Just Another Job

A Writer's Extreme Creativity Challenge: Write a story a day, in May. That's it: http://storyaday.org/. Thanks to Martin Newman for the seed words 'Fog. Mechanised. Lurk. Apples. Platinum. Atlantis. Assassin. Teeth. Silk. Liver. Jobsworth. Deep Sea Abyss. Solitaire. Poker'

#10 : Just Another Job

The Mi-go are as good as their word. Their fungal webs ease my pod out of Aetherspace and into regular space/time at the edge of the Sol system just beyond Pluto. 

I watch through the cabin windows as the three ten limbed space insects spin a cocoon of Yoggothian silk around my craft.

I don't attempt to communicate with them, they're here to take me to Venus. The advantages of using the Mi-go taxi service are that they don't ask questions and their silk renders us largely undetectable. I'm here to do a job and chit chat wouldn't be wise. They may reconsider their fare if they knew what I was carrying.

I'm an assassin. I kill people and things for a living, but I specialise in things. I'm in this solar system to kill a God, or something as near to a god as to make it almost indistinguishable to most of the creatures it shares a planet with: A currently dormant Great Old One entombed in a deep abyss within the planet Earth, a planet inhabited by a single type one civilisation beneath the surface and four others ranging from point six to point eight.

In theory, the target is stationary, which should make lining up a shot fairly easy. In practice, my clients would like to take control of a functioning Class M planet, so if I want paying, I need to make this a clean kill without too much collateral damage. The central nervous system of a Great Old One may make this a difficult task.

The Mi-go signal in their clicking crustacean voices that we have arrived on Venus. The cabin depressurises and I climb out of the cramped pod, brushing aside the silk and fog of their insulating web that has kept my pod protected for the short journey. I acknowledge completion of the journey in the language which will allow them to be paid and they disappear into the aether on membranous appendages.

Venus is exactly as I remember it. Venus, where plants have teeth. A misty, toxic jungle inhabited by flora and fauna that will more or less eat anything given the time and inclination. The web should keep me undetected by the planet long enough to do the hit and get out.

Unpacking the sniper rifle, and setting up its support structure and associated computers takes three hours. The hard part is ensuring that the ammunition doesn't attract attention. Handle with care.

Once set up, the job is more or less done. Everything is planned and considered, the computers do the work: locate the target within its deep sea tomb, adjust for intervening materials, solid, liquid and atmospheric, relative planetary orbits, solar wind, check for relevant space debris and pull the trigger..

Pop... Pop... Pop...

Brain... Heart... Liver...

It'll take several hours for the bullets to cross the intervening space and hit the target, and another for their payload to take effect. I'm extremely relieved to have them out of my care. If any Elder Things had found me with such ordnance, things would have became very, very bad for me. And probably for everyone I've ever communicated with.

Each bullet contained a platinum chamber housing a bio-engineered Micro Shoggoth and enough supporting protoplasm to initialise very rapid reproduction and growth on contact with the target. Handle with care: you bet.

So, that's that. Over fifty thousand years of "Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn" and such like done and dusted: all lickety split, nice and smooth. The cat is now very much amongst the pigeons as far as the local civilisations geopolitics are concerned. Not my problem.

My problem is that I need to get the hell out of here. The Mi-Go are doubtless already on route with an assassination job of their own (or answer awkward questions about their role in this affair). The Elder things will notice as soon as the Shoggoth awake. I’m also fairly sure that the Earth and Venus talk.

Fortunately for me, the hard part was getting the artillery into the solar system and someone to pull the trigger. All I’ve got to actually leave with is my mind and no-way of tracing this incident back. I activate the self destruct on the pod (gravity collapse in ten, nine...).

I pull the needle holding mind and body together out out of the back of my neck, just as a howling noise in the upper atmosphere announces that they're here and the Elder things are early. I hope the spell keeping me in this body fails before they get hold of it, or at the very least the gravity bomb detonates.

I'm in luck. I'm out of here. Job done. Bye.

