I've always had a suspicion that the SAT was run by aliens.
Turns out I am right.
I wake up late, really afraid I am going to be late for the test, and am about to wake up mum, but decide instead that I should try out the teleportation device I've been working on...
And wind up on a cloaked spaceship hovering on the edge of the outer atmosphere.
Which Whoopie Goldberg is on, for some reason.
They are in league with the dolphins, these aliens, trying to devise a job system which will keep us all ignorant of the true meaning of life, keep us serving a greater unknown empire's desires-- which competitive standardized tests accomplish pretty well. They are measuring the results, and taking the best and brightest moments after they leave the testing facilities, cloning them, using the real kids for experimentation, to see if they can prevent the rest of the population from reaching their level of intelligence. Thankfully for me, I did quite poorly on the maths section of my test the first time--partly due to my forgetting my calculator- so they never even took notice of me.
Dozens of other humans are on the ship as drone slaves, their minds controlled by small "headlamps," their clothes marked with yellow clearance stripes, so I sneak in and (sorry! I had to!) knock one out and dress to match, following two others with refreshments into the main conference room.
"I just can't understand it!" one alien with a prestigious badge on his chest hollers, banging the table for emphasis. "They are still getting smarter, despite all our efforts. I was assured that humanity was a stupid race, easily capable of domination, when I bought the planet. These scientists are worthless, Pague!"
"Now, don't get all ruffled, General," a smaller form soothes, motioning us servants forward, taking a drink off my tray. "I'm sure that when the Steward gives his demonstration, it'll all be straightened out."
Just then, a holovid on the desk jumps to life, and a tall, spiky alien in a white labcoat greets the room, beginning a presentation. I sneak away with my empty tray and continue to explore.
The ship is huge, but luckily for me I wander straight into the engine room.
Because I really do have school tomorrow, and my subconscious is worried I won't get up in time, and to show-up all my previous doubts, I shut the whole system down with a flick of the wrist and free all the humans on board, then jettison the ship back out into space.
That's right.
We speak for ourselves, thank you very much.
Humans rock.
But I still haven't done any homework...
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Robot Wife
"It really sucks when you're programmed to kill your betrothed," she tells me as I block her lazer eyes with one force-field, and parry the blow of her rocket arm with another.
"I mean, it's not like I had any choice in the matter. I actually thought he was kind of nice."
Grimace, throw back the weight of her foot, jump up before she crushes me.
"Then--why--don't--you--STOP?!?"
She sighs, a mechanical simulation of breath, and then sweeps around and tries to cut off my head.
"You supers. You think everything is that easy, don't you? Well, not everyone has free will. When you are programmed, disobeying a direct order can cause system shutdown, circuit malfunction at the least. It's the rule, so we don't get out of hand." Hanging out of the sixteenth story window, I leap sideways onto a turret of the building. "Nonsense! Rules don't make that happen, only your belief in them does! You don't have to be evil! Besides, Jeremy is really kind of cute, and intelligent, and very sweet. You'd be doing a grave and terrible thing for some unknown employer, and I really think Jeremy merits more than that. You should at least find out why you were summoned to kill him before simply following orders; it's not logical." I plead, ducking as Emilie throws a chunk of masonry. She pauses, considering.
"Perhaps I could do a little research," she concedes, as I smile in relief.
The office of The Employer is deep in the heart of Very Splendid City, a place with gambling and music and politics galore. He sits in a huge comfy chair, half submerged in a jacuzzi, half surrounded by monitor screens and computer wires.
"Why should I tell you the reason for E-13's objective? Jeremy Stone needs to be killed. That's all there is to it." He stares at the two of us with obvious disdain. Emilie shuffles her metal feet. I look up in resolve.
"You will tell us because it would be dangerous not to do so. A man's life hangs in the balance. That is more important than any objective."
"Ho-ho!" he laughs, pudgy eyes glinting. "We have a fighter on our hands! Very well... Mr. Stone, whether he knows yet or not, is the heir of a soon-to-expire competitor's business. I need to make sure it goes instead to the other nephew, who is- shall we say- on more amicable terms with my own corporation."
"I see. So you would kill him for more money."
"Business is business, my dear."
"Then like all businessmen, you know that one day your corporation will dissolve into another, just as you have devoured others. It is an endless cycle of greed. Unless you stop, I will be forced to close your account early. "
"Will you, now?" his eyes narrow. "But you haven't even met my latest creations yet." He presses a button under his desk. A door slides open on the side of the room. "Business is booming. There have been many more models since Emilie, or E-13, as she is properly called. Let us see how you deal with them."
And, yes.
Robot ninjas pop out.
Crap.
Being a superhero, though of course not through any sort of school or accredited training program or whatever, I should be able to handle this, right? I mean, I read Dr. McNinja! I should have that whole one-against-many rule on my side. Even if they are robot ninjas...
SLAM! reeaallly did not see that one coming. I was too busy thought-monologuing and one of the attack ninjas sneaked up behind me and...Ow. My head hurts.
I whip around and bash the robot on his very shiny metal nose, which obviously ends up hurting only myself. Another extends a scintillating octopus-like protrusion, reaching for my face, but I wise to it and leap upwards, landing upside down on the ceiling, and ram my fist into the back of its neck, sending the head spinning across the room. One creeps up behind me and this time I kick backwards into its chest, sending it crashing out the window of the very tall skyscraper. Smash! One is down with twisted legs. Klunk! Another piles on top of its ally. And another. This isn't so bad, I think, whistling, only then I remember I can't whistle, I've tried several times but just can't get the cheery layers of it, when another robot takes advantage of my distraction and hurls me out the window as well.
Only they don't know I can fly. "HA!" I cry triumphantly. "Thought you could get rid of me that easily, did you?" I surface back up to the cracked window, hands on hips, "You'll have to get a lot more creative--"
Just as the nose of a heat-seeking missile-launcher pokes out over the ledge, and one of the robot ninjas smiles and says, "Okay."
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!"
After an epic battle with the missile, huffing and with torn sleeves, I flop back onto the window sill and puff, "Now listen, Mr. Employer Guy, I'm gonna give you one last chance--"
They all burst out laughing. The goons, the girls in the jacuzzi, even the robots. The Employer, wiping tears from his eyes, replies, "Seriously? After that humiliating performance, you still think you can insist upon anything from us? You're nothing but a small-time would-be hero, engaging in the marital squabbles of others to distract from your own pitiful life. There is nothing you can do in the matter. Stone will die, as millions do every day. Water under the bridge, my dear. Go home, to whatever small town you are hailed as a hero in, and get a real job."
Now, this is where he really messes up. Ya see, preying on a person's tangible inner doubts like that can produce one of two consequences. The first, the one he hoped for, is that the person will give in to those doubts, accept that they are a reality, and go cry in a corner and hang themself. The second--and more likely--is that they get angry. Really angry. And I'm this type. This is like the time I was the last one left on my dodgeball team in PE, hiding behind the garbage cans, and the teacher said something taunting and I ended up striking out the entire other team in my sockfeet. And then there's the hockey rage of seventh grade...ya really don't wanna make me mad. I'm not responsible for the very unladylike consequences...besides, I've never believed in a concrete "Reality" of any sort.
So, naturally, I burst into flames. My eyes are flame. My hands are flame. My feet are flaming jets of fury and I really don't want to recount what happens next, except that Emilie does not kill Jeremy Stone, and that I remain, as always, an innocent and obscure superhero who really does try to do the right thing...
Just, doesn't always succeed in reigning in her own pride.
"I mean, it's not like I had any choice in the matter. I actually thought he was kind of nice."
Grimace, throw back the weight of her foot, jump up before she crushes me.
"Then--why--don't--you--STOP?!?"
She sighs, a mechanical simulation of breath, and then sweeps around and tries to cut off my head.
