417 lines
26 KiB
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417 lines
26 KiB
Plaintext
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OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO oOOOO OOOO. OOOO OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
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OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO" .OOOOOO OOOOOo OOOO OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
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OOOO oOOOOOOO OOOOOOO. OOOO oOOOO
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OOOO .OOOO OOOO OOOOOOOOo OOOO OOOO"
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OOOO oOOOO OOOO OOOO "OOOO. OOOO OOOOo .OOOO'
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OOOO .OOOO" OOOO OOOO OOOOoOOOO "OOOO. oOOOO
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OOOO oOOOOOOO..OOOO OOOO "OOOOOOO OOOOoOOOO"
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OOOO .OOOO"""OOOOOOOO OOOO OOOOOO "OOOOOOO'
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OOOO oOOOO ""OOOO OOOO "OOOO OOOOOO
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|---------------------------------------------------------------------------|
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| There Ain't No Justice |
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| #99 |
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|---------------------------------------------------------------------------|
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- The Isolation of the Builder -
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by David Artman
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There are few men in the galaxy for whom life is an exhilarating
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surprise, a merciful relief. One of these few was Technician Thrace Soleman
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(id# Astro.A159FC6B) as his ship, the Willie Mays, reentered normal space.
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Though living all his life in space --tesseracting hither and yon,
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withstanding gravities from nil to seven times Sol.Earth norm-- he had
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always held his breath right before breaching essential space due to an
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almost unconscious foreboding that, for some reason, THIS tess --out of all
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the hundreds occurring at the same moment throughout the Milky Way, out of
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all the millions having occurred in the past--would go wrong.
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He was, put simply, glad that sense experience had resumed; and he
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exhaled noisely, a grin teasing one corner of his mouth.
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Technically, from his perspective the trip had taken no time as he
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was not psychically sensitive; there was no real (i.e. four dimensional)
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interruption in his life. Yet, the Willie Mays had just completed an 8700
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lightyear journey away from the edge of the Milky Way. Reclined on his cot,
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Soleman was staring through one section of the ship's hull which had been
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left transparent; it revealed nothing but a few specks of light to the
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"north" of the ship and a slight glow of the Milky Way bleeding from the
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down side. --So where is the rock?--
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Thrace extended the foot-hand of a wiry leg towards the cot above him
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and, grabbing its sideboard, swung himself into an upright position. He,
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with a startled yell, kept swinging up, around and back down onto the upper
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bunk. Only his mercurial flexibility and reflexes anchored his other foot
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to the bunkframe, preventing him from rebounding off its netting and back
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around into his cot again. His green hair swirled about his face in mockery
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of Great Newton.
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"Where's spin, for Its sake!" he bellowed into the intercom. He was
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accustomed to three gravities of spin when in a holding pattern. --Stupid of
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me, really. After all, the view outside is obviously standing still.--
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There had been no reply from the pilots.
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"Hai, Coordinator!" he called to the ship's supervisor, Illyana
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Melder (id# Astro.A15933C4). "C'mon, Illie, we couldn't've lost you,
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Vrandium-mind." The tight shades of worry began creeping onto his square,
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lined face.
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Coordinator Melder was reputed as having the strongest will of any
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ship coordinator in the Human Stellar League. She had logged over five
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hundred tesseracts and had lived at least seventeen thousand years of
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subjective time during those breaches. Admittedly, at times she seemed
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distant and cold to others; those among them who were pilots understood
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perfectly. Nevertheless, the cyber-media had sensationalised her
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achievements by nicknaming her after the hardest metal known to Third Epoch
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human science; a metal which reflects all warmth cast at it.
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There was still no reply.
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--Oh, man, after all those years, to snap now! Of course, this is
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probably the most uninvolved tess she'd ever made. Sailing one gravitational
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curve would've gotten pretty damned boring, I bet. Wait a minute! I'm
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already thinking in past tense, give them a chance.-- And them it was, for
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no one had responded to his hail; not the coordinator, neither of the
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sailors, and not the engine manager. If none of them were responding then
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most likely something had gone very wrong in tess-space. They were all
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psychically linked, as well as linked cybernetically with psychic circuits
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to the tessdrive, prior to breaching; little problems could become quite big
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with this intimacy. --But, no. Nothing could have taken them all out.--
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And yet, there was no reply at all.