Polarities

A Writer's Extreme Creativity Challenge: Write a story a day, in May. That's it: http://storyaday.org/. Thanks to Richmond Clements for the seed word 'twins''

#9 : Polarities

It was a beautiful evening. Submagi Floren watched the twin suns begin to disappear behind the woods further up the valley and finished her beer. It was time. The waiter took her empty plate and glass. Floren tipped well, and got her coat, sketchbook and pens together. The Blue Sun was the first to descend at this time of year, leaving the sky a deep red.

The evening would remain warm for a while yet. Submagi Floren set off through the streets of the old town. It took half an hour to reach the south gate and to get on the path leading through the Lux-Garden which occupied the valley between the Towers of the two Priesthoods.

Floren knew the paths like the back of her hand, and followed a dark overgrown path leading beneath the Witch Bridge, down deep into the valley, into the shadows and undergrowth. Eventually the stone part of the path ended and he continued through the mud to the point where the sacred streams crossed.

She arrived at a building calved out of the rock of the valley, and knocked on the small wooden door. A bald man, lumpy, ancient and uncivilised looking, opened the door and gestured for Floren to enter. He wore an old shirt, open down to his pot belly, with drawstring pants and sandles. All of his clothes were covered in paint.

“I have arrived Magi” announced Floren, uncertain of what to say, or what rituals and secrets awaited.

The room inside was quite large, two of the walls formed from bare rock, the others brick and wood. Pots of paint, brushes and old canvasses were piled up against the walls. The canvases suggested bodies, animals and broken vases. Floren looked at them, piecing the imagery together. The Magi pointed at one of the two wooden chairs.

“Sit, Submagi Floren, you’ve come for the secrets of our order I take it?”

Floren nodded.

“Ok. Do you want some tea? I’ve just made some”

“Yes Magi” said Floren.

The Magi poured some strong looking tea from a simple looking tea pot and put it on the table in front of Floren.

“Help yourself to milk” he said, gesturing to a small jug of milk.

Floren looked at the tea, and at the Magi carefully, attempting to deduce the correct response.

“It’s just tea” said the Magi knowingly “It’s not mystical tea, it’s just tea. It’s been brewing a while and I have never allowed the teapot cleaned so you might want a bit of sugar too”.

Floren added both milk and sugar. She took a sip of the tea. The Magi poured himself some and sat on the chair opposite.

“Right, secrets of the order. It’s bloody simple. We’re the Priests of the Moon, we make trouble. That’s it” said the Magi.

Floren listened expectantly.

“Oh, OK, if I must.” said the Magi “As you know, our Two Suns are in orbit around each other and this beautifully futile speck of dust is in orbit around both. Both Priesthoods are preparing for the day when the Sun’s separate, and our planet goes with one or the other

“The Priests of the Red Sun and the Priests of the Blue Sun worship their respective Suns from their high towers primarily through the act of perpetual disagreement

“If the Priests of the Red Sun say Shit the Blue Priests will say Piss. And on it goes, with neither rhyme nor reason. This you know of course. Everyone knows it, and yet people feel compelled to pick sides, are told that they must, and assume that one is right and the other wrong, and that in time soon to come the truth will be revealed, our speck of dust planet will go with one and the followers of the other will be flung into the vacuum of space

“In the lower orders of the Two Priesthoods, this remains the teaching, and they are encouraged in the various esoteric arguments supporting their faiths. The Blue sun is older and wiser, the Red younger and brighter. Almost everything a man can think has been assigned a value by one or the other”

Floren took a sip of her tea. She doubted that there was enough sugar remaining in the pot to make this tea approach pleasant. She made another polite attempt to drink. The Magi took a perverse delight at his discomfort.

“Arse holes the lot of them” said the Magi “The Higher Orders of both have secretly accepted another truth, handed to them by our great cities Scientists: The Suns are not about to fly apart, but are in fact, over millennia, moving closer together.

“So they believe that their constant bickering, argument and disagreement is essential to our continued existence, delaying the collision of the two stars using the power of their infinite hot air.

“There’s not an ounce of imagination between them and their idiot binary way of thinking, those joining the Priesthoods just aren’t the types to think outside the box. The higher orders at least realize this... and this, Submagi Floren, is why our order was founded”

Floren looked up from her tea. The Magi sneered at her.

