Challenge #00438 - A064: That’s a Bad Motto
Hey, you know my motto - live fast, die young, and leave a corpse they gotta wear hazmat suits when they cremate. – RecklessPrudence
Triibo boggled at the human salvage operator. “You live by this creed?”
“Ev'ry damn day,” smiled the Human.
“Now I know why they call you Teymour the Really Mad.”
“You’d be surprised how often I end up hearing that,” said Teymour.
“No I wouldn’t.”
“That too…”
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Challenge #00425 - A050: Metal’s Mettle
People die by the soldier’s steel. People live by the blacksmith’s iron. – RecklessPrudence
They say that magic and iron don’t mix.
What do they know?
Common magic does not fare well against iron and steel because both are a different kind of magic. It is a magic of muscle and might and hot fires. Making useful things out of that which was once just rust.
And it is why, should you travel to the village of Uskunriod'thet[1] you will find the Smithy That Builds Itself.
There are numerous things there that eat coal and vent steam. Seemingly alive, but not. Useful, to those who can afford to feed them. And it is also there that you will find Black Jenny.
She, too, seems alive. She is more alive than most of the things at the Smithy That Builds Itself. She, too, eats coal and breathes steam. And she also walks and talks and calls the blacksmith ‘Father’. She will charge you a penny an hour to stare at her, and calmly go about her business as people follow her around like bemused ducklings.
She knows that she’s as unique as her father’s shop. And she also knows she is not for sale.
There had been some debate - years ago, now - when a wealthy foreigner attempted to buy her. The local witch was called to sort it out, and spent a healthy week or three demanding to know how Baker the Smith had managed to 'magic iron’. Then the witch declared that Black Jenny was not now and never would be for sale, because it is Wrong to own people.
Thereafter, she was Black Jenny Baker to the village of Uskunriod'thet. Another piece of local scenery like the wandering oaks.
Black Jenny usually helps in the smithy, now that her father is growing old. Following his instructions to build him a new, metal suit. To replace the flesh one that is growing frail and weary.
So that she, his daughter, will never be without him.
[1] Named in the fine tradition of pointing and shouting at the locals and then writing the name down in a book. It translates out as, “it’s just a bunch of trees, you fool.”
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Even a God/dess needs sustenance.
A (literal, not figurative) God/dess, fallen on hard times, forced to work 9-to-5 to make a living, in the absence of offerings et cetera. And how the lowly mortals around them feel about it.
Make it as light-hearted or dark, as uplifting or Schadenfreudic(?) as you please. – RecklessPrudence
(#00424 - A049)
[AN: Considering that 99.99999% of Gods are arseholes…]
Grace tried to hurry past the street market. Goddamn hippies were bad enough, but now there were goddamn foreign hippies selling all kinds of weird foreign muck. All in their hemp shirts and in a haze of whacky ‘baccy and crystals and assorted bullshit.
They were everywhere.
And half of them spoke some damn foreign lingo.
All she wanted was to get some beers for the boys at the 7-11. Not trip over damn foreign hippies and their weirdo bullshit every day. And some even tried to talk her into sampling some.
Honestly. You go out once a Sunday to spread the Good Word of the Lord, and everyone takes that as licence to be an asshole for the rest of the week.
There was another one in the 7-11. Buying up armloads of cheap munchies and chatting with the damned foreigner staff.
Grace got her cases of beer and, juggling them in either arm and wrestling her trolley behind her, made her way up to the counter where the hippie was counting out coins.
He was a nickel short.
Grace glared at him. At his weatherbeaten sandals, his worn-out jeans and threadbare shirt. At the calloused hands and the T-square tucked into his worn, rope belt. At the long hair and scraggly beard. At the dark brown skin and too-big nose.
She half expected him to have a damned-foreigner accent so thick you could build out of it. But instead, he spoke perfect English. “I’m very sorry about this. Would you have a nickel to spare? I guarantee it’s for a good cause.”
“Get a job, hippie,” she growled. One keg on the counter. “I GOT TWO OF THESE, SANCHEZ! TWOOOOOOOO!” She put the other one in the trolley. “RING ME UP FOR TWWWOOOOOOOO!”
“I am serving this customer, ma'am. Please to be patient?”
Grace puffed. “It’s hot. I’m in a hurry. The boys need their beers. Can’t you just bend your pissant rules once and ring me up. I ain’t gonna come back if you make me wait hours for two cases of beer.”