"You supers. You think everything is that easy, don't you? Well, not everyone has free will. When you are programmed, disobeying a direct order can cause system shutdown, circuit malfunction at the least. It's the rule, so we don't get out of hand." Hanging out of the sixteenth story window, I leap sideways onto a turret of the building. "Nonsense! Rules don't make that happen, only your belief in them does! You don't have to be evil! Besides, Jeremy is really kind of cute, and intelligent, and very sweet. You'd be doing a grave and terrible thing for some unknown employer, and I really think Jeremy merits more than that. You should at least find out why you were summoned to kill him before simply following orders; it's not logical." I plead, ducking as Emilie throws a chunk of masonry. She pauses, considering.
"Perhaps I could do a little research," she concedes, as I smile in relief.
The office of The Employer is deep in the heart of Very Splendid City, a place with gambling and music and politics galore. He sits in a huge comfy chair, half submerged in a jacuzzi, half surrounded by monitor screens and computer wires.
"Why should I tell you the reason for E-13's objective? Jeremy Stone needs to be killed. That's all there is to it." He stares at the two of us with obvious disdain. Emilie shuffles her metal feet. I look up in resolve.
"You will tell us because it would be dangerous not to do so. A man's life hangs in the balance. That is more important than any objective."
"Ho-ho!" he laughs, pudgy eyes glinting. "We have a fighter on our hands! Very well... Mr. Stone, whether he knows yet or not, is the heir of a soon-to-expire competitor's business. I need to make sure it goes instead to the other nephew, who is- shall we say- on more amicable terms with my own corporation."
"I see. So you would kill him for more money."
"Business is business, my dear."
"Then like all businessmen, you know that one day your corporation will dissolve into another, just as you have devoured others. It is an endless cycle of greed. Unless you stop, I will be forced to close your account early. "
"Will you, now?" his eyes narrow. "But you haven't even met my latest creations yet." He presses a button under his desk. A door slides open on the side of the room. "Business is booming. There have been many more models since Emilie, or E-13, as she is properly called. Let us see how you deal with them."
And, yes.
Robot ninjas pop out.
Crap.
Being a superhero, though of course not through any sort of school or accredited training program or whatever, I should be able to handle this, right? I mean, I read Dr. McNinja! I should have that whole one-against-many rule on my side. Even if they are robot ninjas...
SLAM! reeaallly did not see that one coming. I was too busy thought-monologuing and one of the attack ninjas sneaked up behind me and...Ow. My head hurts.
I whip around and bash the robot on his very shiny metal nose, which obviously ends up hurting only myself. Another extends a scintillating octopus-like protrusion, reaching for my face, but I wise to it and leap upwards, landing upside down on the ceiling, and ram my fist into the back of its neck, sending the head spinning across the room. One creeps up behind me and this time I kick backwards into its chest, sending it crashing out the window of the very tall skyscraper. Smash! One is down with twisted legs. Klunk! Another piles on top of its ally. And another. This isn't so bad, I think, whistling, only then I remember I can't whistle, I've tried several times but just can't get the cheery layers of it, when another robot takes advantage of my distraction and hurls me out the window as well.
Only they don't know I can fly. "HA!" I cry triumphantly. "Thought you could get rid of me that easily, did you?" I surface back up to the cracked window, hands on hips, "You'll have to get a lot more creative--"
Just as the nose of a heat-seeking missile-launcher pokes out over the ledge, and one of the robot ninjas smiles and says, "Okay."
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!"
After an epic battle with the missile, huffing and with torn sleeves, I flop back onto the window sill and puff, "Now listen, Mr. Employer Guy, I'm gonna give you one last chance--"
They all burst out laughing. The goons, the girls in the jacuzzi, even the robots. The Employer, wiping tears from his eyes, replies, "Seriously? After that humiliating performance, you still think you can insist upon anything from us? You're nothing but a small-time would-be hero, engaging in the marital squabbles of others to distract from your own pitiful life. There is nothing you can do in the matter. Stone will die, as millions do every day. Water under the bridge, my dear. Go home, to whatever small town you are hailed as a hero in, and get a real job."
Now, this is where he really messes up. Ya see, preying on a person's tangible inner doubts like that can produce one of two consequences. The first, the one he hoped for, is that the person will give in to those doubts, accept that they are a reality, and go cry in a corner and hang themself. The second--and more likely--is that they get angry. Really angry. And I'm this type. This is like the time I was the last one left on my dodgeball team in PE, hiding behind the garbage cans, and the teacher said something taunting and I ended up striking out the entire other team in my sockfeet. And then there's the hockey rage of seventh grade...ya really don't wanna make me mad. I'm not responsible for the very unladylike consequences...besides, I've never believed in a concrete "Reality" of any sort.
So, naturally, I burst into flames. My eyes are flame. My hands are flame. My feet are flaming jets of fury and I really don't want to recount what happens next, except that Emilie does not kill Jeremy Stone, and that I remain, as always, an innocent and obscure superhero who really does try to do the right thing...
Just, doesn't always succeed in reigning in her own pride.
The Barn Tunnels
Strange things happen in barns late at night.
Laila and Amanda turn evil, trying to possess each others' bodies. They are shocked out of battle when the kitchen stove lumbers in and sets itself on fire, blocking our exit and forcing us to retreat into the barn's secret tunnels. Then an angry peacock mage turns me into a moth. I bash my body repeatedly through the windows between each tunnel split, trying to get fresh air.
The smoke is alive, and spreads faster than flames...
After a few hours, the spell fades and my body returns to normal. Still running, we slide down a long side tunnel into a deep pocket of stale air under the earth's crust, surrounded by roiling magma, which is kept in check by: The Fire Salamander.
He roars at the intruders in his lair, spitting flames and charging forward on stubby legs.
As he hurls a great ball of flame, talons curved, I think fervently of the open sea, my eyes closed- and fall with a great splash into turbulent waves.
Laila Amanda, and I wash up on a cold, cloudy beach, spluttering.
"Whew," Laila sighs, "looks like we made it--" just as a two-headed snake rises from the beach-grass behind her. "Look out!" I yell, but Amanda is already on it. She seizes a long strand of grass, bends it with her mind, and throws it to Laila, who stabs the monster behind her with the newly made sword.
"That--that wassn't very nissse of you, misss. I wass merely going to welcome yousss to the issland!" the creature replies, affronted.
"Oh! I'm terribly sorry, sir! We're not used to conversing with many other sentient beings," I hastily reply, pulling out the sword and binding the wound with more grass.
"Pardon me," asks Amanda, her curiosity waxing, "But how do you survive in this climate? This isn't exactly tropical weather..."
"Oh, well, that's because it's synthetic. It's the best we could do--a lot better than living outside, though, giving the present condition of the Earth." The serpent presses a hidden button on a tree with his nose, and part of the foliage folds back to reveal, behind a thick wall of glass, a barren, wind-swept nothingness.
The Earth is dead.
Laila is the first to guess.
"What year is this?"
"29, 019."
"Ah."
"The real question is, how did you get inside the dome? There's nothing living out there-- at least, nothing you'd want to invite to tea. How have you survived?" He peers closely at us, head tilted. "You're not from Earth, are you?"
"Um." Amanda steps forward, scratching her head. "Do you believe in Time Travel?"
"There are theories, of course, but it has never been proven."
"Yeah, well...we're time travelers. Just- really bad ones..."
(I'd like to say that we figured out why we ended up in the future, rather than just some random ocean in the present, but I have no idea. I'd like to say that by now I know how to handle it all, 'cause this dream is from about three years ago, but no. The dream ended correctly. We still suck. It's all trial and error, not simple and snazzy like many of the comic books I read. :( meh. Whatever. It's still uber-cool, time travel. And I still can't get a better feeling than when fighting supervillains in REM. So who cares that the dream didn't end properly! I'll just make a comic of it and then the plot will magically appear. :)) THE END.
