tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84052739570318375672024-03-07T22:59:27.109-08:00Oddments and WondersRowAnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186373604419841682noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8405273957031837567.post-43289467402197042112015-12-06T01:48:00.002-08:002015-12-06T01:48:05.750-08:00Drills<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
When I was a child, my father<br />
(a child of the fifties, of<br />
TV serials and canned dinners, a child of<br />
a mother with no maternal instincts,<br />
who nevertheless did pretty well),<br />
<br />
told me of the nuclear bomb drills<br />
how he and his classmates crouched<br />
under useless desks<br />
and were told, "This will protect you!"<br />
though they never believed it<br />
but thought<br />
(knew)<br />
that death would fall from the sky<br />
<br />
I will tell my children, someday,<br />
of how I,<br />
(a child of the twenty-tens, a digital native<br />
news blaring in bright colors from every screen)<br />
<br />
how I and my classmates<br />
crouched under desks in the<br />
lockdown drills<br />
preparing for armed intruders<br />
for AK-47s and bullet-marked walls<br />
how we were taught to huddle<br />
in corners, to stay away from windows,<br />
to be<br />
silent<br />
and pray the gunman would pass by<br />
<br />
(of the day a medical center<br />
eight miles from my college campus was<br />
massacred,<br />
how we were warned to stay inside<br />
and heard helicopters through the dormitory walls)<br />
<br />
I wonder if my children<br />
will have drills<br />
warning of enemies in their schools<br />
(their home)<br />
or if someday the constant fear<br />
the pictures of bomb-blasts and kids with body armor<br />
and pockmarked walls<br />
the so-called shelter of flimsy desks<br />
will abate.<br />
<br />
Somehow<br />
I doubt it will. </div>
RowAnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186373604419841682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8405273957031837567.post-19445937417396533022015-11-24T23:58:00.004-08:002015-11-25T00:01:22.087-08:00Telling Them How You Feel<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Nobody tells you how your hands shake.<br />
Nobody tells you about the dread<br />
The airless<br />
Trembling<br />
When you say the words,<br />
Give the syllables to them like<br />
Baring your secrets for the world to see.<br />
Spit out your heart between<br />
Shaking lips<br />
And wait.<br />
Wait<br />
Trembling<br />
Wishing you could suck the words back in<br />
Lock them away, make it<br />
Un-happen.<br />
<br />
Nobody tells you how your hands shake.<br />
Nobody tells you about the euphoria<br />
The airless<br />
Trembling<br />
When they respond, and it's<br />
Better than you ever hoped for.<br />
When they say the words,<br />
Accept you, and<br />
Give something back.<br />
<br />
Nobody tells you how your hands shake.<br />
Nobody tells you about the relief that washes over your whole body<br />
Loosens your shoulders<br />
Lightens your head until you're<br />
Floating.<br />
Weightless with<br />
Sheer<br />
True<br />
Joy.<br />
<br />
<i>For Cal</i><br />
<i>written in memory of 10/26/2014</i></div>
RowAnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186373604419841682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8405273957031837567.post-75047481228705466332015-04-12T23:19:00.000-07:002015-04-12T23:20:04.944-07:00The Battle of the Right Hand<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
first off, sorry about the lack of capitalization in this intro. my computer's shift key is broken.<br />
<br />
i found this piece from my sophomore year and reread it, and it held up surprisingly well, so i thought i'd share. the assignment was to write about why a villain became evil. i chose captain hook, because if you read the original <i>peter pan</i> novel, peter pan himself is one creepy little demon. some of the piece also references another book, <i>capt. hook</i> by j.v. hart, which chronicles james 'jas.' hook's teenage years and time at eton. that's where jolly roger comes from. it's a pretty good book, if a bit of a tough read at times, and it gave me a lasting literature crush on jas. hook (which, oddly enough, didn't really diminish when i read <i>peter pan </i>shortly after) so there's that. (it didn't hurt that <i>capt. hook</i> is illustrated by brett helquist and jas. is really hot. and that stupid overconfidence and sexy, sexy honor code. mmm.)<br />
<br />
anyway. here's the story. hope you enjoy.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I lean forward into the cracked mirror in my cabin and
inspect my moustache.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hmm.
Not too bad. It is not yet long enough for the look I intend it to have, but it
will get there soon. I believe it quite complements my face. My long, pale
face, framed by the scraggly black curls that have plagued me since childhood,
will never be handsome, but a moustache will give it ferocity, which as a
pirate captain I shall certainly need more of. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“You
would look good with a moustache, Jolly. Or a beard. Perhaps you should
cultivate one.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> “What,
me? Absolutely not. I haven’t got the guts for it.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> “It
could hardly make you look worse.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> “Ha
ha. Why don’t you grow one? Every captain needs a trademark.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> “I’ve
got one already. A trademark, I mean, not a beard.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> “True
enough, Jas. Hook.” <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Something
thuds against the deck. I look up. Is it?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Captain!
It’s the boy!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It
is the voice of my trusty bo’sun, Smee. In an instant my sword is in my right
hand, my left clenched into a fist as I run from my cabin and dash straight up
the stairs. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Starkey
is fighting the boy, clever, clever Starkey, exiled from England for the murder
of eleven schoolchildren. This is one child he cannot kill. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Stop,”
I cry. “He is mine.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mine
indeed, after all that this child has done. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The
boy lands lightly on the deck, a smile baring his pearly teeth. I consider
myself a brave man; I have not flinched from brutality and bloodshed, but
something about this youth unnerves me. It is strange that such a demon
inhabits a body that, to the eye, seems so innocent and pure. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Innocent?
Hardly. This little boy has vandalized my ship, murdered my crew, and taken my
island and my freedom. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Pan.”
My boots clack against the deck. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hook.”
He bows. One of the things I most hate is that he thinks he has grace; he
thinks he is the center of the world.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I
step forward, my sword darting to him. He parries easily. Our swords flash
crimson in the light of the sunset. The one affirmative thing that can be said
about this beast is that he has good form in swordplay.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Why,
Pan?” I demand a reason. There must be a reason. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Why
what?” Pan smiles that terrible cocky smile and for an instant</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Jas!
Land ho!” Jolly smiled that charming cocky smile and I ran to his side. He was
right. Shimmering in the mist of the sea was—what was it? An island, yes, but
it was more than an island; its green shores were somehow enchanted. I knew
this as surely as I knew that I was Captain Jas. Hook and that Jolly Roger,
standing beside me, was the best friend any man could possibly have. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> </i>Pan’s sword flashes by my ear and I jerk away,
spinning to parry his next blow. The duel has become more intense now; we are
past the preliminary courtesies. I am forced to leap up onto the poop deck. Pan
simply flies after me. How can this inhuman monster fly so easily? What gives
him the right? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>The
island was so beautiful and rich that we proclaimed it our home. My crew was
happy there, nearly as happy as they were when they wallowed in the bloodlust
of battle, sword to sword with England’s finest admirals. It became our
hideaway, the place to rest and recuperate that we might go out and wreak havoc
on England once again. Jolly called it Neverland, because we would never be
found there. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> </i>I swivel under Pan’s blade, rolling across the planks
of the ships. I misjudge, falling hard onto the main deck. Pan’s crow of
triumph leaves me with time to reclaim my blade, and I slash at him as he soars
over my head. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Jolly
was my one true friend, the one person I trusted implicitly. He had not shied
from me at Eton, where my yellow blood, long curls and frightening temperament
had made me a pariah. When I left England, he signed on with me and when I
mutinied and took the </i>Lady Anna <i>he
became the first mate. He had good—no, excellent—form. He was the one person I
was terrified of losing. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Why
do you come here?” I yell to his small silhouette in the sky. “Why do you kill
my men? Why this island?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It
is mine. My Neverland, and you are an evil person, and your men are mine to
kill.” Pan has descended to the deck and we battle directly once again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The
sheer wrongness of this answer is intolerable. I found Neverland before Pan;
Jolly Roger named it. I am not an evil person—am I? I do not think it is evil
to go against an empire that never cared for you, that threw you away for the
crime of defending the basic rights of men. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pan
slashes and a yellow fleck appears on my wrist. I have odd yellow cells in my
blood, an “unexplained mutation,” and the term <i>mutant </i>was often used at Eton. The sight of my own blood is
one more factor adding to my fury at Pan, Pan the demon, Pan the monster, Pan
the devil with a child’s face. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Neverland
was our Eden for a time, until one day Smee caught sight of a flying boy. I
told the crew to leave him alone. He was of no interest to us.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> Until
he killed Jack Havok. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> After
that, we were wary. Jack had underestimated the little bastard, and I was
determined not to lose another man through the same mistake. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> We
never attacked Pan. We left him alone, as we had left the savages who shared
the island with us to their own doings, but Pan was not like the natives. He
would attack, slyly, for no purpose other than his own amusement. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> </i>Pan leaps into the air and swoops over my head. I
duck. A black curl drops to the deck like ash from a burning house.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I
was going to leave. Pan had made Neverland intolerable for us; I had lost too
many men to risk staying. Jolly advised me to set sail and not look back. “It’s
not ours any more, Jas,” he said, “it’s his. Let him have it. We can find
another island, a better one, where he’ll never follow.” <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> Then,
on the night before our departure, Pan broke in and scuttled the ship. We were
officially scuppered. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pan
chooses to remain in the air. No. I must kill him. Now. Tonight. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I
leap for the mainmast and climb, sword between my teeth. Sweat slicks my curls
to my neck. The demon must die. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pan
perches on the end of the mast now, his feet hovering a few inches above the
sail. I take my sword in hand and balance as if I were on a high-wire,
advancing towards him. It would be bad form for him to back away now, where I
cannot follow. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>So
we stayed on Neverland because Pan had forced us to. We fought him back and we
tried to hunt him down, but he was just too damn fast. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> </i>“Pan!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>It
was dusk, the sun searing the heavens with its final breath, when suddenly
Starkey gave a cry. The boy swooped over the deck, killing Roberts with a blow
to the neck. He landed atop the mast and crowed his triumph as his minions
climbed over the railings and we raced to our positions below.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> </i>“Pan! Do you remember him!” I am almost there now,
only a foot or two from Pan, and I must keep him where he is.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Jolly
ran to my side, tossing me my saber. I caught it. He grinned at me, fierce and
confidant. “Someday our foes may win, Jas…”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> “…But
not today!” I finished our old war cry and heard a call. We spun to fight
back-to-back against the small horde of children. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> </i>“Remember who?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>We
had become separated. I saw that three of my men and two of Pan’s lay dead. Pan
was still overhead, engaging occasionally but flitting from battle to battle in
his fickleness. I spun to face the nearest Lost Boy and knocked him aside, for
it is bad form to kill a child unless it is unavoidable. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> That
said, Pan is not a child. He is the devil incarnate.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> </i>“Jolly! Jolly Roger!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I
glimpsed Pan again, and my heart lurched. He was the most formidable of them
all, and he was fighting Jolly. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> </i>The deck is so very far below, and I am acutely aware
of how little support air offers me…<i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> I
leapt onto the rail of the ship and ran to them, desperate to reach them before
my friend was hurt. Seeing me, Pan became fickle once more and glided upwards. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> </i>“You killed him!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Jolly
turned, his face glowing with the flush of battle…<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> </i>I swing my sword. Pan parries. My balance is
precarious. “You killed him, Pan.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Blood
spilling across the white of his shirt, red blood veiling the tip of Pan’s
thrown sword protruding from his chest…<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> </i> “I
forget them after I kill them,” he says carelessly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I
held my truest friend, the best man in the world, as he died. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> </i>I glimpse something green or gray in the water far,
far below but I cannot let it distract me. Our swords cross and cross again,
Pan light as light itself and me swaying like a drunkard. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>That
battle was a draw, but it never felt like one. We buried Jolly Roger on the
shores of Neverland and re-christened the </i>Lady
Anna <i>so that it would echo his name. It felt that day like some part
of me intrinsically linked to my very center had been ripped away, something
more important than even a limb. More important that a heart.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> </i>There are tears blurring my vision, from both the
memory of Jolly’s murder and the sharp wind that has sprung up. No! Bad form!
But no matter how bad the form, I cannot stop them, and they are the reason
that I am not quick enough to block Pan’s swipe, the swipe that severs my right
hand and sends it spinning like a broken kite with a yellow tail. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For
a moment, I feel nothing besides the impact, which sends me reeling. But there
is nowhere to reel to, and now I am falling as well. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Something
breaks my fall, and my leg too. This <i>does</i>
hurt, and I cry out as I spin across the sky. A coil of rope has caught my leg.
I am hanging upside down, with no weapon and yellow blood dripping from where
my arm should be. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In
the haze of red sky and yellow blood and white pain, the strangest thought
occurs to me: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I
took the name Hook after the weapon with which I killed my first man. Now it
seems that this name will mean something even greater to me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pan
is hovering by me, laughing demonically. I feel the blood rush to my head. “How
can you not remember?” I scream. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Not
remember what?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I
may be a pirate, perhaps I am even evil, but at least I have the common
courtesy to remember those I kill. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pan
swoops away, leaving me in this position of pure humiliation. Peripherally I
see several men swarming up the mast to disentangle me, but my attention is
focused on Pan. He drops to the deck and kicks my hand overboard before flying
away. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The
nerve of this boy is unbelievable. He has no respect for anything. <i>Anything.
</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As
the rope is unwound from my leg, as I am lowered to the deck, as the stump of
my wrist is bandaged and a hook is fetched at my command, I vow that I <i>will </i>hunt Pan down. I <i>will </i>kill him. I will avenge Jolly Roger and the other
members of my crew, and I will take Neverland back from the insanity of this
demon-child.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Whatever
it takes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
RowAnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186373604419841682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8405273957031837567.post-29988884622751632812015-02-03T10:26:00.002-08:002015-02-09T15:39:21.024-08:00Christmas in Geartown (an unbelievably late Christmas story)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I actually wrote this <i>before </i>Christmas, okay? I just didn't think to upload it until now. But it turned out pretty well. So here it is: Christmas in Geartown.<br />
<br />
Geartown, by the way, is a small village in my particular version of Steampunk Victorian England, a storyworld I've been working on for a longer project. It's a place where mad science runs rampant and most of the characters are minions. I have a whole lot of characters for it and I like writing about them just to get to know them better. They're fun!<br />
<br />
I will update this story later with an illustration, once I get said illustration scanned into my computer.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
It occurs to me now that a character list would probably be helpful, as most of these guys have rarely seen the outside of my head. See the end of the story for notes.<br />
<br />
Here we go.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Christmas in Geartown<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> I. </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Geartown
was alive with the holiday spirit. The students of Geartown University had been
loosed into the main street, where they set up various festive projects along
the curbside. An automated chestnut roaster belched out festive-scented smoke
as a girl turned the handle; a group of younger students tried to start up a
sled powered by a perpetual motion machine, and Igor Wells barely dodged as an
upright snowman with metal nuts for eyes and a spanner for a nose shot past him
at an alarming rate. He righted himself, and then the two boys pelting after it
knocked him onto his rear in the snow. “Sorry!” yelled the taller, brown-haired
one with the goggles, as the slighter of the two, a lanky Asian boy with thick
rectangular glasses, made a brave dive for the runaway snowman and missed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Wilhelm
laughed and pulled Igor to his feet. He dusted himself off and they both winced
in sympathy as the snowman hit the automated chestnut roaster, sending a gush
of sparks into the air, scattering chestnuts everywhere, and causing the
students huddled around the machine to dive to the ground for shelter. The
ensuing argument between the Asian boy and a black student of indeterminate
gender was a spectacle to behold. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oops,”
said Wilhelm, giggling behind her gloves.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Merry
Christmas!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The two
turned around and saw Jonas, a tall, slim University minion with brown skin and
long blue hair pulled into a ponytail, strolling towards them. He was wrapped
in a dark wool coat, his customary headphones acting like earmuffs and a purple
scarf knotted under his chin, matching his purple eyes. His sister Rosie
stomped along beside him, her red plaid coat clashing with her pink curly hair
in an eye-searing manner.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Merry
Christmas!” said Igor, waving happily. Rosie growled something that might have
been “Merry Christmas” but also might have been “Bah! Humbug!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Merry
Christmas, Jonas and Rosie,” said Wilhelm. “Are you coming up to the castle
tonight?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“If you’ll
have us, then sure!” Jonas grinned, flashing white teeth. “Gormless makes the
best Christmas dinner!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Rosie
grumbled again and glared at a passing humautomaton so hard that the poor boy
ran into the grocer’s as fast as his metal leg could carry him. The others,
well used to her misanthropy, ignored this. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hey, it’s
Weasel,” said Jonas. He raised his voice and waved. “Hallo, Weasel!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Weasel
trudged up to them, wrapped to his ears in a striped scarf. His orange hair
stuck out at odd angles from under a green hat, and he was bundled into what
looked like three sweaters. He nodded at them morosely.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What’s got
you so gloomy?” asked Jonas. Weasel shrugged and tucked his gloved fingers into
his armpits. Jonas laughed. “Come now, Weasel, it’s not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that </i>cold!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Says you,”
Weasel grumbled. “I hate this season.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Rosie gave
him an appraising look. “A man after my own heart.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I suppose
we’ll just call you two Scrooge and Marley,” said Igor, smirking.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hey, no!”
exclaimed Weasel. “I don’t want to be the dead one!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Wilhelm
looked at him. “What makes you think you’re Marley?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m always
the dead one.” Weasel tucked his nose further under his scarf. “Or the one who
gets blown up in the end.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Pretty
sure that’s not what happened to Marley,” said Igor, laughing. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How would
you know?” Weasel asked. “He’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">dead.</i>
It never said <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">how </i>he died.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ick, I
don’t want to be Scrooge,” said Rosie. “That means I accept this stupid season
into my heart at the end of the story.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jonas,
Wilhelm and Igor laughed. Wilhelm turned to Weasel. “So,” she said, “are you
coming up to the castle tonight?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Can’t.”
