Oh, crap
I seem to have completely lost my mind. More stories are popping into my head, and I’ll probably make you suffer through them with me. Next thing you know, I’ll be writing more for Visibility.
But you’re safe for now. Hell, you just might ENJOY this story. Apologies to Crow-chan for the sheer volume of cheesy references to the Old Skool.
Reprazent.
Tales of a Shaman’s Apprentice
Part 8: The East Wing
It was certainly a risky move. He was finally on his own, working solo… to come back was foolish. But he had left an object of some worth behind. And he needed to clarify the situation. To one person. He owed the man that much.
Curare left the roar and lights of the highway behind as he stepped into the gloom of the forest. The sound faded faster than it should have, and he could feel himself slipping through the shield envelope. He would always be granted access by this route, no matter what the future might bring. He carefully avoided a sunken mire surrounded by small cypress trees and an ugly stench. The forest thinned, and he could see the broad wall of the Complex beyond a grassy field. He slipped across, stopping behind scattered pine trees and a single tall oak to avoid the incessant gaze of the rotating surveillance cameras. He would be surely seen unless he took the road less traveled. He would have to cross the Court.
He climbed the steps from the grassy field and leapt onto a brick ledge. Spread out before him was the massive Court of Palms. The tiled surface was incredibly dangerous to cross, particularly when barefoot. The tiles would sink and shift position in a mosaic pattern, revealing rotating bands of broken glass. Many had been crippled there, to lie in agony until they were roasted alive on the tiles as the sun reached its zenith. Towering palm trees were planted in a grid design spanning the entirety of the Court. A student with a giant fish head hovered across the Court, weaving through the palm trunks under some sort of time-lapse photography spell. Other students were crossing by climbing the trees, but this route was just as treacherous. Monomolecular paper banners from past parties spanned the trunks, as did strings of high-voltage lights and barbed wire (the annual Fetish Ball was typically attended by immortal beings due to the relative assurance of death). A wind charm kept random gusts blowing through the palm crowns and periodically sending ancient fronds tumbling to earth. These dried husks would strike the ground, killing those they hit, and then explode, releasing a cloud of toxic dust and tiny needle fibers that would embed themselves in the lungs.
He would have to move quickly. He still had one of the passwords memorized, and watched for the telltale marker. One of the tiles below him moved into position with the letter “m” written in chalk. He leapt down and glanced around for the tile with the letter “s.” He swiftly moved across the Court, stepping off of each lettered tile before it sank and left rows of jagged glass behind. Off to each side, he could hear the voices and see the faces of friends sitting on the benches atop the surrounding walls, beckoning him to join them. It was a trick, of course. These benches were gateways to the Vortex of Procrastination. If he was distracted for even a moment… he could lose hours. In one corner of the Court, several mages were gathered around a rectangular altar. One of the mages summoned a tiny fireball and sent it bouncing across the altar until it landed in a chalice, alighting the contents. Cursing fervently, the mage at the opposite end of the altar picked the chalice up and took a long drink. The Elixir Pong ceremony would continue late into the night.
At last, Curare reached the far wall after having spelled out the word “antidisestablishmentarianism” backwards. He leapt up onto the wall and walked along the edge toward the Second Wing of the Complex. Not far behind him, a female student in riot protection gear (modified to be completely soundproof) approached a towering machine sitting atop the wall. She glanced around and once at her watch. Then she leaned over to switch the machine on. He cursed aloud, realizing with horror that it was Friday night, and sprinted toward the Second Wing for shelter. Not enough time. He dove ten feet off the far side of the wall as the machine clicked on. The initial concussive shockwave from Madonna’s “Like a Prayer” stripped paint off of the bricks atop the wall and shook the ground across the Campus. Some asshole had left the machine’s volume set on 11. As usual. After taking a moment to recover, he crept along the base of the wall and around the outside of the Second Wing. He would have to avoid the main entrance. Ahead there was an opening set high in the outer wall. He leapt up, kicking off a side ledge to clamber up and into the maze structure of the Second Wing.
The three Wings of the Complex were designed by a brilliant but insane mathematical architect known only as the symbol π. He took considerable pleasure in utilizing the mystical energies within the College to bring the work of M.C. Escher to life… in cement and brick. The laws of gravity were frequently rotated to allow for abstract stairwell construction and systems of Labyrinthine passageways in all three Wings. Getting back to bed became an epic struggle for intoxicated students returning from parties. Unwary students (or those driven mad by theses) would sometimes sink into the quicksand disguised as tile at the base of stairwells and become part of the architecture, never to be seen again. Bizarre monsters were commonplace, melting in and out of painted murals. And, from time to time, the local fabric of reality would reveal itself as a tessellation of fish, geese, butterflies, or winged stallions.
(This tended to increase the number of visitations to the Campus Wellness Center among the first-year students.)
