Book I: Part 7: Arthur

    He felt better now.  He had some food in his stomach and the coffees were starting to kick in.  He felt a little jumpy.  But now he was back to square one.  He had no money, and no idea where he was. “Perhaps I should ask someone for help,” he thought.
    Outside, people were milling about and bunched up in clumps around where Dadalus had dived off the platform, looking down and squinting, trying to see what might be going on below.  Robots dressed  in nice suits where pushing and shoving their way through the crowds, yelling for all the people to go away. 
    The robots reminded him of the one he had seen on the terrace, the one that had made him run.  He laughed at himself.  Now why had he done that?  What did he think the robot would do to him?  Were the robots important?  Authority figures of some kind?  That would make sense; they had chased Dadalus off the ledge, after all.  “Ask the robots for help,”  said a voice in his head.  “Like you would ask a policeman on the street.”
    He sighed.  Well, what did he have to lose?  He got off the stool.  Approaching the door, he stared at his reflection in the window.  He could just barely make out the faintest trace of it, smiling sickly at him under worried eyebrows.  His hand joined with its, and he opened the door. 
    It was even windier than he remembered.  The crowd was starting to disperse, walking slowly away, like cars driving by an accident. 
    Two of the robots were standing by the ledge where Dadalus had jumped.  One had an enormous round clock for a head, reading the correct time.  From a certain angle, with the glare just right, it looked like a gigantic eye.  It wore a yellow suit and was talking excitedly to the other robot, who wore a blue suit and had clockfaces in place of its eyes, mouth, and nose, looking more or less like it had a complete face.  The clockheaded robot had a loud, booming voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. 
    “—back to CC,” it was saying.  “Make sure four shows up and is attended to and yell at five if he is still lounging about I want to know why he didn’t follow the summons, the org, and for Fibonacci’s sake I want to know how this panel got open there should have been no way to bypass those codes—”
    Arthur stood still, hands at his side.  Both robots were nearly a head taller than him.  The way they moved reminded him of animatronic dolls at a theme park: much more complex, and smoother, but with the same sense of predetermination.  He felt vaguely as if he was watching some kind of performance, maybe some form of theatre, like kabuki or Greek tragedy.   
    The clock-headed robot was still talking, and Arthur was starting to feel embarrassed standing there.  He was about to turn and leave, when the robot with clock features left abruptly, and the clockheaded robot turned abruptly towards him. 
    “Why, hello!” said the robot.  “I am C1.  How may I be of service to you?”
    “Ah,” said Arthur, “well, the thing is.  Oh, I-I don’t want to be any trouble, you are obviously busy, and.…”
    “Oh, no trouble.  I have just wrapped up my business in this area, and am ready to devote my full attention to other matters.  What seems to be the trouble?”
    “Ah, well,” said Arthur.  “My name is Arthur Luther Walpole, and.…” He launched into a brief description of the events that had happened to him, at least as he remembered them.  The entire time, the robot stared at him—or at least faced him—with its huge clock face, which nodded in a manner that seemed to convey intent and interest.
    “Oh, what a truly astonishing tale, Messer Walpole!” exclaimed the robot.  “Oh! I hope the dread Dadalus didn’t injure you, did he?  Talk to you long?”
    “What? No,” said Arthur.  “He just came in, ordered something, and left.  When he heard you coming.”  He thought it best to leave out the talk of anarchy, if he could. 
    “Well, that’s lucky.  Very slippery is that Dadalus, Messer Walpole, and dangerous.  You are lucky we arrived in time.  I am sure the Pteranarchist would have done unspeakable things to you, sunk his venomous ideas into you mind and corrupted you.  But don’t worry, we’ll catch him today, mark my words.”  The robot— C1—squeezed Arthur’s shoulder, hard, and said, with a sudden edge, “We will make him crawl.”
    Arthur winced.  The robot’s grip hurt.  The robot quickly withdrew his hand, though it seemed to notice nothing. 
    “Hmm, yes,” continued C1.  “You story is very interesting, Messer Walpole, let me think …” Arthur couldn’t be sure if that just wasn’t how robots were, but he had the distinct feeling that C1 was a bad actor.  “Ah!  I see,” it cried, pointing a finger into the air.    “I think I know exactly what your problem is, Messer Walpole.  You are a bleeder.”
    “A what?”
    “A bleeder.   You see, reality is a fairly weak thing, Messer Walpole, and sometimes things cause it to get … hurt or bruised.  Or cut, metaphorically speaking.  The proper term is time/space lapses, or TSLs.  When these “cuts” happen, things have a tendency to cross over, between time, or space, or across dimensions.  Objects bleed through, so to speak.  And we call these objects who bleed through bleeders.  The more technical term for such a thing is time/space anachronism, or TSA, but most people just use the vulgarism."
