Archive for the ‘Rudi Dornemann’ Category
Aerodrome
Friday, November 9th, 2007
For a hangar tech– grade III, life on the aerodrome was hard work, long hours and thin air. His first few weeks, Karl Havens had nosebleeds at least twice a day. He hauled zeppelin tethers, ran up and down the stairs all day fetching parts for the ornithopter mechanics. He got used to the air. As new guy he had to go up top every four months with a shovel and magnet-soled boots, and scrape the roof clear before the layers of guano became too much of a health hazard.
He tried not to think the altitude as he played out his safety tether; the view was stunning, but best appreciated from lower floors. He tried to stay very still when the ramphorynchus would slap at him with their wings. Everyone always called them “leathery,” but no one ever mentioned that it was leather nearly as soft as what Karl imagined fine ladies’ gloves were made of. It wasn’t so much painful as disconcerting, and it certainly wasn’t as bad as the hazing he’d gotten from the grade I and grade II techs.
So he scraped, shuffled his magnetic feet, scraped, and kept his eyes away from the distracting distance. What distracted him one day, though, was something closer and more unexpected — a human skull, inlaid with gold, among the rocks and fishbones in a rampho nest.
Must have come from one of the funeral platforms of the coastal nations they’d passed over a few weeks before. Karl imagined one of the beasts had brought it up for their hatchlings because it flashed and glittered like a fish. And a trio of those young squealed in that particular nest, all teeth and elbows like they are at that age. As he made his way around and around he tried to think of a way to grab the skull without disrupting the little demons. He had just resolved that he’d beat the flat of the shovel against the metal of the roof, in hopes that they’d fly off, or scuttle clear, if they weren’t flying age yet — he’d just made up his mind, when the decision was made moot: a zeppelin, way off any of the approved approaches, was coming in, low over the roof, the gondola with the panicked pilot headed right for him…
(to be continued)
Still Life with Apocalypse
Wednesday, October 17th, 2007
Among the ruins of a city unmade by years: a lean-to, a fire, a pair of ragged figures watching open cans bubble on the cracked stones ringing the fire. Corn, beans, peas: vegetables harvested three generations or more ago.
“Succotash,” said the older woman.
“Is it?” said her companion. “I didn’t know that had peas in it.”
“Close enough,” said the first.
Among the shadows, a pair of even more ragged figures watching the fire-watchers.
“Succulent,” said the zombie with one arm.
“Are they?” said the zombie with half a face. “I didn’t know there were any left who weren’t all tough and gristly.”
“Close enough,” said the first.
Among the dimensions, a pair of many-tentacled entities watching the watchers.
“Supplicants,” said the one oozing green etheric radiation.
“Are they?” said the one oozing blue. “I didn’t know there were any left who remembered us, let alone think of us as something to worship.”
“Close enough,” said the first.
The older woman reached for the tin of beans, but didn’t wrap enough of her sleeve over her palm, and dropped the can with a yelp, knocking all the vegetables into the fire.
The one-armed zombie startled back at the hiss and steam cloud that arose, and jostled a pane of glass free from its dry-rot fragile frame. At the crash, the humans looked up from trying to spoon their supper out of the ashes, ran up the steps of the municipal library and slammed the huge doors with a boom.
The green-oozing entity felt a pang of melancholy at the echoing of the sound — the exact note of the corpse-drums that had once been beaten in accompaniment to unspeakable rites in the entity’s honor. Its blue-oozing companion vibrated sympathetic sorrow. The humans found themselves remembering unruined days, but that was nothing unusual; that was how they spent most evenings. The zombies, however, found themselves longing for the taste, not of blood or brains, but of mixed vegetables, still metallic from the tin. This desire, among the ruins of memory, was nothing like fulfillment but, for this one evening, it was close enough.