Weasel scowled. “I don’t get the day off.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What!”
exclaimed Jonas, as Igor said, “Really? On Christmas!” and Wilhelm blinked in
surprise. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mm hm. No
Christmas off for me.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But why?”
asked Igor.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Weasel
rolled his eyes. “Professor Wiggins is Jewish.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh,” said
Igor.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Still,
that’s pretty uncharitable,” said Wilhelm. “She really won’t let you take the
day off?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Weasel
glanced away. “…Yes.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hang on,”
said Jonas. “Weasel…have you ever actually <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">asked
</i>Wiggins for the day off?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes!”
snapped Weasel defensively. Jonas raised an eyebrow at him and the tips of his
ears turned red. “Well, maybe not, but…she’s a maniac! I’m not risking my life
just for a holiday!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jonas laughed,
and Wilhelm rolled her eyes. “Tell you what,” she said. “You tell Wiggins
you’re taking tonight and tomorrow off and come up to the castle to have a
drink with us, all right?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Fine!”
snapped Weasel, burrowing into his layers of sweater. “But it’s on your heads
if she kills me!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>II. </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In
hindsight, they probably shouldn’t have started a snowball fight with Nina. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The snow
barricade was, fortunately, well constructed, thanks mostly to Igor and Jonas,
both of whom had once worked as bricklayers. They huddled behind it with Weasel
while globs of snow and the occasional bit of ice soared overhead.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Any
ideas?” said Jonas. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We need to
disable that snowball machine,” said Igor. “That way we’ll have an opening to
take them by storm. I’ll take Wilhelm.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I call not
taking out Nina,” Weasel said quickly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Are you
sure?” said Jonas. “That means you’ve got Rosie.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Weasel
nodded. “I’ll take my chances.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Spoken
like a man who’s never fought Rosie before.” Jonas adjusted his gloves and
looked up. “Are we ready?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ready,”
said Igor, grinning.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No,”
sighed Weasel, “but that’s never stopped me before.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“On my
mark,” said Jonas, holding up three fingers. “Three…two…GO!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The three
exploded from their fortress and pelted towards the girls’ snow barricade.
Jonas leapt and belly-flopped onto the top of the wall, smashing a hole in the
middle. Igor ran at Wilhelm, going for a tackle, but at the last second Wilhelm
stepped aside, grabbed his arm, and flipped him head over heels into the snow. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Weasel ran
straight at Rosie, who barely had time to look up before he crashed into her.
They struggled, wrestling and rolling over and over, trying to pin each other.
Weasel was slightly quicker and better and dodging her blows, but Rosie had the
unbridled fury of a caged puma. She knocked Weasel into the snow and pinned
him, then grabbed a handful of snow.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“HELP!”
Weasel yelled as Rosie stuffed the snow down his collar. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His
teammates, however, had their hands full. Jonas was involved in what looked
like a vigorous game of tag with Nina, who danced and dodged his every grab for
her, while Wilhelm packed Igor into the snow as if he were a shipment of trout
to be preserved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Suddenly, a
glob of snow smacked Wilhelm in the face, knocking her away. Igor broke the
crust and sat up, only to be hit with another snowball. Wilhelm wiped the snow
out of her eyes and swore. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Igor looked
over and ducked just in time. “What <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is </i>that
thing?!” he yelped, brushing snow off his coat. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s
Nina’s,” said Wilhelm grimly, getting to her feet. Another two snowballs
smacked her and she took a step backwards. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The machine
in question was cuboid in shape, with two wide bendy pipes emerging from
opposite ends. One of these was planted in the snow, sucking it up, while the
other flailed directionlessly, flinging the snow in every direction. Igor
caught sight of the words painted on the side: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Snowball Blaster 3000.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh dear,”
he said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wilhelm started towards the machine, then
changed her mind and ran away instead. Igor stared after her, dismayed. “Don’t
abandon us!” he yelled.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ll be
right back!” Wilhelm shouted, sprinting towards the castle. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“IGOR!
HELLLLP!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Igor turned
and saw that Nina had neutralized Jonas and had ganged up on Weasel with Rosie.
They dragged the poor boy by his ankles towards the rampant snowball blaster,
his struggles to no avail. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nooooo!”
Weasel yelled, clawing at the ground and finding no purchase in the snow. “I
moved away from home to get <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">away </i>from
thiiiiisss!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>III.</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Later,
after the Snowball Blaster 3000 had run out of snow and started ripping up and
hurling chunks of frozen ground, after Wilhelm had come back with a shovel and
smashed it, and after Weasel, Igor and Jonas had been released, rubbed dry and
fed with hot cocoa and Christmas cookies, Wilhelm allowed herself to relax. She
curled up on the couch with a mug of cocoa in her hands and watched the fire in
the impressive stone fireplace.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Igor sat
down beside her. “Merry Christmas, Wilhelm.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Is it?”
Wilhelm checked her wrist, then remembered that she wasn’t wearing her watch.
“I thought we had a few more hours.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Igor
laughed. “Merry Christmas Eve, then. Where’s Jonas? I lost track of him.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He and
Rosie headed home,” said Wilhelm. “Weasel’s staying the night, though.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I know.
He’s in my room.” Igor sipped his tea. “Where’s Nina?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“She and
Gormless are up on the roof. I don’t know why, it’s just something they do
every year. Something about waiting for Uncle Nicholas.”<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Igor laughed. “What, like
Santa Clause?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I think
so. They won’t say.” Wilhelm shrugged. “It doesn’t do any harm, so I let them
have their fun.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“As if you
could stop them.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Wilhelm
rolled her eyes. “Says the man who hid in the snow while I bashed the Snowball
Blaster 3000 with the shovel.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Point
taken. Also, ouch.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They sipped
their cocoa in silence for a while, watching the fire. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What are
you thinking about?” Igor asked suddenly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh, I
don’t know,” said Wilhelm. “Christmas, I suppose…how many different Christmases
I’ve had. With my family it was always very religious, but warm and kind
nonetheless. Well, until the last few years anyway. Then with the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Maladroit…</i>That one was pure fun. It was
just so different, but the warmth was still there, you know? And now, here in
the castle…” She hesitated, thinking. “I suppose I should be sad, because
technically I’m imprisoned, but honestly this, right here? This might be the
best Christmas I’ve had since I was ten.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Really?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes.”
Wilhelm smiled. “I got to spend Christmas Eve with friends, having fun, with
people who I care about and who I think care about me. I really can’t ask for
more than that.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
that’s one thing we have in common, then,” said Igor with a laugh.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“This being
the best Christmas. Christmas Eve, anyway.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Wilhelm
looked at him. “What, really?”<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mm hm.” Igor took a long
drink of cocoa.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What about
when you were a child?” said Wilhelm. “What was Christmas like then?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Igor
shrugged unhappily. “It…wasn’t great. You say you had warmth and kindness at
Christmas, yes? I never got that feeling. It was always a bit nerve-wracking,
to be honest. My father usually bought me something he wanted me to use, a gun
or a hunting knife, and I’ve never liked hunting. I dreaded the gifts. The food
was good, but the company…” He laughed a little. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be talking
of this, it’s not very cheerful.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No, it’s
all right,” said Wilhelm. “What about Logan?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Igor’s
smile was bittersweet. “He forgot about it until the day before. It was almost
endearing, really. And I suppose we had a good Christmas—it certainly seemed so
at the time…yes, it was good.” He grinned at her. “But this? This is better.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You really
think so?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Igor
nodded. “By miles.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Wilhelm
smiled and looked back at the fire. “Should we put another log on?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ll do
it.” Igor got up and threw a log onto the fire. It sparked and popped as he sat
back down next to Wilhelm.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hey,
Wilhelm?” he said.<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mm?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Thanks.”<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You’re welcome,” said
Wilhelm. She frowned. “Wait, for what?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“For…I
don’t know.” Igor laughed and shook his head. He looked down into his cocoa.
“For being here. For letting me stay. For being my friend, I suppose.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No
problem.” Wilhelm bumped his shoulder playfully. “Besides, it’s Xix who let you
stay. And you’re not too bad a friend to have. I think it breaks pretty even.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Igor laughed.
“Thanks. And touché.” He glanced at her. “But really, thanks.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It has
been my absolute pleasure.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;">IV.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Wilhelm
woke up to someone bouncing on her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Wilhelm,
Wilhelm, Wilhelm! Get up get up get up get <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">up!</i>”
chanted an excited female voice.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Go ‘way,
Etta,” she mumbled, pulling the covers over her head. “M’ tryin’ a sleep.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Who’s
Etta?” said someone nearby, and then the covers were ripped away and Wilhelm
yelped as Nina’s face appeared five inches away from her own.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Get <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">up!</i>” cried Nina, shaking Wilhelm’s
shoulders. “It’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Christmas!</i>”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She bounced
back and Wilhelm sat up and rubbed her eyes. It was not her sister waking her,
but Nina. And Gormless, she realized, looking down at him from her bunk. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What time
is it?” she asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Six thirty
in the morning,” said Gormless. “Everyone else is up already. And by everyone,
I mean Nina and me, because we’re going to wake up Igor and Weasel next and
then find Xix, wherever he is. So…no one but us three, really.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Of
course.” Wilhelm pushed her hair back from her face and it flopped back into
its customary spikes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Come <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">on, </i>Wilhelm, get <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">up!</i>” Nina repeated. “Gormless is making us porridge and then we can
open <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">presents! </i>Uncle Nicholas got you
something too, so get <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">up!</i>”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m up,
I’m up.” Wilhelm shoved Nina off the bed. The fabrication lost her balance and
fell from the bunk, but Gormless caught her midair. She grinned at him.
“Thanks!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Don’t
mention it,” said Gormless, setting her on her feet. “Wilhelm, we’ll see you in
the kitchen!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;">V.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I don’t
want to open this,” said Weasel, eyes screwed shut. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh, stop
whining, you big baby.” Nina pushed the box into his lap again. “I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">promise </i>there’s nothing dangerous in
it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They were
sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace of the most useable living room,
with Igor and Wilhelm on the couch. Gormless was in the kitchen, tending to the
porridge. Although he had come a long way with his anxiety problems since
Wilhelm had arrived, he still didn’t feel completely comfortable around
relative strangers like Igor and Weasel for long periods of time. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">always </i>say that,” Weasel pointed out.
“And then what happens? I get bitten or chased or trampled by mechanical bulls
or electrocuted by wasps or stung by poisonous frogs or nearly drowned in
syrup. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Every. Time.</i>”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">every </i>time,” said Igor. “The automated
teapot turned out all right.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“All ri—it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">exploded!</i> A <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">lot!</i>” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It
exploded <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">once,</i>” Wilhelm countered.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> “</i>And you were wearing oven mitts and a
visor. You were fine.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Weasel
stared at them. “I can’t believe you’re taking her side!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No, it’s
all right.” A great deal of the energy had gone out of Nina’s voice. “It’s
fine. I guess I am sort of bad with presents.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You’re not
bad with presents,” said Igor, patting her shoulder. “Weasel’s just a little
justifiably suspicious, that’s all.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Weasel,
open the present,” said Wilhelm. “I’ll take full responsibility for the
consequences. You can hide behind me if you need to.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Weasel
hesitated, reached for the ribbon, and hesitated again. Slowly, he tugged at
the bow until it came undone. He cautiously picked at the wrapping paper until
the tape came away and peeled it off the box. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He looked
at Nina again and she nodded encouragingly. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He opened
the box, reached inside, and lifted out a sweater. Nina cheered.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As sweaters
went, it wasn’t a terribly good one. The stitches alternated between being so
tight that you couldn’t get a need through them and so loose that Weasel’s
whole hand could fit into the gaps, and it bulged in odd places. It also had
three arms. But it was a rather nice shade of blue, with intermittent white
trim and one patch of seaweed green. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s
where I ran out of blue,” said Nina, pointing at the green. “Do you like it?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Wow!”
Weasel held it up in front of him, astonished. “You <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">made </i>this?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes!” Nina
bounced happily. “Well, I made a machine that made it! Yours is the first <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ever!</i>” She quivered with anticipation.
“Do you like it?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I…” Weasel
inspected the sweater carefully. Finally, he grinned. “I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">love </i>it!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Really?!</i>” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes!”
Weasel laughed with delight, his face aglow. “This is the first present you’ve
given me that hasn’t tried to kill me!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Nina
squealed and tackled him in a hug, knocking him over. “I knew it!” she
shrieked. “I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">knew </i>you’d like it this
year! I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">finally </i>got it right! Yes, yes,
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">yes!</i>” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Weasel
laughed and hugged her back. Wilhelm looked at Igor and grinned, surprised.
Igor smiled and shrugged. Neither had been expecting this. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Weasel
broke the hug and held out the sweater again. “You’re <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sure </i>it won’t kill me?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Not unless
you strangle yourself with it!” Nina said happily.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Then help
me put it on!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It took a
concerted effort from both Nina and Wilhelm, but eventually they got Weasel’s
head through the neck of the sweater and his arms through two of the sleeves,
which also covered his hands and went on for a good six inches beyond. The
third sleeve drooped sadly from the left side of the chest, and patches of his
shirt showed through the knitting. A burlap sack would have been more
fashionable, but Weasel’s glow of euphoria made up for it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“This is
amazing, Nina,” he said, grinning at her. “Thank you!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m so
happy you like it!” said Nina, hugging him again. She turned back and grinned
at Wilhelm and Igor. “Now for the rest of you!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Notes</u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><br /></u></div>
Characters:<br />
<br />
Wilhelm Grimsby: Human female, minion of Professor Xix, who lives in a castle on a hill above Geartown.<br />
<br />
Igor Wells: Human male, minion working at Geartown University.<br />
<br />
Jonas: Human male (or is he?), minion working at Geartown University. Brother of Rosie.<br />
<br />
Rosie: Human female, minion working at Geartown University. Jonas's sister. Tends to be very grumpy.<br />
<br />
Weasel: Human male, minion of Professor Wiggins, who runs Geartown's water system and works at the university. A bit cowardly. Scared of Wiggins and Nina, not without reason. Accidents tend to happen around him with alarming regularity.<br />
<br />
Nina: Fabricated/reconstructed female (think Frankenstein's Monster), minion of Professor Xix. Lives with Wilhelm. A bit manic.<br />
<br />
Gormless: Fabricated/reconstructed male, minion of Professor Xix. Very, very shy.<br />
<br />
Definitions and other notes:<br />
<br />
Minion: Someone who works for a mad scientist. Usually, but not always, a paid position. Weasel, Igor, Jonas, and Rosie are paid minions of the University of Geartown. Nina and Gormless are unpaid minions dependent on Professor Xix. Wilhelm is working off a prison sentence.<br />
<br />
Humautomaton: My version of a cyborg.<br />
<br />
The <i>Maladroit: </i>The pirate ship Wilhelm traveled on. Basically the reason she's working off a prison sentence.<br />
<br />
Thanks for reading. Let me know if you want more of these guys! :)<br />
<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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RowAnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186373604419841682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8405273957031837567.post-91524288705210258962014-12-01T15:22:00.002-08:002014-12-01T15:22:11.198-08:00Barbarians<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Mama, why is the market so colorful and gay?<br />It is the barbarians, they will be here today<br />
Oh how we've awaited this wonderful day<br />
When all the king's men will not keep them at bay<br />
And all of the children they surely shall slay. </div>
RowAnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186373604419841682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8405273957031837567.post-54491189466641271172014-11-12T19:33:00.000-08:002014-12-01T15:21:05.738-08:00Take Back the World<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is a long one and I'm not too sure how the footnotes worked out, but I hope you enjoy.<br />
<br />
<br />
Tristan Loke put his thin, manicured fingers together and
smiled. “Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Reese?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A.
Reese, a heavyset biker in leathers and shades, cracked his knuckles
menacingly. He looked extremely out of place in the nondescript office
belonging to his financial representative. “You can tell me where the hell my
money is!” he snarled.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ah.”
Loke nodded reassuringly. “The fact is, it’s on its way to your account as we
speak. There was some difficulty with the bank, as your previous assets were
frozen because of a computer gaffe. The modem crashed and some financial
records had to be reassessed, so that took quite a while to complete. And then
there was the matter of the periphrastic in the checking account…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Reese’s
expression was blank. Loke sighed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“To
put it in your terms,” he explained, “a computer went no-worky and our
bookkeeper mismana—fouled up, but it’s all sorted now.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It
better be,” snarled Reese. He was back in his element now. “Cause if it isn’t,
then I’m gonna take you to the cleaner’s, pretty-boy.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Loke
pressed his fingertips against his eyes. “Threatening your financial agent is
not an effective or efficient method of operation, Mr. Reese.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,
well, am I gonna get my money or not? I made a hell of a lot on that last stunt
gig and I wanna blow it all in one place.” His eyes glazed over. “I got my eye
on a nice little Harley. She’s a beauty. You should see her! Five cylinder
engine, red chrome, shiniest gal you ever laid eyes on. Beautiful. She’s got a
high-tech speedometer and shiny exhaust pipes and—” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
get the picture,” Loke said, rolling his eyes. “Now, is there anything else you
wanted help with?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,
there is.” Reese dug a handful of rumpled papers out from the pocket of his
motorcycle jacket. “I need ya to look over these before I sign ‘em. It’s my
contract for <i>More Rapider and Enrageder 8. </i><span style="font-style: normal;">I’m
playin’ the main dude with the wicked shades an the jacket an the cool bike.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Loke
took the papers and flattened them. “You know,” he said, exasperated, “you
shouldn’t carry important legal documents crumpled in your pockets. It makes
for inaccuracy and unreliability later. Also, I’m not actually a legal
consultant. I just handle your money.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So
handle the money in the contract an tell me if it’s legit!” yelled Reese,
snapping from <i>content </i><span style="font-style: normal;">to </span><i>irate
</i><span style="font-style: normal;">with alarming speed. Loke could almost hear
the gears crunching.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
raised an eyebrow without looking away from the papers. “You remind me of one
of my nephews.” (He neglected to mention that that particular nephew was in
jail.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Reese,
unsure of whether he was being complimented or not (he wasn’t), crossed his
arms and looked menacing. It was something he did rather well. “Look, wise guy,
you handle the papers and I handle the awesomeness, okay?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Norns
help us all,” murmured Loke, shaking his head. He passed the battered papers
back across the desk. “Your contract looks fine. Your money should be in your
account by tomorrow. <i>Anything else?</i><span style="font-style: normal;">”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Reese
thought about it for a good long minute before shaking his head. “Nope, that’s
it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Excellent.