“Promises, promises,” muttered Sanchez. They were all called Sanchez or Diego or Juan. Whatever happened to good, honest, Christian names like Matthew or John?
The hippie searched his pockets. “I could have sworn I had that nickel…”
“What’s the matter, hippie? Your drum circle got the munchies?” Grace growled.
“No. I’m doing a bun run for the shelter down the street. And FYI? I have a job. I’m a carpenter. Just like one of my Dads.”
“Fuck. A fucking gay hippie.”
“Adopted, thank you. I just happen to have a good relationship with the man who fathered me and the man who raised me.” More digging around in his pockets. “Not one coin for Christian charity?”
Grace slapped the notes on the counter and shoved the other case into her trolley. “I got better things to do with my time than wait around for some bum to find a coin.”
*
Max watched her go. “Good riddance to bad rubbish, eh?”
“There’s that nickel,” Jesus pulled it out of thin air. He shook his head. “How did I go so wrong?”
Max shrugged. “You didn’t write it all down, straight away, I reckon. You want someone to know exactly what you said? You gotta be specific. You gotta get it writ down. That’s why everyone remembers the Leviticus and nobody remembers the Love Your Neighbour.” He rang up the bread rolls and tuna. “You can really feed everyone with this lot?”
“I’ve done more with less,” Jesus smiled. He looked out the shop windows in the direction the woman had gone. “All this time in what they call my Father’s country, and not one of them recognises me…”
Max bagged the purchases before ringing up the beers for the books. “Keep up the hope, eh? I recognised you.”
“May one become many,” Jesus joked. “Better days to come.”
“See ya around. And say 'hi’ to Gautama for me.”
Max stuffed the angry woman’s change into the tip jar. He kept wondering what it was like to not see the divine figures one worshipped. What it could possibly be like to miss seeing all the angels in their midst.
Some folks were just born blind, he guessed.
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Romantic vs Classicist*
A seemingly eternal argument between some friends and I.
*As defined by a philosophy student who was party to some of them - he later admitted he got the definitions from ‘Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance’.
“Form follows Function. A well-built machine, designed to last decades if not longer, has a quiet craftsmanship, an economical beauty, which no amount of pointless frippery or gilding - or, indeed, curved plastic - can ever match.”
“But much art has no function, as you would define it. Would you say that the Mona Lisa, or the Sistine Chapel are not beautiful?”
“They’re in a different category altogether, we’re talking about things that have an intrinsic function, don’t change the subject. And yet - find me one wasted brushstroke, on either of those. Gaudiness is tacky for a reason, and it’s one that should be applied more generally.”
“You speak of economical beauty, but I remember you raving over that machine that, in your words: 'had care lavished over every detail, no matter how minor.’ How does that match any definition of economical?”
…And on and on. It’s been going for years, seriously. (I may have embroidered the dialogue a little, but the points are the same) – RecklessPrudence(?) [AN: Forgot to check. Sorry]
(#00423 - A048)
“Care and attention to detail are essential for form and function to be compatible. You can have a machine that does the job and looks ugly. You can have a machine that does the same job and looks like a poet made it.”
“Poets don’t build things. They write poetry. Tha-that’s why they’re called poets, dummins.”
“That’s not the point and you know it.”
“All I know is I’m g-gonna be in trouble with Paige.”
“Rabbit, for the third time, that refrigerator was not 'giving you the eye’. It doesn’t have eyes.”
“It ain’t my fault I’m too be-beautiful for this world.”
The Spine sighed and wondered, not for the first time, why Pappy had built them all with human-shaped bodies. With all the inherent human wants and desires somehow inveigled into their robotic makeup. “Rabbit…” he shook his head. “Why do we have to have this conversation every time we enter a white goods store?”
“Y-y-y-y-you stay away from me, ya bunch'a hussies,” Rabbit edged away from a display of blenders.
“They’re not even turned on, Rabbit.”
“With us around? Are you ki-k-k-kidding?”
This was why he always asked Mr Walter if he was certain he wanted robotic help with the heavy lifting.
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Challenge #00405 - A040: The Most Important Lessons
Fairytales don’t tell children that dragons exist. Children already know this instinctively. Fairytales tell children that dragons can be killed. - G K Chesterton, with some posthumous turning of phrase by others. –RecklessPrudence
Mom found her literally up to her neck in the archives. Books held her place in other books. Notes hung out of yet more books like exhausted, multiple tongues.