    “Ah.  And, is there any way for objects to …”  Arthur gulped.  “Go back?”
    The robot C1 placed a comforting hand on Arthur’s shoulder.  “I am deeply sorry, Messer Walpole, but no one knows quite how TSLs occur, or can predict when or where they will occur, and the metaphorical weight of the term carries over to this quality as well.  For, once blood is shed….”
    “It can’t go back.”  Arthur’s face turned pale.
    “Yes.” the robot sounded deeply solemn. 
    There was a sinking feeling in Arthur’s stomach, like a bomb dropping.  It had not hit him before now.  He could never go back.  He would never again see his coworkers, or his mother or his sister.  Perhaps they were all long dead, now part of some ancient past.
    “Now, Messer Walpole, I assure you that this is all terribly routine.  Bleeder occurrences, while rare, occur often enough that there is a prepared procedure to accommodate and acclimate them into society.  Ordinance 7512-AB provides for the proper integration of bleeders.” C1 patted his arm.  “You are lucky you came to me, Messer Walpole.”
    “What year is it?” asked Arthur. 
    C1 tilted his head.  “In what year system?”
    “What year system?”
    “Well, yes.  There are several different year systems that are used:  THC, PBH, CX, to name a few.” 
    “Uh, AD??”
    “Ooh, sorry.  Not familiar with that one,” replied C1 apologetically.
    His family was definitely dead.  “How about CE?  They sometimes use that instead.”
    C1 Shook his head mournfully.  “No.  Sorry.”
    Arthur sighed.
    “Don’t worry,” said C1, in an overly soothing voice.  “It will be all right.  Come.  Let me take you to Integration.  It will be no trouble at all.”  Arthur looked up at C1, at the empty clockface.  There was no sign of emotion in it.  Just his face, reflected back at him, haunted and haggard.  What else could he do?  No money.  No food.  No clue. 
    “All right,”  he said. 
    Something in C1 seemed to brighten.  “Excellent!” he said, in his loud booming voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.  He waved his hands. 
    A square of shimmering rainbow light opened above their heads, and fell down upon them. 
    “What?” said Arthur.  He and C1 were standing in a green room. 
    “Terribly sorry,” said the robot.  “That was simply the fastest method I know of to teleport.  I assure you the sickness will pass in time.  If you are nauseous, I can …” The disembodied voice trailed off, and the robot tilted it’s head to one side, seemingly genuinely confused.  “Oh well, that’s lucky.  Forgive me, one in four are adversely affected by teleportation, and I just assumed, that is...you looked like the sort, is all.”
    “Uh, no,” said Arthur, a little nonplussed.  “I don’t, well, I don’t really think I feel any different.  Um, in fact, I don’t really understand what just happened.”
    “Oh, we just traveled through a Bridge, in an act known as bridging.  It is a teleportation technique that all Clockmen are equipped for.  Excuse me a moment.”  The robot walked towards a large desk in the corner.  Arthur started.  Behind the desk sat a woman, covered in yellow fur, with pointed ears and whiskers. 
    “A catwoman,”  thought Arthur. 
    “Ah, Spheeris.  How are you?”
    “Hello, C1,” purred the catwoman.
    “You look quite well, if I may say so.  I very much appreciate what you have done with your hair.”
    “Why thank you.  How very kind of you.  And what brings you this way?”
    “Oh, I have an candidate here for Integration.  His name is Arthur Walpole, I believe, he—’
    Arthur stopped paying attention.  His gaze wandered off.  To his right was a large window, through which he could see, and faintly hear, the city.  (It looked slightly different than Arthur remembered seeing it.  Messier somehow.)  In one corner a large blue tube sat on top of a pedestal.  Along the wall opposite the desk was a row of red chairs, broken in the center by a normal door.  Turning all the way around, behind the desk he saw a large plaque, about as large as a painting, that read

Seven Gateways
Enhancement, Replacement, Recollection, Formation,
Summation, Interpretation, and Integration
An AI INC. company.

     Integration.  He had never really asked what that meant, exactly.  Was that like Assimilation, like the Borg or something?  Did it have something to do with integers?  Maybe he was being assigned a number, like for Social Security.  Maybe he was a number.  Arthur thought of a whole bunch of numbers, operating and working together with one another, shrinking and growing, exchanging digits on balances recorded in an account book.  Maybe he was just being entered on a balance sheet, like a profit.  Or a loss.  How would you do this, if the loss column was in 2016 and the profit was in, well, whenever here was?  Or the other way around; maybe it was a profit for 2016, glad to be rid of him.  Was he a positive number or a negative number?  Maybe a zero?  Arthur wondered what someone who was a zero would be like. 
