
He turned back towards Joe, who was absorbing the orange coins into his protoplasm.
“Well, glad that’s over with,” said Joe. “Ya want anythin’ else?”
“Uh, no. No thanks.”
“Awight, well, take yer time.” And the huge gelatinous blob slid away.
“Well, that certainly was odd,” thought Arthur. He stared down at the counter, where sat two coffees and a slice of pie. Carefully, he took a sip from one the coffees. It tasted exactly like coffee. He tried the pie, which, despite being a bluish grey paste upon a yellow crust, tasted uncannily like it was made with fresh apples. Feeling better, he ate the rest of the pie, gulping it down in huge mouthfuls, and drank both of the coffees in quick succession. On the wall, the clock hands changed from 10:59 to 11:00. The clock face lighted up a dim shade of blue.
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