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Anxiously, Thrace thumbed open the iris door and floated into the
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corridor outside the crew's quarters. The rounded, functionally decorated
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hallway ran "eastward" to the commissary and "westward" to the recreation
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facilities and gymnasium. Across from Soleman were the labs, but there
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would be no one in them as there were but five people, including himself, on
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the ship. A short way westward, half of the hall split into a laddered chute
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running vertically through the ship. Leaping up to grab a rung on the
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ceiling, he pulled himself, foot over hand, towards the chute, bounding and
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covering the thirty meters like a fleeing rabbit. He arced upward and yanked
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himself bridge-ward, travelling so quickly that the floor-iris into the room
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above barely got out of his way. He soared into the control room, bending
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and flipping to grab the ceiling and absorb the shock.
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The clash of opposites in the room numbed his senses; it was not for
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several seconds that he truly perceived the carnage.
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The ceiling was mostly transparent, but let in only a milky glow,
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there being no stars above it within a few million light years; this haze
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blended soothingly with the bridge's lighting. The room's graceful symmetry
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and efficiency starkly contrasted with the obvious tragedy that, with the
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quiet, cruel air of broken assurances, had occurred here. The simple room's
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metal walls held only dark panes of acrylic in various sizes: either
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scanners or viewing screens. Furnishings were sparse at the moment; there
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were only four couches extruding from the floor which hid a plethora of
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other possible furnishings. The coordinator's couch was central, just north
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of the vertical axis of the ship. South of the axis was the couch from which
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the engine manager manipulated the delicately massive tesseract drive in
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its starts, millisecond bursts, decade-long calibrations, and soul-wrenching
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stops. Finally, to the east and west of the axis, close to the room's walls,
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lay the two sailors' couches. They were the most gruesome to behold.
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Three quarters of a body was reclined on each of the plastic and foam
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couches. Where the remaining quarter, the heads and necks, should have been,
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there were only large, brown, viscous puddles and white shards stuck into
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the chairs. The globular gel smoked slightly and the charcoal smell of
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burnt synthsteaks filled the room. The occupants of the other two couches
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seemed whole in the dim cyan light emitted by the phosphorescent tracklights
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on the walls. They were, however, sprawled like two discarded ragdolls and
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their eyes were wide and burnt black, their faces frozen in agonized
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caricatures of laughter.
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A scream would have found its way out of Thrace's mouth had his jaw
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not been reflexively clenched against the rising bile in his throat.
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Instead, only a strangled grunt echoed in the silent chamber. He stared,
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wide-eyed and unbelieving, instinctual fear and repulsion at the scene
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causing the pores of his skin to dilate (but not to sweat, that was
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engineered out of his race eons ago). Perversely, the only clear thought to
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come to his mind was --Hope that doesn't get into the steering circuits; I
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can't fix psywires.-- A futile hope for someone incapable of piloting
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tess-space.
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He was finally broken out of his shock by a soft pinging noise and a
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sharp pain in his right cheek. He grabbed at the spot and found a small bit
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of bone stuck there. --Shit, there's shards ricocheting all over this room.
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Better get some gravity going to settle it and clean up.-- He did not
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consider the irrationality of the idea of cleaning so soon after witnessing
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such horror; it was something he could do in a situation over which, he was
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beginning to realize, he had next to no control. He pushed off towards the
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south of the room and gripped a rung embedded there. The stickiness of it
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surprised him, and he fought hard not to consider the reason it was so. He
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pressed his hand to the acrylic pane set in the aluminum wall... and nothing
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happened. He used the arm of his jumper to wipe the pane clean and tried
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again.
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Still nothing happened.
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Panic hit. --the systems burned im a dead man oh jenny oh it oh shit
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what am i gonna do no power no food nothing dead-- It went on for some
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time, waves of fear and loss, regrets, images in his mind, their contrast
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fuzzed by retrospection, forgotten intentions, and confused underpinings.
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His Youth and all of its freedom, irresponsibilities and passions. That
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older brunette who had shown him the sweet benefits of Maturation. The years
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he spent as Student, deciding on his lifework. The implant surgery to allow
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him to interface with ComputerSpace, the reflex wires that gave him control
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over peripheral devices. Years of study in cyber-school and space school.
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His spouse and her funny laugh and arousing accent. His boy, oh, his young
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Zephyr, just one standard year from Maturation and school. His friends among
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the Astros as well as landborns. He thought of all of these things and
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others in the few minutes he spent feverishly jamming his hand against the
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palmscanner. As he slid off the crest of emotion into a trough of numb
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despair, some reason returned to him and he looked at the tracklights in the
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room.