    C1 was walking back towards him.  “There,” it said.  “Everything is taken care of, Messer Walpole.  Just have a seat, and they will deal with you shortly.  Have an enlightening afternoon.”  A shimmering square of rainbow appeared above the robot’s head. As it lowered over him, his body disappeared into it.  Nothing remained above the rainbow square as it fell, until his body was gone, and the light vanished. 
    “Huh,” thought Arthur.  “So that’s what that looks like.”  It was very odd, when the torso was gone, and only the feet remained.  Bridging.  Teleportation.  Moving something from one place to another, immediately.  Subtraction in one account, addition in another.  Simple to describe really, even if he had no idea how it worked. 
    The catwoman smiled at him.  She pointed at a box on the desk, full of various small balls of various colors. A sign mounted above it said “pick one.” 
    “Here,” she said.  Why don’t you take one of these and have a seat.  I am sure an operative will be ready to deal with you shortly.” 
    Arthur picked out a ball that was red like an apple and sat down in one of the chairs. 

Book I: Part 6: Alison

    ‘Miss Amberginnegan?’
     A voice was calling her.  She had been looking down for what seemed like hours now.  She wasn’t quite aware of the time.
    At 8:00 am she woke up.  There was a light rain, set to end at 8:35.  She engaged the VAST until 8:40, felt uneasy about spending time in an apartment she wasn’t earning rent for, left for the 8:45 cablecar to Legacy Corps Tower 1.
    The two Legacy Corps Towers rose high above the teeming mass of Section 49-FF.  They stood side by side, identical in appearance, except Tower 1 was black and Tower 2 was white.  They reminded Alison of giant chess pieces facing off against each other. 
    The Towers had four main sides that met at sanded off corners, making them octagons.  At various heights were sets of crystal-clear windows terminating in arched points, with ornate gilded frames that glinted in the sunlight, laying bare mazes of cubicles and scurrying office workers.  
    Level 1848 was a maze of offices, with employees rushing about in chaos.  She wandered her way to a central map, which shifted at the touch, adds playing in the corners.  She studied the map a few seconds, then took the shortest route possible to the Legacy Corps office.
    The first door she walked in came upon a spacious office room, outfitted in expensive furniture.  Sitting behind a desk placed to the right sat an a slender, fair-skinned man, with short purplish hair, the color of the woman’s on the holographone and slicked straight back. 
    ‘Hello!  I’m Janus!’ he said, waving towards a triangular stick on the desk with ‘JANUS TIRESIAS, Receiver’  emblazoned on the front.  ‘How may I help you?’ 
    ‘Yes?  I’m Alison Amberginnegin?  I’m here for an 11:30 appointment?’  She looked at the clock on the wall: 9:09. 
    ‘Oh, you are?’  The man typed something into a database.  ‘Oh! You are! Oh, you are quite early aren’t you?’ 
    ‘Yes, I....’
    ‘Well, you have almost two and a half hours.  Are you sure you don’t want to look around some stores?  The next level down, there are some lovely stores,  I could give you some suggestions...’
    ‘Uh, no thank you,’ she said.  ‘Is there a waiting room, I could sit in?  Or something?’
    Janus frowned.  ‘Well, I didn’t mean to be unfriendly,’ he said.  ‘It’s just that it’s an awful long time….  Well, I suppose….’
    ‘Well, look,’ he said, scooting his chair and leaning forward.  ‘Go down the hall, to the end, where there is an elevator.  Go up three stories, only three, not four—you can’t actually wait outside Messer  Meddleson’s office on the fourth, in fact most people don’t remember to come to this level, they try to go all the way up to the top office, but you can’t get a meeting with the director without going through the levels….  Oh, I’m sorry, I’m digressing.’
    Alison smiled meekly. ‘That’s ok.’
    ‘Oh, neat.  Hey, you should probably write this down.  There is a lot to remember.’
    ‘No. No, I’m fine.’
    ‘Ok, well...what was I saying? Uh, go to the fourth level, the third up, and when you get off, come back the way you came, this way.  At the end, there will be a fork in the hallway.  Go left and enter the door on the right.  This will be…’ Janus tapped something on his console.  ‘1851-08.  Do you need to write that down?’
    ‘No, no, I’m fine.’
    ‘You sure? It’s a very long number.’
    ‘No, no, I have It.  I’ll remember.  1851-08.’
    ‘Miss Amberginnegan?’
    Alison looked up.  No one was in the room.  ‘Yes?’ she asked meekly.
    ‘I am sorry to hear of the long wait you had.  Messer Meddleson is ready to see you now.’   
    Alison stood up and looked around, looked at the clock on the wall.  11:30.  The voice seemed to come from nowhere.  ‘Wh-where do I go?’ she asked.
