Dream log
California.
Caitlin and Josie, voiceover, discussing the thickness of a particular Frostie. I believe it to be a Taco Bell shake, but ghosting about the city shows that the consumer in question is standing outside a Wendy’s. Setting: jungle-scape metropolis, three young men, one with Frostie in hand. The man, about 6’2" with shoulder length hair, glasses, and a coolwise air about him, turns to regard me. "You can see me?" I ask in shock, surprised that anyone can see a mere teleghost.
"Sure," he says. "You’re droiding."
Realization dawns. We are surrounded by robots of varying size and amazing complexity.
After toying with my droid's functions for a bit, my conciousness begins to wonder how it was I arrived in California. The ghosting fades...I am actually in California now, and I remember why.
* * * * * * *
"Let’s GO!"
The heavily armored hatch opens, revealing my team of four soldier specialists. We, the best of our fighting force, have come to put a stop to the invasion, and we must move quickly if we are to make a difference. I scout left, then right--both sides of the craft appear to be clear.
Hoisting my weapon, I signal my team to move out. The last hesitates before crossing the threshold, but with a shout he charges the desert floor and drops into position. I can understand his hesistation--we have only three chances to get this right, and history has shown that even if the first timescape goes successfully, the odds of its successors going well are not good.
Swinging around to the left of the craft, I edge toward the doorway into the shaft complex, and the three timescapes begin.
We’re through the hatch and the shaft entryway, no problems.
We’re met with enemy fire at the shaft entryway, but manage to suppress it.
We’re met at the door by the enemy captain, his head crest a nightmarish display of gore and domination.
The shaftdrive starts up, and the first invasion wave shoots through the black-and-green visuals. We engage the enemy.
The shaftdrive is jammed. We will have to make our stand here. One of my team finds weapons and ammunition lockers throughout the room and distributes them before the second hatch is opened--from the other side.
The captain, resembling a cross between a triceratops and an upright elephant, pulls his weapon and drops one of my team. My left and right flank manage to drive him back through the hatch, and I swing wide right to enter through a window.
Knowing our enemy weaknesses makes it easy to keep them at bay while the shaftdrive runs its full sequence. I take the opportunity to train my younger team members on angle shots and cycle counts.
The scene before our eyes is unbearable. Fully half of the shaftdrive complex has been destroyed, its remains blasted meters away. Human forces are scattered about the desert, hunkered down in repairs for what little technology we have operable. In the distance, an army of mounted- and foot-soldiers approach with the grim assurance of death.
We are far outclassed. Knowing the captain to be preoccupied with the rest of my team, I lunge for his back, my weapon straining to release its cargo. Before I’m close enough to guarantee a mortal wound, the wind is knocked out of me and I hit the floor hard. The captain turns, and I see my team frozen in stances of toxic paralysis. "Psiobics..." I gasp, as his hand closes around my throat.
The last of the enemy in digital scraps, we emerge into the Californian territory. The standing forces--and, as I begin to forget, the droids--appear to have handled the worst of the opposition. My team fans out to join the fray, and I shift into ghosting mode to scout the area. I hear Caitlin and Josie over the comm...
Two robotic dusters--hovercraft with weapons mounted on the front--break off to meet our approach. Three of my team make a break for the nearest human platoon, and I mount a third duster to head off the assault. The controls are unfamiliar, but I manage to land a dune and skip over the oncoming rush. Swinging around, I blast both dusters into so much sand. I edge my duster forward, watching for secondary bots, when through the smoke and sparks I see two humans engaging a landing craft. I quickly join them, and before long we’re swooping above the enemy front. Their scouts, well trained, notice us immediately and signal their gunners. "Incoming fire!" I scream, and the thuk-thuk-thuk of bullets sound as our craft takes several hits. Pain lances through my vision--my right knee is a mess of of tissue, and I try to keep pressure on the wound, but I can’t breathe for all the blood in my helmet...
The battle is short. The blade mounted on my right forearm cuts into the captain’s arm and throat, but it cannot prevent him from turning my own rifle upon me. He squeezes a shot into my arm, then my shoulder. As the barrel aligns with my chest, his face becomes a rictus of sadistic fire.
* * * * * * *
Epilogue.
The music startles me out of my dream. Sitting up, I turn to regard the banquet "DJ:" a xylophonist who apparently knows the full range of Megaman music. It’s the opening to Megaman 3, and I’m surprised to find that I’m not the only one humming it quietly. On my right, a black man close to my own age works with a marble and tube set.
"What’s that for?"
"End of term project. How is yours coming?"
My alarm knows no bounds. "I thought we only had the entry essay to do!" Chad--my high school swim coach, sitting across the table from me--is summoned to the floor for tournament sign-ups, and he slides me a packet as he rises from his chair. I flip to the last page, and there it is: "Using creative means, explain if--and why--you are happy with your gender. Is it superior, sufficient, or suffering?"
"I am totally screwed."
The Asian kid on my right (having switched seats with the black man, apparently) leans over my shoulder and chuckles, "Jelly-swim it, man. Use the comic you were working on."
"My comic doesn't have a moral to it! Not yet, anyway," I murmur thoughfully. I push the packet aside and gaze at the final frame of my desert warfare sketch. The young hero can’t win on every front, I think...but maybe he can save my rear.
"Boys are sufficient," I scrawl in comic handprint across the final frame, "unless you put us in a hot room with no girls."
It won’t win any Nobels, I chuckle as I head for the buffet table, but peace--especially between the sexes--is just a piece of the pie.
Hey, blueberry!