Laila and Amanda turn evil, trying to possess each others' bodies. They are shocked out of battle when the kitchen stove lumbers in and sets itself on fire, blocking our exit and forcing us to retreat into the barn's secret tunnels. Then an angry peacock mage turns me into a moth. I bash my body repeatedly through the windows between each tunnel split, trying to get fresh air.
The smoke is alive, and spreads faster than flames...
After a few hours, the spell fades and my body returns to normal. Still running, we slide down a long side tunnel into a deep pocket of stale air under the earth's crust, surrounded by roiling magma, which is kept in check by: The Fire Salamander.
He roars at the intruders in his lair, spitting flames and charging forward on stubby legs.
As he hurls a great ball of flame, talons curved, I think fervently of the open sea, my eyes closed- and fall with a great splash into turbulent waves.
Laila Amanda, and I wash up on a cold, cloudy beach, spluttering.
"Whew," Laila sighs, "looks like we made it--" just as a two-headed snake rises from the beach-grass behind her. "Look out!" I yell, but Amanda is already on it. She seizes a long strand of grass, bends it with her mind, and throws it to Laila, who stabs the monster behind her with the newly made sword.
"That--that wassn't very nissse of you, misss. I wass merely going to welcome yousss to the issland!" the creature replies, affronted.
"Oh! I'm terribly sorry, sir! We're not used to conversing with many other sentient beings," I hastily reply, pulling out the sword and binding the wound with more grass.
"Pardon me," asks Amanda, her curiosity waxing, "But how do you survive in this climate? This isn't exactly tropical weather..."
"Oh, well, that's because it's synthetic. It's the best we could do--a lot better than living outside, though, giving the present condition of the Earth." The serpent presses a hidden button on a tree with his nose, and part of the foliage folds back to reveal, behind a thick wall of glass, a barren, wind-swept nothingness.
The Earth is dead.
Laila is the first to guess.
"What year is this?"
"29, 019."
"Ah."
"The real question is, how did you get inside the dome? There's nothing living out there-- at least, nothing you'd want to invite to tea. How have you survived?" He peers closely at us, head tilted. "You're not from Earth, are you?"
"Um." Amanda steps forward, scratching her head. "Do you believe in Time Travel?"
"There are theories, of course, but it has never been proven."
"Yeah, well...we're time travelers. Just- really bad ones..."
(I'd like to say that we figured out why we ended up in the future, rather than just some random ocean in the present, but I have no idea. I'd like to say that by now I know how to handle it all, 'cause this dream is from about three years ago, but no. The dream ended correctly. We still suck. It's all trial and error, not simple and snazzy like many of the comic books I read. :( meh. Whatever. It's still uber-cool, time travel. And I still can't get a better feeling than when fighting supervillains in REM. So who cares that the dream didn't end properly! I'll just make a comic of it and then the plot will magically appear. :)) THE END.
A Beautiful Sunrise
I wake up earlier than everyone else, as usual, and after a few dizzy tries (my motor skills don't work well this early) spiral upward into the sky's mystical depths. Within the fuzzy clouds, thousands of feet above the earth, are rods of golden and flaming orange light. They are hot, but I press one to me in a kind of dance, closing my eyes and forgetting gravity and physical forces, turning in the movement of the wind...
After a while, the chill repairs me to continue my journey, to fly further down, through bogs and swamps and hilly forests and somber valleys and a beautiful stone bridge overlooking a glistening river-- no cars, just people walking...
Then, He comes.
He looks like pictures of my father when he was young, but he is not. He is just a shell. An evil spirit inside the form of his younger self, waiting to take possession of my soul. Patient, like water.
Past different planets, covered in mud in barns, disguised as purple lilies on endless vines in gardens, He finds me still and I am forced to flee, breathless yet lethargic, like a frozen grasshopper. When will the desperation end? When will my soul be free again to dance its untimely dance between the seas and outer atmosphere? All I ask is a tall cloud bank and arms to steer me through, the peace to commit my voyages, and a home to return to...I may be a wanderer, but still I want security...
I turn to the ghost and stand erect.
"I am not afraid of you. I'm so not afraid I'm able to compose poetry mid-flight, albeit poorly rhymed poetry." I say defiantly. "So, BEGONE! Trouble some other spirit, or better yet, don't trouble anyone at all! Go take a holiday. I'm not going to let you interfere with mine."
I return home, put on a bowtie, cook pancakes for breakfast, and pick some dandelions to put on the table.
After a while, the chill repairs me to continue my journey, to fly further down, through bogs and swamps and hilly forests and somber valleys and a beautiful stone bridge overlooking a glistening river-- no cars, just people walking...
Then, He comes.
He looks like pictures of my father when he was young, but he is not. He is just a shell. An evil spirit inside the form of his younger self, waiting to take possession of my soul. Patient, like water.
Past different planets, covered in mud in barns, disguised as purple lilies on endless vines in gardens, He finds me still and I am forced to flee, breathless yet lethargic, like a frozen grasshopper. When will the desperation end? When will my soul be free again to dance its untimely dance between the seas and outer atmosphere? All I ask is a tall cloud bank and arms to steer me through, the peace to commit my voyages, and a home to return to...I may be a wanderer, but still I want security...
I turn to the ghost and stand erect.
"I am not afraid of you. I'm so not afraid I'm able to compose poetry mid-flight, albeit poorly rhymed poetry." I say defiantly. "So, BEGONE! Trouble some other spirit, or better yet, don't trouble anyone at all! Go take a holiday. I'm not going to let you interfere with mine."
I return home, put on a bowtie, cook pancakes for breakfast, and pick some dandelions to put on the table.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
The Ice Planet
My nose is very, very red. We have been trekking across the frozen wasteland for hours, since the plane dropped us off on a hill that is still in view. The wind is stifling our progress. I would rather fly, so as to see where we are going, but the gale would blow me away in a second. We- Amanda, Laila, Becca, and I- are delivering an unmarked letter to a man who lives in the wilderness. It is a strange long envelope, marked with a grey wax seal which, so far, I have resisted tearing open and reading on the persuasion of my ignoble and insatiable curiosity...
We round another hill, and to my surprise, an abandoned carcass of a ship lurks in the valley...
As we descend, mists rise out of the snow, enveloping us, and before we can call out, they blow upwards into a thick spiraling cloud, blotting out the sun. We step further tentatively, holding hands in the darkness, when shouts emerge, coupled with the acrid stench of gunfire and blood, and we re-emerge upon the deck of a ship at war...
A young Jack Faber stares at the bloodthirsty pirate in front of her, a pistol heavy in her small hand. A swordsman fighting in the ratlines yells to her, "Kill him! For God's sake, KILL HIM!" And as the man in front of her raises his own sword, she fires, and he drops the chest of valuables and collapses to the deck.
The image fades, a memory of the ship's glorious past...
It is a defense system for the local inhabitants, a sort of wolf-bear-human hybrid called Wolberan, whose particular physiology and temperament are suited for the harsh climate. They see how visitors react to the spectacle, and if they pull weapons on the phantoms, then the Wolberan know to be wary of the newcomers. Thankfully, we had none with us.
They come bounding out to greet us, their fierce tusks turned upward in joyful smiles, and lead us into the center of the city beyond its magically defended outer walls. The one to whom we wish to deliver the letter is a "Sir Julian Wolfsbane," a cyborg hiding out in the Ice Country under a pseudonym, evading the notice of assassins and tax collectors of almost every planet he has lived on before. Thankfully, the Wolf-men have no taxes, nor need for them, for they thrive solely on sunlight and ice-magic.
He offers us home-made yogurt in exchange for our troubles, and questions us thoroughly to make sure we were not followed. Then, without further waiting, he tears open the envelope with his teeth, completely ignoring the seal, and unfolds a very long letter, his eyes darting down the page.
"Yes, yes, very good..." he mutters, chewing absentmindedly on a long strand of his false beard.