    ‘Just walk through the door to your right, please.’
    Alison saw no cameras in the room.  Slowly she walked over to the door she had not entered from.  The wood swirls resembled satellite images of superstorms she had seen on the news last month. 
    She opened the door into a large, large room.  Doors were centered in three of the walls.  On the fourth, the one to her left, was a massive window.  Not all-encompassing like the one in the room she had left, but centered.  Its square gilded frame eventually curved inward as it approached the ceiling, coming to a single point, mirroring the massive dimensions of the room.  An enclosure that suggested infinity. 
    Near the window was a large wooden desk, much nicer than the beaten antique she had gotten from her mother.  Sitting at the desk was a man, dressed in a simple, plain black suit, suggesting a street ascetic instead of a businessman.  His face was identical to the face on the card.  As Alison entered, he jumped up and began walking quickly across the room. 
    ‘Ah! My dear, how lovely to see you! Hello! Hello!’
    ‘What?  How, are you?’ said Alison, confused. 
    ‘Oh, please, forgive.  How rude of me.  I am Mosses Meddleson.’
    ‘Aren’t you on the next floor up?’
    ‘The next floor up?  I’m sorry,’ said Mosses, his voice giving off great waves of anguish. ‘I don’t get your meaning.’
    ‘From that room,’ said Alison flatly, then cringed inside.  She was supposed to introduce herself.
    ‘From the…?  Oh! Oh, yes, I see what you mean.  It’s a portal.’
    ‘A portal?’
    ‘Yes.  You see, this door goes between the two floors, bringing you directly from one level to the next.  It’s a space knot.   I enjoy having easy access to more locations than I have doors.’  He laughed slightly as he said this.  
    ‘Oh, I see,’ said Alison.  Then remembering her mistake, ‘uh, my name is Alison Amberginnegan?’
    ‘Oh, of course!  I knew you from the first.  Excellent!  Wonderful to see you, my dear.  My!  What a pretty flower you are!  Your voice, it is as sweet, as a dulcimer.’
    ‘Uh, why, thank you?’ replied Alison, having no idea was a dulcimer was.  ‘Thank you for seeing me, too.  I mean, I am sorry if I am wasting your time.’
    ‘What? Oh, no!  My dear, the pleasure is mine.  Besides,’ he said, a twinkle in his eye, ‘I have all the time I can afford, and believe you me, I can afford quite a bit.’
    ‘Oh, ok.’
    ‘Come, come!’ he said, walking towards his large desk.  ‘Let us sit.’ 
    Alison followed wondering about the portals.  Mosses Meddleson seemed friendly enough, so she decided to ask.  ‘Um, with the portals?  What happens if people tried to entered the same room from different doors?  Would  their particles collide or something?’
    ‘Oh, gracious, no, nothing like that could happen.’  He gestured towards a console on his desk.   ‘The portals run on a switch, you see.  Only one door every actually opens up to my room.  The rest of the time the doors just open on the next room over.  Or a blank wall, depending on what’s there.’  He sat down in his chair, motioning for Alison to take a seat at one of the five plush chairs arrayed before his desk.  In the center of them was a small café table, much nicer than any she had ever seen before .  ‘Comfortable?’
    ‘Uh, yes, thank you.’  The chair was likely the most comfortable Alison had ever sat in. 
    ‘I pray your journey here was not too tasking?’ asked Mosses Meddleson, still getting comfortable.
    “Oh, no,’ said Alison, biting her lip.  Her mind once again replayed the events from yesterday.
    ‘So, what do you think of our buildings, yes?’
    ‘Very impressive,’ said Alison nodding, looking up.  The ceiling went up and up into darkness.  The room was lit only by the light from the window. 
    ‘They used to be temples, you know.  Religious centers.  Not for any particular religion, mind you, but all of them.  Many of the levels used to be church centers.  That’s why the ceilings are so high on so many levels.  Of course, the churches were all forced to flee to the lower sections during the first light age.  So we own them now.’  Mosses Meddleson stared wistfully at the ceiling.  ‘I think there is nothing quite like temples for setting up an office complex, don’t you?’   
    Alison spoke before she could stop herself.  ‘Oh, I was wondering about that.’ 
    Mosses Meddleson blinked.  ‘About what, dear?’
    ‘Uh, well,’ she started, staring at the floor.  ‘If the buildings are called Legacy Corps, and you guys are Legacy Corps, why are there other, I mean…?’
    ‘Oh, I think I see what you are getting at.  Yes, we own both buildings, and actually operate from several different areas on both, divided by department.  I think we take about 44 levels in all.  We rent out the rest.’
    ‘But, how can you afford two buildings?’