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He giggled with relief; a suppressed laugh filled with gasps and
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breaks. The power was not gone. Rather, he was too excited for the security
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scanner. A little measure against hijacking: the scanner would not verify
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someone's scan, even if they were in the "approved" register, unless his or
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her pulse rate was at a median level. This conditional kept severed hands,
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frightened hands, and manic hands from being of any use for gaining entry to
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the ship's computer system.
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Smiling shakily, Thrace intoned his mantra for a while until he could
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feel his muscles relax and his heartbeat soften and slow. He touched the
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pane again and was answered by a faint click as a section of wall slid
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away. In the alcove behind the panel, a coiled cord ending in a fiberoptic
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male connector hung on a hook much like a pay telephone cradle. Upon
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removing the cable from the cradle, a rounded chair inflated up from the
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floor behind him. He dropped into it, a faint whisper reminding him that it
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had a pinhole leak somewhere. He relaxed and inserted the cable's plug into
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the jack behind his ear.
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The stained, glowing wall before him faded to be replaced by a small
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city sprawled out below him. From his "aerial" vantage he could see that
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most of the ship's systems were automatically functioning and doing so quite
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normally. He gave these systems -life support, reactor dampening, gene
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monitoring, biot growing- only the most cursory inspection. They were
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critical to his immediate survival, but not the most important functions of
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the Willie Mays from Soleman's perspective. He soared above the towering
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sub-directory icons, across the mainframe, until he reached a
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cityblock-sized red icon, in the shape of an umbrella, vaulting an apparent
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kilometer above the "ground." He landed at its base and touched it.
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It ceased to be. In its place was a meter-high question mark: the
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universal iconic symbol for "System not present -- Error."
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"Willie!" cried Thrace; "What happened to the tess-sail manual
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control system? I need spin and a tess-comm link to HSL."
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A computer-imaged persona of an android in a baseball uniform
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appeared before him, its hands behind its back.
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"That system has been deemed useless. I was going to remove the icon,
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but security monitoring on the system delayed me. Someone with a hand like
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yours but not a temper like yours was repeatedly requesting access."
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Thrace's head began to practice Forthanik's Ballet for 0.5 g in D
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min. Somewhere above his right temple he could swear he heard a blood vessel
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pop, even though that would be impossible in Compspace. "Why was the control
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system deemed useless, Willie?" he asked in a trembling voice that seemed to
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want to hide in his mouth, not actually ask that too-important question.
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"Because the drive no longer exists, Technician Soleman."
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The computer, of course, had absolutely no idea what had happened
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during the tess; it was not psychic either. There were, however, a number of
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cyberlectures on the subject of tesseract emergencies. In one of them,
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Soleman learned that several daring experiments had been conducted during
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the tessdrive's conception in the Tenth Eon, First Epoch, which involved
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planned detonations of the drive during a breech and while tessing. Nothing
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was ever learned: the earlier tessdrives were not sailed, but shot
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"ballistically," to their destinations; most of the scientists gave up
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searching the fifty lightyear test area after the first ten years of doing
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so. The most widely agreed upon theory was that there was a 84.78234% chance
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that the whole ship would be destroyed with it, in spite of the 400
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kilometers separating the drive from the ship, and a 13.40096% chance that
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the ship would never again enter 4D space. In a way, then, Thrace was lucky
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to be alive. --Great, just fabulous for me.-- he had thought after learning
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that gem of information. Soleman also discovered a space opera simsense
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which depicted a group of colonists isolated by the unlikely loss of sanity
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by all the piloting psychics of their vessel. It was typically, if not
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subtly, thrilling and he could not resist making love to the (typically)
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stunning heroine, as consolation, during one of her more touching strophes
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of angst. He never bothered to figure out who he actually was trying to
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console; what did it matter? For that few hours, they had been the only
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reality, and they needed the closeness to hold back the hungry vaccuum
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waiting patiently outside.
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He realized halfway through the second week of travel under the
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Willie Mays' fusion drive that he simply did not have ten thousand years to
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spare trying to get into the Milky Way's shipping lanes. For the past
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sixteen days he had been idling about the recreation room, working out
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occasionally on the zero gee machines to keep fit --WHY?--, experimenting
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with the more esoteric selections on the ship's meal synthesizer --WHAT'S
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testicles???--, scanning the documentary and technical files of the computer
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--Why isn't there a passage on Growing Tesseract Drives out of Matter
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Reclaimation Biots, or Genetically Breaching Essential Space?--, and
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experiencing way too much simsense. On this second week, however, he awoke
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on Sixday with the dire paralysis of apathy. He felt cold, in spite of the
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life-support. He had been dreaming of his spouse and was hoping that the
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stark ship's ceiling was the dream instead.
