68 - Rescue

Darcy was dreaming.  He was dry and warm enough to sleep deeply and in the fold of damaged crop cover he sighed and curled tighter.  It was a good dream.  “You’re a dragon,” he said to the massive creature lying coiled all around him.  It was grey and blue and its eyes glowed blue. “One of those dragon things that kept dropping stuff on the Immoderate.”

“I suppose you could say I am.” Its three-sided mouth gaped in a yawn and rain hissed on its scales.  The scales were marvelous, edged in blue-white fire and fading from a pale pale blue to a dark steel colour and they could swivel around their bases and did, fluttering gently as if caught on a breezy day.

“Its a good think that fire isn’t real or I’d be cooked inside here.” He turned in his cocoon.

“I wouldn’t do that.  The First dragon would have my hide and Mom would load me full of refresher data on etiquette on dealing with humans.”

“You sound a little like Literate Redcap.”

“No need to be insulting. It is a limited machine that does not understand fuzzy logic by humans. I, on the other hand, understand nuance.” It dropped its head and stared at him. “Mostly because of those etiquette programs and a lot of practice. I don’t understand this human idea of ‘liking’.  I can say ‘I like you and I didn’t like that Immoderate threatening you. But what does that even mean?”

“You get on with some people, I guess,” Darcy said. “They don’t irritate or hurt you, they make you feel good to be with.  Comfortable.  Alike maybe?”

The dragon pondered that. “It fits with the parameters of the program. Comfort. More than ‘not damaged’. Redcap only understands ‘not damaged’.”

“Look... who are you? Why are you in my dreams?”

The dragon spread its wings with a snap but instead of flapping them, its scales brightened and began to burn with a roar. “Because of what you dream.”

“Darcy! Darce!” The call came from an enormous distance.

“Darcy!” His eyes popped open to find dim, rainy daylight dribbling into his shelter around the edges.  That was someone calling for him.

He managed to squeeze out of the shelter without knocking over his canteen, looked around.  Looming out of the rain over the defunct horse, was one of the field machines, one of its guns unmounted to allow for a pick-up waldo.  It clamped onto the horse and hauled it up against its underbelly, while its driver stood looking around.

“Hey! Hey! I’m here.” He waved and realized that all he was wearing was his filter mask and his boots, blushed all the way up and down his body before wiggling back into his shelter to pull his damp clothing on over his damp body.  The rain was still falling though it was beginning to slack off. He grabbed his multi-tool and his canteen and made it out just in time to look up at the big plough they called ‘The General’. Fitz was driving it and leaned over to shout down.

“Darcy! Fakkin’ ‘ay’.  Come-up. Fakkin’ Redcap woul’n’t let us come getcha at night. It said t’was ‘gainst regulations’.”

Darce slung the multi-tool on his back, caught the outside handles on the leg and was lifted up to the secondary seat behind and to one side of his friend.  “D’int Fakkin’ Redcap load itsel’ inta the General?”

“Nah,” Fitz swiveled the body around on its gimbals and set the machine to follow the road, spun his chair around to clap Darcy on the shoulder.  “Said ‘t’ dang machine were too stupid tah hold enough o’ him.  Sent me out.  We’ll hafta report at Inquiry Office every time, rather n’ have teh honourable Literate sniffin’ o’er our shoulders.”

“An shovin’ its nose up our arseholes.” His stomach growled and Fitz laughed.

“Yup. ‘n I brought hot breakfast, figurin’ y’ missed supper. Fry bread ‘n eggs.” He passed him the box kit.

The box warmed his lap and as Darcy popped the seals, he glanced back and could have sworn that he saw a dragon in the sky but couldn’t be sure because of the rain.

67 - The Hut on Chicken Feet. Again.

In code, in the middle of the burned, drowned and devastated area of the owner’s country, bees had been diligently working, rebuilding, extrapolating, stitching in pieces stolen from Prime’s land and recycle bins, snatched out of reformatting programs jaws.  It was like rain where the code burned, and sunlight sparkling on the pools of water, that were suddenly full of life, walking fish floundered over the muskeg and splashed into the water to chew up the dead and toxic loops, the parasitic viruses and Trojan worms and infective mosquitoes. Frogs dug themselves free of the ashes and washed themselves green in water that didn’t burn them.

And slowly, shakily, the bones of programs shook themselves out of the muck, to mark territory, to fence in what was still radioactive.  The paths steamed themselves clear of mud or were swept clean by the Hive in its millions.

In the ruined hut, finally there was enough structure for it to rise up, the chicken foot holding it up off the ground trembling but whole.  It was trembling. The whole structure shook itself like a chicken after a dust bath, code lice and dirt flying everywhere.  It creaked and groaned as the Hive settled on it once more, to continue healing it.