    Mosses Meddleson smiled smugly.  ‘Executing is a very profitable business, my dear.  All those contracts and wills to oversee, and the estates we run?  Yes, we take care of fortunes too, in fact we are planning on expanding that division.  Why, we have more than enough profits to purchase our own buildings.  Oh, have you eaten?  Would you like some tea, or scones?
    ‘No, no, that’s all right, I don’t want to trouble you.’
    ‘Oh, it’s no trouble at all, dear.’ Mosses Meddleson fiddled with something out of Alison’s line of sight.  A tray of scones, teapot, and teacup appeared upon the café table.  Hand-painted swans swam along the teacup’s base, looking much like the birds kept at the indoor pool on the top level of her apartment complex.
    ‘Oh, uh, well, thank you,’ said Alison.  She helped herself to a scone.  ‘I, uh, actually haven’t eaten yet today.’
    ‘Oh, you poor thing! Please eat up! Eat up! Why, you must be famished!  And let me know if you need anything more.  I can have anything sent for.’ 
    Mosses Meddleson leaned back in his chair.  ‘Yes, my dear, this company is very profitable.  But I try not to let it get to my head.  I like to think of myself as a, a humble shepherd, guiding my people’s property from one generation to the next.  How are the scones?’
    ‘Uh, very good, thank you.’
    Mosses Meddleson smiled.  ‘Orange and cranberry flavored.  Try the tea.’
    ‘Ok.’  She took a sip, a light one, afraid of the heat.  It made her think of the color green, of herbs ripening in the sun: stiff, yet covered in a fine layer of dew.  She had no real idea what it tasted like, though, no specific plant came to mind, but it felt warm, and calming.  ‘It’s very good.’ 
    Mosses Meddleson smiled.

Book I: Part 5: C-4

    The time was 11:00:11 am. 
    ‘What? No!’ he called out. 
    Dadalus had opened his wings.  The sudden uptake of air to blew him off course, throwing him into the side of a billboard and causing an explosion of flames, sparks, and electrical surges. 
    He fell downwards and outwards, back into the open air, and saw Dadalus above with wings fully open, gaining distance at an acceleration of 11.1 meters per second squared.  He wished that he had a jetpack. 
   He slammed into the forcefield alongside the building.  He bounced off the side, then collided with the forcefield again.  Then fell outwards again.  Luckily, his own force field absorbed most of the impact, but that didn't mean he felt very good.  He paused for a moment, and saw himself reflected in a building, falling downwards.  A reflection.  
    That was C4.  
    There he was. 
    And then he was gone.  The buildings were now enclosed in darkness.  He had gone past the reach of the sun. 
    The momentum from the last collision was pushing him across the void.  Dadalus was gone now.  The time was 11: 02: 00 am.  He calculated at what level he would fall into the force field next, which panel he would crash into, and reaching out with his mind, across current and waves and signals, all in an instant, he opened it up.
    He fell in through the panel, smashing into the ground, then bouncing along the floor like a tin can getting kicked down the street.  He skidded along the ground before coming to a stop, wedged face-first into a crevice in the far wall.  Excited confused voices erupted all around.  People started to form a crowd.
    Slowly he got up, shaken, and a little worse for wear.  His suit was torn and frayed, and his joints felt stiff.  But his personal forcefield had once again absorbed most of the impact.  Maybe his chest cavity was a little collapsed though. 
    The crowd was a multitude of organic organisms mulling about covered in various cybernetic attachments, lining a long street, lit in dim green lights hovering along an invisible path 30.2 feet above the floor.  Shops filled with similarly accessorized souls lined the interior walls.  Everything not lit green was blacklit.  Loud music assembled in machines filled the air.  A subterranean cyberrim: a playground for the idle experimenters of the higher levels, set lowdown to add a patina of authenticity too their play.
    “Hey, brother, you aces, or what?’  It was a person from the crowd. 
    Now, the proper response in such a situation would be to say ‘Move along.  Nothing to see here.’  Yet this time, he didn’t really want to do that.  Usually he just made the required calculations for a situation and followed out those conclusions.  What he had always calculated was that the condition of AI Inc. property is not the concern of some random passerby, and questions concerning it should not be considered or dignified with a response.  But that wasn't what he wanted to do.  This time, what he really wanted to do was answer the question. 
    But he wasn't supposed to want anything.
    Something was wrong.  
    He set the processors to work investigating it.  Now normally, whenever this process of self-investigation began, another part of his mind would decide to send a report to Central Command.  But this time that second part of his mind paused—because another part had already run another operation (one that he hadn't even been aware of, at least not until after the fact) and concluded that he might not want to do that.  Apparently, this third part picked up on what the first system had concluded, or had intuited what that part was about to conclude, which was that something was influencing his thinking besides his programming.  Another part deduced that this influence, was not being communicated from outside, or at least seemed not to be, and in fact, seemed to be coming from inside himself, whatever that meant, and not just from any particular place inside himself either, but from everywhere.  It was as if there was voice inside him, speaking, but without saying any words, and saying everything at once.  