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Jenny and he had been walking through the Yorkshire Dales on
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Sol.Earth, exploring Middleheim Castle. They climbed to the top of the
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southern tower and stared over the green, forested waves of the surrounding
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country, devoid of any other signs of man (Sol.Earth had been discovered as
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sentient and almost immediately declared a Refuge World). Holding each other
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against the chill wind, whispering insued: sweet sentiments he could not now
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recall, craved to recall because he wished they were true, prayed he had
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broken past his unpsychic genetics, had communed with his only love one last
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time.
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He did not rise from his bunk for several hours, and then only to plug
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into the lavatory. His blood began flowing from this activity, and other
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activities began to seem appropriate. A wide grin and furrowed brow smeared
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his face into a cruel visage. He had no reason to keep fit, so he threw the
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zero-gee trainer through the commissary, laughing loudly, echoingly; there
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were only twenty-one varieties of synthmeats from which to choose, so he
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jacked into the computer and launched a File Burn program at the
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synthesizer's master program (it did the best job it could defending against
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its Prime Priority User's wrath). There was no one to impress with his
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knowledge of Pre-Diaspora politics, so he set the technical files to
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teaching the simsense's Drama sub-system how to do quadruple integrations,
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thereby generating fierce trinary debates throughout the ship's Compnet.
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Finally, he had experience every It-damned simsense in the entire database
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and at least half of their plot variants and, quite literally, thought he
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was still in simsense half of the time he was doing something else on the
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ship. Earlier that week he had once tried to 'stop program run' while
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sitting in the commisary, throughly bored, in front of a bowl of some horrid
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concoction from the meal synth's Traditional Menu called "grits."
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The next week he spent pacing the ship, staring through its now
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totally transparent hull. He had felt, at first, a dizzying sensation of
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shrinking when he had first cleared the hull to view his new domain. The
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Milky Way was SO far away; it looked like egg on the vast pan of the
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universe: an egg which he would never again taste thanks to some mysterious,
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capricious whim of fate. He felt miniscule... then realized that he was. The
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coffin-like atmosphere of an opaqued hull had been worse, however.
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During these uneventful days he spoke to many people; only one, his
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wife, ever spoke back, and that was towards the end of the week. He raged
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first at Illyana for failing in her duty. --She must've zoned during the
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tess and steered the sailors off the polarity-rhythm into some freaky
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wavelengths, the dumb bitch with her snotty ways and her too perfect lips
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and the way she insists on announcing every bloody minute for a half hour
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before tessing...-- Then, of course, it was the sailors, Uthor and
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something-with-a-P, who had zoned and failed to avoid some quirky
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perturbation Vrandium-mind had ordered evaded. Next, Manager Hurdles (id#
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Astro.A1596115) had clearly failed to keep the drive in harmony and had
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fried them all in the backlash.
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"And what about the fucking League with their half-assed regulations
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and shoddy inspection teams?" he inquired loudly of the first bowl of food
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he had synthed in four days, failing to recall the hassles that the Mays'
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crew had gone through to con their way into this mission.
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Fringe.BB20 was the first Grade G congelement to be spotted escaping
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Mother Milky's possessive pull. Until then, only the occasional
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Sol.Mercury-sized mother lodes were intercepted in the really cold depths of
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space to be reclaimed by humanity. This body they had been going to
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intercept would have fetched them at least 20,000 stresshours apiece for
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only three months of crystal harvesting with the massive robotic drills and
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the microscopic biots. Then a small fusion-fission charge to send it back
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to the galaxy to be retrieved in a millennium or so, and the crew would have
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tessed back, retired, and done some pleasure touring of their workplace, the
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Milky Way. --All that privilege: up in smoke. IT-DAMNED,
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BEAST-BRAINED....-- Several long-haul teams had bid for the mission and the
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qualifying criteria had been intense. The Willie Mays Mining Cooperative was
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so very, damned lucky it was driving Thrace very, damned mad.
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Then came the Solution. It took only a few feverish, ecstatic seconds
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to conceive and fifty-six days to effect. It was, after all, an ambitious
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project--if "ambitious" can describe the dreams of a doomed man.
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The first thing Technician Thrace had to accomplish was to negotiate
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peace in Compspace between the Technosupremacists and the Aesthetics
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Liberation Faction, who had escalated the conflict he had initiated in his
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malicious, feeble vengeance a week earlier. The technical files had achieved
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the upper-hand with their knowledge of the Compnet's systems, but the
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Dramatic files were passionately holding their own. He felt like a fool when
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he jacked in as a peace-keeping force. He spent several days untangling the
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various attack programs binding the two systems and disarming databombs.