Val will show you out. Val!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
blond woman poked her head around the door. Her name was actually Maggie, but
Loke tended to call all of his blond, female employees Val. It was a private
joke.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Show
Mr. Reese to the lobby, would you, Val?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,
sir. Oh, and there’s a woman to see you. A new client, I think.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Excellent.
Send her up at once.” He rose and shook hands with Reese. “Great dealing with
you, Al. I hope to see you again soon.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ya
know,” said A. Reese, crushing Loke’s hand in his own, “you Northerners ain’t
too bad. I always liked you guys. Thanks fer all yer help.” He left the office
and immediately started hitting on Maggie-Val. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
funny thing was that Tristan Loke looked just as out of place in his own office
as A. Reese did, but in a completely different way. Where Reese was heavyset
and powerful, Loke was slim and delicate, with a pointed chin, nose and ears.
His chin-length red hair caught whatever light was available and glimmered with
hints of gold and crimson, and his golden-green eyes sometimes unnerved his
clients when he narrowed them in a certain way.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Loke
took out his iPad and tapped the screen, pulling up A. Reese’s financial
account. He transferred just enough money to keep Reese happy to the bank
account before diverting the substantial remainder into his own account in the
Cayman Islands. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then
he leaned back, studied the device, and wondered if he should drop Reese from
his clientele. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sure,
Reese was easy to rip off, and he provided Loke with lots of money—he’d bought
Loke a rather nice villa on a small Caribbean island without knowing it. But
where was the fun in swindling an idiot like Reese? The moron was so
disorganized in his financial affairs that without his bank manager he wouldn’t
have noticed anything wrong until he was evicted from his eight-million-dollar
mansion. It was, simply put, much too easy. And it wasn’t like Loke desperately
needed the money—he enjoyed having it, but he also enjoyed having to work to
get it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
pulled up a list of his appointments and smiled. One o’clock: Minerva Thena.
Now <i>there </i><span style="font-style: normal;">was someone Loke could be
proud of ripping off. Her keen intelligence and perspicacity made it very hard
to trick her, but so far Loke was managing it. A delightful challenge.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
office door opened and Loke hastily cleared the iPad screen, slipping the
device back into his briefcase. He looked up with a smile.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Good
day. Now what can I…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His
smile flickered.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
woman before him had appeared on many billboards and would appear on many more.
She was shapely, voluptuous, with pouting lips and blue mascara-lined eyes; she
was wearing the latest fashion in the form of a little black dress, but it was
her hair that truly attracted attention. It fell in golden waves to her waist,
thick and long and shining. Every strand had an ethereal luminescence. It
glowed from within. It was what made her such a successful model, that
incandescent quality that no amount of conditioner could achieve.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Loke
frowned, offended. “Sif, you cut your hair. It used to be to the floor!”<span class="MsoFootnoteReference"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sif
tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Hello to you too, Loki. Times change. Was
that Ares I saw leaving your office?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Indeed
it was. He’s one of my most valued customers. But I made you that hair!”<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8405273957031837567#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]-->[1]<!--[endif]--></span></span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
didn’t make it. You just had it made, and that was only because you cut the
original off.” <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Still.
Cost me an arm and a leg, that hair. Cost me a mouth, too.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sif
rolled her eyes. “No, the mouth was because you lost a bet.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Still.
It was because of the hair.” Loki crossed to the door, opened it, and stuck his
head through. “Val, don’t let anyone in. I am not to be disturbed.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
closed the door and motioned for Sif to sit down. She took the chair in front
of the desk and pulled a compact mirror out of her glittery purse. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So,”
said Loki, sitting opposite her, “how’s your husband?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<i>Ex-</i><span style="font-style: normal;">husband, as of nearly twenty years ago.” Sif reached
for her lipstick. “As I’m sure you very well know, Loki.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ah
yes, Thor always was rather troublesome, wasn’t he? When does he get out of
prison?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
have no idea. Hopefully not for a while.” Sif rolled her eyes. “He never did
adapt well to the times.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Of
course he didn’t. He’s been depressed since Odin’s Jotun<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8405273957031837567#_ftn2" name="_ftnref2" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn2;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]-->[2]<!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
Treaty of 1815. Speaking of which, have you heard from Odin?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh,
you know him. Still up in Asgard liaising between the Pantheons, silent as
ever, enigmatic as hell. Oh yes, how’s your daughter doing?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hel’s
doing great<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8405273957031837567#_ftn3" name="_ftnref3" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn3;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]-->[3]<!--[endif]--></span></span></a>,” said Loki,
leaning back. “Got engaged a few months ago. It’ll be an…interesting wedding.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Really?”
Sif crossed her legs. “Who’s the lucky groom?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“One
of those Grecian-Roman fellows, Hades. They met through their work.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh
my. That <i>will </i><span style="font-style: normal;">be an interesting wedding.
Isn’t Hades divorced?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Eh,
Persephone was never right for him. They split up the moment divorce became an
institution. How are <i>your</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> kids doing?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ugh,
don’t ask.” Sif began to reapply her still potent lipstick. “Thrud just
graduated from the police academy, Ull’s still off being a mountain guide,
Modi’s still in court-ordered anger-management therapy and Magni’s a
stormchaser.<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8405273957031837567#_ftn4" name="_ftnref4" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn4;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]-->[4]<!--[endif]--></span></span></a> You know,
flying into hurricanes and such.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Really?
Good for him! Hey, I heard Forseti<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8405273957031837567#_ftn5" name="_ftnref5" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn5;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]-->[5]<!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
made it onto the Supreme Court.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
we always knew he’d go far, despite his father’s untimely death.” Sif fixed
Loki with a look which clearly communicated that eight hundred years had in no
way been enough time to forgive him for killing Forseti’s father. Everyone had
loved Baldur.<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8405273957031837567#_ftn6" name="_ftnref6" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn6;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]-->[6]<!--[endif]--></span></span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Loki
spread his hands. “Hey, I know what you’re thinking, but I’ve changed. Honest!
Do you see anything criminal about this office?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Besides
the fact that well over half of your clients’ money goes straight into the
Cayman Islands?” Sif glanced at Loki from the corner of her eye.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Besides
that.” He seemed unperturbed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
there’s the appalling coffee.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“They
just don’t make it right anymore.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And
the fact that you’ve been hiding from the Aesir since the First World War.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ah.”
Loki nodded. “How long have you known that I was alive?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“About
two years. I suspected a decade ago. Things started to look…fishy with some of
the Grecian-Romans. Those who had taken up careers in acting didn’t seem as
wealthy as they should be. When there’s a hint of trickery about, I always look
for you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How
touching.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sif
uncrossed her legs and leaned across the desk. “More importantly, how are you
alive? I know for a fact that you haven’t touched one of Idunn’s apples<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8405273957031837567#_ftn7" name="_ftnref7" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn7;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]-->[7]<!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
for nearly a hundred years.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Loki
shrugged. “I have my means.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Which
are…?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why
should I tell you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“An
interesting question.” Sif sat back and re-crossed her legs. “Do you want to
hear another interesting question?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sure.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
is there to stop me from going to Odin and having you thrown back into Niflheim
for treachery, murder, genocide and embezzlement?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Loki
nodded, and then said, “It’s amazing what a little nectar and ambrosia every
now and then will do for a body.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sif’s
perfectly plucked eyebrows furrowed. “You aren’t that kind of god, Loki.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
shrugged. “You have to build up a tolerance, of course, but given time it’s
quite effective.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sif
threw her head back and laughed. Her hair swished around her head in a motion
that had been patented by an expensive shampoo company. “Oh, Loki, you’re
always full of surprises!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Unlike
Thor, I know how to adapt.” He shifted in his seat, leaning forward with his
chin resting atop his laced fingers. “Now that we’ve caught up on the small
talk, Sif, what do you want?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Hmm.” Sif sat back and tapped her lips
with her compact mirror. “How to phrase this? I want you to help me take back
the world.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There
was a pause.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Loki
blinked. “I…never saw you as the ‘world-domination’ type, Sif.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Have
you seen the movies they made about Thor?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
mean the ones in which he’s a superhero? Of course! They were hilarious.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“They
were blasphemous!” Sif leapt to her feet and paced the office. “Those idiot
mortals got just about every single detail <i>wrong!”</i><span style="font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
yes.” Loki smirked. “Thor isn’t nearly that intelligent in real life.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
mean it! How can you take this so calmly?!” She whirled and pointed at him.
“You were in them too! You were a dark-haired megalomaniac who was also <i>Thor’s
brother!</i><span style="font-style: normal;">” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Loki
winced at the memory. “That <i>was</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> a bit
embarrassing, now that I think of it.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
and Thor are <i>not </i><span style="font-style: normal;">brothers! You and </span><i>Odin
</i><span style="font-style: normal;">are brothers!” Sif turned again, her hair
swishing perfectly. “The whole reason that the Aesir cannot kill you is that
you have Odin’s blood in you veins! You’re more like Thor’s adopted </span><i>uncle
</i><span style="font-style: normal;">than his </span><i>brother!</i><span style="font-style: normal;">”<span class="MsoFootnoteReference"> <a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8405273957031837567#_ftn8" name="_ftnref8" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn8;" title=""><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]-->[8]<!--[endif]--></span></a></span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“To
be fair, they got the <i>adopted </i><span style="font-style: normal;">part
right,” Loki pointed out. “And I think Thor and I had more of a brotherly
relationship back in the old days. We were closer to each other in…well, not </span><i>age,
</i><span style="font-style: normal;">but maturity.” He snickered. “Besides, he
was so much fun to tease. Remember the time he had to wear that wedding dress?”<span class="MsoFootnoteReference"> <a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8405273957031837567#_ftn9" name="_ftnref9" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn9;" title=""><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]-->[9]<!--[endif]--></span></a></span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sif
couldn’t help smiling at the memory. “That wasn’t one of your pranks, though.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It
was still hilarious.” Loki chuckled at the memory, then grew more serious. “But
what was that about taking back the world?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“My
point about the movies was that our stories have been—<i>perverted,” </i><span style="font-style: normal;">snapped Sif. “No one remembers us, not the way we’re
supposed to be. People worshipped us, Loki. They </span><i>prayed </i><span style="font-style: normal;">to us. Do you see anyone doing that now? Don’t you </span><i>miss
</i><span style="font-style: normal;">it? Don’t you miss being </span><i>loved</i><span style="font-style: normal;">?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“They
loved <i>you,” </i><span style="font-style: normal;">Loki replied. “And Baldur,
and Freya, and maybe a few others. But Odin and Thor and me?” He smiled
wickedly. “We were </span><i>feared, </i><span style="font-style: normal;">not
loved.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So
you miss being feared, then!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Loki
stood up and walked to the window of his office. Sif watched him carefully as
he folded his hands behind his back and looked out. The morning light outlined
the profile of his slim features and set fire to his red hair. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Perhaps.”
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sif
smiled. “So you’ll help me?” She walked to him, stood close enough that he
could smell her perfume. Her hand crept up to his shoulder and her pale fingers
slid under his collar.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Loki
carefully kept himself from shivering.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We
could rule this world together,” Sif whispered into his ear. “We could make the
mortals fear us. You could be a <i>king.</i><span style="font-style: normal;">”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Loki
smiled slowly. “Mm-hmm. And you would be queen, then?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Of
course.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
car’s horn honked far below.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
nodded. “Thanks. But I’d rather not.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sif
smiled triumphantly. Then Loki’s words sank in fully and she jerked away,
glaring at him. “<i>What?!</i><span style="font-style: normal;">”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Loki
turned and walked back to the desk. He picked up a framed photo and looked at
it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m
a trickster, Sif. I let other people make the rules, and then I break them.” He
looked up, his golden eyes meeting Sif’s blue ones. “I may have wanted to rule
once, but not anymore.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sif
stared at him, her hands curled into fists at her sides. “Why not?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Honestly?”
He shrugged. “I’d get bored.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What?”
She blinked. “But…but you’d have power!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
ye-es, but that was more fun in the old days when it was a monarchy.” Loki
tossed the photo aside and leaned against the desk. “These days it would be all
cabinet meetings and bureaucracy and delegating and never getting a break for
tea. I get enough of that <i>here. </i><span style="font-style: normal;">It’s not
worth my time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Besides,”
he continued, “do you really think this would get very far? Odin <i>loves </i><span style="font-style: normal;">humans! Most of the Greek-Romans are pretty fond of
them too! I don’t want to get their bad side. I mean, have you </span><i>seen </i><span style="font-style: normal;">Ares? He’s three times my size and he has a gigantic
sword!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
got on <i>Thor’s</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> bad side plenty of times,
and you’re still here!” snapped Sif. “I daresay Mjolnir’s<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8405273957031837567#_ftn10" name="_ftnref10" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn10;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]-->[10]<!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
worse than any Greek sword!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ah,
but Thor can’t kill me. I’m Odin’s blood brother,” Loki reminded her. “The
Greeks wouldn’t have any problem chopping me into itty-bitty pieces. And
they’ve always been of the stabby<i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">persuasion.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You’re a trickster,” said Sif. “You
could talk your way out of it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,
maybe…” Loki raised an eyebrow. “Tell me, Sif, do you actually have a plan of <i>how
</i><span style="font-style: normal;">you’re doing this?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What?”
Sif hesitated. “Of—of course I do!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Loki
smirked. “Do tell.” <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
hesitated again, searching for words. Then she looked away. “My <i>plan,</i><span style="font-style: normal;">” she snarled, “was to get </span><i>you </i><span style="font-style: normal;">to make a plan. </span><i>You’re </i><span style="font-style: normal;">the bloody trickster.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Loki
nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sif
stared at him. She narrowed her eyes. “These are excuses, Loki. What’s your <i>other
</i><span style="font-style: normal;">reason?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
smiled. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mortals
fascinate me. I mean, look at them, Sif. Yes, they’re changing the stories, but
that just shows how amazing they are. The old ways can’t last forever, so they
change the stories, make up new ones about us.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“My
point is that we haven’t been forgotten.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Some
of us have.” Sif’s voice dripped resentment.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Not
true.” Loki shook his head. “Anyone who looks can find us quite easily on the
internet. But the way that they’ve changed us—it’s a testament to their
ingenuity. Making Thor a superhero, me a supervillain—I think it’s quite
amusing. The humans underestimate each other. The screenwriters and the people
who make comics, they want to keep us alive, but they’re desperately afraid of
rejection. They think their readers won’t be able to understand us. They’re so
scared of making unsuccessful art that they just use whatever’s popular and
insert us into it—in this case, comic books. You can’t take it personally,
Sif—it really says much more about their abysmal attention spans than it does
about you or me.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
clock on the wall ticked. The sound of screeching tires floated up from the
pavement.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Just
to be clear,” Sif said through gritted teeth, “you are saying that you don’t
mind being known as a ranting supervillain.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
some of the fan art is truly disturbing,” Loki mused, “but yes, that’s what I’m
saying.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sif
bent her head in a carefully controlled gesture. “Then I have no more to say to
you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Apparently
not.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sif
turned, her hair whipping behind her, and walked to the door. She opened it and
then paused.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
realize, of course, that I cannot conceal your whereabouts from the Council of
Pantheons. You’re a wanted criminal, after all.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Loki
smirked. “Of course.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
turned and looked at him. Her beautiful face was ugly with hatred.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Look
at you,” Loki said quietly. “You didn’t used to be this resentful. I feel sorry
for you, Sif. Thor’s not the only one who can’t adapt to the times.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
door slammed so hard that the framed forged certificates on the walls shook.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Loki
sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Then he walked to one of the walls and
ran his fingers across its surface. He pressed down and a rune glowed under his
hand. A doorway appeared, revealing a secret closet.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Loki
had been planning his exit from the Tristan Loke Representation Company since
the company’s inception. In the closet were stashed a suitcase full of money,
well over a million dollars in various currencies and jewelry, as well as a
stringed pouch with three sets of passports and drivers’ licenses. Each set had
a different name on them, but all of the photos were of Loki.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Loki
slung the pouch around his neck and tucked it under his shirt. Then he hauled
the suitcase out into his office, shut the door to the secret closet, and took
a piece of chalk out of his desk drawer. He painstakingly drew a rune onto the
suitcase. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
tapped the rune and it glowed. There was a soft <i>pop </i><span style="font-style: normal;">and then the suitcase was the size of a Barbie’s
purse. Loki picked it up and tucked it into his breast pocket. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
walked out of the office and strolled through the lobby. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Are
you going for an early lunch, Mr. Loke?” asked Maggie-Val,<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8405273957031837567#_ftn11" name="_ftnref11" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn11;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]-->[11]<!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
glancing up from her desk as he passed.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yep.