“It’s getting late,” she said.
Danny looked up. Then around herself. “Uhm. Heh. No time to pack this lot up, is there?”
“The librarians have given special dispensation to maintain the -ah- nest. You’re doing important work, here. Everyone can see that.”
“Some don’t.” Danny stretched and flexed her way out of her study next. “Can you believe old men are throwing things at me for inventing Garlic body spray? They keep telling me I’m a traitor to the cause.”
“Funny. I thought the cause was to eliminate the risk from the haze.”
“So did I,” Danny sighed. “Have any of the surgeons called?”
Mom looked very sad to give the same answer Danny had been hearing for months. “No. Sorry.”
“Not your fault.” She sighed. “The answers are all here. I just gotta keep straining the truth out of the stories.”
One by one, no matter what their physical guise, Danny would make certain that her dragons would die.
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Ever met someone you feel like this about?
“The first time I saw them, I don’t know, I just wanted to kick their arse. I wanted to build a machine to kick their arse. I wanted to found an empire to house the machine to kick their arse!” – RecklessPrudence
(#00404 - A039)
Rael briefly considered the effort that all that would take. “So… you think you may be in love with Hwell Barrow?”
She boggled at him. “Ye think I swallowed all o’ that pseudo romantic crap aboot attraction through repulsion? I know what real love is, thanks.”
He breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. I was worried I may have to escort you to a therapist.”
“Na, I’ll stay out o’ th’ red light district, all the same.”
He merely rolled his eyes about ancient Terran sex taboos. It was the 25th century - by her calendar - not the twentieth. “So you merely funnel all that aggression into elaborate pranks?”
“Eh… more like try tae discourage him from steppin’ up his game.”
Rael tried not to flounder, now that he’d suddenly discovered the deep end of the conversation. “Stepping… up?”
“The man’s a born shagger. I’m no’ goin’ tae be another notch on ‘is belt.”
This session was going to take more time than he had planned.
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Challenge #00403 - A038: Come Fly With Me
“If you’re falling off a cliff you may as well try to fly, you’ve got nothing to lose.” - John Sheridan (Babylon 5) c/- RecklessPrudence
Douglas Adams once said that flying is the art of throwing oneself at the ground and missing. J. M. Barrie thought that flight required pixie dust and happy thoughts.
The truth is far more complicated. Especially when traveling at terminal velocity towards impending doom.
“Can’t you shadow-jump us somewhere?” said Rael over their comms. Trying to talk directly over the rushing air was futile.
“Three words: conservation of momentum. We’d be shadow-jumpin’ until next week.”
“What about your force-twiddling?”
“I cannae break th’ laws o’ physics! I can only bend them a wee time. An I already got too much interest as it is.”
“So what else have you got?”
“Life raft.” He could see that she was digging into her sub-dimensional ‘pockets’, coming out with random debris that either floated away from them or winked out of existence. “Some bloody where.”
“A life raft? We’re in the air!”
She pulled out a small blimp with wings, strapped the both of them in, and flipped a switch.
“It’s a life raft from an air ship,” she said.
“Why are there trilobites all over it?” Rael asked. Anything to distract him from the alarming whine of the little engine’s furiously flapping wings.
“Long story.”
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Challenge #00402 - A037: First Resort of Fools
Ahh, the eternal paradox: A quick wit is best accompanied by quick reflexes, but a dull wit is best complemented by a sharp blade. – RecklessPrudence
“Ey up. Here’s trouble.”
Rael followed her line of sight. There were two of them. A big, burly lump of a biped who, because he wore grey clothes meant to wear hard, had to be the enforcement. Accompanying the cogniscent mountain was a smaller, lither being who, despite being reptilian, could only be described as “weaselly”.
If the little one could not convince them to part with their money, the big one would find a way to take it from them.
“So do you have a way to get out of this that won’t get us in trouble with the local law enforcement?” That last qualifier, knowing Shayde as he did, was vitally essential.
“Yeah. One.”
“Ah?”
“Convince th’ mook that the brains is bad for him wi'out wakin’ the brains up to it.”
“And that’s a good plan?”
“Na, but it’s the best one I got.”
*
It was later. A messy murder had happened and he had to linger with Shayde to give witness statements.