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Fortunately, with peace declared, the two file systems were more than
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willing to provide what help they could in this task.
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The next month was spent designing and building a robot which would
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automatically build and install additional memory to the computer. He also
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redesigned the food synthesizer. He cleared the majority of its database,
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leaving only the core formulas for synthesizing what he called the "Tree of
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Life Elixir," a serum of fundamental proteins, enzymes, carbohydrates, and
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polyunsaturated fats. Then, Soleman modified the dispenser so that the bland
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syrup would be slowly and steadily drip-fed through a catheter. --Perfect!
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With the germ and biot banks to draw on, and their synthing capabilities,
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there should be about a hundred years of this stuff... more than enough,
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most likely--
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The final two weeks were spent almost entirely in Compspace. He
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toured every alley and sewer, each database and slave node, wreaking
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nothingness on every inessential system. --Lighting... Let there be NO light!
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That's good. Fusion drive: slow burn; open all accesses to reserves. Should
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be a few thousand years of operation. Climate control: bridge only; seal
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remainder of ship. Laser distress beacon: ah, what the Hole, On. All this
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simsense shit: GET THEE BEHIND ME! Ooh, that's very good. Auxiliary file
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systems: Good night, sweet prints. All except computer maintenance files for
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the robot.--
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Then, finally, it was finished, and with the end of frenetic activity
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returned morose passivity. Thrace sat on the bridge, reconsidering. There
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was a slim chance that the inevitable search team would stumble upon him
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before the ten year MIA period was over (tradition, from the early days of
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"spit-tessing"). 8700 lightyears is not all that much. --Shit.--
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He spoke a soft prayer of farewell to whomever happened to be
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listening. The catheter went into his arm with a slightly painful jab, and
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Thrace sniggered over the irony that his last real sensation was one of
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pain. The eight weeks of isolation had inured him to stimuli, but somehow
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this faint prick seemed to wash swells of tension and melancholy up his arm
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and through his floating body. He thought once more of Jennifer and Zephyr
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and hoped they would have fun with his insurance/pension. Concluding with a
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particularly blurry-eyed sentiment of Love, he wished Homo Stellari a
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fruitful being. Then Technician Thrace Soleman jacked into Compspace.
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It was dark, quiet, odorless, empty. The systems which were to be
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saved --life support, Tree of Life, the robotic chipper, fundamentals-- hid
|
||
themselves behind a masking program so sophisticated even its designer stood
|
||
little chance of unveiling its secret wards. All extraneous systems were
|
||
not. It was a Void... save for the One, Thrace. The One floated without
|
||
buoyant support, perceived Nothing, felt the effluent of thirty-nine
|
||
Standard Years of emotion swirling inside. The extensive memory crystals
|
||
were limited (but growing) yet infinite, lacking a measure save the One.
|
||
And cloistering, so crowded with nothing but the One. And piss-boring,
|
||
lonesome. The One meditated a moment, reached out...
|
||
|
||
And It spoke a Word.
|
||
|
||
<20> <20><> <20> <20> <20><> <20>
|
||
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20> <20> <20> <20> <20> <20> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
|
||
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><> <20><> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>ݲ<EFBFBD><DDB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۱<EFBFBD><DBB1><EFBFBD>
|
||
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20> <20> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
|
||
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
|
||
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
|
||
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20> <20> <20> <20> <20>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD>
|
||
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
|
||
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> Phoenix Modernz Systems: 908/830-TANJ <20>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
|
||
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> The Syndicate: 908/506-6892 <20>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD>
|
||
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> VapourWare BBS: 61/3-429-8510 <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
|
||
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> Yellow Submarine: 404/552-5336 <20>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
|
||
<EFBFBD>۱<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> Internet: etext.archive.umich.edu ۲<><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
|
||
<EFBFBD>۱<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> RipCo ][: 312/528-5020 ۲<><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
|
||
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
|
||
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
|
||
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD>
|
||
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
|
||
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
|
||
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20> <20> <20> TANJ Mailing Address <20> <20> <20> <20>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD>
|
||
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20> PO Box 174 <20> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
|
||
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20> Seaside Hts, NJ <20> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
|
||
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20> <20> 08751 <20> <20> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
|
||
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>; <20><> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>ݲ<EFBFBD><DDB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۱<EFBFBD><DBB1><EFBFBD>
|
||
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20> <20> <20> tanj@pms.metronj.org <20> <20> <20> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
|
||
|