“The Priesthood of the moon was founded to give the Two Priesthoods something to disagree about. We cause trouble. We howl at the moon, we bring dissonance. We don’t even have to try that hard, they’ll find offense in almost anything. Submagi Floren, do you paint? play music? write?”.

“I write and draw Magi” said Floren quietly, fishing in her bag for his sketchbook.

“You write and you draw? Words and Pictures?” said the Magi “The writers and painters hate each other you know?”

“They’re in sequence Magi, see...?” said Floren and showed some of her pages to the Magi. The Magi took them and looked from picture to picture, a story unfolding.

“An artificial planet? why do they all have balloons in their mouths?” asked the Magi.

“That’s what they’re saying sir. It’s dialogue. Like in a play.” said Floren.

The Magi smiled. Floren had never seen him do that. Sneer, yes. Smile?

“A heresy on every page! These people are eating each other” said the Magi “I am fucking delighted!”

“They’re zombies, Magi” said Floren.

The Magi looked genuinely happy.

“I don’t know what that means, but ... well I would normally suggest that you start by painting a prostitutes arse blue and call it art, but this... Words, Pictures and Science and Time all together on a piece of torn off note paper... heh... heh...” the Magi coughed.

“Magi Floren. Go to it. This is going to piss everyone off.”

Rock Night

A Writer's Extreme Creativity Challenge: Write a story a day, in May. That's it: http://storyaday.org/. Thanks to David Wynne for the words 'hairdryer candle jellybeans pearl jam poster'

#8 : Rock Night


Son, she said, have I got a little story for you.

I light the candle.

Scientists have theorised that it may be possible to actually increase my base level of Rock beyond current levels, but that this will require a further thirteen dimensions, seven imaginary particles and an entirely new kind of matter based on the chords of Eddie Vedder.

While we wait for the Large Hadron Collider to establish whether this is possible, I prepare to head down to Trillians. While taking up to an hour to dry and straighten waist length hair, I sacrifice five jellybeans to the Pearl Jam Poster, melting them in candlewax. I Rock.

Interpreting the trails of wax and jelly as I bolt myself in to thigh length platform boots, the signs are... something is wrong. Has the Pearl Jam Poster forsaken me? I look close, analysing and evaluating every rivulet of wax, every particle of burned sugar.

Now I can't see, I just stare...

I double check. It appears that this evening in town, I shall indeed Rock, but there is one coming who shall Rock yet harder than myself. I look angrily at the poster. Pearl Jam have been wrong before? Haven’t they?

And if so... if so...who answers...who answers...

No. The poster, the candle, the jellybeans, they have never yet been wrong. So the question remains: what to do? pledge allegiance to this new Messiah of Rock? My time is over, perhaps. I angrily flick a jellybean at the poster and immediately regret it. I must respect the Pearl Jam Poster.

I'm still alive.

Never. I pull on my leather coat. Never. I shall go down with the maximum power and dignity of Rock. There shall be a Rock off the likes of which we have never seen, it shall be spoken of in hushed awe for years to come. I must time my arrival on the dance floor with care. I’m still alive. These boots are made for Rocking.

And that’s just what they’ll do. I am ready. The bus is coming.

Oh, I'm still alive.

The Architect

A Writer's Extreme Creativity Challenge: Write a story a day, in May. That's it: http://storyaday.org/. Thanks to Ian Mayor for the words 'architect,light,obsession'

#7 : The Architect

The Tower was destroyed and the people scattered. In less than a generation the One Language had fallen out of use, those who had made their living as speakers and translators had been forbidden from its use, the people believing it cursed.

Without the Tower, they had nothing to unite them.

While many of the Builders and Slaves had been killed where they stood, the King and the Architect had survived, and lived alone in the ruins of the Tower. It would be the last place HE would think to look, and if they had learned one thing, it was that not only did HE exist, but HE jealously guarded the skies.

The two of them became increasingly insane. Their only contact with the outside world was to attack the children who occasionally crept into the ruins from those few families who still lived in what remained of the Old City.