I wonder what is in the correspondence, and am thinking about asking, when he gasps, and cries, "No! It cannot be!" and looks up, behind us, at a picture on the wall.
"Sir?" I probe. "Did something in your letter disturb you?"
"Oh, I'm sorry to burst out like that, I was merely remembering...this place does that to you...sometimes I feel as if I have lived a thousand years, rather than fifty, looking back at it all, and then looking at where I am now...it is an even greater shock, now that I have just received news, that I can finally go home. If it is not too good to be true..."
On the wall is a picture of a small cottage in the middle of a large field of giant wheat-like plants. In front of the house are a man, a woman, and a very fluffy dog with a bird on his head. The man is smiling a rakish smile, his metal arm around the woman's flesh-built shoulders. The dog and bird are looking at each other in a moment of pure camera magic.
We round another hill, and to my surprise, an abandoned carcass of a ship lurks in the valley...
As we descend, mists rise out of the snow, enveloping us, and before we can call out, they blow upwards into a thick spiraling cloud, blotting out the sun. We step further tentatively, holding hands in the darkness, when shouts emerge, coupled with the acrid stench of gunfire and blood, and we re-emerge upon the deck of a ship at war...
A young Jack Faber stares at the bloodthirsty pirate in front of her, a pistol heavy in her small hand. A swordsman fighting in the ratlines yells to her, "Kill him! For God's sake, KILL HIM!" And as the man in front of her raises his own sword, she fires, and he drops the chest of valuables and collapses to the deck.
The image fades, a memory of the ship's glorious past...
It is a defense system for the local inhabitants, a sort of wolf-bear-human hybrid called Wolberan, whose particular physiology and temperament are suited for the harsh climate. They see how visitors react to the spectacle, and if they pull weapons on the phantoms, then the Wolberan know to be wary of the newcomers. Thankfully, we had none with us.
They come bounding out to greet us, their fierce tusks turned upward in joyful smiles, and lead us into the center of the city beyond its magically defended outer walls. The one to whom we wish to deliver the letter is a "Sir Julian Wolfsbane," a cyborg hiding out in the Ice Country under a pseudonym, evading the notice of assassins and tax collectors of almost every planet he has lived on before. Thankfully, the Wolf-men have no taxes, nor need for them, for they thrive solely on sunlight and ice-magic.
He offers us home-made yogurt in exchange for our troubles, and questions us thoroughly to make sure we were not followed. Then, without further waiting, he tears open the envelope with his teeth, completely ignoring the seal, and unfolds a very long letter, his eyes darting down the page.
"Yes, yes, very good..." he mutters, chewing absentmindedly on a long strand of his false beard.
I wonder what is in the correspondence, and am thinking about asking, when he gasps, and cries, "No! It cannot be!" and looks up, behind us, at a picture on the wall.
"Sir?" I probe. "Did something in your letter disturb you?"
"Oh, I'm sorry to burst out like that, I was merely remembering...this place does that to you...sometimes I feel as if I have lived a thousand years, rather than fifty, looking back at it all, and then looking at where I am now...it is an even greater shock, now that I have just received news, that I can finally go home. If it is not too good to be true..."
On the wall is a picture of a small cottage in the middle of a large field of giant wheat-like plants. In front of the house are a man, a woman, and a very fluffy dog with a bird on his head. The man is smiling a rakish smile, his metal arm around the woman's flesh-built shoulders. The dog and bird are looking at each other in a moment of pure camera magic.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
...Perspective...
Dive down. I burrow deep in the hot desert sand. As the plane flies over, searching for a target for its guns, I leap upward with the force of a dozen jets and course a trail of sandstorm in my wake, blinding the pilot and phasing through to the cockpit, where I wrest control of the plane and guide it back to Central Command, saving the President from an unexpected kamikaze attack on his private yacht...on holovid.
I'm back in Mental Training, determined to improve my faculties and never again lose someone innocent if I can help it. The images of several recent heroic disasters are still fresh in my mind.
I managed to secure the teaching of a very apt Dai-Sensei in Mental Martial Arts, Mr. Gouda, and he is helping to strengthen my fighting technique and ability to absorb large amounts of verbal abuse without getting ruffled.
"You call that a phase?" he huffs as I emerge from the holodeck, sweaty but triumphant. "Your atoms were spread all over the place. It's a wonder you emerged in the cockpit rather than some jungle in the amazon! You need to concentrate. Your mind must be focused like the energy of a lazer beam. Take less time for theatrics like your sand-spreading, and more for the infiltration. It takes less time to use a visibility shield to slip in, and you're much less likely to get shot, too. And what were you thinking, wrestling for control of the plane like a warring primate? You had no thought to teach the criminal the result of his actions, rather than follow in the footsteps of his kind? Come with me. I will show you how it is done."
Dai-Sensei Gouda leads the way back into the holodeck on silent feet, waving the signal to restart the program. "Now, shield and stand beside me." He waits, silently, for the approach of the plane, rather than openly chasing it through the desert as I had, which had forced the pilot to open fire. At the exact moment when the plane appears on the left of the horizon, Gouda whispers, "Now," and with an imperceptible lift of a few grains of sand, rockets to the air exactly when the plane crosses overhead and phases neatly into an empty seat. Struggling to follow, I slide in beside him and glance around. Our entrance is so casual that none of the passengers notice our sudden appearance, but continue reading magazines and drinking gently fizzing beverages. "First class," he smiles, handing me a pillow and a packet of complementary caviar.
"Now. Something you rash, young superheroes need to understand, before you go crashing into a situation with your mind made up to save everybody, is that the lines dividing good from evil are not always as they seem. Take a look around you."
I look around. The people in the seats next to me are wealthy business executives with large briefcases, politicians on cell phones, technology buffs typing lightning-fast on cutting-edge laptops, and then there is the typical spoiled rich kid, slumping low in his chair in expensive sneakers, who is currently trying to flirt with the stewardess. And then- there, in the corner- a small curly-haired girl, dressed in black, gazing out the window and fingering a necklace strung with voodoo dolls .
"Do you think it is purely decorative?" He smiles. "Notice the color of hair on the particular doll she is holding." I peer closer. It is a light brown-grey color...the same as the pilot's.
"Oh." I say.
"Yes," he laughs.
"I thought you were going to fly in here and interrogate the pilot to find the source of his mission in some obscure underground Arabian compound. But this is...a little girl!"
"Power and corruption can come in all shapes and sizes, Weaver, just as good is not the product of one civilization alone. Do not forget that." He rises, and phases out of the plane once more saying, "Now, let us see you resolve this one!"
I shuffle over to the curly-haired girl. "Hello," I begin, almost shyly. "That's a very interesting necklace you have there."
She looks up with burning amber eyes. "Shove off," she replies in the sweetest of voices.
"Uh...okay..." I turn to leave, then blurt out, "Look-- what you're thinking about doing-- you don't have to do it, you know. There are other ways to get excitement, than-- "
"Than WHAT?" she interrupts angrily. "I don't know what you're blathering on about, so if you'll please mind you own business! You couldn't help anyway..." The girl looks out the window, her face drooping forlornly.
Her hands absently move to a small, heart-shaped locket draped round her neck. I use my x-ray glasses to explore its contents from my chair. The composition appears to be ash. Human ash. I run the molecular structure through the database of a nearby laptop and bounce the information back to my glasses, using a covert channel, and come up with a man, aged forty, name Herbert Brandt, husband of Melissa Brandt, who died not two months ago as the victim of a drive-by shooting by some disgruntled fired employee. Since then, reports say his company stock crashed, and increased taxes on the wealthy prevented his family from escaping into leisure to grieve. His daughter is listed on the missing children website, and the mother is listed as having committed suicide. Angry at the world for taking her father's life, for hurting her mother beyond recovery, young Myra must have decided to take her pain out on the man who caused it all- or at least the man who often gets blamed for such problems- the President. But, how did she acquire the ancient and evil skills of voodoo manipulation? This is beginning to become a very difficult holo-tutoring session...