Curare slipped into the shadows of the Second Wing. He skirted the edge of a tile sandpit and dodged a reptilian beast emerging from a wall drawing. He ducked low and rolled under a large window, where several student sentinels sat silently surveying the scene. These observation chambers (called “Fishbowls” by the students) housed espionage majors and Watcher trainees. As well as the occasional mole working for the old USF (United Schools of ‘Freedom’) administration. And some RAs. For the students of the College, paranoia was relative. There really was somebody watching you. Unless you were good. Naturally, this atmosphere of suspicion, mystery, and backstabbing had resulted in a backlash among the students. Background profiles on RAs were made available to confirm their allegiances. Some of the older students had frequently organized a Tutorial for Defense Against the Dark Narcs. There were a few faculty members only too happy to sign off on such projects.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as Curare entered a Rotation Zone. He jumped into the air and flipped upside-down. He fell upwards and landed on the stairs above. He descended the stairs, climbing toward the roof below. (The author’s head started to hurt, but he pressed on through the foggy veil of pain.) Curare crossed a vertical balcony and stepped onto a lateral flight of stairs. He glanced sideways at the ground as he crossed to the adjacent landing and vaulted over a railing onto a ceiling. Finally he reached the walkway of his room. It had been months since he left. He passed two other doors, each vibrating with the noises and strange energies of the occupants within. It paid to be wary about knocking on the doors of strange rooms. The third door was no different. It used to be home.
He peered through the distorted translucence of the mirrordoor. He could make out subtly shifting shades of red and an electronic humming from inside. His roommate was out. Curare had picked his way through his fair share of laser grids, but he knew his roommate well enough not to try this one. It would naturally be set up with an independent cognition system and adaptive capabilities. It would be centered on a logic-based algorithm so advanced that the grid would kindly offer suggestions as to how to better spend your time before you even tried the door. Curare rolled his eyes and leapt up to the roof as the soft electronic voice from within commented on the music selection at that night’s Wall, provided a complete listing of student parties and meetings in the GoldenDart TowerDorms, and offered news about a shooting starstorm best seen from outside the Great Hall.
Ah. Ferret.
Curare smiled as he slipped through the standard gauntlet of wire traps and stun rounds on the roof. He rolled off the roof and swung inward to the balcony ledge. Inside he could see the lasers dancing across the floor in a pattern that was anything but random. It had been programmed to be as predictable as chaos… in theory. The central computer module controlling it was easily able to handle the bulk of incoming data for SETI. Whether or not the intriguing results on the starstorm would be disclosed to scientists was entirely up to Ferret. And lately he had been feeling… mischievous. In the center of the room was a fencing circle, with a series of concentric circles and triangles within. It was, quite simply, the most advanced of its kind in the world. It could be used in an introductory capacity, but the circle was also equipped with hologram technology and precision testing programs that could measure and challenge the abilities of any fencer alive. Ferret had practically mastered it before the design specs were complete. But it was still entertaining. Ferret had even added modifications for combat with whips and throwing daggers. As a favor. But he always flashed that manic grin of his and drew his thin rapier whenever Curare got confident.
“How about a duel, then?”
“Not yet.” Curare knew how far he had yet to go.
The opposite side of the room was his. Modest furnishings, a few nature posters, some exotic epiphytes, and a row of test tubes with bioluminescent liquids. He had moved out quite a few things. Particularly from the Menagerie, which lay hidden behind the rear wall. The various creatures and botanical specimens had served him well during his time at the College, but that time was coming to a close. There was one last specimen to check on, and then he would gather what he needed and leave for good. He pressed a wall brick beside the balcony door and a section of concrete slid aside. He could barely see light reflected in several large glistening globes on stalks below, which began to tremble. Ferret had been feeding it. The giant chemosynthetic honeydew plant was a source of fascination for Curare, and he had exhaustively studied its hydrostatic reaction times and digestive enzyme secretions. He usually fed it on artificial diet, but there were times when an overly curious first-year… or a revealed mole for the USF hawks… and then there were those Townies…
He occasionally fed it on artificial diet.
Curare slid into the room and moved to his half. He punched a code into the wall-mounted keypad. The hum of the electronics shifted to a whine and he felt a sensor pass over his face.
“Smith.”
The lights shifted to blue, then green. The room still recognized him, at least. And that was sufficient. They would know he had been here. And he would give them a time and a place to meet in the morning. Only the professor would come. This time. Curare wrote a note on his desk and pressed a panel on the side of his desk. It slid out and he removed a long, curved dagger with emeralds embedded in the blade. It had been a gift from someone in Mexico. He had a feeling he would be returning there soon. He slid the dagger into his belt and slipped back outside. It would be some time before he saw Ferret again. Somehow he knew. He gave a brief salute and flipped backwards off the balcony, into the shadows.