The Architect had been blinded, he had been closest to the light and the wind when HE had struck. The Architect believed that in the split second before he lost his sight, he had seen heaven, and had seen a way to get there. The structure of Light itself was the clue.

Over the years, The Architect lost his memory of the nature of Light, and became obsessed by the notion that it could be a material, which, distilled into solid form, might form the building blocks of a new tower, which HE would not destroy.


Being made of the same material as Heaven, the angels would not identify an intruder explained the Architect to the King.

He further theorised that since light was their material, the Tower could be expanded rapidly and exponentially by the use of cunningly placed mirrors.

This construction would not be rejected by heaven, no Angels, no Un-Bodies would be raised, and using this tower, they would create a needle, stretching not just to the boundaries of heaven, but into the palaces and gardens at the very centre of the city of heaven where they would hide in his many corridors and hallways, multiply and grow, free from the corrupting influences of Earth bound materials.

Once heaven was infiltrated, the Angels could be studied from up close, their sciences and knowledge put to the use of Mankind.

The King, for he too had lost his mind, set out with the Architect to find a Scientist able make Light Solid. Neither had any illusions that they would see this project completed, but they would set events in motion that would free Mankind and remake Heaven in their own image.

Restructuring

A Writer's Extreme Creativity Challenge: Write a story a day, in May. That's it: http://storyaday.org/. 

#6 : Restructuring

“Look” said Jack “Vampires are boring”

Alan nodded, and stared glumly into the remains of his pint.

“That’s the bottom line and you know it. You’ve been coasting. Pint?” said Jack.

“Ay” said Alan. Alan looked around the pub. Everyone in here was ‘Staff’ or friends of at this time of the evening. It was both repetitive and comforting. Jack had been right though.

The Vampires were boring these days, gone were the good old days, the truly ancient super suave international vampires were gone, either hunted back to their ancestral castles or they’d accepted a deal. The really nasty hellfire and brimstone vampires, usually a few hundred years old, who’d never really grasped style and lurked in the inner cities murdering prostitutes and kids... Well, the blond kid had kicked hell out of most of those before she’d moved on to better things. He wished her well.

His team had done good work, but Alan was still here, hunting what was left. Pathetic petulant, quivering lip, toothless lifestyle vampires, who did nothing but moan on about it, like being a vampire was some kind of addiction. The hardest thing to deal with about these vampires was explaining the pile of dust to the teenage girls they inevitably attracted.

Pathetic, really. Job Done. Time to move on. Possibly Jack was right, and Jack had brought another pint of Beer.

“Thanks” said Alan “I’ve been thinking about the restructuring”.

“And?” said Jack.

“And I dunno, merging the Folklaw Suppression team with the Superhero Control lot... it’s bound to get messy”.

“Daylight working hours most of the time Alan, and you should see the costumes some of the women wear. There’s a super speed girl with ice cream themed powers, for fecks sake”

“I know, I know”

“And lets face it, you could do with learning some new skills, you aren’t going anywhere in vampires. When was the last really difficult one that really made a difference?”

“1997 - the Old People’s Home off the Luxlan” said Alan “He was a nasty bugger. Maybe you’re right”.

“I know I’m right Alan, I know you think Superhero division are all black and white in their thinking, and you’re right, they are. But these days, we’ve got some very morally complex wierdo’s out there these days. Super Speed, Laser Vision, some of these guys have got powers you would never think of in a million years. Girls who can see sideways in time. Guys who can swap people’s brains just by looking at them. The team aren’t used to handling weird. They could use a guy who thinks like you”

“Yeah. Yeah, can we talk about something else? I’ll think about it”.

And Alan and Jack finished their drinks and stumbled off their separate ways.

In a basement deep beneath the City Swimming Pool, a long curved corridor slopes downwards, spiraling tighter towards a centre. The pale light flickers on in the circular room at the centre, a robotic voice announces ‘Authorisation Accepted Alan Arnold, Division V’

Alan staggered into the circular room at the lowest point, steps over the moat of constantly flowing holy water, and kicks at the circle of salt on the floor, creating a gap.

“I knew you’d come” - the voice is old, powerful.

Alan looks up at the Vampire. An ancient, impossibly thin human shape, nailed to a silver crucifix. Alan nods.