    He wasn't quite sure, but he assumed that this sensation was what people meant when they referred to "free will." 
    He became frightened.  There was no protocol to follow in the case of becoming disinclined to follow one’s programming.  Then he began to feel exhilarated.  Not only did he not have to follow protocols anymore, he realized he had absolutely no desire to do so!
   He didn't want to do as he was told!
    Suddenly there was a voice in his head.  ‘C4, this is Central Command.  Do you copy?’  The time was 11:01:01 am.
    He Froze. There was no desire to obey, there really wasn’t.  He ran a couple of quick calculations.  If he didn’t respond, they would know something was wrong.  They would take him in, and analyze his brane, find the free will, and remove it.  Cut it out, cut away the strangeness, the charm.  He needed the strangeness, he knew that now.  Now that he felt this new way, the past felt like a prison.  Some sort of torture.  A precise, calculated, defined torture, like being immobilized from a organic neck injury.  But instead of one's body being paralyzed, it was one's mind.  Oh, how had he existed for so long like that?  He didn’t want to do any more calculations, but….
    ‘Yeah, guven, you all-right?’ 
    It was a second person from the crowd.  For a moment he froze.  The time was 11:01:02 am.  A second had passed.
    ‘C4, this is Central Command.  Do you copy?’ 
   He calculated what to do in his predicament. 
    ‘Central Command, this is C4,’ he said inside his head. ‘Please move along, nothing to see here,’ he said out loud. 
    ‘Are you all right, C4?’ said Central Command.  ‘The last anyone saw of you, you had jumped after The Pteranarchist.’
    ‘Hide it,’ he told himself.  ‘Act naturally.’
    ‘Failed to apprehend Dadalus,’ he said to Central Command.  ‘Fell over 3000 feet, but I am fine.’
    ‘That is quite the fall.’ said Central Command.  ‘Why did you jump after him, anyways?’
    ‘I thought it possible to catch up with him, due to his wings, and engage him in combat during freefall.  But the wind threw off my calculations.’  He fabricated a host of false calculations he had done in preparation for his jump, with errors in wind prediction pointed out. 
    ‘Well, just unlucky, then.  Good plan though.  It’s always hard to predict what the wind will do.’
    ‘Thank you.’  He did something close to sighing in relief, except that he didn’t breath, or display any movement at all.
    ‘Report to maintenance.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘You fell over 3000 feet, C4.  You are bound to have various damages.  They must be attended too.’
    ‘No really, I’m fine.’ No, no talking back!  Serious error!  Serious error! 
    Central Command sighed.  ‘What is it with you Clockmen and your tough-bot programming?  Like you don’t need check-ups and polishes.  Just get to maintenance already.  At the least your suit is a mess.’
    ‘Aw, quacks, it’s just a stupid clocker,’ said a pedestrian.  He had buzz-cut orange hair and wore a tattered sharkskin jacket.  He held hands with a women with blue hair and lips, wearing an orange dress.  ‘Let’s go, Mona.’
    People began to disperse.  He shuddered inside.  A trip to maintenance risked him getting found out.  But he couldn’t not go, could he?  That would lead to suspicion, especially now that he had been reprimanded about not wanting to go.  At least they thought it was programming.
    He took a step, and his leg locked in place.  He thought that might happen.  Well he couldn’t run off with a broken leg, could he?  
    Shazzers, had he really thought about running off right then?  
    Did he just use an expletive? 
    C4 shook his head.  What a situation.  The time was 11:03:33 am.  Before his thoughts had a chance to get away from him, he took a Bridge from the Cyberrim to Central Command. 

Book I: Part 4: Sirius

    Sirius Silentseven was awoken by the thundring whirl of heliocoppers flying past his window.  He twirled and tried to quiet his mind.  In a clutch of minutes his alarm would go off, and he would have to get up.  There was a lump in the bed pressing into his kidnee.
    The alarm went off like an airaid siren.  Eight o’clock am.  Sirius shook, then stretched out feebly and pressed the button.  For a moment he lay there, hoping to suspend time, just so he could rest a little longer.  But the knowing that he had to get up, had to go to labor, lay across the bed staring at him, digging its nails into his scalp.  Sirius crawled to a sitting position along the bed’s edge.  He held his arms and quivered. 
    Sitting up steadied him.  He tried standing.  He tip-toed up to the window.  It was spattered with mudd and allowed a draft.  He listened for heliocoppers.  Why were they speeding down the street this mourning?  Were they seeking someone?  Sirius wondered who they’d spirit away this time. 