Then I’m taking a walk. I won’t be back for a few hours.” A few hours would be
plenty of time for him to escape.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
knew there would a massive imbroglio when his embezzlement was discovered. It
didn’t bother him. It wasn’t his mess to clean up. That was the way Loki worked
these days: He had his fun and left the nasty bits for someone else to take
care of. It was quite an agreeable way to live.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Loki
walked out of his office. He immediately noticed the two stern-looking
gentlemen across the street. Sif certainly hadn’t wasted any time alerting the
Pantheon Police about his whereabouts. He strolled casually down the street,
stepping into the first dark alley he came to.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Once
he was alone, Loki smoothly shifted shape, going from man to rat in less than
ten seconds. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
took skill to keep his clothes within the shift, but Loki had mastered it long
ago. When he took on human form, his clothes—and the suitcase in his
pocket—would be with him, as well as the new identities.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
common <i>Rattus norvegicus </i><span style="font-style: normal;">skittered down
the street and slipped into the nearest sewer grate, indistinguishable from any
other rat. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="mso-element: footnote-list;">
<!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><br clear="all" />
<hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" />
<!--[endif]-->
<br />
<div id="ftn1" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8405273957031837567#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]-->[1]<!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"> Sif is (or was) Thor’s wife. She used to have long,
beautiful golden hair, but then Loki cut it off as a prank. Thor got extremely
angry and to save his own skin Loki went to some dwarves called the Sons of
Ivaldi and had them make hair out of real gold for Sif, as well as some other
shiny things to apologize to the gods. Loki then made a rather stupid bet with
some other dwarves, saying that the Sons of Ivaldi were the best smiths in the
world. This eventually resulted in Loki’s mouth being sewn shut (because he
lost the bet), but the upside was that the dwarves made Thor’s hammer to prove
Loki wrong.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn2" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8405273957031837567#_ftnref2" name="_ftn2" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn2;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]-->[2]<!--[endif]--></span></span></a> <span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Jotuns=Frost giants. They had a rocky relationship
with the Aesir.</span> <span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">(Aesir=Norse gods.)</span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn3" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8405273957031837567#_ftnref3" name="_ftn3" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn3;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]-->[3]<!--[endif]--></span></span></a> <span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Loki has three children: the Fenris Wolf, the Midgard
Serpent, and Hel. Hel runs the underworld.</span> </div>
</div>
<div id="ftn4" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8405273957031837567#_ftnref4" name="_ftn4" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn4;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]-->[4]<!--[endif]--></span></span></a> <span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Thrud is Sif and Thor’s daughter, and Magni and Modi
are Thor’s sons and Sif’s stepsons. Ull is Sif’s son and Thor’s stepson. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn5" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8405273957031837567#_ftnref5" name="_ftn5" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn5;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]-->[5]<!--[endif]--></span></span></a> <span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Forseti is Baldur’s son. In Asgard, he was the one who
judged disputes among the gods.</span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn6" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8405273957031837567#_ftnref6" name="_ftn6" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn6;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]-->[6]<!--[endif]--></span></span></a> <span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Baldur was the god of light and a very nice guy. <i>Everyone
</i></span><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">loved him. Except for Loki,
apparently, who was responsible for his death. Long story. “The Death of
Baldur” is one of the better-known myths; you can Google it if you like.</span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn7" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8405273957031837567#_ftnref7" name="_ftn7" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn7;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]-->[7]<!--[endif]--></span></span></span></a><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"> Idunn was the caretaker of the Golden Apples of
Immortality. These were what kept the gods alive, since Norse gods are <i>not </i></span><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">immortal and can be killed (like Baldur was). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn8" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8405273957031837567#_ftnref8" name="_ftn8" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn8;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]-->[8]<!--[endif]--></span></span></a> <span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Odin and Loki met before Odin lost his eye and became
wise (‘nother story). Loki was (and still is) a very weird Jotun (or possibly ½
Jotun—there are different versions) in that he’s not huge and ugly. He and Odin
got along well enough that they cut their wrists and let their blood flow
together, making them blood brothers. That’s why none of the Aesir can kill
Loki—he’s their chief’s brother.</span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn9" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8405273957031837567#_ftnref9" name="_ftn9" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn9;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]-->[9]<!--[endif]--></span></span></a> <span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">True story. For once, it wasn’t Loki’s fault. The
story is usually called The Theft of Thor’s Hammer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn10" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8405273957031837567#_ftnref10" name="_ftn10" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn10;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]-->[10]<!--[endif]--></span></span></a> <span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Mjolnir=Thor’s hammer. Pronounced <i>mule-neer.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn11" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8405273957031837567#_ftnref11" name="_ftn11" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn11;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]-->[11]<!--[endif]--></span></span></a> <span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">As in Valkyrie. Valkyries=Norse warrior women who
accompany Odin into battle. </span></div>
</div>
</div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
RowAnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186373604419841682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8405273957031837567.post-73703685131541422852014-10-29T14:23:00.001-07:002014-10-29T14:23:22.809-07:00Ghost Stories<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
following stories are absolutely true.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
old school was haunted. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
was a lot like this school, where we are right now, in that the main building
used to be a house. It had a big staircase that went up one flight of stairs
before coming to a wide landing, where the music teacher’s desk resided, and
splitting into two staircases that both led to the second floor. The third
floor of the building was accessible only by a cramped, narrow back staircase that
wound around from the first floor up. Only the teachers were allowed to use the
main stairway for some reason. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
landing with the music teacher’s desk used to house an organ. Not a body part,
the kind that you play in a church. It was a good spot for one, since the grand
doors of the school opened directly in front of it. In the old days, when the
Scripps family actually lived there, you would have walked in and immediately
seen the organ, if no one was playing it. If someone <i>was </i><span style="font-style: normal;">playing it, you would have heard it before you even
got into the building.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That
organ could be heard from halfway down the block, apparently.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At
least, that’s what the neighbors said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Not
the neighbors who lived there when the Scrippses were alive. No, these were the
neighbors who habitually complained about their driveways being blocked by
parents’ cars, the neighbors who walked past the sign saying <i>Pasadena
Waldorf School </i><span style="font-style: normal;">every day. The neighbors who
still live there now.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One
of the staff members was dealing with a nieghbor issue one summer day (when
school was not in session) when a woman whose backyard was just over the
school’s fence commented on the music. “By the way, who is it playing the organ
over there? I always hear them around three o’clock when I’m gardening.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
staff member was puzzled. “We don’t have an organ anymore…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
the late Mr. Scripps had always practiced at three o’clock.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
eight-grade teacher told us that story once, simply to make us shiver. But my
mother was the administrator of the school for several years, and she has ghost
stories of her own to tell. For instance, once she and another staff member—a
woman named Mrs. Ward—were in the Finance office on the third floor. They could
hear a voice from the adjacent office outside, very clearly, although they
couldn’t actually distinguish the words. The voice was definitely audible, but
when Mom and Mrs. Ward went to see who was there…they realized that they were
quite alone. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Or
rather, they were the only <i>living</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> people
there. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
neighbors weren’t even the only people to hear the organ. Mr. Baier, one of the
sports teachers and a member of the administrative staff, heard it when he was
down in the basement of the school, clear as anything.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
the most frightening supernatural event? That occurred at night, when the
school <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>was
being readied for the coming day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
cleaning crew always worked at night. I can’t remember ever actually seeing
them; they simply weren’t there during the day. But after that night, my mother
had to find someone else to clean the building, because they weren’t coming
back. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They
were in the main house, vacuuming, dusting, polishing, doing whatever they
needed to do before heading home, when one of the men went into the handwork
room to dust the windowsills.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
handwork room sat at the front of the building. The windows overlooked the
lawn, and yellow shafts of light cut patterns across the darkened carpet. It
had once been a bedroom, but now it was used to teach students how to sew and
knit. A shelf of half-finished stuffed animals perched above a shelf of
half-finished cloth dolls, casting weird, twisted shadows in what little yellow
light there was.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
in the room…stood a figure. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
seemed male, the maintenance man was sure of that. It was tall, and dark, and he
felt a distinct <i>aura </i><span style="font-style: normal;">drifting from it.
It wasn’t a nice aura like you’d get off of a kind, gentle person. No, this
aura was…malevolent. Evil. Cruel. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
cleaning crew left so fast that no one bothered to turn out the lights. The
doors were left unlocked in their haste to get away, the gate unbolted. It was
lucky that nobody chose that night to break into the school, because they would
have had an easy time of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
whole affair was kept rather quiet. I would not have heard about it if it
wasn’t for my mother. But that cleaning crew…they never, <i>ever </i><span style="font-style: normal;">came back. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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RowAnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186373604419841682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8405273957031837567.post-245387707903643282014-10-17T19:52:00.003-07:002014-10-17T19:52:57.874-07:00Haiku<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
One hundred page views<br />
Such an honor it is to<br />
Have one's writing read.</div>
RowAnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186373604419841682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8405273957031837567.post-34629841851903324292014-10-17T00:00:00.000-07:002014-10-17T09:14:22.783-07:00The Adventure of the Homicidal Automatons, Part the Last<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Last chapter! Thank you for reading! Let me know in the comments if you'd be interested in a sequel...<br />
<br />
This is a Sherlock Holmes story I wrote a few years ago, set in an alternate London where the British Empire expanded into the reaches of outer space. This chapter wraps up the story. Scroll to the end for chapter list.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Four days later, at twelve o’clock,
I dictated the following to MRS Hudson:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>My
dear Miss Morstan,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Would
it be convenient for me to pay a call to your shop at three o’clock? I no
longer trust Holmes to re-install the dagger, throwing knife and scalpel in my
arm. Thank you for your kindness and generosity.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sincerely,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dr.
John Watson<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
gave it to a message boy, expecting that it would be delivered within an hour
or two. I was quite surprised when, contrary to my expectations, the lovely
Miss Morstan decided that she would rather come to me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
hope I am not unwelcome,” she said with a smile. “I was paying another house
call in the neighborhood and realized that it would be more convenient for both
of us if I simply came here.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“My
dear lady, you are always welcome here,” I stated warmly. Holmes, absorbed in
tinkering with an Id, merely grunted. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Miss
Morstan sat me down at the table and began to take my arm apart. “I confess I
have another motive as well. I should very much like to hear the conclusion to
the case of the Venusian Lubricant. There were a number of loose ends and I
would like to know how they were tied up.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
removed his goggles and sat down in his armchair, reaching for his pipe. “Ah
yes,” he said. “Most interesting.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i><span style="font-style: normal;">He
described to her the wrappings-up of the case. The scientist lackey, McGrath,
had been arrested on the spot. The carriage-driver, still in the hospital, was
under questioning, although Holmes was required to pay his hospital fees. (At
this point Miss Morstan expressed sincere sympathy—she herself had been forced
to repair, or rather rebuild, the mechanical coach </span><i>pro bono </i><span style="font-style: normal;">and had lost the business of its owner.) The crown
had been safely returned to its case, and the security around it doubled. A
team of the Queen’s scientists was working on refining the Venusian Lubricant
so that it would no longer be susceptible to villainous signals, using the
mastermind’s invention in their research. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
then revealed something he had not yet told me: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
went to question McGrath yesterday afternoon.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
sat up. “I thought he would not speak.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
questioned him further. At first he was belligerent and would not answer my
queries, but when I said that I could have significant influence over his trial
if he would cooperate, he revealed some very useful information. He told me the
name of his employer.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Miss
Morstan and I both leaned forward. “What is it?” she asked. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
sat back, smoke curling from his pipe. “He said it was ‘Moriarty’.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There
was a silence broken only by the small clanks of Miss Morstan’s tools against
my arm.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Moriarty,”
she murmured, a small frown on her delicate features. “I suppose you’ve
investigated already?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
haven’t found very much yet,” admitted Holmes. “James Moriarty was once a
professor of considerable mathematical ability at -------- University. He left
just over two years ago and nothing has since been heard of him. That is all
that I have learned so far. I shall, of course, keep searching, but I believe
that our professor has well and truly escaped. By this time he may be halfway
to Venus.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“In
any case, we should keep up the search for a way of refining the Lubricant,”
said Miss Morstan. “I think the ideal thing would be to render the oil so that
only signals from the metal it contacts directly may be transmitted. Perhaps
putting a sample through a Jovian Percolator along with some Aphros seeds would
do the trick?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
two began one of their technical discussions that I have such difficulty
following, but soon Miss Morstan had finished with my arm. She left nearly an
hour later, after taking a very pleasant tea with us.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
a very attractive woman!” I exclaimed, watching from the window as she hailed a
cab and stepped smartly inside.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Is
she?” replied Holmes. “I did not observe.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
really are an automaton—a calculating machine,” I said. “I think that even MRS
Hudson has more of an emotional range.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The
only way in which Miss Morstan is remarkable is her intellect,” remarked my
companion. “Indeed, it is almost comparable to a man’s.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Above
that of most men, I think.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Impossible.
For all her intelligence, she is still a woman, and as such she is weak and in
need of protection.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
looked at my companion, both irritated and resigned. Then a small smile
twitched my mouth. “I think she will surprise you, Holmes. I think that she
will surprise both of us.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Then
you think we shall see her again?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“In
our hunt for Moriarty? Certainly. She is tenacious enough that she will wish to
assist us, and force us to allow her to. And besides,” I said with a smile, “I
shall need her to repair my arm, shall I not?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Thanks for reading! And keep checking back for the next serial...</div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
RowAnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186373604419841682noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8405273957031837567.post-64263318258646263062014-10-16T11:31:00.000-07:002014-10-16T11:31:12.335-07:00The Ursine Incident<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I wrote this in eighth grade and rewrote it in tenth. I think it still holds up decently. I'll probably come back to these characters eventually.<br />
<br />
<b>The Ursine Incident</b><br />
<br />
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">The first
time I saw Stephen, he painted a hex sign on my arm, and I couldn’t move my
fingers for three hours. It was a rather impressive hex, for an eight-year-old
boy. I don’t know where he’d learned it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The second time I saw
him he broke my broom in half. I had just got it and I had been showing it off.
It was in the corner and he tripped over it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
you may have been able to tell, we didn’t like each other very much. Stephen
thought I was an annoying know-it-all, and I considered him incredibly spoiled.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Being
the children of best friends did not help us avoid each other. Every month or
so our parents would have a dinner party (usually at his house) and we would be
forced into the same room for several hours. We generally pretended to get
along while the adults were watching and ignored each other for the rest of the
time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Until
the Ursine Incident, that is.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Before
I tell you about this, I just want to say that it was entirely Stephen’s idea. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This
particular Incident took place when I was eleven and Stephen, being two weeks
younger, was ten. It was at the monthly-or-so dinner party. We had set up the
Monopoly board and were now reading different books in opposite corners when
Stephen spoke. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hey,
Candace,” he said, “there’s a very good spell in this book I’m reading. Want to
try it out in the Dungeon?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Stephen
had never asked me to do anything before (I don’t count requests to shut up)
and I was immediately suspicious. “Stephen Parker, what are you up to? Let me
see that!” I marched over and wrestled the book from him. After finding the
page he’d been on, I scanned it and snapped, “Nice try, Stephen, but there is
no way you’re turning me into a tree toad.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Who
said anything about turning <i>you </i></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">into a tree toad? I was thinking of…erm…Libby,” said
Stephen unconvincingly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Libby
was Stephen’s eight-year-old sister, and I happened to know two things about
her: firstly, she and Stephen got along remarkably well, much better than most
siblings; and secondly, she preferred to spend the night at a friend’s house
whenever my sister and I came over. (Smart girl.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,
right,” I said, rolling my eyes, but then a thought stuck me. “Stephen…what
about Marcia?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Marcia,
then seven, was my aforementioned sister. She really <i>was </i></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">a brat. Stephen, Libby and I all
hated her. She was whiny, selfish, and very, very annoying. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Say,
that’s not bad! Where is she?” exclaimed Stephen, his eyes lighting up. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Last
time I saw her she was in your playroom,” I said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We got up and crept down to the Parkers’
playroom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Another
thing I should probably mention about the Parkers: They’re rich. They used to
live in England, so they all have accents, but now they live in this big house
on Walker Hill. Stephen has a playroom and a computer and more toys than he and
Libby can keep track of. It’s part of what makes him so annoying. I live in a
decent middle-class house on Allen Avenue, but whenever I come to the Parkers,
I feel very poor indeed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Marcia
was indeed in the playroom. She was kneeling on the floor giving one of Libby’s
Barbie dolls a tattoo with a black Sharpie. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
playroom had two doors, one at either end. I stayed at one and Stephen went to
the other. From across the room I saw him hold up three fingers. He lowered
one, then two, and then we pounced. Marcia didn’t even have time to shriek
before she was bundled up with thick yarn from the playroom wound around her
ankles and my sweater over her head like a burlap sack. I threw her over my
shoulder and, ignoring her muffled cries, we headed down to the Dungeon. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
Dungeon isn’t actually as scary as it sounds. Rather than being a place where
one tortures and eventually kills poor hopeless prisoners, with rats scurrying
across the floor and twittering in the corners, it is simply the space where
Stephen’s father makes potions and experiments with various combinations of
magical substances. He has a job in the research department of the Catalyst
University. The Dungeon is basically his home office, nicknamed as it is
because it is located beneath the house and has stone walls. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
hoped we weren’t disturbing anything in progress. The floor had some smudged
chalk on it and high on the walls were shelves with books, bottles and vials.
“Put her down here,” said Stephen, indicating the middle of a large pentacle
that had been painted on the floor. I unceremoniously dumped my sister to the
ground. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Candace
Winsley, I <i>hate </i></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">you!”