To be continued…
More to follow. Yadda yadda yadda.
Memory lane is fun, though.
But you’re safe for now. Hell, you just might ENJOY this story. Apologies to Crow-chan for the sheer volume of cheesy references to the Old Skool.
Reprazent.
Tales of a Shaman’s Apprentice
Part 8: The East Wing
It was certainly a risky move. He was finally on his own, working solo… to come back was foolish. But he had left an object of some worth behind. And he needed to clarify the situation. To one person. He owed the man that much.
Curare left the roar and lights of the highway behind as he stepped into the gloom of the forest. The sound faded faster than it should have, and he could feel himself slipping through the shield envelope. He would always be granted access by this route, no matter what the future might bring. He carefully avoided a sunken mire surrounded by small cypress trees and an ugly stench. The forest thinned, and he could see the broad wall of the Complex beyond a grassy field. He slipped across, stopping behind scattered pine trees and a single tall oak to avoid the incessant gaze of the rotating surveillance cameras. He would be surely seen unless he took the road less traveled. He would have to cross the Court.
He climbed the steps from the grassy field and leapt onto a brick ledge. Spread out before him was the massive Court of Palms. The tiled surface was incredibly dangerous to cross, particularly when barefoot. The tiles would sink and shift position in a mosaic pattern, revealing rotating bands of broken glass. Many had been crippled there, to lie in agony until they were roasted alive on the tiles as the sun reached its zenith. Towering palm trees were planted in a grid design spanning the entirety of the Court. A student with a giant fish head hovered across the Court, weaving through the palm trunks under some sort of time-lapse photography spell. Other students were crossing by climbing the trees, but this route was just as treacherous. Monomolecular paper banners from past parties spanned the trunks, as did strings of high-voltage lights and barbed wire (the annual Fetish Ball was typically attended by immortal beings due to the relative assurance of death). A wind charm kept random gusts blowing through the palm crowns and periodically sending ancient fronds tumbling to earth. These dried husks would strike the ground, killing those they hit, and then explode, releasing a cloud of toxic dust and tiny needle fibers that would embed themselves in the lungs.
He would have to move quickly. He still had one of the passwords memorized, and watched for the telltale marker. One of the tiles below him moved into position with the letter “m” written in chalk. He leapt down and glanced around for the tile with the letter “s.” He swiftly moved across the Court, stepping off of each lettered tile before it sank and left rows of jagged glass behind. Off to each side, he could hear the voices and see the faces of friends sitting on the benches atop the surrounding walls, beckoning him to join them. It was a trick, of course. These benches were gateways to the Vortex of Procrastination. If he was distracted for even a moment… he could lose hours. In one corner of the Court, several mages were gathered around a rectangular altar. One of the mages summoned a tiny fireball and sent it bouncing across the altar until it landed in a chalice, alighting the contents. Cursing fervently, the mage at the opposite end of the altar picked the chalice up and took a long drink. The Elixir Pong ceremony would continue late into the night.
At last, Curare reached the far wall after having spelled out the word “antidisestablishmentarianism” backwards. He leapt up onto the wall and walked along the edge toward the Second Wing of the Complex. Not far behind him, a female student in riot protection gear (modified to be completely soundproof) approached a towering machine sitting atop the wall. She glanced around and once at her watch. Then she leaned over to switch the machine on. He cursed aloud, realizing with horror that it was Friday night, and sprinted toward the Second Wing for shelter. Not enough time. He dove ten feet off the far side of the wall as the machine clicked on. The initial concussive shockwave from Madonna’s “Like a Prayer” stripped paint off of the bricks atop the wall and shook the ground across the Campus. Some asshole had left the machine’s volume set on 11. As usual. After taking a moment to recover, he crept along the base of the wall and around the outside of the Second Wing. He would have to avoid the main entrance. Ahead there was an opening set high in the outer wall. He leapt up, kicking off a side ledge to clamber up and into the maze structure of the Second Wing.
The three Wings of the Complex were designed by a brilliant but insane mathematical architect known only as the symbol π. He took considerable pleasure in utilizing the mystical energies within the College to bring the work of M.C. Escher to life… in cement and brick. The laws of gravity were frequently rotated to allow for abstract stairwell construction and systems of Labyrinthine passageways in all three Wings. Getting back to bed became an epic struggle for intoxicated students returning from parties. Unwary students (or those driven mad by theses) would sometimes sink into the quicksand disguised as tile at the base of stairwells and become part of the architecture, never to be seen again. Bizarre monsters were commonplace, melting in and out of painted murals. And, from time to time, the local fabric of reality would reveal itself as a tessellation of fish, geese, butterflies, or winged stallions.
(This tended to increase the number of visitations to the Campus Wellness Center among the first-year students.)