Unless...
"I can bring him back," I whisper across the isle to the girl. She starts, looks over.
"What did you say?"
I lean further, staring steadily into her eyes. "Your father. I can bring him back. I know the pain you've gone through, and the way life's kicked and cursed you, but you don't have to do this. I can find him."
Her eyes wide, the dam in her heart breaks and tears flood out. "But I can't even do that, and I've tried for so long! Can you really? But why would you want to help me?"
I reach over and take her hand. "Well, I don't know exactly how, but I promise I will try. Because deep down, no one is really evil. I am your fellow human, your sister in the Human Race, and when you fall, I fall, and when we rise, we rise together. Because I don't believe there is ever an excuse to turn against one's fellow man, and if I can keep you from responding in kind to the virus of selfish pain, than I will have saved myself from the same. Because I love you, Myra. And I will do whatever it takes, impossible or not, to see joy in your heart."
The image fades, and there in front of me is Dai-Sensei Gouda, smiling his quiet, knowing smile.
"So, have you learned the real reason why you needed to come here?"
"Because-- the real reason I have failed my missions, was because I thought in terms of hatred against villains, and that I thought I could only go so far in achieving right. There is an extreme and ultimate good, and the contradiction of it must be stopped at all costs, but I must not assume I know the answers for others' behavior. Human beings are complex, multifaceted entities, not machines that must be reprogrammed or else destroyed."
"Good," he replies. "And now, I think that is all I have to teach you. Continue on your journeys, and do not forget to look deeper into your surroundings. Also, although I don't want to encourage you to ignore blatant evils, perhaps a little fraternization with the Other side would do you good. Help you to further understand motivation. Just a recommendation."
I bow, and take my small sack of belongings which he has placed before me.
"Thank you, Sensei."
I'm back in Mental Training, determined to improve my faculties and never again lose someone innocent if I can help it. The images of several recent heroic disasters are still fresh in my mind.
I managed to secure the teaching of a very apt Dai-Sensei in Mental Martial Arts, Mr. Gouda, and he is helping to strengthen my fighting technique and ability to absorb large amounts of verbal abuse without getting ruffled.
"You call that a phase?" he huffs as I emerge from the holodeck, sweaty but triumphant. "Your atoms were spread all over the place. It's a wonder you emerged in the cockpit rather than some jungle in the amazon! You need to concentrate. Your mind must be focused like the energy of a lazer beam. Take less time for theatrics like your sand-spreading, and more for the infiltration. It takes less time to use a visibility shield to slip in, and you're much less likely to get shot, too. And what were you thinking, wrestling for control of the plane like a warring primate? You had no thought to teach the criminal the result of his actions, rather than follow in the footsteps of his kind? Come with me. I will show you how it is done."
Dai-Sensei Gouda leads the way back into the holodeck on silent feet, waving the signal to restart the program. "Now, shield and stand beside me." He waits, silently, for the approach of the plane, rather than openly chasing it through the desert as I had, which had forced the pilot to open fire. At the exact moment when the plane appears on the left of the horizon, Gouda whispers, "Now," and with an imperceptible lift of a few grains of sand, rockets to the air exactly when the plane crosses overhead and phases neatly into an empty seat. Struggling to follow, I slide in beside him and glance around. Our entrance is so casual that none of the passengers notice our sudden appearance, but continue reading magazines and drinking gently fizzing beverages. "First class," he smiles, handing me a pillow and a packet of complementary caviar.
"Now. Something you rash, young superheroes need to understand, before you go crashing into a situation with your mind made up to save everybody, is that the lines dividing good from evil are not always as they seem. Take a look around you."
I look around. The people in the seats next to me are wealthy business executives with large briefcases, politicians on cell phones, technology buffs typing lightning-fast on cutting-edge laptops, and then there is the typical spoiled rich kid, slumping low in his chair in expensive sneakers, who is currently trying to flirt with the stewardess. And then- there, in the corner- a small curly-haired girl, dressed in black, gazing out the window and fingering a necklace strung with voodoo dolls .
"Do you think it is purely decorative?" He smiles. "Notice the color of hair on the particular doll she is holding." I peer closer. It is a light brown-grey color...the same as the pilot's.
"Oh." I say.
"Yes," he laughs.
"I thought you were going to fly in here and interrogate the pilot to find the source of his mission in some obscure underground Arabian compound. But this is...a little girl!"
"Power and corruption can come in all shapes and sizes, Weaver, just as good is not the product of one civilization alone. Do not forget that." He rises, and phases out of the plane once more saying, "Now, let us see you resolve this one!"
I shuffle over to the curly-haired girl. "Hello," I begin, almost shyly. "That's a very interesting necklace you have there."
She looks up with burning amber eyes. "Shove off," she replies in the sweetest of voices.
"Uh...okay..." I turn to leave, then blurt out, "Look-- what you're thinking about doing-- you don't have to do it, you know. There are other ways to get excitement, than-- "
"Than WHAT?" she interrupts angrily. "I don't know what you're blathering on about, so if you'll please mind you own business! You couldn't help anyway..." The girl looks out the window, her face drooping forlornly.
Her hands absently move to a small, heart-shaped locket draped round her neck. I use my x-ray glasses to explore its contents from my chair. The composition appears to be ash. Human ash. I run the molecular structure through the database of a nearby laptop and bounce the information back to my glasses, using a covert channel, and come up with a man, aged forty, name Herbert Brandt, husband of Melissa Brandt, who died not two months ago as the victim of a drive-by shooting by some disgruntled fired employee. Since then, reports say his company stock crashed, and increased taxes on the wealthy prevented his family from escaping into leisure to grieve. His daughter is listed on the missing children website, and the mother is listed as having committed suicide. Angry at the world for taking her father's life, for hurting her mother beyond recovery, young Myra must have decided to take her pain out on the man who caused it all- or at least the man who often gets blamed for such problems- the President. But, how did she acquire the ancient and evil skills of voodoo manipulation? This is beginning to become a very difficult holo-tutoring session...
Unless...
"I can bring him back," I whisper across the isle to the girl. She starts, looks over.
"What did you say?"
I lean further, staring steadily into her eyes. "Your father. I can bring him back. I know the pain you've gone through, and the way life's kicked and cursed you, but you don't have to do this. I can find him."
Her eyes wide, the dam in her heart breaks and tears flood out. "But I can't even do that, and I've tried for so long! Can you really? But why would you want to help me?"
I reach over and take her hand. "Well, I don't know exactly how, but I promise I will try. Because deep down, no one is really evil. I am your fellow human, your sister in the Human Race, and when you fall, I fall, and when we rise, we rise together. Because I don't believe there is ever an excuse to turn against one's fellow man, and if I can keep you from responding in kind to the virus of selfish pain, than I will have saved myself from the same. Because I love you, Myra. And I will do whatever it takes, impossible or not, to see joy in your heart."
The image fades, and there in front of me is Dai-Sensei Gouda, smiling his quiet, knowing smile.
"So, have you learned the real reason why you needed to come here?"
"Because-- the real reason I have failed my missions, was because I thought in terms of hatred against villains, and that I thought I could only go so far in achieving right. There is an extreme and ultimate good, and the contradiction of it must be stopped at all costs, but I must not assume I know the answers for others' behavior. Human beings are complex, multifaceted entities, not machines that must be reprogrammed or else destroyed."
"Good," he replies. "And now, I think that is all I have to teach you. Continue on your journeys, and do not forget to look deeper into your surroundings. Also, although I don't want to encourage you to ignore blatant evils, perhaps a little fraternization with the Other side would do you good. Help you to further understand motivation. Just a recommendation."
I bow, and take my small sack of belongings which he has placed before me.
"Thank you, Sensei."