Marcia shrieked, thrashing until she dislodged the sweater from her face. “Let
me out of here RIGHT NOW!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
tied my sweater across her mouth and turned back to Stephen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay,
so now…?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Now
we encircle her with butterfly dust and read the incantation. Then we throw in
some salamander blood and stand well back,” said Stephen, scanning the page. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ll
do the dust, you do the incantation.” I grabbed a vial labeled <span style="font-variant: small-caps;">Butterfly Dust </span>off of one of the
shelves. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No
good, they have to be done by the same person,” said Stephen, holding out the
book. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And
that person can’t be <i>you </i></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">because…?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“She’s
<i>your </i></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">sister.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
sighed, but I really did want to try doing magic. We’re not supposed to at
home. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
took the book and flipped through the pages for a few moments until Stephen
irritably said, “Will you get <i>on </i></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">with it?” Then I glared at him and started circling Marcia,
letting the dust pour out of the vial in a circle around her and saying,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<span style="font-variant: small-caps;">Salamander blood and butterfly’s rot,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-variant: small-caps; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Change
this boy/girl (delete where applic—</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">wait a minute, that <i>can’t</i></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> be right.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Don’t
say that part!” said Stephen, far too late to stop me. I made a move to start
over, but he cried, “No! Keep going! We can’t mess it up any more or I don’t
know <i>what </i></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">will
happen!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
was having some serious doubts, but I picked up:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<span style="font-variant: small-caps;">Change this girl to what she’s not.”</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
repeated it three times, this time omitting the words “boy” and “delete where
applicable.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
now know that if we had stopped there, the magic would have hung around for a
few hours before turning into sludge. Stephen’s father would have found it the
next day and cleaned it up before giving Stephen a lecture, and Marcia would have
ratted me out to my parents, but that would have been preferable to what
actually happened. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Maybe
it was the misread incantation and the interruption. Maybe it was the smudged
symbols on the floor. It was probably all of the above. But whatever it was,
when we threw the salamander blood into the pentacle, we didn’t wind up with a
tree toad. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
wound up with an extremely irate bear cub. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
first thought: Oops. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Stephen
let out a very high-pitched scream and bolted for the door. I took a few nervous
steps back. “Nice bear cub,” I said tentatively. “Niiiice Marcia…” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
bear cub growled. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
rapidly assessed the situation and ran for it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
had never run so fast before, although I think I have since. Marcia, being on
four legs, had the advantage on the stairs. I burst out into the house a few
steps ahead of her and tore down the hall, the bear cub that was my sister
lolloping after me. With a crash, she knocked down a small table with an
expensive-looking vase on it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Stephen’s
father ran out into the hall, with Father and Mother close behind him. Stephen
was clinging to his mother’s skirt. “There she is!” he yelled. I wondered if he
meant the bear cub or me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Stephen’s
father made a quick, complicated gesture with his left hand. “<i>Rapio rationis
restorant,</i></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">” he
said calmly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There
was a soft explosion and a cloud of grey smoke, which cleared to reveal human
Marcia running after me. She stopped and stamped her foot. “Darn it! That was
so much fun!” She burst into tears. “Why’d you have to do that!” she shrieked. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Mother
hurried over and gathered Marcia into her arms, shooting me an evil look. I
heard Stephen’s father rebuking him: “What on <i>earth </i></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">were you thinking? You <i>know </i></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">you’re not allowed in the Dungeon!
And why a bear?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
told you, Dad! We were <i>trying </i></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">for a <i>tree toad!</i></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">” Stephen said, exasperated. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Mother
was trying to soothe Marcia with little success. “We’d better go,” she said. “I
think Marcia’s had a long night.” She shot me with another evil look, one that
promised Death and Disembowelment and No Dessert. “I’m <i>so </i></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">sorry about this.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Stephen’s
mother reassured her that it was all right, no harm no foul (she hadn’t noticed
the vase), and she’d call later. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
we headed for the door, Stephen caught my eye. He grinned and winked at me. I
raised an eyebrow, and then we left. </span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
RowAnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186373604419841682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8405273957031837567.post-65129909191060321222014-10-15T00:00:00.000-07:002014-10-16T11:34:21.375-07:00The Adventure of the Homicidal Automatons, Part the Eighth<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Sorry for the late update. I was visiting colleges and didn't have time to publish it earlier.<br />
<br />
And now, the penultimate chapter of our exciting adventure!<br />
<br />
This is a Sherlock Holmes story I wrote a few years ago, set in an alternate London where the British Empire expanded into the reaches of outer space. Will be posted in chapters on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Scroll to the end for chapter list.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“Are you quite certain this is a
good idea?” I whispered to Holmes at eleven o’clock that night.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
shushed me and peered into the darkness. It was a cold, foggy night, and I
shivered as I pressed myself flat against the outer wall of Buckingham Palace.
I flexed my mechanical fingers nervously and foolishly wished that Miss Morstan
had accompanied us. But no, I chided myself, it was better that she, a fragile
woman, remain in her home during this most dangerous operation, although it had
taken Holmes and myself the better part of two hours to convince her so. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Beside
me, I sensed Holmes tilting his head. “Something is wrong,” he whispered.
“Where are the guards? There should have been a patrol just now.” My friend
hastened towards the gates of the palace, with me hot at his heels. The
entrance to the palace itself was alarming in its complete lack of guards. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
raced through, halting just beyond the mighty gates. I heard cries and the
sounds of vigorous fighting coming from the courtyard. Holmes started once
again for the mighty building. “That is merely a distraction. Quick, Watson!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
ran into the darkened palace and dashed through several rooms. Holmes stopped
and held out his hand. “Watson, do you feel anything odd in your arm?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
looked at it and flexed it. “No.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Good.
The device I constructed is working, then.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
mean the device Miss Morstan constructed.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
grimaced and motioned for silence. The device in question was clipped to my
upper arm, to prevent it from receiving any signals besides those from my
shoulder. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
journeyed through those royal halls, Holmes padding silently and me keeping as
quiet as seemed humanly possible. Holmes led the way, suddenly breaking into a
sprint as we neared our villain’s target. He burst through the door to the
anteroom of the jewel case, his modified revolver in hand. “The game is up!” he
cried, but then he started, frowning, for there was no villain to be seen. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
perceived motion in the corner of the room and cried out. In the next moment, a
MAID had flung itself upon Holmes and two more were advancing towards myself. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
pulled out my revolver and, seeing no other option, shot one of the unfortunate
robots through the cranium. It sputtered down in a grinding of gears, but the
other was still wheeling towards me at an alarming speed. I ducked as it aimed
a deadly blow at my head and I knocked it over to the side where it struggled
to stand. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Suddenly
I felt the gears in my arm move against my will. But this time the gears
stopped when I commanded them to. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Villain!”
I cried. “Your foul device will not work a second time!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We
shall see,” responded a deep voice, and the gears once again moved.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
appeared that Miss Morstan’s device did not work <i>quite </i><span style="font-style: normal;">as well as we had hoped. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Exerting
all my will to stop my arm from moving, I ran to help Holmes but was hampered
by the MAID I had knocked down, which had regained its balance. The subsequent
skirmish was made all the more difficult for me by the fact that I was also
struggling to keep my arm under control. I glimpsed Holmes grappling now with
the other human in the room but I was unable to give him aid; indeed, I would
have welcomed aid myself. Battling mechanical servants while one’s arm is
disabled is nothing to laugh at. Two more MAIDs had joined the first three, one
helping Holmes’s adversary and one joining me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>While
Holmes held his own, I must confess that I was overwhelmed. One of the MAIDs
pinned me to the floor while the other raised the large pike it held, obtained
from I know not where, and prepared to stab me through the heart. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Helpless,
I braced myself for the deadly blow. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
heard a small noise from the doorway and the MAID holding the pike abruptly
jerked, cogs grinding unpleasantly as it underwent a conflict of intentions.
The pike imbedded itself in the floor just to the right of my head and in
broken tones the robot said, “Commen/men/mencing emergency/cy
shutdown/own/own.” Its head dropped to its chest and a click signified its
death. The MAID that had been holding me to the ground rolled neatly to its
feet and began straightening the debris of its comrades. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
clambered to my feet and was glad to see that the MAID fighting Holmes had also
desisted, allowing him to gain the upper hand on the human villain. Then,
turning to the doorway, I beheld a most astonishing spectacle: Miss Morstan
stood there, a shining rectangular device crackling with energy in her gloved
hands!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Miss
Morstan!” I cried. “How have you come to be here?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Watson!”
Holmes, having rendered his foe unconscious, raced for the room beyond the
anteroom we stood in. Miss Morstan followed him and I her, but Holmes abruptly
halted in the doorway.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Too
late!” he cried, and indeed, the case containing the crown jewels had been
smashed and the crown itself taken! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How
is that possible?” I exclaimed. “We halted the villain in the anteroom!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That
was not the mastermind, merely the minion,” said Holmes grimly, running back
into the corridors of the palace. “He held us off while his master got clean away
in the commotion!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Leaving
his henchman to the mercy of the guards,” commented Miss Morstan. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
turned and stared at her. “What are <i>you </i><span style="font-style: normal;">doing
here?” he asked, incredulous. “You were told to stay at home!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Would
you prefer it if I had not come when I realized that Doctor Watson’s device
could not possibly block the signals at close range?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
are female! You should not have come!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“If
I had done as I was told, Watson would be <i>dead</i><span style="font-style: normal;">!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“She
<i>did </i><span style="font-style: normal;">save my life,” I admitted
reluctantly. Holmes looked at me in astonishment before shaking his head and
running towards the palace entrance. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
were waylaid by the guards, who had stopped fighting each other and run to see
what the commotion was. Holmes took charge. “Quick!” he cried, “the villain went
this way!” Dodging their confused questions, he dashed into the street. Miss
Morstan and I followed with a few apologies and promises of a later
explanation. I do not think the guards considered this sufficient, but they
were disorganized enough to allow us to slip away. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
immediately lit upon a piece of fresh manure as evidence of which way the
mastermind had made his escape. He glanced about the street and rushed to a
mechanical coach that was parked by the palace wall. “Morstan! Open this!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Miss
Morstan hurried to unlock it, having the key in her pocket. I now recognized
the coach as the same one she had been repairing when we first met. Holmes
climbed into the driver’s seat and released the brake. The coach began rolling
forward incrementally. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Miss
Morstan joined Holmes in the seat to his left, while I sat in the back. The
mechanic frowned at my friend as he grasped the vehicle’s tiller. “You <i>do </i><span style="font-style: normal;">know how to drive a mechanical coach, Mr. Holmes,
don’t you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It
can’t be all that different from a traditional one,” said Holmes, stomping on
the accelerator. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
old mechanical coaches were, as I have mentioned, extremely difficult to drive.
They had a tendency to weave from side to side on the road, and they were
steered by means of a tiller, which made turning the contraption disobliging
and dangerous. To my knowledge, Holmes had never attempted to steer one before.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
coach shot forward, throwing us back into our seats. I dearly wished for
something to secure myself with, but the wretched thing had no safety harnesses
or anything of the like. I was reduced to clinging desperately to the side of
the carriage as we raced through London at dangerous speeds. The few nighttime
passersby leapt out of the way as we passed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
jerked the tiller far too hard as we barreled into a square. The coach spun,
the wheels screeching and throwing up sparks. The noise of the engine was so
loud as to be nearly intolerable. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“For
God’s sake, Mr. Holmes, let me drive!” cried Miss Morstan, clutching her seat
so as not to be flung out. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No!
I am getting the hang of it,” growled the detective, pounding the accelerator.
Between bouncing from the cobbles and trying not to let my dinner resurface, I
caught sight of a regular coach ahead of us.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Slow
down!” shrieked Miss Morstan. “You’ll kill someone!” A street urchin proved her
point by diving for cover, barely avoided near-certain death. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
carriage ahead was at full gallop now. It swung around a corner and Holmes
followed, throwing us into the doors. We were now running near the Thames,
which drove my panic to greater heights. Dying was not something I wished to do
that night, and falling into the Thames would mean my certain demise, weighed
down as I am by my arm. I noticed at this point an alarming rattle coming from
the left side of the carriage. Peering as best I could in the dark and bumpy
ride, I got an impression of the problem: One of the wheels was loosening.
“HOLMES! CAUTION! PLEASE!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
were going at full tilt now, far faster that the vehicle had ever been meant to
travel. The tyreless wheels caught at every cobblestone, jostling us wildly and
increasing the difficulty of steering for Holmes. I saw the carriage ahead of
us suddenly turn down a side street. Holmes cursed as we shot past, unable to
risk turning. “Never mind!” he cried, “they must follow the river. They are
merely trying to—”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ahead
of us, a cab and four trotted into the middle of the road. Holmes slammed his
foot on the brake, but the mechanical coach did not stop until it was not six
feet from the horses, screeching unpleasantly. Glancing at the wheel, I saw
that it was almost off. I tried to warn Holmes, but before I could speak he
once again accelerated. The coach rocketed forward, pedestrians running. It was
truly a miracle that we injured no one during that terrible ride. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
few streets later, once again a coach came in front of us. But this time,
instead of braking, Holmes pressed the accelerator. My head snapped back and I
was unable to see what was happening for a few moments, but Miss Morstan
explained later that the horses spooked and reared, about to bolt. Miss Morstan
instinctively threw Holmes aside and stamped on the brakes. The mechanical
coach screamed, the loose wheel finally detached, and our vehicle skidded
around several times before slamming into the side of the carriage, knocking it
clear over on its side. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
am quite sure that none of us would have survived had Miss Morstan not had the
presence of mind to cry “Jump!” as she deployed the brakes. Holmes and I leapt
over the sides onto the cobbles, with Miss Morstan following a moment later. I
therefore was able to watch the fearful crash not as a victim, but as an
observer. The driver of the carriage was not quite so lucky, but he too lived.
He was thrown off his seat and one of his legs was caught under the toppled
carriage, cleanly breaking the bone. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
picked ourselves up off the pavement once the two vehicles had ceased movement,
besides that of the panicked horse, dragged down onto its side but not
seriously injured. Holmes ran to the fallen traditional carriage. He wrenched
the door open and gave a cry of anger. Looking over his shoulder, I saw that
the carriage was completely empty. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Holmes,
do not tell me that this was the wrong carriage!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It
was the correct carriage, but our foe was wily, Watson. He leapt out in the
backstreets and is even now making his way down the Thames! There is no chance
of catching him now! I should have seen it immediately!” Holmes groaned and
turned away from the coach in disgust. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hearing
cries from the bystanders, I hurried to help the fallen driver of the
traditional coach. Finding that his injuries, although serious, would heal
easily, I called out for someone to summon an ambulance. Holmes and Miss
Morstan were, meanwhile, climbing about the fallen vehicles, examining them. It
was Miss Morstan who, climbing inside the carriage, gave a cry of surprise.
“Mr. Holmes! Look at this!” she cried, holding up a bag which evidently carried
something angular and heavy. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
ran to her side and, snatching the bag and reaching inside, brought forth the
Crown itself!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Aha!”
he cried, “our pirate has left his prize! He could not safely jump from the
carriage while carrying it, so he sacrificed his treasure for the sake of his
own well-being! Well done, Miss Morstan!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At
that moment, the ambulance which I had requisitioned arrived. I will spare the
gentle reader an account of the questions and answers that followed, the
lectures Holmes received from the police, and the arrest of the carriage driver
except to say that Miss Morstan and I solemnly swore to each other never to let
Holmes behind the tiller of any vehicle at any time in the future, no matter
what the circumstances. We had most thoroughly learned our lessons.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
One chapter to go...<br />
<br />
<a href="http://rowanboookwormmusings.blogspot.com/2014/10/the-adventure-of-homicidal-automatons.html" target="_blank">Part One</a><br />
<a href="http://rowanboookwormmusings.blogspot.com/2014/10/the-adventure-of-homicidal-automatons_3.html" target="_blank">Part Two</a><br />
<a href="http://rowanboookwormmusings.blogspot.com/2014/10/the-adventure-of-homicidal-automatons_6.html" target="_blank">Part Three</a><br />
<a href="http://rowanboookwormmusings.blogspot.com/2014/10/the-adventure-of-homicidal-automatons_8.html" target="_blank">Parts Four and Five</a><br />
<a href="http://rowanboookwormmusings.blogspot.com/2014/10/the-adventure-of-homicidal-automatons_10.html" target="_blank">Part Six</a><br />
<a href="http://rowanboookwormmusings.blogspot.com/2014/10/the-adventure-of-homicidal-automatons_13.html" target="_blank">Part Seven</a><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
RowAnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186373604419841682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8405273957031837567.post-78567050833193958472014-10-13T09:38:00.000-07:002014-10-16T11:35:16.077-07:00The Adventure of the Homicidal Automatons, Part the Seventh<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;">This is a Sherlock Holmes story I wrote a few years ago, set in an alternate London where the British Empire expanded into the reaches of outer space. Will be posted in chapters on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Scroll to the end for chapter list.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
I reentered the shop, paper bag in
hand, to hear Miss Morstan’s voice. She sounded exasperated and frazzled. “All
right, let’s start again. I think we must have missed something.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
and Holmes were seated near the table, which was completely strewn with the
various shiny pieces that made up the MAID and my poor arm. I joined them,
setting the sandwiches down. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We
know that we’re looking for something capable of receiving transmissions,”
continued Miss Morstan. “We know that, whatever it is, it has something in
common not only to these devices but to the majority of all mechanical
objects.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We
do not know why our foe wants to build such an odious transmitter in the first
place,” I contributed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
shrugged. “With such a machine the man could bring London—indeed, all of
Britain, and Mars and Venus besides—to their knees. But yes, Watson, you do
have a point—there is most likely a specific purpose to this fiendishness.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Miss
Morstan ran her hand over her hair. “Could the man have been exaggerating the
reach of his device to you?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Watson
and I witnessed the effects first-hand. I suspect our man may be working on a
device larger than the one he carries with him, meant to control robots at a
greater range.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Miss
Morstan frowned. “That would be very difficult, but if we know how he does it
we may be able to stop it. What exactly was he stealing?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
believe he took the late Professor Spence’s research on the transmission of
signals through etheric sound and frequency. I cannot say what he took from
Professor Sadd, although the fellow was an expert in both physics and Martian
biology.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,
there were quite a few Martian artifacts in that house, weren’t there? He even
had a few Aphros Trees,” I commented.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Miss
Morstan smiled. “That must have been handy for him, to keep his robots
running.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Such
a thought would, of course, occur first and foremost to a mechanic. I was about
to respond when Holmes suddenly interjected, “Wait. What did you say?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It
must have been handy for him to have the trees and the lubricant for his
robots,” repeated Miss Morstan. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Physics,”
murmured Holmes. “Mechanics. He had the trees—” My friend leapt to his feet.
