Archive for the ‘Series’ Category
Connected / Chapter 6: An Army of Me
Thursday, August 12th, 2010
AUTHOR’S NOTE: The following is the sixth chapter of an ongoing flash serial, “Connected.” Search for the tag “Connected” to find other chapters. Subscribe to the Daily Cabal RSS feed for a new chapter every week or two.
Morello holds his son’s hand. Two months Caul was in the coma now, since he was disconnected from his tribe. A month since AI counselors talked Morello out of retribution. He feels his wife’s grief through the wires like a toothache. Feels a hundred sympathetic thoughts. His tribe. Caul’s.
He leaves his meatsack holding Caul’s hand. His mind leaves one tribe for another. Morello to Detective Morello. The hum of police work thrums in his bones.
Abruptly: all hands on deck. A steelsack depot hacked. Rogue minds piloting sleek silver bodies.
Morello’s ‘sack is close. He slams back into his flesh, starts running. He sees steelsacks tumbling past. Hundreds clogging the street. Too many to stop.
He pulls up security drone vid feeds. Everywhere. They’re coming from everywhere. Converging on a residential block.
And then the army stops. Its first wave collapses. And he has seen these lifeless bodies before. These mindless bodies. Disconnected. All around the buildings they pile up. Wave after wave of bodies. A demarcation zone of disconnection.
A steel body waits there for him. Morello readies his firearm. The steelsack holds out an arm.
“We have found them,” it says. A familiar voice. He tries to place it. “They took your son. But we cannot get closer. They exist in the gaps of our knowledge, where we cannot go. We can only point the way, but you must walk the path.”
“Who?” he asks. “Who are you?”
“You.”
Morello doesn’t understand. But then the steelsack sweeps aside his firewalls and he sees. A new tribe. His own. Every steelsack steered by a copy of himself.
“The AI. The counselors. They copied you.”
Illegal digital copies of himself. Sackless. All working for the retribution he isn’t. Unable to act in meatspace unless connected. And here they lie. Disconnected. Over and over. Like Caul. Over and over.
He thinks of violence and a thousand carefully programmed reprimands spring into his mind. This is giving in. This is dangerous. Revenge is not the basis of a sound society.
He looks at his hand. It remembers the feel of Caul’s palm. Skin-to-skin. His pistol is in it now. Society disapproves. But he does not care about society now. He cares about his own. His tribe. Caul’s tibe. So Morello climbs the wall. And Morello opens fire.
The School of Seven Bells: Prelude
Monday, July 26th, 2010
“I don’t think the octopus likes you very much,” I said to Terrence.
“Of course it does,” he said.
Terrence was always embroiled in some crazy adventure. He was smart enough and rich enough to make his impossible schemes happen but he certainly didn’t have time for a pet.
The octopus sat in a massive tank in the living room of Terrence’s Hampton’s estate. Flags, a Ouija board, waterproof maps, and chess pieces littered the gravel and coral. Next to the tank was Terrence’s big work table, which today was full odd bells, the largest one two foot high and wrought from iron.
“Isn’t that the Octopus that guessed the outcome of every world come match,” I asked.
“Yeah,” Terrence said. What a waste of money. “It’s been wrong on every other thing I’ve asked of it.”
“You could try being nicer to it.”
“Forget about the octopus, Doug,” he said. “I’m leading an expedition to find the School of Seven Bells. Once I pin down the last of these troubling locations, I want you to come with me.”
The School of Seven Bells, a mythical band of mystic pickpockets, was folklore. Besides being the name of one of our favorite local bands, they did not exist.
“Stop being such a sulking grump,” Terrence said.
He rang the iron bell. The sound was hollow and disappointing. After a second, shadows of butterflies danced across the table. Nothing cast them. The octopus jetted to the corner of the tank nearest us and looked as interested as an octopus could.
“Neat trick, huh,” Terrence said. “All the bells have neat tricks. But I finally figured out the Seven Bells aren’t bells at all. Not at least those kind of bells. They are the seven steps to take to find the Prince of Peace.”
I hated when he went off on supernatural mumbo jumbo. I much preferred his expeditions for shipwrecks and buried treasure.
As we spoke the octopus was spelling out “Die Terrence” on the Ouija board.
“Seriously, Terrence,” I said. “I don’t think the octopus likes you.”
Just then Terrence’s butler wheeled a library cart full of old tomes into the room distracting him from any reply.
The octopus began arranging the items in its tank. It marked locations on the map with pawns and spelled out names on the board. It was telling us the School of Seven Bells was in Argentina. It was marking dozens of specific locations. Of what I couldn’t be sure.
But I was right about one thing. The octopus didn’t like having Terrence around after all. Argentina was halfway around the world and we were going to be gone a long time.
-TO BE CONTINUED-