The Last Song
This dream mainly consisted of Laila, Amanda and I watching a Miley Cyrus movie, wherein her forehead wrinkled artistically, she chased her little sister, wrote in her notebook, and sang a song at the piano while looking out at the moon...and then, disaster struck. She stops singing, looks around, queries, "Where am I?" and starts panicking, screaming, "What's going on? GET ME OUT OF HERE!!!" and banging on the inside of the television screen.
"Oh, dear," Amanda whispers sadly. "I'm afraid we're witnessing an image that's just achieved sentience. Nothing more than a flicker of the real person, but it is aware of its surroundings. This is going to be painful..."
"What do you mean, painful?" I ask, running up to the screen, fiddling desperately with nobs and buttons. "Can't we get her out of here? We can't just leave her in here, we have to do something..."
"She's not real, Hannah," Amanda replies gently. "There is nothing we can do. She has only a few minutes left on the VHS tape, before the movie runs out, and that's it. A brief moment of conscious awareness. If we pause it or attempt to rewind and keep her alive, it will only stop her existence sooner, and revert to the original movie plot. There's nothing we can do." Shocked and saddened, the figure of a girl in the screen listens to Amanda's words, plunking down on her piano bench once more. "So, this is all I am? A figment in a movie? But, I can sing, and think, and read, and I have a sister and..." She looks around, but her sister is gone, and the only accompaniment she has in the pressed-together screen is the moon, layered in thin waves of color outside the sliding door. The Miley-fragment looks at her hands, and plays an idle key on the piano, and looks out at us once more.
"You out there. Au-audience. Did-did you like my movie? Was- was I a good player?" Close to tears, she holds her head up resolutely, and stands, and walks slowly about the room. "I wish I could see what it's like out there. I wish I could write another song, I have so much I want to sing, but I can't remember the words...so little time...so much....to...to...to..." the tape skips over a scratch, almost like a record player, and in an instant, the girl is gone, replaced by the ending credits.
I am frozen, staring at the screen, tears running down my cheeks. True, I never cared overmuch for the real person, but to see the spark of life so quickly extinguished...I see now that there will be many times in my career as a superhero when all will not go according to plan, when I will not save the day just in time, because Time can be cruel, and this is not a storybook. This is my life, my mind, my subconscious struggling to right the world around it, and I do not as of yet have all the answers.
"Oh, dear," Amanda whispers sadly. "I'm afraid we're witnessing an image that's just achieved sentience. Nothing more than a flicker of the real person, but it is aware of its surroundings. This is going to be painful..."
"What do you mean, painful?" I ask, running up to the screen, fiddling desperately with nobs and buttons. "Can't we get her out of here? We can't just leave her in here, we have to do something..."
"She's not real, Hannah," Amanda replies gently. "There is nothing we can do. She has only a few minutes left on the VHS tape, before the movie runs out, and that's it. A brief moment of conscious awareness. If we pause it or attempt to rewind and keep her alive, it will only stop her existence sooner, and revert to the original movie plot. There's nothing we can do." Shocked and saddened, the figure of a girl in the screen listens to Amanda's words, plunking down on her piano bench once more. "So, this is all I am? A figment in a movie? But, I can sing, and think, and read, and I have a sister and..." She looks around, but her sister is gone, and the only accompaniment she has in the pressed-together screen is the moon, layered in thin waves of color outside the sliding door. The Miley-fragment looks at her hands, and plays an idle key on the piano, and looks out at us once more.
"You out there. Au-audience. Did-did you like my movie? Was- was I a good player?" Close to tears, she holds her head up resolutely, and stands, and walks slowly about the room. "I wish I could see what it's like out there. I wish I could write another song, I have so much I want to sing, but I can't remember the words...so little time...so much....to...to...to..." the tape skips over a scratch, almost like a record player, and in an instant, the girl is gone, replaced by the ending credits.
I am frozen, staring at the screen, tears running down my cheeks. True, I never cared overmuch for the real person, but to see the spark of life so quickly extinguished...I see now that there will be many times in my career as a superhero when all will not go according to plan, when I will not save the day just in time, because Time can be cruel, and this is not a storybook. This is my life, my mind, my subconscious struggling to right the world around it, and I do not as of yet have all the answers.
Detecting a Dog
While babysitting one Friday evening with Laila, I sit down at the kitchen counter to drink tea and read the newspaper like a proper gentleman, when a psychic message pops out of the page. A little old lady, Thelma, requests that I find her Saluki "sighthound" named Gazelle. This dog, she continues, is very old and valuable, for the secrets of ancient Persian and Egyptian lore it keeps in its mind. It has been stolen by the local Mafia. They plan to give it to their head honcho as a birthday pet. What they are ignorant of is the fact that the dog can unleash its terrible old secrets when frightened, and doesn't like new situations without the comfort of its master nearby. The dog, bred to catch and kill scurrying animals, will revert to killing when scared. Thelma wishes me to return the dog before it can get out and do any harm to the general public-- "For, by the time you get there," the message says, "Most of the mafia guards will probably be dead."
I race down the stairs and out the garage, launching into the air and landing minutes later in Portland. The Mafia headquarters (the old one--before I realized there is also a Lutheran Mafia in Sandy, not far from Portland) is a tall, metal office building, with no name or markings except for the leftovers of roof pigeons. I land on the rooftop, flustering those selfsame pigeons, and proceed down a stairwell to the inside of the penthouse. A trial of smeared blood shows that the dog must have taken out the sentries as soon as it arrived. They probably laid down their weapons to greet the new delivery, thinking they'd have some respite from the boredom of endless guarding. Dogs are typically nice folk to hang around... I nervously finger the amulet that was in Thelma's message. "This better subdue that dog like she said," I mutter. "Cause I certainly am not eager to confront the whole of ancient Egyptian fighting skills..."
Shifting down the stairs and into the room, I trip over a broken lamp just as a gunshot rings out,barely scraping over my head. I immediately duck down, rolling to the floor behind a large sideways chest of drawers, and call out, "Don't shoot! I'm here to help!"
A man in a long trenchcoat peers at me from the other side of the drawer. He sighs. "I thought you were that demon dog again..."
"Where- you mean she's escaped already? Which way did she go?"
The weary man points out the window. "She took to the roof and leaped to that building across the street."
"Dang!" I mutter. "Then she's already loose in the city. Well, don't just cower there, help me go find her, or this city's Mafia operations will fall dramatically with the decrease in population!"
I jump up and run to the window, then remember. I turn back. "You can't fly, can you?" I ask. He shakes his head numbly, too astounded by the turn of events to answer. "Well, come on then," I continue impatiently, and stretch out my hand. He toddles over, his pistol clenched tightly, and lets me strap an antigrav clamp to his wrist. (Just one of the perks of reading a lot of sci-fi and fantasy before you go to sleep. You get a lot of cool technology.) Then I break the window with one deft elbow smash, and we soar out into the night to search for an innocent elderly dog.
It turns out to be far easier than I had expected. Yes, we're trying to detect a frenzied, possibly homicidal beast, but at the heart of every dog, no matter what civilization, is food. Two blocks later, screams emitting from an all-night pizza parlor, we have found our suspect. As we step inside, taking in the broken chandeliers, huddled patrons at the corners of the room, and growling, smacking dog gobbling up a large pile of commandeered pizzas, the situation becomes incredibly simple. I walk forward, speaking soothing words: "Here, Gazelle, good girl, good dogfellow," and yawning many times- the doggy signal to relax, non-confrontational like. I put my hand on the back of the dog, the small jade amulet in my palm warm against her fur. She immediately coils up into a little contented ball, and rolls over to let me stroke her slender belly. "Whew," I smile, and when Gazelle is done gobbling I pay the cashier for the pizzas and depart, the dog trotting at my side, back to the house of a little old lady who is quite overjoyed to regain her companion. I wonder, upon seeing the long wrinkles, delicately slanted eyes, and gentle fluff of a woman Thelma appears to be, if she has not lived as long as her dog or longer, and might have many more wondrous stories of her own to tell...