“Morstan! Do you have VL here?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“There’s
a tub of it over there,” said Miss Morstan, frowning. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
dashed to the tub and scooped out a cup of VL. Setting it on the workbench, he
snatched up something that looked rather like a miniature tesla coil, snapped
on his goggles, aimed it at the VL, and, looking rather like the mad scientists
one frequently finds inhabiting sanitariums, started the device in his hands so
that it crackled with electricity. The VL suddenly flashed and sparks danced
over it, sending electrical currents into its center.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s
it!” Miss Morstan cried. “The receiver and conductor of the signals <i>is the
Venusian Lubricant itself</i><span style="font-style: normal;">!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Having
finally grasped Holmes’s discovery, I was aghast. “But every machine in London
uses VL!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Exactly,”
said Holmes grimly. He turned the electrical device off and raised his goggles.
“All of England is prey to that mad, inspired fiend’s foul device!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
paced nervously about the room while Miss Morstan repaired my arm and I sat and
watched him. I was gratified to see Holmes open the bag I had brought back from
the Cat and Fiddle. My efforts had not gone <i>entirely</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> to waste. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Miss
Morstan was reconstructing the inner workings of my arm. “If I had a machine
like that and no moral standards, the first thing I would…” She stopped, her
eyes wide. “He can commit any crime and no one will realize it is him.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We
have already established that,” snapped Holmes. “Our foe can do anything in any
house where robots…” He looked at Miss Morstan. “Yesterday, you said something
about the MAID we brought in. What was it?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Miss
Morstan frowned in concentration. “I believe I merely stated that I had heard
it was a good model. New, but the Queen herself has—”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Buckingham
Palace!” Holmes cried out. “If I had that sort of machine and no ethical
standards to stop me, the first thing I would accomplish would be the robbery
of Buckingham Palace! Oh, imagine the fame! The notoriety it would bring!” He
spun to face us. “And our villain is certainly the type who wishes for
acclaim.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Miss
Morstan fastened the outside structure and returned my arm to me. Anger,
nervous tension and a prior knowledge of what to expect seemed to have sped her
work. “Well, Mr. Holmes, surely all that is now required is to warn Buckingham
Palace and keep a close watch on the crown jewels.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“If
only it were that simple,” murmured Holmes. “Our foe has the perfect way of
infiltration. He shall not be caught unless—” He straightened, a new light
coming to his eyes, and turned to us. Miss Morstan and I looked at him
expectantly. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sherlock
Holmes smiled. “I have a plan.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br />
<a href="http://rowanboookwormmusings.blogspot.com/2014/10/the-adventure-of-homicidal-automatons.html" target="_blank">Part One</a><br />
<a href="http://rowanboookwormmusings.blogspot.com/2014/10/the-adventure-of-homicidal-automatons_3.html" target="_blank">Part Two</a><br />
<a href="http://rowanboookwormmusings.blogspot.com/2014/10/the-adventure-of-homicidal-automatons_6.html" target="_blank">Part Three</a><br />
<a href="http://rowanboookwormmusings.blogspot.com/2014/10/the-adventure-of-homicidal-automatons_8.html" target="_blank">Parts Four and Five</a><br />
<a href="http://rowanboookwormmusings.blogspot.com/2014/10/the-adventure-of-homicidal-automatons_10.html" target="_blank">Part Six</a><br />
<a href="http://rowanboookwormmusings.blogspot.com/2014/10/the-adventure-of-homicidal-automatons_15.html" target="_blank">Part Eight</a></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
RowAnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186373604419841682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8405273957031837567.post-27176073435909492842014-10-12T21:50:00.002-07:002014-10-12T21:51:03.219-07:00The Hitchhiker's Tale<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
was just my luck that my car broke down on a deserted rural road in the middle
of the night. Moreover, my cell phone was absolutely drained, preventing me
from calling a cab. Fortunately it was a warm night, but that didn’t change the
fact that I was squarely in between Danville, where my plane had landed, and
Littlestown, where the mythology conference was. I was to present a paper on
the symbolism behind Loki’s imprisonment the next morning, and I could not be
late. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That
was what prompted me to stick my thumb out when the headlights snaked down the
road ten minutes later. Inadvisable, I know, but I was desperate. It was almost
thirty miles to Littlestown. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
headlights turned out not to belong to a car, but a pickup truck. It pulled
over and the driver, a ginger-haired boy in maybe his late teens or early
twenties, leaned out of the window. “Hey, you want a ride?” he called amiably.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Thanks.”
I got into the front seat, settling my briefcase under my knees. The car was, I
had noticed, badly dented and scraped in several places.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Where
are you headed?” asked the boy, pulling back onto the road and glancing at me
curiously. I must have been quite an atypical hitchhiker: a thin man with
academic glasses and a briefcase, wandering the empty roads at midnight.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Littlestown,”
I told him. “I’m on my way to an academic conference on mythology. I specialize
in the Prose Edda, you know.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh
yeah? I haven’t heard of that,” said the boy, a smile tugging on the corner of
his mouth. “I don’t get out much, though.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
about you?” I asked. “What brings you to this stretch of road so late at
night?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Me?”
He shrugged. “I just like driving.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
thought struck me and I chuckled. “This is like something out of an urban
legend. When I get to Littlestown and describe you, someone will tell me that
you died ten years ago and still keep driving around picking up hitchhikers.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Twenty-three,
actually,” said the boy, turning the wheel slightly as the road curved.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
frowned. “Twenty-three what?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It
was twenty-three years ago,” he explained, “not ten.” He glanced at me,
deadpan.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
laughed and after a moment his mouth quirked upwards and he laughed with me.
“Nah, I kid,” he said, checking the rearview mirror. “So tell me—what do you do
for fun?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
drive took less than half an hour, and the boy, who introduced himself as Asa
Baker, let me out beside the hotel. I walked into the lobby and called in my
reservation, planning to rescue my car the next day (or rather, that
afternoon—it was one-forty-five a.m. when I got to the hotel). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After
I presented my paper, I got a ride from one of my colleagues, a woman who
taught creative writing at Littlestown University and had presented a paper on
story tropes. When I told her where my car was, she stared at me in confusion
and said, “How on earth did you get all the way here in time for the
conference?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
told her that a young man called Asa Baker had picked me up and brought me to
the hotel, and she looked at me with half-lowered eyelids.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“My
students put you up to this, didn’t they,” she said. It wasn’t a question.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
do you mean?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Asa
Baker. He’s one of the more popular urban legends around here. He was a
nineteen-year-old farm worker who died in a freak road accident
twenty-something years ago. People say he drives around in his pickup truck and
offers hitchhikers rides. My students are always joking about meeting him on a
dark road in the middle of the night.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
stared at her. “You’re kidding.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nope.”
She raised an eyebrow. “So how’d you really get here?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But…”
I shook my head. “My God, he wasn’t joking. He actually wasn’t joking.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Who
wasn’t joking?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Asa
Baker. It really was twenty-three years!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
RowAnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186373604419841682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8405273957031837567.post-89463000034967547492014-10-10T09:37:00.000-07:002014-10-13T14:35:12.840-07:00The Adventure of the Homicidal Automatons, Part the Sixth<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;">Sorry about the slightly late update. I had minor technical difficulties.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;">This is a Sherlock Holmes story I wrote a few years ago, set in an alternate London where the British Empire expanded into the reaches of outer space. Will be posted in chapters on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Scroll to the end for chapter list.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Morstan’s Master Mechanics was
slightly neater than it had been the previous day, especially since the mechanical
coach was now absent. I believe that Miss Morstan wanted to make as good an
impression on Holmes as possible. She listened attentively as he described the
events of the previous night, then said, “Well, then, perhaps the most sensible
way to go about this would be to examine both the robot and Doctor Watson’s arm
and isolate any similar parts. That way we shall automatically narrow down the
objects that could be the receiver until we find it.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
helped me remove my arm. On any other day I might have objected to this, but
with the experience of the previous night still fresh in my mind I was quite
glad not to wear the limb for a while. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
two mechanics set the robot and the arm on a large table Miss Morstan had
dragged in and began dissecting them. I watched intently, wishing to contribute
something to the investigation, but soon began to grow bored. I had not slept
well the previous night, and I fell into a sort of trance.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
nudged me out of it. “Watson, old friend, move a bit to the right, would you? I
need the space.” I migrated to the other side of the table to stand beside Miss
Morstan. “Thank you. Ah! The main transmitter. Does Watson’s arm have one?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Miss
Morstan reached across and took the object he held from him. She brought it close
to her eyes, frowned, and glanced at me. “Doctor, could you please move? You’re
blocking the light.” Embarrassed, I moved to her right. “Thank you. No, Holmes,
this is a Radial886 model. The doctor’s is a Nimbus24.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
nodded. “Of course.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Does
it matter?” I asked. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Both
Holmes and Miss Morstan fixed me with a gaze that made me feel very foolish.
“It certainly does,” said Miss Morstan. “The former is made of copper and sends
out the signals of its own accord, helped by readings of what situation the
robot is currently in, and the latter is of Venusian phostlite and receives
very precise signals from your shoulder. The signals are entirely different.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
frowned. “But if the signals are so different, than how can one device control
two machines?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Obviously
not through the main transmitter,” said Miss Morstan, turning back to her work.
I believe she may have rolled her eyes at my stupidity. (Holmes certainly did.)
Miffed, I poked at a round metal piece like a top balanced on its point, making
it wobble.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Don’t
touch that!” cried Miss Morstan. “You’ll upset its balance!” Sure enough, no
sooner had she uttered the words than the part fell onto its side and rolled
off the table. I managed to catch it with my solitary hand and put it back.
Miss Morstan sighed, picked it up, and gave it a few gentle taps with a
screwdriver before carefully balancing it once again upon its point. She then
began a discussion with Holmes that, not being versed in mechanical science, I
was unable to follow. I thought to help by arranging a number of gears lying
near me in order of descending size, and proceeded to do so until Miss Morstan
gave a cry of dismay and confiscated them from me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Undaunted,
I went to examine some of the projects on the back shelves. There were a number
of children’s toys, as well as automatic dusters, auto-butlers and MAIDs, and
even a prototype “vacuum-cleaner”—the sort of things one would entrust to a
female mechanic. There were also several little robots much like Holmes’s Ids,
but looking back at Miss Morstan I realized that rather than being awful
annoyances, a few of them were actually assisting her. I poked at an
auto-butler and was considerably dismayed when it fell apart with a series of
loud clanks. I had been unable to steady it due to my lack of a right arm. Miss
Morstan groaned and directed me back to the worktable. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Returning
to her side, I picked a piece of my arm up. It was a beautiful thing of
iridescent glass that must have been hidden near the center of the limb, for I
had not seen it before. Unfortunately, it was slick with VL, and it slid from
the clumsy fingers of my left hand and plummeted towards the floor. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Miss
Morstan, showing great agility, caught it a few inches from the ground. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
groaned. “Watson,” he growled through his teeth, “if you do not cease in your
endeavors to ‘help’ this job may take us another two years.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“There
are a few journals and such in that box over to the right,” said Miss Morstan
pointedly. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
sat down on a stool near the corner and rummaged through the box. I was
pleasantly surprised to find a medical journal, although I suppose it made
sense—Miss Morstan would, of course, need to be up-to-date in bionic science. I
immersed myself in it for perhaps an hour and a half before Holmes cried out,
“Watson!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
leapt up, certain that I was being summoned to witness a ground-breaking event,
or, better yet, to participate in one. “Yes?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Would
you mind running down to the pub and bringing back some sandwiches? We may be
here for quite some time.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
I trudged down to the Cat and Fiddle, with Holmes’s coat covering my right
shoulder, I morosely mused that the entire order of things had been upset: Miss
Morstan was occupying the position normally taken by Holmes, who was
impersonating <i>me, </i><span style="font-style: normal;">while I was entirely
expendable. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: normal;"><a href="http://rowanboookwormmusings.blogspot.com/2014/10/the-adventure-of-homicidal-automatons.html" target="_blank">Part One</a></span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"><a href="http://rowanboookwormmusings.blogspot.com/2014/10/the-adventure-of-homicidal-automatons_3.html" target="_blank">Part Two</a></span><br />
<a href="http://rowanboookwormmusings.blogspot.com/2014/10/the-adventure-of-homicidal-automatons_6.html" target="_blank">Part Three</a><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"><a href="http://rowanboookwormmusings.blogspot.com/2014/10/the-adventure-of-homicidal-automatons_8.html" target="_blank">Parts Four and Five</a></span><br />
<a href="http://rowanboookwormmusings.blogspot.com/2014/10/the-adventure-of-homicidal-automatons_13.html" target="_blank">Part Seven</a></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
RowAnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186373604419841682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8405273957031837567.post-11615964678306460392014-10-08T00:00:00.000-07:002014-10-08T11:08:27.513-07:00The Adventure of the Homicidal Automatons, Parts the Fourth and Fifth<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
This is a Sherlock Holmes story I wrote a few years ago, set in an alternate London where the British Empire expanded into the reaches of outer space. Will be posted in chapters on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Scroll to the end for chapter list. (Two parts in this installment because Part Four is fairly short.)</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Once we had made our way back to
the house, Holmes took charge of the police officers. The victim was, of
course, a scientist: Professor Richard Sadd of Oxford University. He had
recently returned from an expedition to Mars and had an impressive collection
of Aphros. The refined sap of these trees is the Venusian Lubricant relied on
by robots and humautomatons. It was at the time uncommon but not unheard of to
own a few of the trees on Earth, rather like owning an exotic bird or a pet
hedgehog. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
examined the study, where once again the crime had taken place, and saw that
more research had been stolen. Sadd had apparently been an expert in physics
and Martian biology. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
carefully leaned over the desk, the lenses of his goggles glinting. He frowned
and tapped it before glancing at the ceiling. Following his gaze, I saw a large
golden stain on the white wall and ceiling. “Ah,” said Holmes, turning to the
young Martian officer, who standing in the corner. “Could you be so kind as to
get that down for me, please?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,
sir,” said the lad, lisping slightly as all Martians do, because of their
sharp, pointed teeth. He peeled off his boots and, carefully placing his hands
and feet upon the wall, scaled it as easily as a gecko might. I had read in a
medical journal of the tiny filaments on the hands and feet of Martians, which
allow them to stick to sheer surfaces and even hang upside down. It had given
them an advantage in the Martian War and indeed, it had cost me my arm, but now
that the war was over and the Martians at peace with England it made for a
handy trait in police officers. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
officer cut the stained plaster off the wall and sprang down to land lightly
beside Holmes. “What is your name?” my friend inquired<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ygruky,
sir.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Thank
you, Ygruky.” Holmes examined the piece of wall. “Interesting.” He adjusted his
goggles. Ygruky looked delighted to have been of use. I believe he was a bit in
awe of Holmes, going by his physiognomy. Martians are very expressive and
cannot hide their emotions. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Leaning
against a wall, I stifled a yawn. The adrenaline from our chase had worn off
and the incredible events of the day were taking their toll on me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
glanced at me and, taking one more look through the study, decided that he had
seen enough. We retired to Baker Street for the night, where I slept uneasily,
plagued by nightmares of an unseen force controlling me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
***<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
next morning, as Holmes and I took breakfast, we heard the doorbell downstairs.
Holmes sighed. “That will no doubt be Miss Morstan.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
put down my teacup. “How can you possibly know that?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
expected that she would come to inquire as to whether her analysis was in fact
correct. It is what I would do, given her situation.” Holmes frowned. “What is
taking her so long?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
volunteered to go see. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
went down to the door and found Miss Morstan talking with MRS Hudson. She was
in a state of excitement, and upon seeing me she cried, “Hello, Doctor! What a <i>wonderful
</i><span style="font-style: normal;">robot you have here! She’s </span><i>beautiful</i><span style="font-style: normal;">!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Thank
you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Do
you know how rare these old Hudsons are? I haven’t seen one for years, and this
is a particularly lovely model! She’s in wonderful condition, too!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
wasn’t aware that they are rare,” I said truthfully, although I could not
recall seeing another like MRS Hudson at any other house. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh,
yes. The Hudson corporation went out of business about a year after yours was
built. They used to make robots specifically for houses, you know, so yours is
really MRS Hudson221B. Was there ever an MRS Hudson221A?” This last inquiry was
directed to the robot.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“She
was sold by 221’s previous owners, before Mr. Holmes rented here,” responded
our landlady. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Pity.
Still, you’re an absolute wonder!” Miss Morstan suddenly looked alarmed as a
thought crossed her mind. “Er…Mr. Holmes hasn’t made any, ah, <i>temporary
fixes, </i><span style="font-style: normal;">has he?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
daresay MRS Hudson would have smiled had her face been mobile. “He has done
nothing more drastic that replacing a few bolts and changing my oil.”<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ah.