The ‘Mook’, as Shayde called him, turned out to be an illegal Uplift, tailored to attack on command. How Shayde managed to trick his owner into saying that command when his big, muscly pet was facing him, Rael would never know.
And he’d witnessed it all.
His name was Tiny, and he was rocking in place and asking his 'Boss’ to wake up.
Things like that should never happen to a marsupial.
Cogniscent Rights had him in their custody, now. They would find him a better home. Train him out of attacking. Socialise him.
“Puir little fella,” Shayde lamented.
“No, you are not allowed to take him home,” Rael pre-empted.
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Challenge #00401 - A036: Assistant’s Assistance
Once nonhuman Terran species were uplifted into greater levels of sentience, the concept of ‘service animal’ changed a great deal. (I wanna see how that concept would apply to sentient nonhuman Terran species.. Like, a blind sentient cat with a seeing-eye ferret or something - you get the gist)
Augments were legal. Uplifts were not. Especially not Uplifts like the unfortunate populations teeming about Nufurria.
They existed, and because they existed, the Galactic Alliance had to help them. No cogniscent species, however they came to being, deserved to have their basic rights denied. Which, in a long list of basic rights, included the right to assistance for a disability.
Mau had been deliberately blinded so she could not visually identify any of her former master’s clients. The previous law of Nufurria, before the Galactic Alliance came to the rescue, meant that many administrative assistants were not only blind, but confined to precisely-arranged suites and offices. Withheld from access to the simplest forms of freedom, like the ability to go out and do things for oneself.
Over, now.
But that didn’t stop Mau from flexing her paws nervously against her own knees. Nor wincing as her claws bit into her flesh. Her ears flicked this way and that. Trying to make sense out of an unfamiliar environment.
“Miss… Mau. Is that your only name?”
“It’s the only one I know. You’d have to check my former master’s printed files.”
“Would you like your sight restored, Miss Mau?”
“I…” she fumbled. She’d been trained to give pleasant, rote answers and had to fight to keep the phrases down. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I was told since I was blinded that being blind was a good thing. It made me… more valuable.”
“Well, you can always make up your mind at a later date,” said the counsellor. “In the meantime, there are options for assistance, both temporary and permanent.”
“I would prefer… the less expensive options?” Her claws flexed against her flesh again. Her species-specific desire to dig her claws into something for comfort was working against her. So was the thing, cheap fabric that her rescue squad had re-dressed her in. When and if she had an independent life of her own, she would wear thick, tough cloths below her waist. Denim. Corduroy. Fleece. Thick and able to deflect her own claws from injuring her.
“Given your grip problems, I’d forgo the stick,” said the counsellor. “And a regular animal , even with training, would slip a leash.”
“I was told you could give me better hands?”
“Yes, but they take time. Your freedom of independent action is vital for emotional recovery. The good news is that we have a B'Nari facility that can whip up an Augmented service animal for you in less than a week. Training would only take a week more. Two weeks at the utmost.”
“And hands would take…?”
“The better part of a standard year. The retrogenetic therapy and surgical procedures, combined, will mean months of painful recovery and physiotherapy.”
“I want to hold things and not drop them,” said Mau.
“Very well. I’ll add that to your file.”
*
The technicians insisted she be present for the uncorking. Someone to her left described her new friend while someone to her right guided her paws so she could 'see’.
So the Augment could smell her.
Soft, sniffing nose. Wet, warm, prickly fur. Sloping snout. Flexible ears.
“Hello,” she said. “My name is Mau.”
The snuffling and sniffing became ernk ernk noises. “I has name?” said a childlike voice.
Mau was instantly lost. She was made to help, but not be creative. She let go of her new friend before her anxious talons came out and hurt the poor baby.
Minutes old. Born with a functional vocabulary and elementary knowledge of the world. But not a name.
“Go ahead,” coaxed her helper. “Let her have a name.”
Mau thought hard. Of all her master’s clients, there was one woman who was kind to her. Who helped her whenever she dropped things. Who spent spare moments in the waiting room describing colours in terms of textures, smells, tastes and sounds. There was no other name for a creature who would help her.
“Your name is Mimi.”
Mau learned that Mimi owed a greater part of her heritage to pigs, since dogs and cats rarely mixed well once one had had a bad experience with the other. Mimi learned that Mau couldn’t see, and how to guide her through various obstacle courses. Mau learned to be careful of Mimi’s hind feet - still mostly trotters. Mimi learned to be careful of Mau’s claws.