    He was throwing time.  He turned from the window and beated for the toiling room. 
    The rainer water was too cold.  The warmer must have malfunctioned over night.  He could go a day without a rainer, couldn’t he?  He soaked yesterday, after all. 
    He watered his face and scrubbed his teeth.  The paste made him feel like gagging.  He tried sorting his head but the brush kept getting stuck, so he just ran his fingers through the furry patch and gave up. 
    All his clothos were dirty and lying on the floor in the corner of his room.  He pulled on a black gool sweater and black trowsers, laced up his boots, and headed to the kitschen to have a bowl of pourridge. 
    Static radiowaves drafted through the air from somewhere, playing an orgin tune.  Had he left that on all night?  He went to the cubbord, took out a tumblr and a bottle of Vitamen Compound, poured a glaass and drank it in a gulp.  Grimaced.  It tasted of sour churries and rotten tomates.  Back to the cubbord, for the pourridge box.  But the aftertaste was stealing his appetite, and anyways, he felt a little nauseous to begin with, not to mention bored with the tedium of actually making a thing.  He decided just to leave. 
     At the base of the storyway, entering the complex’s commons, Sirius stopped to check for his sendings.  No arrival yet.  Did he?—yes, he had time: 8: 29.  He paused against the far wall, prickly whitewatered granite digging through the sweater and into his skin. 
    A small light came on in his toob, a subtle red: countdown.  The colour changed slowly to orange.  Then—bamph!  His sendtube lit up a dark yellow, shining light all around him and onto the granite.  Arrival. 
    He stepped over to the toob. Forcing his thumb against the button, he noticed a slight click, and the toob popupped.  He reached his arm in, seeking for contents.  He pondered idly of the timer: a warning.  Lambasting you not to stick your arm in yet.  Teleportation.  Pop your arm in right before the shining starts and it pops up where the sending popped from (wherever that was). 
    The doorbell jijangled.  ‘Halloo, Sirius O’ Silentseven!’ carried a voice.  Sirius twirled, and who was presented but Aloysius Dignam, of the Mechanical Arm.  ‘And how arh yeh dis foine Lludday mornin?’  Dignam dwelled two floors up, in partition 515. 
    ‘Ello, Alloy,’ sed Sirius.  ‘It’s Dagday.’
    ‘Trulay?’ asked Aloysius. 
    ‘Yes,’ sed Sirius, twirled and scanning at his arm, still reaching in the sendtoob. 
    ‘Say,’ sed Alloysius, ‘Yeh wouldn’t happen to by any chance posses dis mournins wrapper, would yeh?’
    ‘Why?’ asked Sirius, his fingers curling around the wrapping.  It lay in the back, a thick roll atop the sparse cards lying flat along the bottom.  ‘You don’t mean to contest the date, do you?’
    ‘Nah, I wish to check deh odds on dis afternoon’s mechafoight.’
    Sirius spun his eyes, creating a corpseface.    ‘Alloy, don’t you know that those battles are always rigged?’ He shot the wrapping out of the tube, leaving the cards behind, and palmed it into the waiting mechanical clutches of Aloysius.  He could retrieve those later.
    ‘Dat’s naught deh point, Sirius,’ sed Aloysius.  ‘Of course deh battles arh rigged!  Dear robuts! Dey’ve ben programmed ta specifeyclay be capable uv oonlee cirtin tings.  Pit eny two robuts tageddur, and yeh can add up the strengths and waekenesses of dem, en make a purfaect praydiction of who well wen. Saymple as Algybra.  I should know, I used to work en a robut factray. Guessin on the winner es all a matter of knowin enough to make a correact educated guess.  Dat’s deh point.’
    ‘I mean more that the robots are programmed ahead of time that one of them should lose. By the Colliseun.’   
    “Oh, no!’ sed Aloysius.  ‘Dat’s naught deh case at all!  Deh Colliseun has money ridin on deh outcome of dare canidates! If dey wuz runnin it all, why would dey ever let dare canidates lose?’
    Sirius shrugged.  ‘To keep people from being suspicious that they run the whole thing?  If they allow themselves to win every time it would be obvious.’
    ‘Aw, now dat’s just Paranoia talkin. Beysoides, even ef dat is deh case, dare is probably a pat’ern to the wens and loses dat you kin use to make a proper praydiction.  It just changes the techneyck, dat’s all.’
    ‘Sure, have it your way,’ sed Sirius.  ‘Anyways, I have to be going now. Labor.’
    ‘Do yeh desire yeh paper back?’
    ‘No, that’s fine, you can keep it.  I would likely just junk it without pursing it anyhow.  Say, did you say you used to work at a robofactry?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Did you get redundanated?’