Good. Still, tell Doctor Watson to bring you down to my shop some time.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
cleared my throat. “You may tell me that yourself, Miss Morstan. I believe you
wish to ask Holmes the results of his inquiries?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
blinked. “Why, yes. Did you deduce that yourself, or did he?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It
was Holmes,” I admitted, leading her up the stairs. “And you were perfectly
correct, as was confirmed by the six other mechanics he visited.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Miss
Morstan let out a relieved sigh. “Thank God. I was beginning to wonder if I was
losing my touch. I am sure <i>you </i><span style="font-style: normal;">understand,
Doctor—in your case it would be like being unable to find anything wrong with a
patient who was sick and dying.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
winced. “A most unsettling notion, indeed. Will you step inside?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
looked up from the paper he was reading as we entered the room. He rose from
his chair to shake Miss Morstan’s hand. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
understand that I was correct?” she said with a small smile. “Or at least the
six other mechanics made the same mistake I did?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
gave me an irritated look. I suppose he had wished to downplay her victory.
“Yes. Thank you for visiting us this morning, Miss Morstan. I think, however—”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Miss
Morstan pounced upon the paper Holmes had left lying on his footrest. “What’s
this?” She scanned the front page. “Oh, dear! Another attack of the same kind!
I expect you will be going over the robot once again.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
nodded. “I have a better idea of what to look for this time.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
do? Then let’s go.” Miss Morstan tossed the paper aside and headed for the
door. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
turned back to find both of us frowning at her, perplexed. She sighed. “If
you’re going to examine a robot, what better place to do it than the shop of a
professional mechanic?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes’s
voice was icy. “I am sure that this room will be perfectly adequate.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Really.”
Miss Morstan tilted her head. “Tell me, Mr. Holmes, will you be searching for
something that could receive a transmitted signal?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
was momentarily surprised before nodding wryly. “A trade journal, I suppose.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Exactly.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“As
I said, this space is adequate.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Do
you have a Moxillian hydraulic screwdriver?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“As
a matter of fact, I do.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
about a Galaxiantic socket wrench?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
possess that as well.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Really.
Well, then, do you have a Hansom robotic clamp?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
paused. “I won’t need one.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
certainly will. How do you propose to hold the robot steady?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
can find some way.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ah!
More jury-rigging. Tut, tut, Mr. Holmes, I expected better. There’s nothing
that’s going to work in here. And besides,” Miss Morstan continued as she
gestured around her, “if you examine that here, either you’ll lose something or
it will be stolen by those awful clockwork boggarts you’ve made to keep
yourself amused. The light isn’t bright enough for this kind of work, and
you’ll never find what you’re looking for. The whole process will be one disaster
after another.”<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
hesitated, then icily conceded. “Very well, Miss Morstan. We shall meet you at
your shop in half an hour.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><a href="http://rowanboookwormmusings.blogspot.com/2014/10/the-adventure-of-homicidal-automatons.html" target="_blank">Part One</a></span><br />
<a href="http://rowanboookwormmusings.blogspot.com/2014/10/the-adventure-of-homicidal-automatons_3.html" target="_blank">Part Two</a><br />
<a href="http://rowanboookwormmusings.blogspot.com/2014/10/the-adventure-of-homicidal-automatons_6.html" target="_blank">Part Three</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
RowAnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186373604419841682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8405273957031837567.post-36135534119871695392014-10-06T00:00:00.000-07:002014-10-10T20:25:47.014-07:00The Adventure of the Homicidal Automatons, Part the Third<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
This is a Sherlock Holmes story I wrote a few years ago, set in an alternate London where the British Empire expanded into the reaches of outer space. Will be posted in chapters on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Scroll to the end for chapter list.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
I did not accompany Holmes to the
other mechanics, choosing instead to go back to Baker Street and catch up on
the day’s news and the stack of medical journals that had been sitting on the floor
for two weeks. Holmes returned much later than I expected him, staggering into
the flat and dumping the MAID in a corner. He collapsed into his armchair and
requested that I bring him his pipe and tobacco.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After
the pipe was smoking comfortably, I ventured to inquire as to whether he had
got a second opinion. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,”
grumbled Holmes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He
was unable to find any damage.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ah.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Neither
could the one after him.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
went to another?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nor
could his successor.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
went to a <i>third </i><span style="font-style: normal;">mechanic?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And
a fourth. And a fifth. And a sixth.” Holmes admitted this belligerently. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<i>Six
mechanics</i><span style="font-style: normal;">? No wonder you’re fagged out. And
none of them found a thing?”<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nothing.
Six of the best mechanics in London, all men, and not one could find a cause.”
Holmes stared into the fire.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What!
Then Miss Morstan…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Was
perfectly correct in her analysis.” Holmes shook his head. “I’m missing
something, Watson.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At
that moment, we heard a commotion on the stairs. A young Martian police officer
burst into the room, severely winded. His rust-coloured forehead glistened with
sweat and he brushed a few loose strands of his elbow-length purple hair, tied
back in a “ponytail”, from his eyes. “Mr. Holmes, sir? Lestrade needs you
urgently!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
sat up. “What is it?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Another
robot murder, sir! Not ten minutes ago!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
leapt to his feet. “Quick, Watson!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
dashed into the house within a quarter hour, having run all the way there. The
Martian lad fairly collapsed on our arrival, but Holmes, barely pausing to
catch his breath, strode into the house. “Where?” he demanded of Lestrade. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Before
Lestrade could answer, however, Holmes cocked his head and motioned for
silence. In the stillness that followed I heard a door closing in another part
of the house. Holmes bolted towards the sound, leaving the police officers
standing puzzled in the hallway. I followed him to the back of the house, where
we dashed out the door and scrambled over the fence. Holmes pointed at a
figure, sprinting away down the street. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“There!
He escaped when all attention was turned to our arrival!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
started running after him. I noticed Holmes draw his revolver, and I resolved
to flip out the knife in my hand when I could do so without fear of cutting
myself. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
ran through the murky streets of London for what seemed an hour, growing ever
closer to our prey. He led us all the way down to the banks of the
foul-smelling Thames, where we all three slowed, for there was much fog that
night and none of us wanted to fall in. The man kept us in a merry dance around
a blackened warehouse, darting just out of sight behind the boxes and barrels. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
believe we nearly had him then, in the dark of night. He seemed to be lurking
behind a large wooden crate. Holmes crept towards it, his gun drawn, his
footsteps as light as a Martian’s. (Martians, as I can tell you from
experience, are extremely quiet on their feet.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
noticed then that the customary whirring of my arm had changed subtly in pitch.
Glancing at it, I was surprised to see that the knife had folded out. I thought
I must have done it unconsciously until my arm began to move. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
did not direct it, and indeed tried to hold it still, but to my horror the
mechanical limb shifted, <i>of its own accord, </i><span style="font-style: normal;">so that the blade of the knife was against my own throat!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Holmes!”
I whispered. “Help me!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
whirled around, irritated, but his expression changed to puzzlement when he saw
my predicament. “Watson, what on earth are you—”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m
not doing anything! It’s doing this on its own!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes’s
eyes widened and a low chuckle resonated from behind the crate. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Not
entirely on its own, I think, Doctor Watson.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
turned back, his gun pointed directly at the source of the voice. At the same
time the blade pressed harder into my throat. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Do
drop the gun, Mr. Holmes. We wouldn’t want someone to get hurt, would we?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
don’t know,” responded Holmes calmly. “I should very much like to see <i>you </i><span style="font-style: normal;">hurt.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
felt a trickle of blood slide down my neck.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Holmes!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
set the gun on the floor.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Kick
it away,” commanded the voice. Holmes scowled and sent the weapon spinning into
the darkness. The pressure of the knife eased.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Thank
you. Now, we can talk.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Who
are you?” Holmes’s voice was taut with anger. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
needn’t know my name if you cannot deduce it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
do you want?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Our
unseen foe laughed again. “I think the question for you is rather, ‘<i>How am I
going to get it?’ </i><span style="font-style: normal;">You’ve already seen the
effects of my little contrivance here.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
glanced at me and nodded slowly. “It controls mechanical devices remotely.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Precisely.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
nodded again. “And you are building a bigger one. The monographs on Spence’s
walls. The books. Theories of electrical impulses and remote controls.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Very
good! A little <i>too </i><span style="font-style: normal;">good, in fact,” said
the voice. “I shall be going now. I advise that neither of you move or attempt
to follow me. That would have most unfortunate consequences. For you, that is.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
figure emerged from his shelter and started off towards the entrance of the
warehouse. He paused a moment and said, “It is only through my mercy, of
course, that you do not lie dead at this moment. I could easily kill you both.
But what satisfaction would that give me? No, Holmes, I think it will be much
more gratifying to leave you alive for now, so that you can witness my greatest
triumph, my rise to infinite power, and, after I have control over every robot,
airship, locomotive and bionic limb in England, you shall be able to despair
and know that I beat you before I strike the fatal blow.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“A
nice touch. One would almost believe that you are actually carrying a weapon.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Our
foe stiffened, as if in irritation. In the darkness he was indistinct, but I
caught a gleam of metal from the device he held. “Until we meet again, Mr.
Holmes…” he said softly, turning to leave.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
waited in tense silence as he walked away. After what felt like an eternity, my
arm began to obey my commands once more. It jerked away from my neck the moment
he had left the warehouse. The knife folded itself away. I sat down on a nearby
crate, pressing my tie to my throat to stop the bleeding. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
ran to the end of the warehouse and looked after our foe. “He took a boat.
There’s no catching him now,” he reported, coming back to help me. “Watson, are
you all right?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
nodded wordlessly, although I felt far from well. My arm—my own limb—had been
taken from my control and been forced by another as a way to hurt, or even kill
me. A part of my body had been under another’s control. The raw sense of
betrayal would take some time to fade, and I doubted I would ever fully trust
my arm again. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why
did he not carry a weapon?” I asked after a few minutes, when I had regained
some of my composure.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He
was over-confidant in the abilities of his machine,” responded Holmes, “and
expected that he would be able to get away more easily than he did. Why he did
not simply kill us with your arm, I do not know, but I think that his
melodramatic speech was at least partly true. Megalomaniacs of his sort often
lust for fame.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why
couldn’t he get away? He had half an hour before we arrived.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He
had disguised himself as a human servant. I suppose that house must have a
few.” (Human servants were much more rare these days, as much of the lower
classes had been shipped off to start colonies on other planets, but there were
still a few household functions that required a human to carry them out.) “He
was making his escape with what he took—I presume you saw the shoulder-bag he
carried?—when his victim made some sound and he was intercepted. There was
enough of a commotion that his presence was not spotted, but he could not get
away until we arrived and the attention was focused elsewhere.” Holmes took my
arm—my natural one—and guided me to the door. “Come. We should examine the
crime scene while we have the chance.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><a href="http://rowanboookwormmusings.blogspot.com/2014/10/the-adventure-of-homicidal-automatons.html" target="_blank">Part One</a></span><br />
<a href="http://rowanboookwormmusings.blogspot.com/2014/10/the-adventure-of-homicidal-automatons_3.html" target="_blank">Part Two</a><br />
<a href="http://rowanboookwormmusings.blogspot.com/2014/10/the-adventure-of-homicidal-automatons_8.html" target="_blank">Parts Four and Five</a></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
RowAnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186373604419841682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8405273957031837567.post-37959345897966691392014-10-03T00:00:00.000-07:002014-10-10T20:25:16.175-07:00The Adventure of the Homicidal Automatons, Part the Second<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;">
<!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;">This is a Sherlock Holmes story I wrote a few years ago, set in an alternate London where the British Empire expanded into the reaches of outer space. Will be posted in chapters. Updates Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Part One <a href="http://rowanboookwormmusings.blogspot.com/2014/10/the-adventure-of-homicidal-automatons.html" target="_blank">here.</a></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Morstan’s
Master Mechanics was a rather small establishment as mechanics go, flanked by a
bookshop and a dark alley. It was perhaps the size of a small stable, whereas
most shops of its kind are more like large warehouses. There did not seem to be
a doorway as such, for the entire front of the building was open to allow large
mechanisms to be pulled inside. The interior seemed shadowed, but I could see a
light from within. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
stepped forward. He had covered the MAID in a cloth and I was pushing it as it
balanced on its wheels. “Come, Watson. Let us see if our Mr. Morstan holds up
to the exalted reputation Lestrade has granted him.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
approached the shop and stepped inside, waiting a moment as our eyes adjusted
to the relative dark. Holmes knocked on the wall and called out, “Mr. Morstan?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There
was a movement from the back of the shop and a voice called out, “Come in!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
frowned but entered into the light of the inner shop. I followed, still
propelling the robot.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
room was larger than it had first appeared, lined with shelves on which rested
various mechanical bits and pieces. Off to one side was a workbench on which I
noticed several small contraptions not unlike Holmes’s Ids, lying amidst
scattered cogs, sprockets, flexible tubing and the like. In the center of the
shop was a great mechanical apparatus that I recognized as a mechanical coach.
These had just recently been invented by a mad American chap but were wildly
unpopular due to their tendency to go careening down the middle of the street,
smash into buildings, and kill their passengers, not to mention innocent
bystanders. They were basically topless wagons with engines, steered by means
of a tiller. Only the very rich and the very foolish owned them. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
pair of boots protruded from the underside, and I heard a clank followed by a
curse. The voice uttering it was higher than I would have expected; it seemed almost
feminine—as did the boots. Then the mechanic wriggled out sideways and my jaw
dropped, for this person was indeed female. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
was a small, blond young lady, who would have seemed dainty had it not been for
the smudges of grease across her face and person and the faint scratch on her
cheek. Her wide blue eyes revealed considerable intellect and the set of her
mouth promised determination. Her hands, which she quickly wiped upon a
handkerchief that had been resting on the workbench, were small but calloused,
with dirty fingernails; obviously this lady was used to hard work. Her clothes
were beige, in good taste but also terribly smudged from the underside of the
coach. She ran a hand over her blond hair, pulled back into an escaping bun,
and smiled at us. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m
dreadfully sorry. These confounded carriages are so badly designed as to
promise death to the passengers, I don’t know what that idiot Ford was
thinking, but the owners pay well and I believe I am able to postpone a few
catastrophes a month. How may I help you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
seemed quite taken aback by this lady assistant, but he rapidly collected
himself. “I am looking for Mr. Morstan,” he stated, then checked the business
card and added “Mr. <i>Arthur </i><span style="font-style: normal;">Morstan. Is
he in?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
woman’s smile stiffened. “I’m afraid not.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
see.” Holmes looked down his nose at her. “When will he return? It is quite
urgent.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Arthur
Morstan was my father,” said the woman, meeting Holmes’s condescending gaze
directly. “He left the shop to me when he died three years ago. I am quite
competent to assist you with your—” she glanced at me and my charge—“MAID.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
jerked, his expression one of total and utter shock. He was utterly
dumbfounded. “<i>You </i><span style="font-style: normal;">are a mechanic?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
am.” Miss Morstan’s gaze flickered back to me for a moment and she frowned. “It
is a good thing you are here, as I fear your friend desperately needs
mechanical assistance.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
drew himself up. “I see. Well, Miss Morstan, I am afraid that the business I
have been entrusted with is too complex to hand off to an amateur, and
certainly of far too much importance for a female. You understand, I’m sure.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Miss
Morstan’s expression turned to anger. “I am a fully qualified mechanic!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Good
day, Miss Morstan.” Holmes turned to go, taking the robot from me and propelling
it along. I turned to follow him and, as an afterthought, raised my right hand
to tip my hat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
heard a small <i>tchack </i><span style="font-style: normal;">in my arm and knew
in a trice that something had slipped horribly out of place. In the next instant,
the scalpel and dagger Holmes had concealed in my arm sprang out at odd angles,
the scalpel missing my eye by two inches. Several gears clattered to the floor,
and the throwing knife Holmes had built in abruptly launched, whisking my
companion’s hat off his head and impaling it against the wall. There was a </span><i>sproing-oing-oing
</i><span style="font-style: normal;">as most of the springs jettisoned in
several different directions at once. Everything had fallen out of place and
with two </span><i>clanks </i><span style="font-style: normal;">the index and
ring fingers fell off my hand and bounced on the floor. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There
was a very awkward silence, broken by the patter of a final gear rolling in
circles before rattling to a stop. Miss Morstan sighed and put a hand to her
face.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
turned and glanced fearfully at my arm and then back at his hat. If the knife
had gone a mere six inches lower—I shuddered to think of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
was afraid that might happen,” said Miss Morstan. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
glared at her. “Oh?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Of
course.” She walked over to me and guided me to the workbench, where she
instructed me to sit and rest the metal limb on the table. “I could see even
from a distance that your arm was jury-rigged. You’re very lucky it went wrong
in here and not out on the street. Someone could have been killed! Pick up the
parts.” This last was to Holmes, who, surprisingly, obeyed. “If you would
remove your arm, Mr.…?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Watson.
Doctor John Watson.” I started to direct my arm to shake her hand out of habit
before remembering its current state. “And that is my companion, Sherlock
Holmes.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Miss
Morstan’s eyebrows went up a fraction upon hearing our names, but she said
only, “Mary Morstan, at your service. Do you have all the parts, Mr. Holmes?”
Holmes set the bits and pieces he had collected on the table. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After
Holmes had helped me undo the buckles that held the leather harness that secured
my mechanical arm, Miss Morstan began to put it back together, piece by piece.
A few minutes later she held up a cog and frowned. “This isn’t compatible with
the rest of the machine. How did it get in there?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mr.
Holmes occasionally repairs my arm when it malfunctions.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It
malfunctions?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nothing
serious until now. It merely locks into place and become immovable until the
problem is corrected.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
see. Does this happen often?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It
has been happening more often recently.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hmm.”