The door swung open, garbage tumbling down, as though vomited by the hut.  Inside the walls grew back as though they were living trees, full of leaf-cutter bees that brought leaves of code instead of clipping them away.  Rose petals, strands of cedar, the pale rowan wood and the flash of the red berries.  White hawthorn, hard as iron, wound around the lintels of the door and over the roof, flowers the colour of bone and thorns as long as fingers.

It vomited ash a second time but this time a glitter of metal, embers, a hearth grating bounced out. When the bees carried it back up inside it was gilded as if it had never been rusted, never been broken, a source fire cradled in it.  It was carefully placed back into a copper fire bowl, where it burned blue and gold.

On the table a golden box stood, with iron hinges that were still rusted shut, but it clearly held an enormous diamond. Inside the jewel lay a beating heart, pulsing softly, steadily. The Hive, partly clustered on the box, partly working on the hut, buzzed in time to that heartbeat.

66 - Half Holiday

The crowd around the grand presentation platform was heavy enough that the Immoderates, the thin black line of uniforms between the owner and his workers, had to set up the force fences to push people back to a safe distance.

There were a few Illiterates all around the back, some standing on planters and concrete fences, but the bulk of the audience were professionals, Techs 2 and 3.  A bank of one-way glass float carriages off to one side vied for vertical space so the 1^st class could see without being seen.  Top hats and cravats were everywhere, bowler hats and open collars as well, all filter equipment hanging loose around their necks.  It was a nice, sunny, low toxic day for Prime’s speech.  The second and third class women wore their Library best, with wide hats heavily embellished with fruit or flowers or dead birds or feathers. Misty veils hung from the brims wafting gently in the breeze as their Keepers, in solid blue or grey, leaned in to listen to what they had to say, to repeat to their husbands, sons, or brothers.  Little girls, too young to need a Keeper, wore their ruffled poke bonnets with heavier children’s veils and clung to their parent’s hands. Little boys in miniatures of their father’s garb but with their filter cravats up over their faces, copied their Papas’ posture, or slouched along, hands in their pockets, sulking. Cats lounged on their owner’s shoulders like shawls, fancy little dogs trotted and yipped on neo-silk leashes, an Illiterate child with scoop and vacuum, ready to swoop in and clean up should one hunch its back and threaten people’s shoes and slippers.

Holograms of the planet rotated slowly over the corners of the square, Xanadu’s green spot prominent.  Music wafted from the hovering drones, from the musicians in the Great Library.  Food vendors wandered the crowds with hover tables or robotic legged presentation slabs, depending on how high status they were, all paid for by Prime or his Barons.  Red beer or true coffee were also offered up, and Stonehouse whiskey for second class men.  Purple champagne offered to the ladies, lemonade for the children.

The lowest platform of the pyramid was carpeted in a bright Earth green while the second was blue.  The third was copper, the fourth silver.  The gigantic open book behind Prime’s throne was solid gold as were his crown and robes, though a different shade of gold so that he was not lost in the book, but rather it appeared that he were the source of it.  Tall holograms, of Perrin’s face hovered on either side, above and behind the Barons of Literature, resplendent in their purple tophats and metallic tailcoats.  No one would miss a single nuance of what Prime said, once he began speaking.

The canopy above and the drape behind was a space scene, with the ice fantasy castle on the moon, prominently displayed, right over the Throne. On the edges of the square, oaks and pines blocked what little particulate made it this far inland, with overhead screens dealing with anything falling from the upper atmosphere.

The crowd noise washed back and forth like an ocean surf that they had never heard unless they were the rare ones who could travel off planet, though that was truly only the Barons and their families.  The music cut off and a fanfare sounded from the drones.  Children cried here and there. Everyone stood still, hands on their hearts, for the anthem, stirring, brazen, full of rising thunder of drums.  Silence.

Prime waited almost too long before his indrawn breath drew everyone’s rapt attention.  “My beloved children,” he began.

“Thank you for this glorious send-off, to receive our Illustrious guest from off-planet.  His Excellency Rashaduzzaman Zarduman, the Leader of the largest transportation company in Corporate Space, shall be arriving tomorrow and I will bring your gracious welcome to our very good friend.”

“Since this is such a significant occasion, I declare a half-holiday.” He paused to let the cheering die down. The Immoderate running the boards flashed the ‘applause’ prompt to get a little more enthusiasm from the crowd, for the recordings.

“The Fantasical and Most Wonderful Carnival grounds shall, today, be opened to ALL classes.”  The cheer this time was more heartfelt.

“In this harsh time, my people, we need to be careful of one another and know that your beloved Prime Owner has all but eradicated those who would infect our carefully constructed and beautiful culture.  Enjoy your day.”