Curare slipped into the shadows of the Second Wing. He skirted the edge of a tile sandpit and dodged a reptilian beast emerging from a wall drawing. He ducked low and rolled under a large window, where several student sentinels sat silently surveying the scene. These observation chambers (called “Fishbowls” by the students) housed espionage majors and Watcher trainees. As well as the occasional mole working for the old USF (United Schools of ‘Freedom’) administration. And some RAs. For the students of the College, paranoia was relative. There really was somebody watching you. Unless you were good. Naturally, this atmosphere of suspicion, mystery, and backstabbing had resulted in a backlash among the students. Background profiles on RAs were made available to confirm their allegiances. Some of the older students had frequently organized a Tutorial for Defense Against the Dark Narcs. There were a few faculty members only too happy to sign off on such projects.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as Curare entered a Rotation Zone. He jumped into the air and flipped upside-down. He fell upwards and landed on the stairs above. He descended the stairs, climbing toward the roof below. (The author’s head started to hurt, but he pressed on through the foggy veil of pain.) Curare crossed a vertical balcony and stepped onto a lateral flight of stairs. He glanced sideways at the ground as he crossed to the adjacent landing and vaulted over a railing onto a ceiling. Finally he reached the walkway of his room. It had been months since he left. He passed two other doors, each vibrating with the noises and strange energies of the occupants within. It paid to be wary about knocking on the doors of strange rooms. The third door was no different. It used to be home.
He peered through the distorted translucence of the mirrordoor. He could make out subtly shifting shades of red and an electronic humming from inside. His roommate was out. Curare had picked his way through his fair share of laser grids, but he knew his roommate well enough not to try this one. It would naturally be set up with an independent cognition system and adaptive capabilities. It would be centered on a logic-based algorithm so advanced that the grid would kindly offer suggestions as to how to better spend your time before you even tried the door. Curare rolled his eyes and leapt up to the roof as the soft electronic voice from within commented on the music selection at that night’s Wall, provided a complete listing of student parties and meetings in the GoldenDart TowerDorms, and offered news about a shooting starstorm best seen from outside the Great Hall.
Ah. Ferret.
Curare smiled as he slipped through the standard gauntlet of wire traps and stun rounds on the roof. He rolled off the roof and swung inward to the balcony ledge. Inside he could see the lasers dancing across the floor in a pattern that was anything but random. It had been programmed to be as predictable as chaos… in theory. The central computer module controlling it was easily able to handle the bulk of incoming data for SETI. Whether or not the intriguing results on the starstorm would be disclosed to scientists was entirely up to Ferret. And lately he had been feeling… mischievous. In the center of the room was a fencing circle, with a series of concentric circles and triangles within. It was, quite simply, the most advanced of its kind in the world. It could be used in an introductory capacity, but the circle was also equipped with hologram technology and precision testing programs that could measure and challenge the abilities of any fencer alive. Ferret had practically mastered it before the design specs were complete. But it was still entertaining. Ferret had even added modifications for combat with whips and throwing daggers. As a favor. But he always flashed that manic grin of his and drew his thin rapier whenever Curare got confident.
“How about a duel, then?”
“Not yet.” Curare knew how far he had yet to go.
The opposite side of the room was his. Modest furnishings, a few nature posters, some exotic epiphytes, and a row of test tubes with bioluminescent liquids. He had moved out quite a few things. Particularly from the Menagerie, which lay hidden behind the rear wall. The various creatures and botanical specimens had served him well during his time at the College, but that time was coming to a close. There was one last specimen to check on, and then he would gather what he needed and leave for good. He pressed a wall brick beside the balcony door and a section of concrete slid aside. He could barely see light reflected in several large glistening globes on stalks below, which began to tremble. Ferret had been feeding it. The giant chemosynthetic honeydew plant was a source of fascination for Curare, and he had exhaustively studied its hydrostatic reaction times and digestive enzyme secretions. He usually fed it on artificial diet, but there were times when an overly curious first-year… or a revealed mole for the USF hawks… and then there were those Townies…
He occasionally fed it on artificial diet.
Curare slid into the room and moved to his half. He punched a code into the wall-mounted keypad. The hum of the electronics shifted to a whine and he felt a sensor pass over his face.
“Smith.”
The lights shifted to blue, then green. The room still recognized him, at least. And that was sufficient. They would know he had been here. And he would give them a time and a place to meet in the morning. Only the professor would come. This time. Curare wrote a note on his desk and pressed a panel on the side of his desk. It slid out and he removed a long, curved dagger with emeralds embedded in the blade. It had been a gift from someone in Mexico. He had a feeling he would be returning there soon. He slid the dagger into his belt and slipped back outside. It would be some time before he saw Ferret again. Somehow he knew. He gave a brief salute and flipped backwards off the balcony, into the shadows.
To be continued…
More to follow. Yadda yadda yadda.
Memory lane is fun, though.