I race down the stairs and out the garage, launching into the air and landing minutes later in Portland. The Mafia headquarters (the old one--before I realized there is also a Lutheran Mafia in Sandy, not far from Portland) is a tall, metal office building, with no name or markings except for the leftovers of roof pigeons. I land on the rooftop, flustering those selfsame pigeons, and proceed down a stairwell to the inside of the penthouse. A trial of smeared blood shows that the dog must have taken out the sentries as soon as it arrived. They probably laid down their weapons to greet the new delivery, thinking they'd have some respite from the boredom of endless guarding. Dogs are typically nice folk to hang around... I nervously finger the amulet that was in Thelma's message. "This better subdue that dog like she said," I mutter. "Cause I certainly am not eager to confront the whole of ancient Egyptian fighting skills..."
Shifting down the stairs and into the room, I trip over a broken lamp just as a gunshot rings out,barely scraping over my head. I immediately duck down, rolling to the floor behind a large sideways chest of drawers, and call out, "Don't shoot! I'm here to help!"
A man in a long trenchcoat peers at me from the other side of the drawer. He sighs. "I thought you were that demon dog again..."
"Where- you mean she's escaped already? Which way did she go?"
The weary man points out the window. "She took to the roof and leaped to that building across the street."
"Dang!" I mutter. "Then she's already loose in the city. Well, don't just cower there, help me go find her, or this city's Mafia operations will fall dramatically with the decrease in population!"
I jump up and run to the window, then remember. I turn back. "You can't fly, can you?" I ask. He shakes his head numbly, too astounded by the turn of events to answer. "Well, come on then," I continue impatiently, and stretch out my hand. He toddles over, his pistol clenched tightly, and lets me strap an antigrav clamp to his wrist. (Just one of the perks of reading a lot of sci-fi and fantasy before you go to sleep. You get a lot of cool technology.) Then I break the window with one deft elbow smash, and we soar out into the night to search for an innocent elderly dog.
It turns out to be far easier than I had expected. Yes, we're trying to detect a frenzied, possibly homicidal beast, but at the heart of every dog, no matter what civilization, is food. Two blocks later, screams emitting from an all-night pizza parlor, we have found our suspect. As we step inside, taking in the broken chandeliers, huddled patrons at the corners of the room, and growling, smacking dog gobbling up a large pile of commandeered pizzas, the situation becomes incredibly simple. I walk forward, speaking soothing words: "Here, Gazelle, good girl, good dogfellow," and yawning many times- the doggy signal to relax, non-confrontational like. I put my hand on the back of the dog, the small jade amulet in my palm warm against her fur. She immediately coils up into a little contented ball, and rolls over to let me stroke her slender belly. "Whew," I smile, and when Gazelle is done gobbling I pay the cashier for the pizzas and depart, the dog trotting at my side, back to the house of a little old lady who is quite overjoyed to regain her companion. I wonder, upon seeing the long wrinkles, delicately slanted eyes, and gentle fluff of a woman Thelma appears to be, if she has not lived as long as her dog or longer, and might have many more wondrous stories of her own to tell...
Overestimation (Part II)
Thankfully enough, my brain decides it cannot just leave my best friend kidnapped somewhere in the ether, so tonight I once again dream of this strange situation.
By this time in Dreamland, I have established my superhero base, and am busily researching on my laptop, tracing the possible locations of the villain that has kidnapped my best friend and fellow super, Amanda- or, by her super pseudonym, "Syca." My sister Laila (or "Electra"- not the common one, a cooler one that has uncanny powers in the field of meteorology as well as typically enhanced fighting skills, though she will later take to calling herself "Lisirena," the healer, when she becomes a counselor) has invited some guy from school over, and he keeps bugging me. He's the sort of muscly, preppy-jock-rockstar-narscissist that makes me weep for humanity. Were I an alien, I would love to drop a bomb on him in a very un-heroic way. He even has the gall to pull off the towel which I had draped over my head in order to concentrate, and I spend ten costly minutes of rescue time bartering to get it back from him. Exasperated, I turn to Laila and whine, "Why'd you have to bring him over, I'm trying to work!" Just then, my laptop beeps at the arrival of a new message: a ransom note from the kidnappers.
I turn back and stare at the screen: "ARTEMESIA MOONE: YOU AND YOUR PARTNER WILL MEET AT MIDNIGHT TOMORROW ABOVE THE NEW STADIUM WHICH HAS JUST BEEN ERECTED IN A PLACE YOU ARE FAMILIAR WITH. DO NOT INFORM ANYONE ELSE WITH YOU, ANY POLICE, ANY OTHER SUPERS, OF THIS LOCATION. YOU WILL COME UNARMED WITH ONE MILLION DOLLARS CASH TO THE DROP SITE, APPROXIMATELY FIVE THOUSAND FEET ABOVE THE STADIUM, AND LEAVE IT ON THE PLATFORM. THERE, YOU WILL FIND YOUR FRIEND. DISOBEY, AND SHE WILL DIE. SINCERELY,
the MAROON MARAUDER."
I stare at the screen in disbelief. Mumbling, "This just keeps getting cornier. Could they be any more cliche?" I grab my jacket and hat and call to Electra, "We're going out. I should've gotten this message yesterday, but you know- dial-up internet. This means we've only got three hours to get to the drop site and save Syca from the least creative supervillain this side of the Mississippi..."
Back to the perspective of the villain. He sits in a tiny cabin, floating above a cheering crowd of avid spectators of some sport-or-other he cares nothing about. Pressing the record button on his camera at three minutes to twelve, he whispers, "Second test initiated."
Laila and I arrive at the football stadium at two minutes to twelve, hoping to surprise the Marauder with our unaccustomed earliness, and thus somehow foil his plans. Alas, when we arrive, there is only a projected hologram on a small platform hovering in the sky malevolently. I set down the sack of "money" with an angry slump, and rant, "Okay, wise guy, you said you were gonna give Syca back, now WHERE IS SHE???"
"All in good time," the 'gram replies pertly. "First, the money." It points with a maroon-gloved hand to a teleport chute on the left side of the platform. I reach to throw the sack in, but at the last second, leap in with it, praying the Marauder isn't quick enough to cancel the signal and leave me hanging somewhere in limbo. For a scrambled moment I can't think, then reappear in some sort of dark space which is very unhelpful in gauging my surroundings. Then I stub my toe on a large metal cabinet, and realize I am literally INSIDE the villain's massive safe. I feel my way over to the door, cursing and with a profound new respect for the blind, carefully pick the lock, and sneak outside. The hallway is carpeted plushly. I am soundless as I tip-toe around the corner of the living room and peer over the couch at a very flustered villain, his back to me, ranting at a computer screen. On it is a tiny holovid of Electra, responding, "I don't KNOW where she went, sir, but I can assure you she'll be back momentarily..." "Not good enough!" he fumes. "You are spoiling the second stage of my plan...not that you need to know that. What you need to know is that if she does not return right away, your friend will DIE!!!..." Oh, please, I think, spare me the melodrama.
Knowing that my sister can handle the trickiest of diplomacies, I turn to explore the rest of the small cabin. In another room, I find boxes and boxes of photographs, lying all over- just people of various ages, each paper-clipped to some diagrams of complicated-looking machinery. In another, I find what looks to be the assemblage of a machine, and on a nearby desk is another picture, with some notes...it is the girl scout, from the store! So, this guy is making a technology that brings a person's memories to life, hacking into the subconscious events network and using its projections as a sort of armada. Quite clever, for a small-time money-grubber. But why did he take Syca? I shuffle out of the room, pondering this, when I come upon a locked door at the end of the hall. Phasing through, I see a pulsing maze of lazers and electrodes all reaching up to one place: the head of a certain girl, tied to a metal chair.