*
Through the crowd. Her hand on Mimi’s fuzzy shoulder. The noise of perpetual babble slightly muffled by the knitted hat that replaced the fur she had been born without.
“It’s a big day,” Mimi chattered on. “Nobody else knows, but we know. It’s gene-counsellor day, today.”
“Yes, it is,” said Mau. She was well used to Mimi repeating information Mau had given her. It made the silences and the noise alike less lonely. “Dear Mimi… would you stay with me if I got my eyes back?”
“Yeahsure!” Mimi wiggled with glee. Her tail must be wagging again. “We could see things together and do puzzles and I have so many things I want to share!”
“Then I think I shall see about getting new eyes, too,” she decided.
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Challenge #00387 - A022: The Biggest Game of Fetch
Buddy the golden retriever/lab mix, and Igor, his thinking-brain Pug. Two Uplifted dogs, trekking together across the universe.
Their winnings from the Great Nufurria Lawsuit had paid for the custom space suits that allowed them to sniff out the universe. Which was very important, because Buddy tended to lead with his nose.
“Play time? Play time?” Buddy panted.
“Almost, my friend,” Igor said, sounding for all the worlds like Peter Lorre. “You see the ship? We’re going inside that ship to look for all of these smells.” He opened the sealed box that contained all of the can’t-lose materials.
Buddy sniffed eagerly at each one. His tail, already generating its own air currents, went into overdrive. “I seek,” said Buddy. “I find.”
“Good boy,” cheered Igor the Pug. He was more ‘human’ and his companion more 'dog’, but they had formed a bond in the Pound that neither wanted to break. Igor sometimes worried that he may be exploiting Buddy, who was simple-minded, even for a Labrador. Their counsellor/care-worker insisted they made a good pack.
And it was always surreal, having to parent someone who was chronologically older than oneself.
It was, as counsellor T'rex explained, perfect symbiosis. Igor had much to give to Buddy, and Buddy had much to give back.
And this was the acid test.
“We are also looking for anything new and different,” added Igor. “I’ll be smelling everything you smell. So we know what is good and what we can leave.”
“Good dog!” Buddy barked. “Play time! Play time!”
Igor never knew what reached Buddy, but he could tell that his friend was eager to get going.
They docked with the old relic, which was their only claim in the massive sargasso of abandoned wrecks known as Doldrum Nine. It never paid to bet that this occupation was the only one to support their independent, or co-dependant, lives.
There were many other things they could try, yet. This was just the one that happened to suit Igor the best. He didn’t like acting all… servile… whenever a human paid him positive attention.
Or, as he found out, anyone who fit sufficiently into the human silhouette.
Igor helped Buddy suit up, a problem doubled by Buddy’s forever-wagging tail. It could not be allowed to stick out of the suit, though, since any vent in a space suit was a very bad thing. He checked and double-checked the seals, the operational functions, the air supply and Buddy’s understanding of the simplified interface.
“Yellow good,” Buddy barked. “Red bad. Red house, go home!”[1]
“Good dog,” cooed Igor, handing Buddy a treat. The suit Buddy wore had also been rigged to dispense treats when Igor pressed the right button on his own chest-plate.
Helmets sealed, Igor helped Buddy through the airlock. Reduced atmosphere. Someone had already siphoned off most of the air in here.
Buddy already sniffed like a maniac, crouching and trying to go on all fours that his body did not possess.
Readouts spilled across Igor’s HUD, showing the relative worth of everything Buddy smelled/scanned with his snout-reader. Everything was working.
Then Buddy sprang away, barking, “Fetch! Fetch!” as he went.
The game was afoot.
*
Buddy wriggled in his suit-recharger. “More play? More play?”
“Play done, Buddy. Good job.” Another treat. Igor would have to get the lo-cal, high-taste ones, next jaunt. Otherwise, Buddy would need a stretchier space suit. “I filled our hold and now we fetch it back to the station.”
“Good dog,” Buddy kissed Igor’s face as Igor released him from the suit. Getting out was far easier than getting in. “Igor good dog!”
Igor was far more comfortable hugging his friend. “We’re both good dogs,” he said. “Time to go back. Time for calm.”
[1] Because dogs can’t see the colour green.
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