Miss Morstan surveyed the drawers of her workbench, selected a miniscule copper
cog, and snicked it into place. She then replaced several gears, wires, and
cogs and eventually glared at Holmes. “When you repair Mr. Watson’s arm, are
you attempting to deal with the problem permanently?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Not
exactly.” Holmes had been watching Miss Morstan, his mouth tight with
disapproval of a woman doing advanced mechanics. “I simply try to make it
operational.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Miss
Morstan turned her attention back to me. “How long has it been since you saw a
biomechanical diagnostician?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
thought back. “I’m not quite sure. Perhaps two years.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<i>Two
years?! </i><span style="font-style: normal;">My God, you’re lucky it didn’t go
wrong </span><i>long</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> before this!” Miss
Morstan slid a thick spring into place and braced the throwing knife against
it. “You should have gone to one every four months for a checkup at the </span><i>very
least.</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> I believe you’ve been having serious
problems with it for at least eighteen months, not helped by Mr. Holmes’s </span><i>additions</i><span style="font-style: normal;">” (she bolted the scalpel in) “or ‘</span><i>temporary
fixes.’ </i><span style="font-style: normal;">In fact, Mr. Holmes may have </span><i>compounded
</i><span style="font-style: normal;">your troubles by ignoring the long-term
cause and implementing slipshod, short-term solutions.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
snorted. “Bosh.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Temporary
fixes are dangerous, Mr. Holmes. One forgets the original problem and assumes
that everything will turn out fine.” Miss Morstan had completed assembling the
inside of the arm in a remarkably short time. She tightened the bolts on the
metal frame that held it together and sat back. “Try it now, Doctor.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After
putting the harness back on, I rotated my wrist and flexed my fingers. The
entire contraption was much, much quieter than it had been, its small clicks
and tocks and whirrs barely audible. I extended the scalpel and the knife and
found that they worked perfectly. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Try
the throwing knife,” said Miss Morstan. “See if you can hit that stain on the
wall over there.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
launched the knife directly into the center of my makeshift target. <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How
can I ever thank you, Miss Morstan?” I said in admiration. “I don’t believe it
worked this well when I first acquired it!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
wonder if your companion shares your enthusiasm,” she replied with a wry smile.
“I believe you had a MAID to be fixed?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
sullenly lifted it onto the workbench. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ooh,
a Norton safety model,” said Miss Morstan appreciatively. “Good robots, or so
I’ve heard. <i>Mechanics Weekly </i><span style="font-style: normal;">said the
queen has just ordered two hundred for Buckingham Palace.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Quite,”
said Holmes stiffly, before explaining the problem.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
see. So we are looking for evidence that the robot was damaged, malfunctioning
or has been tampered with?” Miss Morstan picked up a set of goggles not unlike
Holmes’s but less elaborate. “Hand me that lantern, would you? Thank you. Hmm.”
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
and I watched as Miss Morstan carefully went over the robot, starting with the
outside. I confess I became rather bored after about ten minutes and began to
wander about the shop while Holmes and Miss Morstan continued their scrutiny. I
was not paying close attention and was therefore surprised when Holmes’s voice
rang out: “Preposterous.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m
afraid it’s true, Mr. Holmes.” Miss Morstan sounded surprised at her own
conclusion. “There is nothing wrong with this robot.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But
there must be!” I interjected.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It
is in pristine condition—not more than a week old, in fact—and there are no
signs of physical harm at all,” stated Miss Morstan. “Tampering with it would
have left some tangible sign of damage, as would any accident.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Perhaps
it went mad on its own?” I suggested.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“If
wires had crossed that is possible,” she conceded, “but every wire is exactly
where it should be. There is no possible reason for this robot to have killed
its master.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
stood up abruptly. “See, Watson,” he cried, “this is what comes from trusting a
woman with delicate mechanics, or any matter requiring logic and dispassion! <i>There
is no possible reason to kill its master, </i><span style="font-style: normal;">and
yet it </span><i>did </i><span style="font-style: normal;">kill its master.
Therefore our ‘mechanic’” (he pronounced the word with scorn) “has obviously
missed something—as I knew she would.” He bolted the robot’s head shut and
swung it to its wheels. “Come, Watson, we shall seek the services of a </span><i>proper
</i><span style="font-style: normal;">mechanic.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Miss
Morstan stood. Her face was tight with anger. “Seek a second opinion by all
means. But I wager that a male mechanic won’t find anything I didn’t.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
stormed out of the shop. I turned to Miss Morstan, not quite sure how to
properly apologize for Holmes’s behavior. “I…er…how much for my arm?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
waved me away. “Consider it a gift. Now go, please.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
glanced over my shoulder as I left and saw her sit down at her workbench and
run a tired hand over her eyes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<a href="http://rowanboookwormmusings.blogspot.com/2014/10/the-adventure-of-homicidal-automatons.html" target="_blank">Part One</a><br />
<a href="http://rowanboookwormmusings.blogspot.com/2014/10/the-adventure-of-homicidal-automatons_6.html" target="_blank">Part Three</a></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
RowAnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186373604419841682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8405273957031837567.post-90506376326401192522014-10-01T09:25:00.000-07:002014-10-10T20:24:10.051-07:00The Adventure of the Homicidal Automatons, Part the First<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This is a Sherlock Holmes story I wrote a few years ago, set in an alternate London where the British Empire expanded into the reaches of outer space. Will be posted in chapters. Updates Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> Part the First<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Although
Sherlock Holmes’s skills have often been crucial to the welfare of the people
and the continuing dominance of the British Empire, what was perhaps his most
intricate and complex case occurred in 1887. I had been residing with Holmes at
221B Baker Street for just under five years after returning from the Martian
War a humautomaton. I had received a paralytic dart, its venom distilled from
the sands of Oneiros Plain and the juice of the Tho’rday shrub, to the shoulder,
rendering my right arm useless. I was lucky to lose only my arm and not my
life, and luckier still to have the good fortune of living with a man who had a
good knowledge of mechanics. My new clockwork arm may have been a wonder of
modern science, but it froze up with vexing regularity. It is a complex
alignment of metal gears, cogs and various other parts contained within a steel
cage, through which the workings are visible. This machinery works to move the
steel fingers at the hand and the joints of the wrist and elbow.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On
the morning of March 22, I was sitting in the drawing room of the flat
contemplating the morning’s news. I reached for my teacup on the side table and
heard a nasty, metallic <i>clunk-djrk. </i><span style="font-style: normal;">I
looked at my arm, frozen and immobile, and sighed. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Holmes.
Assistance.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sherlock
Holmes raised his goggled eyes from his worktable, where he had been bolting
together one of the infernal devices he liked to make in his spare time. These
mischievous bits of clockwork and springs served no purpose other than to run
wild throughout the house, straining the nerves of MRS Hudson and myself and
giving visitors the impression that we were afflicted with mice. Holmes claimed
that someday they might serve as weapons of surveillance, and that their design
grew better with each one he built, but thus far they served only as weapons of
annoyance. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Again?
That’s the third time this morning, Watson.” Holmes carefully lifted his
goggles away from his eyes, setting them on his forehead. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
struggled from my chair and went to the worktable. “Perhaps I should see a
professional mechanic.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Perhaps.”
Holmes leaned over, putting his goggles back on. He had made them himself,
attaching numerous magnifying lenses and such to the frames, so that with the
right combination of lenses the goggles could function as anything from
binoculars to a microscope. He flipped a lens over his right eye and poked at
the gears of my arm with his screwdriver. This was perfectly painless, as I
cannot feel the metal of my robotic limb. I rely on vision, sound and faith in
the Venusian Lubricant to move my arm and know that it is moving as I tell it
to. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
tapped a gear gently into place, set down his screwdriver and picked up an
oil-can. He carefully administered a new coating of Venusian Lubricant to the
gears and cogs. The Venusian Lubricant, as the biomechanic who gave me the limb
explained it, transfers signals into the well-oiled leather harness buckled
across my shoulder. From the leather the oil transmits the signals through the
intricate gears down my arm and hand, turning them and allowing the limb and
digits to move. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>With
a replenishment of VL, a few taps to various bits of metal, and the replacement
of a small gear in my wrist, the familiar whirring of machinery started up
again and I drummed my fingers on the table in relief. Holmes nodded and went
back to his “Id” (my personal nickname for the small scurrying robots. It
stands for Infernal Device) while I returned to my newspaper. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hmm!
There has been another ship lost near Georgium Sidus,” I commented. Holmes
grunted. “The <i>HMS Prometheus. </i><span style="font-style: normal;">Too bad,
although I expect the Empire has enough to handle at the moment with the Ionian
colony rebelling.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mycroft
doesn’t think so,” Holmes responded. “Ah! There we are. No, he says that that
Reeve chap should take care of things pretty quickly.” He lifted the Id and set
it on its feet. This one looked like a large eyeball in a compass, attached to
a pair of thick wire legs and jointed wire arms, still gleaming from the recent
coat of VL that had given it life. It blinked its eye at Holmes and made a
small squeaking sound. I glared at it threateningly before Holmes nudged it off
the table. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Must
you set those awful things loose, Holmes?” I grumbled.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why
not?” asked my companion. He would have said more had not MRS Hudson221B, our
outdated yet still proficient house robot, quite suddenly poked her head into
the door and announced “Inspector Lestrade to see you, Mr. Holmes.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
Id made a break for freedom and MRS Hudson rolled back with an indignant clank.
She was a fine Mechanized Robotic Servant, with a wonderful landlady
personality and a no-nonsense attitude. She balanced on a pivoting trolley of
four wheels and her hands were jointed much as my arm was. Upon her head rested
a matronly bun fashioned from painted steel. “Mr. Holmes! Must you keep letting
those infernal devices loose?” she said indignantly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
do apologize, MRS Hudson. It got away from me,” Holmes lied. “Now will you
please show Inspector Lestrade up here?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
moment later Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, a smallish man with a
somewhat ferret-like countenance, stood in the doorway. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
glanced at him. “Murder?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why,
yes.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
friend stood, reaching for his hat. “Come along, Watson. Have you a cab
waiting?” This last was directed at Lestrade, who replied in the affirmative.
To my displeasure, it turned out to be an open carriage, one that exposes the
occupants to the full view of the public. I prefer broughams, as my arm is less
likely to be stared at. The mechanical limb cannot be covered by a sleeve, you
see, and I receive far too many curious or pitying glances as it is.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
we embarked to the scene of crime Lestrade described the murder to us. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“This
morning our man Durham was on the beat when he heard a scream from one of the
houses,” he stated. “When he went to investigate, he found that Margery Spence,
the daughter of Neil Spence—have you heard of him? The scientist?—had just
found her father dead in his study. What’s more, one of the MAIDs, one of those
new Norton models, was completely shut off, holding the bloody knife.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“If
it’s completely shut off we won’t get much information from it,” murmured
Holmes. Lestrade nodded. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The
way I see it, either someone programmed the robot to kill Spence, or, more
likely, it malfunctioned.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why
is it more likely to have malfunctioned?” I asked. I had some sympathy for the
poor Mechanized Assistant In Domicile. People tend to give robots, and indeed
humautomatons, less credit than they (we) deserve. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Spence
didn’t seem to have any enemies,” said Lestrade. “He was by all accounts an
honourable man and a brilliant inventor. Who would want him dead?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
stared out at the street, deep in thought. On the corner, a news-boy called,
“Ionians revolting! Read all about it!” A green-haired Martian gent in a sharp
suit stopped and bought one, opening it as he walked. I saw him walk straight
into a man with mutton-chop whiskers and apologize, flashing his sharp teeth in
a smile and doffing the hat on top of his waist-length hair before continuing
his sojourn. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Also,
house robots only answer to their registered masters,” continued Lestrade. “And
I doubt even this MAID’s master could have got it to commit murder. It’s one of
the new Norton safety models. Their programming expressly forbids harming
humans, with no override whatsoever.” I nodded; this did seem logical. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
pulled up in front of a grand house in the better part of London and went
inside. Lestrade led the way to the study where the poor man had been killed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
body had been removed. There was a dark stain on the carpet behind the mahogany
desk. Holmes snapped on his goggles and knelt, flipping and sliding the lenses.
“Hmm. Kitchen knife. Wheel marks. Definitely the robot. But…ah!” He pointed.
“Footmarks. The robot wasn’t the only one to walk into the study.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes.
Scotland Yard has been here as well,” I pointed out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“These
footprints do not have the traditional police hob-nailed soles. Rather, they
were made by expensive shoes imported from Italy, of the finest leather.
Unfortunately, the aforementioned hob-nails have all but obliterated them.”
Holmes straightened up and examined the desk. “Hmm. Has the Yard taken anything
from the room?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Only
the body,” said Lestrade.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“There
was something here. Papers, no, a folder. Yes, the 78<sup>th</sup> and 79<sup>th</sup>
files from that shelf, see how the numbers go from 77 to 80? Thick files,
packed with information. This man is a scientist. Therefore we have our motive:
Whoever got that robot to kill him then entered and seized his research.”
Holmes carefully brushed a hand across the desk, then moved to the bookshelf.
“And some of his books.” He examined the desk drawers. “Where is the key?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It
wasn’t found,” said Lestrade.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“There
is little enough time without wasting it in a search.” Holmes took a letter
opener from the desk and picked the lock. He slid the drawers open, rifling
through them in turn. Apparently they did not contain what he was searching
for, as he grunted in exasperation and turned to the bookshelf, scanning it
once again. He let out another irritated growl and turned back to Lestrade.
“May I see the robot?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Of
course.” Lestrade led us back down the hallway. The robot was in the sitting
room, this being closest and easiest for the police. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
MAID was lying on a small table, with several policemen guarding it. I had not
seen its model before. Had it been upright, it would have balanced on a single
large wheel with a smaller, steadying wheel on either side. Its frame was
covered by metal, painted to look like a traditional maid’s uniform, including
a metal ruffled “skirt” that covered the ambulatory mechanism. The physiognomy
was a mask, moulded from a sweet, female countenance, which for some reason
seemed very familiar to me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
paused a moment before going to examine it. “A Norton, did you say?” he
inquired. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,
quite,” responded Lestrade. Holmes humphed and adjusted his goggles. I finally
realized who the robot reminded me of and leaned over to Lestrade. “The Norton
company isn’t owned by a Mr. Godfrey Norton, is it?” I murmured.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why,
yes,” he replied.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Godfrey
Norton must have modeled his robot’s face after his wife, Irene. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Holmes
drew back from the robot. “I can discern nothing,” he admitted, “but if the
robot’s hand was forced, as I am sure it was, there must be some sign of it.
Perhaps this type of work is better suited to one who spends his days entirely
immersed in mechanics, as opposed to one who has so many other interests as
well. Watson, help me pick it up.” I went to help him as he set the robot on
the floor and steadied it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Lestrade
scratched his chin. “I believe the Yard used to patronize a mechanic called
Morstan until a few years ago. I remember him as a very competent man, always
seemed to spot the tiniest details. Then MacCloud joined the force and we
stopped going to Morstan.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But
at the moment, MacCloud is on Venus, attending to the <i>HMS Indefatigable.</i><span style="font-style: normal;">”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How
on earth did you know that, Holmes? It was top secret!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Never
mind. What about this chap Morstan?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ah,
yes. As MacCloud is away at the moment, I was merely going to suggest you visit
Morstan. Wait a moment.” He fumbled in his wallet and pulled out a business
card, handing it to me. “Here’s the address. Take the robot there and tell me
what he finds.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Thank
you, Inspector,” said Holmes. “Good day.” He led the way out of the mansion and
flagged down a hansom on the street.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://rowanboookwormmusings.blogspot.com/2014/10/the-adventure-of-homicidal-automatons_3.html" target="_blank">Part Two</a></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
RowAnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186373604419841682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8405273957031837567.post-52922516037964080762014-09-29T11:43:00.002-07:002014-10-01T09:26:12.216-07:00Galatea<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<h1>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"> </span></h1>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He took a block of marble and carved away the excess<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shaped it into <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A woman.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let’s be honest here—<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pygmalion carved<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A very sexy woman. <br />
Astonishingly beautiful, or so<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The poem goes,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With a form that <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No living woman <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Could possess.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Basically, a life-sized Barbie. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After all, doesn’t Barbie<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Have an untenable form?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Waist narrower than her head<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ankles too thin to stand<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back-breaking beach ball breasts?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And we call her <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Beautiful.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And Pygmalion, he<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Carved her, and he<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Loved her. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His statue.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His sex doll.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His marble Barbie. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He loved her form and face<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pined for her<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Didn’t eat, didn’t sleep, didn’t work<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just prayed that she would <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Be real<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Be warm soft hips and breasts and blood and breath <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Prayed for nights with her<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On woven sheets. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And he got them. He prayed so hard<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That the gods gave him his wish: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A living woman<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With a form no living woman <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Could possess.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But here’s the thing: when Ovid speaks<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of Galatea, Pygmalion’s sculpture<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When he describes her sumptuous form<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He mentions her swanlike necks<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the plural.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(Or so my Latin teacher says.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe it’s just a ruse<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A literary device<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To make the ancient words flow smoothly<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or maybe<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Possibly<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pygmalion carved multiple necks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After all, the poem did say<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“A form no living woman <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Could possess.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Who knows what Galatea<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Really looked like?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What matters is<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pygmalion and Ovid and even the gods<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thought she was <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Beautiful.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe she had tentacles <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And multiple heads<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A Danish troll-woman or<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A hentai monster.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With a beautiful form no living woman<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Could possess.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pygmalion may have<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Had a few kinks, but<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All we know for certain is that<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He created something<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Beautiful.<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->RowAnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03186373604419841682noreply@blogger.com0