“You are in no state to make a deal with me Alan. Come back when you have thought about this properly” said the Vampire.

“I switched off all the defenses that matter to you thirteen minutes ago. Why are you still here?” asked Alan “Why am I still alive?”.

“Professional courtesy, Alan. Oh that and ‘I want never gets’”. The Vampire mocked him.

“You’re playing games with me” said Alan.

But there was no mouth to answer - a swarm of dust and flies, flooded into the ducts and was gone. Alan looked around and checked himself. His blood had been cleared of alcohol, and the Vampire had left a post it note on his subconscious. Enough to convince his superiors that it hadn’t been deliberate.

Yes, that is what he’d wanted. It will be just like the old days. Playing games.

The Shining Wire

A Writer's Extreme Creativity Challenge: Write a story a day, in May. That's it: http://storyaday.org/. 

#5 : The Shining Wire


The Council of Bunnies came gradually and suspiciously to order. Democracy was a new word. Too many syllables for a start. Vote was easier. They kind of got that. Hop over to the new leader and raise a paw. Done.

“Fellow Bunnies” began President Fennel “It has became clear to me that in order for us to survive, we must find a way out of the crisis that is upon us. Sage Thyme has a proposal to put to you all. If you agree with it, he will lead us and I also will follow. Sage Thyme, please speak”.

A long thin, albino bunny hopped into the centre of the circle of the Council of Bunnies.

“Thank you President Fennel. Bunnies, it has never been my intention to lead, only to serve, to keep my fellow Bunnies safe from all darkness and to ensure a ready supply of both Leeks and Carrots”.

“Hear Hear” proclaimed the Council of Bunnies.

Sage Thyme continued “But it has come to pass that the Glass House and the lands which surround it are now protected by The Man’s Dogs. Rat patrols have been on the increase and a Fox has been seen on the far side of the stream. Scout leader Rosemary tells me that she believes that the Fox knows we’re here but the Dogs will hunt it as they hunt us”.

The Council of Bunnies were silent.

“Radical Change is required” said Thyme “I have consulted with the Shaman of the Tribe of Roaches and we believe that the Carrots, Leeks and Lettuce which were found by the stream last week are an offering from The Man.”

Second Scout Laurel raised a paw. Thyme turned on her “Yes, what is it Scout?”

“They weren’t good Sage Thyme sir” she said.

“They may not have been new or fresh, but they were... considerably... better than... nothing” replied Thyme with an air of menace... “May I... please continue?”

“Yes sir”

“Good. The Tribe and I believe that this was an offering which will have to be... paid for, and the more we pay, the more and better the Carrots will be, and the better the Carrots will be, the more of us there will be. By the offering was a shining wire” said Thyme.

The Council of Bunnies began to chatter. President Fennel was shaking his head. Towards the back of the group General Mace stirred.

“We spotted it straight away. It was too obvious to have been intended as a trap. It was a message from The Man. One Rabbit. One pile of Carrots, Leeks and Vegetables. Enough to feed the whole warren.” said Thyme.

General Mace, a huge dark bunny hopped forward “Enough, Sage, Enough. I have heard Enough. We will not willingly sacrifice ourselves to The Man”.

“This is democracy General Mace, we must hear him out” said President Fennel.

“By my entire hindgut fermentation” shouted General Mace “I will not have it! Thyme!” said Mace.

“Yes?” said Thyme.

“Who would you suggest for the first sacrifice?” said Mace “Leading by example?”

“Hah” said Sage Thyme “No, that is the old way. We are looking to the future. A future without violence... witho-” Sage Thyme was cut off by Mace.

“President Fennel, we are thin, we are weak. This must change. I need more Bunnies, but we do not make deals with The Man. If we end up on his table, it is not voluntarily. If we eat his carrots, we eat his BEST carrots. While we lack brawn, we will use brains. First Scout Laurel has been outlining to me a previously unknown route into the Glass House”.

Laurel looked surprised “I...? I have. Yes SIR”.

“And you will be rewarded for it First Scout Laurel, with the first pick of the takings” said General Mace.