"Amanda!" I cry, starting forward, and her eyes dart open. "It's me, Art.! We've come to get you out of here." She looks up blearily and whispers hoarsely, "It's too late for that now... You see, I thought it would be okay to open that present when you guys were gone. I didn't know what was inside, waiting for me..." She stares at me pleadingly with her crystal blue eyes. "It's in my head, you see," she smiles apologetically. "It's controlling my thoughts even now, and I can see- He knows you're here. This criminal- he's not so bad, yet. All he wants is money. But soon he'll want power and destruction, and do anything to get it. I can see him running down the hall... I think you set off a silent alarm somewhere." I can hear his footsteps, and turn back urgently to Amanda. "Concentrate, you can beat this thing, this probe or whatever it is, just remember who you are. You're the strongest of all of us! Just...know we believe in you, however cheesy that may sound." I put my hand on her shoulder, and at that moment a man breaks through the door, a strange-looking weapon in his hand, and fires- just as Syca projects a force-field from her mind, regaining control once again, and snaps the cords tied to her head with a single blink of her eye.
"Great," she laughs, even as we are tying up the Marauder and confiscating his plans for world domination with Electra. "I feel like a Dalek. It took human contact for me to regain my powers." "Nah," I reply, "Just luuuurve. Although, I'm sure never going to underestimate a cliche enemy again, or overestimate my power in dealing with him! Cliches are there for a reason, I suppose." We all return back to base, to watch some Doctor Who and tease the guy I forgot Laila had over, who we abandoned for over five hours. He is intently curious about what we were doing, but Laila pats him on the head and replies: "Oh, just nerd stuff. You wouldn't understand." And he leaves it at that and goes to raid my fridge.
By this time in Dreamland, I have established my superhero base, and am busily researching on my laptop, tracing the possible locations of the villain that has kidnapped my best friend and fellow super, Amanda- or, by her super pseudonym, "Syca." My sister Laila (or "Electra"- not the common one, a cooler one that has uncanny powers in the field of meteorology as well as typically enhanced fighting skills, though she will later take to calling herself "Lisirena," the healer, when she becomes a counselor) has invited some guy from school over, and he keeps bugging me. He's the sort of muscly, preppy-jock-rockstar-narscissist that makes me weep for humanity. Were I an alien, I would love to drop a bomb on him in a very un-heroic way. He even has the gall to pull off the towel which I had draped over my head in order to concentrate, and I spend ten costly minutes of rescue time bartering to get it back from him. Exasperated, I turn to Laila and whine, "Why'd you have to bring him over, I'm trying to work!" Just then, my laptop beeps at the arrival of a new message: a ransom note from the kidnappers.
I turn back and stare at the screen: "ARTEMESIA MOONE: YOU AND YOUR PARTNER WILL MEET AT MIDNIGHT TOMORROW ABOVE THE NEW STADIUM WHICH HAS JUST BEEN ERECTED IN A PLACE YOU ARE FAMILIAR WITH. DO NOT INFORM ANYONE ELSE WITH YOU, ANY POLICE, ANY OTHER SUPERS, OF THIS LOCATION. YOU WILL COME UNARMED WITH ONE MILLION DOLLARS CASH TO THE DROP SITE, APPROXIMATELY FIVE THOUSAND FEET ABOVE THE STADIUM, AND LEAVE IT ON THE PLATFORM. THERE, YOU WILL FIND YOUR FRIEND. DISOBEY, AND SHE WILL DIE. SINCERELY,
the MAROON MARAUDER."
I stare at the screen in disbelief. Mumbling, "This just keeps getting cornier. Could they be any more cliche?" I grab my jacket and hat and call to Electra, "We're going out. I should've gotten this message yesterday, but you know- dial-up internet. This means we've only got three hours to get to the drop site and save Syca from the least creative supervillain this side of the Mississippi..."
Back to the perspective of the villain. He sits in a tiny cabin, floating above a cheering crowd of avid spectators of some sport-or-other he cares nothing about. Pressing the record button on his camera at three minutes to twelve, he whispers, "Second test initiated."
Laila and I arrive at the football stadium at two minutes to twelve, hoping to surprise the Marauder with our unaccustomed earliness, and thus somehow foil his plans. Alas, when we arrive, there is only a projected hologram on a small platform hovering in the sky malevolently. I set down the sack of "money" with an angry slump, and rant, "Okay, wise guy, you said you were gonna give Syca back, now WHERE IS SHE???"
"All in good time," the 'gram replies pertly. "First, the money." It points with a maroon-gloved hand to a teleport chute on the left side of the platform. I reach to throw the sack in, but at the last second, leap in with it, praying the Marauder isn't quick enough to cancel the signal and leave me hanging somewhere in limbo. For a scrambled moment I can't think, then reappear in some sort of dark space which is very unhelpful in gauging my surroundings. Then I stub my toe on a large metal cabinet, and realize I am literally INSIDE the villain's massive safe. I feel my way over to the door, cursing and with a profound new respect for the blind, carefully pick the lock, and sneak outside. The hallway is carpeted plushly. I am soundless as I tip-toe around the corner of the living room and peer over the couch at a very flustered villain, his back to me, ranting at a computer screen. On it is a tiny holovid of Electra, responding, "I don't KNOW where she went, sir, but I can assure you she'll be back momentarily..." "Not good enough!" he fumes. "You are spoiling the second stage of my plan...not that you need to know that. What you need to know is that if she does not return right away, your friend will DIE!!!..." Oh, please, I think, spare me the melodrama.
Knowing that my sister can handle the trickiest of diplomacies, I turn to explore the rest of the small cabin. In another room, I find boxes and boxes of photographs, lying all over- just people of various ages, each paper-clipped to some diagrams of complicated-looking machinery. In another, I find what looks to be the assemblage of a machine, and on a nearby desk is another picture, with some notes...it is the girl scout, from the store! So, this guy is making a technology that brings a person's memories to life, hacking into the subconscious events network and using its projections as a sort of armada. Quite clever, for a small-time money-grubber. But why did he take Syca? I shuffle out of the room, pondering this, when I come upon a locked door at the end of the hall. Phasing through, I see a pulsing maze of lazers and electrodes all reaching up to one place: the head of a certain girl, tied to a metal chair.
"Amanda!" I cry, starting forward, and her eyes dart open. "It's me, Art.! We've come to get you out of here." She looks up blearily and whispers hoarsely, "It's too late for that now... You see, I thought it would be okay to open that present when you guys were gone. I didn't know what was inside, waiting for me..." She stares at me pleadingly with her crystal blue eyes. "It's in my head, you see," she smiles apologetically. "It's controlling my thoughts even now, and I can see- He knows you're here. This criminal- he's not so bad, yet. All he wants is money. But soon he'll want power and destruction, and do anything to get it. I can see him running down the hall... I think you set off a silent alarm somewhere." I can hear his footsteps, and turn back urgently to Amanda. "Concentrate, you can beat this thing, this probe or whatever it is, just remember who you are. You're the strongest of all of us! Just...know we believe in you, however cheesy that may sound." I put my hand on her shoulder, and at that moment a man breaks through the door, a strange-looking weapon in his hand, and fires- just as Syca projects a force-field from her mind, regaining control once again, and snaps the cords tied to her head with a single blink of her eye.
"Great," she laughs, even as we are tying up the Marauder and confiscating his plans for world domination with Electra. "I feel like a Dalek. It took human contact for me to regain my powers." "Nah," I reply, "Just luuuurve. Although, I'm sure never going to underestimate a cliche enemy again, or overestimate my power in dealing with him! Cliches are there for a reason, I suppose." We all return back to base, to watch some Doctor Who and tease the guy I forgot Laila had over, who we abandoned for over five hours. He is intently curious about what we were doing, but Laila pats him on the head and replies: "Oh, just nerd stuff. You wouldn't understand." And he leaves it at that and goes to raid my fridge.
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