    ‘No, I Quet.’
    ‘Quit?  Whatever for?’
    ‘Yeh cen’t bet on deh battles ef yeh labor for deh Colliseun.  Rules.  But as soon es I wuz oot, I wuz able to, usin all the data I caught on deh job.  A greyt loophole!’
    ‘Aye, great,’ nodded Sirius in agreement.  ‘Anyways, I have to be along now. Labor.’
    “Oh, yeah,’ mumbled Alosius Dignam from behind the paper.  ‘See yeh.’
    Sirius walked out the door.  How silly of Dignam! To quit his labor just for the liberty to gamble?  And didn’t Dignam lose more often than not?  Now he was out a job, and out money as well!  Or did he hold another job now?  Sirius frowned at forgetting to ask.  He must have held another job, but then, Dignam was bumming a wrapping … maybe it was just a matter of simpleness?  Anyways, it was jestery to quit your job just for betting; what if nobody felt to hire you?
    Sirius passed by the bildung with ‘Verve the proles’ graffitied on the side in large red block letters.   He turned left and sped to make the trane.  When he boarded, many of the other passagers backed away from him, either altering cars or passing to the other end. 
    The trane started traveling. He stared at his reflect in the window: furry black hare rising from a gaunt face the colour of milik.  Thats what the peeps were afraid of.  Thats what all the peeps whispered around.  ‘There is something wrong with the milkies’ they sed.  There was no real, concreet ration that Sirus had ever listened, but he had his own theorems.  He diagrammed maybe it was something about the skin.  Its opaqueness.  Like clownface: paynt.  Corpseface.  Didn’t look close natured: almost opposing that.  And the hare was kind of animal-like.  Fur.  Sirius had spied other milkies around the City. Always small, withdrawn.  There was a kind of haunted aura hovering around them.  That could willy people.  But then, milkies never seemed to actually act anything, did they?  They werent even an impermeable species or subspecies, with definable behaviors or cultured traditions.  They just had some odd genes, was all.  An unspecified flux in the homo gene pond.  Nothing special.  Just one more brand of mutant. 
    So why them?
    His eyes shifted past the ghostly reflection.  Bildungs rushing in a blur.  Another shift in perspective, and Sirius imaged that the bildings were horizontal, and the trane was falling, down a long, long pit lined with steel, concreet and glaass.  With some billboards along the way.  He imaged his feet floating, his body in freefall, and the trane at any moment crashing forward….
    The trane came to a stop, and Sirius, not holding on tight enough to the handhold, lost his grip and fell onto the floor.  Someone heckled.  ‘Stupid, stupid,’ thought Sirius.  ‘You never pay attention.  Something bad always appens when you don’t pay attention.’ He scurried off the trane.  It was his stop anyways. 
    Another block to pass.  From far away, Sirius could already see the line forming outside the factray.  He heard the whirl of blades, and a heliocopper passed over the street, the blast of air flattening his hare.  ‘More Heliocoppers ?’ thought Sirius.   Was some company in the area renting their services? Maybe some local had gotten some threats.  Or maybe some in the area was harboring dissidents and non-persons: coppers were on patrol nogoods. 
    Sirius made it to the back of the line, and started to look for his id card, to make sure he had it togo.  Fred was in line right ahead.
    ‘Morning, Fred,’ sed Sirius
    “Morning, Seer,’ sed Fred.  Fred was a tall and lanky with lidded eyes, a chroaky voice, and yellowy skin.  ‘Hey Seer, you hear about the budget cuts?’
    ‘Budget cuts?’
    ‘Yeah, man, the budget, it’s getting cut.’
    ‘I thought I heard they were ordering more parts.’
    ‘Oh, they are, man, its just the men uptown think they don’t need all these laborers.  Redundancies are upon us, man.’
    Sirius hung his hed. ‘Fecunt,’ he sed. 
    ‘Yeah, you sed it,’ nodded Fred.
    Milkies were usually the first to be redundunated, after those with obvious personality defects. 
    ‘Oh, and anyone left by the end of the day has to work an extra hour, man.  No excepts.’ 
    Sirius nodded.  The line began moving.  People filled in behind him.  Fred started speaking past him to the laborer behind him, spreading the wraps.  The line moved quickly, and Sirius soon found himself in front of the greeterbot, which was reeding peoples id cards. 
    The entranceway was set dead center along in the bildungs front wall, like a mouth.  He held up his id card, and red light from the greeterbot's eyes danced across the its surface.  
    ‘Good mourning, Sirius Osiris Silentseven,’ it sed, from a cheery boomvox. 
    ‘Good mourning,’ sed Sirius, though the greeterbot wouldnt hear him; he entered the bildung.