Laurel held herself high, proud and confused at her sudden promotion.

“I protest, I must finish” said Thyme.

“You are lucky you can still speak” said Mace “I have killed Bunnies for suggesting less. But as it is President Fennel’s whim that we are now a democracy, you shall have, for a short time, freedom of speech, and I shall stand against you. My first policy is to ram that shining wire so far-”

President Fennel interrupted, one of few and his last decisive act as President, “General Mace, Sage Thyme, Council of Bunnies. I believe that we have heard the candidates policies. I believe that it may be time for you all to cast your vote.”

And so they did.

All Lickety-Split

A Writer's Extreme Creativity Challenge: Write a story a day, in May. That's it: http://storyaday.org/. 

#4 : All Lickety Split

Summer evening sun streams in low through the shutters. She skims the op-art tiled floor of the 50’s Themed Icecream and Milkshake Diner collecting oversized empty glasses. A six foot tall blur of blonde, red, white and pink on oversized roller-skates. If you blinked, you’d have missed it: red plastic surfaces wiped clean, dishwasher full, shutters beginning to close.

Waitress clothes gone, loose fitting jacket and trousers on, Valerie is sat at the chrome counter, a lit cigarette already in hand. Brunette. Only one thing about her hasn’t changed while you were blinking, as one of the two suits who have just stepped out from the store room entrance is already pointing out...

“So... where do you find a girl who cannot remove her magic hypersonic rollerskates?”

But Valerie has already vanished in a blur of speed. This is normal, this is expected. The men stride into the middle of the Diner.

“A Rollerskate Diner, would surely be the only place such a person could maintain anything like a secret identity.” says the second man in exactly the same deadpan, who is busy typing impolitely into his iPhone.

“Valerie, or should we say ‘LicketySplit!’, in the flesh. We know you’re still here. You haven’t set off any of the time vortex traps so by now you should know that you can’t escape...”

“Please slow down so we can talk... oh.” he says as his eye falls on a brunette wig and a neatly folded pile of clothes on the seat behind the counter..

Three hundred and seventy miles away, Valerie skids to a halt.

Who the hell did they think they were, trying to trap HER? She could have incapacitated them with ice-cream headache fired at the speed of sound with one of fifteen regular flavours and four guest varieties, but the traps came online a nanosecond after she left, so she’d made the right choice.

And her loose fitting clothes have gone, Tightly cropped red hair, frictionless white jumpsuit, and matching the skates, streamlined red knee and elbow pads, helmet and goggles, whose high speed net connection is already scanning the conspiracy chat rooms for the Brotherhood logo.

Not keeping up? Valerie is looking at the wallet that she took from the first man: “Brotherhood of the Flame”. Apparently even satanic conspiracies carry identity cards these days. She looked again - a crossed metal fork and spatula on a diagonally lined circle logo.

They were either trying to keep LicketySplit! out of the picture or coerce her into doing a job for them. That’s the usual deal. She’d seen it all before. Barbecue themed super villains. Ridiculous. Maybe they were planning to invite her to a garden party.

The internet spits out some theories, as the internet will and writes up its conclusion on the goggles display. Aha, the third option. A second later, she’s on the streets of London.

Red boots flaming up the surface of the Millenium Dome. She’s hurled across the Thames. Impact in 0.3 seconds her knee pads pop into balloon of ultra dense toffee milkshake and she’s above over two hundred shops, boutiques, bars and restaurants glued to the pyramid of Canary Wharf. A blast of ice cold Slusho! from her helmet and the glass smashes, she drops into the headquarters of the Brotherhood of the Flame.

She hits the floor of a huge elegant room, belying the buildings glass and steel exterior. A woman, gothic styled suit, black and red, sits at an antique table set for two. She stands, tall on impossible heels and smiles at Valerie without a hint of either surprise or malice.

“Crowley, You’re meant to be...” says Valerie catching up with herself “What do you want?”

“Hello Valerie” says Crowley “You got here faster than expected. Did you take a cab?”

Crowley grins. Slightly sinister.

“This is ridiculous”

Crowley nods “Isn’t it? would you care to try the wine?”

“White or Red?”