Some hats were even flung in the air as Prime cut his speech to the bare minimum and rose from his throne, to step into a display bubble , with his Barons, for them to be whisked to the shuttle that would take them up to the Moon and the crowd turned with anticipation to the Fantasy gates of the Carnival grounds as they, for the first time in decades, opened with a peel of trumpets and the sprightly opening of Iresh Fulimarin’s “Playtime Suite IV.”

Dammit, old man, I almost had you.  Now I’ve got to wait until you get back from that fortress you have in orbit.  And that bastard Immoderate you have hunting Jess and I is too damned close.

66 - In Straited Circumstance

For a long, long moment Darcy stood looking at the toppled machine.  Then turned around slowly trying to see how far he could track in the rain. He could barely see the road and he was standing four rows over from it.

The ruined rows of Lifeweed were already turning colour as the Puffrot took over.  He couldn’t even see the sealed ends of the covers and the one next to him was locked down tight to protect the crop.

“Literate Redcap,” he said and waited.  Then he shouted it.  And waited.  The wind picked up and dumped a colder gust of rain over him.  There was no response from the horse.  There was even wet sand starting to build up on the windward side.  “Damned fakkin ink!”  He swung a kick at the horse and his boot rang off one leg.  It contracted slowly but only a small amount, then stopped.  “You… you… drag me out here in the rain.”  He looked around more wildly.  “Don’t panic,” he told himself.  “Don’t…”

He could barely see the white row cover beside him now, and he was cold enough to shiver.  “Damn, damn, damn, what am I going to do?”  A twist on the handle of his puller… his multi-tool, thankfully, started his flashlight but the beam only showed the heavy rain and nothing else.  He turned it off because it was actually making things worse in the half-light.

He needed shelter of some kind, and quickly, but he didn’t dare loosen the intact covers and crawl in with the precious plants that Prime loved.  But there were at least four sections of damaged row cover that he could cannabilize.  If the wind hadn’t shifted then the last folded and pinned cover was directly downwind about a dozen steps and he counted them off in his head, waving his cover puller ahead of him in the dimness until it clicked against the edge.

Redcap had pinned it down with such a large rock that he couldn’t pick it up, but with the puller as a lever, squealing as it struggled not to bend, he managed to pry the stone over and the cover, behind him, flipped up and over and plastered him against the rock, knocking the breath out of him.  He thought of trying to pull a chunk of the nearly indestructible fabric over the defunct horse but the wind was too much.  It would be enough if he managed to rig a shelter for himself.

He managed to squeeze out of his sudden trap and ease around to find there was enough of the cover freed, flapping and cracking like a three metre wide whip, that if he could pin it down he would have a secure tent.  The puller snagged one corner, nearly dragging him off his feet as he hauled it down into the lee of the rock and the pinned stack.  It nearly got away from him a dozen times as he sat on that corner and gathered the rest of the free end in. It left him sitting on the bulging, booming fabric but he could bunch it together as he felt along the multi-tool’s setting. He felt the ring click and  managed to get it to ‘stake setter’ by feel alone.

The outer corner punctured with a ‘pop’ as he set a stake through it into the ground.  That let him feed the rest slowly out from under himself, stitching the edge to the dirt behind him.  He tucked himself back under the straining bulging fabric, leaving barely enough room for him to squeeze between the row cover and the rock.

Being out of the rain was heaven, even if he couldn’t take off his mask.  He could get out of soaked clothes though because being dry would warm him up faster in his straited circumstances.  He had an extra fold of cloth pulled in and around that he could wrap himself up in and keep off the sodden ground.  The light in his multi-tool showed him only the wiggling roof he’d made, folded over the rock and keeping the tiny space in the lee clear.  He spread his shirt and pants out as much as he could, in the vain hope that they would dry somewhat. The tool fit, barely wedged into the angle between the rock and the cover.

“Fakin blanketty blank page,” he said, realizing that most of his skin stung from the grating sand and the scrapes he’d picked up.  “I suppose I should try ‘n load my edge down w’ more sand but I’m not going back out there.” His filter canteen was about half full and he drained it and managed to set it under a trailing dribble of water at his makeshift door.

His body heat had already warmed the tiny space enough that he couldn’t see his breath anymore.  He adjusted the trailing end of the shelter he’d made so he could lie half suspended, wrapped in the harsh fabric, and closed his eyes.  “No sense in wishin’ for anythin’ else.” The next day would be warm enough that he’d be able to slog back to the camp, and report to Redcap what had happened when the horse went offline.

“I really wish I had some’tin t’… nah, stupid me…” his stomach rumbled at him.  The water had helped but it wasn’t food.  “It’s only fourteen and a bit hours before things warm up.  Shuttup, you,” he said to his groaning gut.  “I don’t even have a break ration bar left.”