Caitlin and Josie, voiceover, discussing the thickness of a particular Frostie. I believe it to be a Taco Bell shake, but ghosting about the city shows that the consumer in question is standing outside a Wendy’s. Setting: jungle-scape metropolis, three young men, one with Frostie in hand. The man, about 6’2" with shoulder length hair, glasses, and a coolwise air about him, turns to regard me. "You can see me?" I ask in shock, surprised that anyone can see a mere teleghost.
"Sure," he says. "You’re droiding."
Realization dawns. We are surrounded by robots of varying size and amazing complexity.
After toying with my droid's functions for a bit, my conciousness begins to wonder how it was I arrived in California. The ghosting fades...I am actually in California now, and I remember why.
* * * * * * *
"Let’s GO!"
The heavily armored hatch opens, revealing my team of four soldier specialists. We, the best of our fighting force, have come to put a stop to the invasion, and we must move quickly if we are to make a difference. I scout left, then right--both sides of the craft appear to be clear.
Hoisting my weapon, I signal my team to move out. The last hesitates before crossing the threshold, but with a shout he charges the desert floor and drops into position. I can understand his hesistation--we have only three chances to get this right, and history has shown that even if the first timescape goes successfully, the odds of its successors going well are not good.
Swinging around to the left of the craft, I edge toward the doorway into the shaft complex, and the three timescapes begin.
We’re through the hatch and the shaft entryway, no problems.
We’re met with enemy fire at the shaft entryway, but manage to suppress it.
We’re met at the door by the enemy captain, his head crest a nightmarish display of gore and domination.
The shaftdrive starts up, and the first invasion wave shoots through the black-and-green visuals. We engage the enemy.
The shaftdrive is jammed. We will have to make our stand here. One of my team finds weapons and ammunition lockers throughout the room and distributes them before the second hatch is opened--from the other side.
The captain, resembling a cross between a triceratops and an upright elephant, pulls his weapon and drops one of my team. My left and right flank manage to drive him back through the hatch, and I swing wide right to enter through a window.
Knowing our enemy weaknesses makes it easy to keep them at bay while the shaftdrive runs its full sequence. I take the opportunity to train my younger team members on angle shots and cycle counts.
The scene before our eyes is unbearable. Fully half of the shaftdrive complex has been destroyed, its remains blasted meters away. Human forces are scattered about the desert, hunkered down in repairs for what little technology we have operable. In the distance, an army of mounted- and foot-soldiers approach with the grim assurance of death.
We are far outclassed. Knowing the captain to be preoccupied with the rest of my team, I lunge for his back, my weapon straining to release its cargo. Before I’m close enough to guarantee a mortal wound, the wind is knocked out of me and I hit the floor hard. The captain turns, and I see my team frozen in stances of toxic paralysis. "Psiobics..." I gasp, as his hand closes around my throat.
The last of the enemy in digital scraps, we emerge into the Californian territory. The standing forces--and, as I begin to forget, the droids--appear to have handled the worst of the opposition. My team fans out to join the fray, and I shift into ghosting mode to scout the area. I hear Caitlin and Josie over the comm...
Two robotic dusters--hovercraft with weapons mounted on the front--break off to meet our approach. Three of my team make a break for the nearest human platoon, and I mount a third duster to head off the assault. The controls are unfamiliar, but I manage to land a dune and skip over the oncoming rush. Swinging around, I blast both dusters into so much sand. I edge my duster forward, watching for secondary bots, when through the smoke and sparks I see two humans engaging a landing craft. I quickly join them, and before long we’re swooping above the enemy front. Their scouts, well trained, notice us immediately and signal their gunners. "Incoming fire!" I scream, and the thuk-thuk-thuk of bullets sound as our craft takes several hits. Pain lances through my vision--my right knee is a mess of of tissue, and I try to keep pressure on the wound, but I can’t breathe for all the blood in my helmet...
The battle is short. The blade mounted on my right forearm cuts into the captain’s arm and throat, but it cannot prevent him from turning my own rifle upon me. He squeezes a shot into my arm, then my shoulder. As the barrel aligns with my chest, his face becomes a rictus of sadistic fire.
* * * * * * *
Epilogue.
The music startles me out of my dream. Sitting up, I turn to regard the banquet "DJ:" a xylophonist who apparently knows the full range of Megaman music. It’s the opening to Megaman 3, and I’m surprised to find that I’m not the only one humming it quietly. On my right, a black man close to my own age works with a marble and tube set.
"What’s that for?"
"End of term project. How is yours coming?"
My alarm knows no bounds. "I thought we only had the entry essay to do!" Chad--my high school swim coach, sitting across the table from me--is summoned to the floor for tournament sign-ups, and he slides me a packet as he rises from his chair. I flip to the last page, and there it is: "Using creative means, explain if--and why--you are happy with your gender. Is it superior, sufficient, or suffering?"
"I am totally screwed."
The Asian kid on my right (having switched seats with the black man, apparently) leans over my shoulder and chuckles, "Jelly-swim it, man. Use the comic you were working on."
"My comic doesn't have a moral to it! Not yet, anyway," I murmur thoughfully. I push the packet aside and gaze at the final frame of my desert warfare sketch. The young hero can’t win on every front, I think...but maybe he can save my rear.
"Boys are sufficient," I scrawl in comic handprint across the final frame, "unless you put us in a hot room with no girls."
It won’t win any Nobels, I chuckle as I head for the buffet table, but peace--especially between the sexes--is just a piece of the pie.
Hey, blueberry!