Tronics
Tronics: Restoration and Recovery
Owen Bookman, tall for his age and a little uncoordinated, trotted along the cobblestones from the pier, clutching a small linen drawstring bag. When he reached the shop he ducked under the bright green, white-speckled sign and into the single small, clean, cluttered room. The inside was surprisingly tidy, well lit by skylights, packed with stacks of consoles, screens, cables, and other ephemera and bisected by a thick maple countertop.
The thick-set proprietor, leather-aproned and topped with bristly gray hair on his pate and chin, hand-scrawled "GREG" blazoned across the pocket of his canvas shirt, barely glanced up. Owen approached the counter and wordlessly handed over the bag, then, soundly ignored, let his gaze wander to a little curtained doorway behind the counter. As he had on all of his previous trips, he busied his eyes with the beadlike strands of the curtain; small metal tubes, each striped with a code of colorful lines, were connected to each other by thin wire loops that swung in the gentle breeze made by his entry.
The lanky youth had pale brown skin, with long blonde hair pulled into a neat bun at his nape. The initials BPL shone in gold from the pocket of his dusty powder-blue tabard.
Behind the maple counter, big, calloused fingers held the bag’s contents, a square of green plastic. The shop’s proprietor peered through a jeweller’s monacle at the piece, gray brows furrowed as his eyes traced the white-painted lines across its surface.
“This is very interesting, boy.” He sounded bored. “Where’d you say you found it?”
The youth’s boot scuffed the plank floor. “My mom found it. It was in the new archives, stuck between two boxes of uncatalogued broadsides and carnival fliers. She said it might be a, um, storage backup? We’re looking for course materials for a Shakespearean… That is, my mom is…”
“Yeah, yeah, I know your mom.” The older man suddenly bellowed over his shoulder, startling the youth. “Alice, get in here!”
There followed a dimly audible scuffle and the soft clank of metal on metal. Presently a mop-haired brunette, taller than the youth by an inch, shouldered through the curtained doorway. Her tan leather apron, speckled with silvery droplets, matched the proprietor’s. She directed a cheery smile to the young man. “Hi, Owen!”
Her Master halted anything she might have said next by proffering the green square of plastic. “Any thoughts about this piece here?”
Alice barely glanced at it. “That? It’s crap. It’s a memory card outgassed and crumbly from what looks like heat and… “ the girl bent towards the plastic and sniffed at it. “…What smells like it was cozy with a fried motherboard. I’ll bet it’s striated under your thumb there.” Greg moved his thumb away from the corner in question. “Yup - it’s worthless. Where did it…” She looked up, into the crestfallen face of her friend. “Oh. Sorry, Owen.”
The boy’s face grew hotter. “It’s okay, Al.”
Greg ignored the boy and nodded with approval. “Fine.” He handed the green plastic back across the counter, without looking, and continued talking with his apprentice. “How’s the Trash-80 coming?”
Alice was still watching Owen, but directed some attention to her report. “I, um - I’ve just reconnected the disk and seen light from the CRT, so I know it’s getting juice and the tubes aren’t fried. Now I’m troubleshooting the floppy drive. I had to turn the thing off so it wouldn’t overheat.”
Greg nodded again. “Ignore the drive. I need the generator back. When you’ve got the fan working why don’t you hustle down to Copley and help Miriam wire up the new ‘fiche in collections? Sounds like she could use a technical eye.” He raised an eyebrow at Owen, who colored again.
Alice was looking at Owen, a little wistfully, and Owen sneaked a look from his boots back to her. Greg looked exaggeratedly from one to the other, unnoticed, until he couldn’t stand it any longer.
“Oh, fine. Get the hell out of my shop, both of you, and quit mooning at each other. It ruins the oppressive atmosphere I’m trying to cultivate.”
Alice beamed, and hopped around the counter for the door. Greg turned away, so the departing youngsters wouldn’t see him grin.
Owen and Alice traversed a maze of loose cobblestones and occasional horse droppings, down Phillips Street to the Beacon Pier. Mid-day shoppers, some in aprons or in tabards marking them as fellow ‘prentices, strode purposefully up or downhill on their several errands.
Their easy banter was as familiar as their shoes, and as old as friendship could be, at 15.
“I have an idea where I'm headed,” Al continued, “but G hasn’t made it official. He knows some of the meckees across the river at the Institute. People still bring all kinds of parts and equipment in to be assessed and recommissioned. We visited last year to pick up a shipment of cables. It’s magic; like a big “Tronics’.”
“That sounds perfect for you, Al. It’s math heaven.” He circled his forefingers and thumbs in a halo, and held it over her head.
Alice giggled and swatted his hands away. “Oh hey, that reminds me. Do you know what a ‘Barbie’ is? Is that a thing? I heard G call, um…” She cut her eyes at Owen. “… Somebody a Barbie.”
“Yeah, that sounds familiar.” Owen thought for a moment, looking at the surf. “Mom told me once that a few decades ago, before the seas rose, a Barbie was a powerful totem. It was like a magic wand that destroyed your self-confidence.”
Alice frowned.
“How on earth did it do that?”
Owen shrugged. “I have no idea. It was made of plastic, and I guess it could speak? It used declarative sentences alleging inferiority.”
“Huh. Interesting.”
Owen frowned. “I guess. Whoever G was talking about, I’m sure it was meant as an insult.”
Al nodded, looking at her shoes, until Owen rescued her with a light punch on the shoulder. “Let’s get a snack, I’m starving.”
On the Commons side of Beacon Pier, food vendors had set up stalls to provision the lunch traffic flooding in to and out of the housing arrays. Owen and Alice stood in line at a fried foods stall, then carried greasy paper envelopes to the stone wall on Beacon Street. There they clambered up onto the warm stone and ate fried kippers, looking out over the busy rooftops, just two of many apprentices playing hooky on the sunny afternoon.
They shared a comfortable silence, munching and licking the last of the sauce from their fingers.
“I’m almost ready for walkabout, Al.” Owen dried his hands on his apronfront. “Once I index the last of the Simmons archives, I can…” he cleared his throat, messily, and looked up at the rooftops down the hill. “Well, Mom has asked me to take the next caravan of book carts up the mainland and out to the library expansion in Pittsfield.”
Alice let out a slow whistle. “Pittsfield! That’s…”
Owen waited, watching the treetops while his friend did the math.
“You’re not coming back?” Owen shook his head, finally looking up at her face. “You’re moving to a Tier One community for your walkabout.”
Alice looked at her hands, and past them to the speckles of silver in her lap, and thought about electricity, and circuits and wiring. “You’re going to be a Librarian, like your mom. That’s fantastic for you.”
Her voice trailed off, and her shoelaces got interesting.
Owen reached in his apron pocket for the thin wafer of green plastic, and turned it over in his fingers. “You could come with me, you know, for your journeywork. Everyone needs people who are good with tools.”
Alice smiled, sadly. “A circuit board's a different kind of tool than the one they need in Pittsfield. I tried carpentry and small motors… PCBs are different.” She reached for Owen’s hand, and gave it a squeeze. “To me, they’re a lot like books. Some of them are whole libraries.”
Owen nodded, sadly. "I've got to go, Al."
"Yeah, I know."
When Owen leaped from the pier onto the half-hour shuttle skiff to Copley Island, Alice didn’t stay to watch the wake. She ran all the way up the hill from the pier, weaving around loose cobblestones and horse droppings, to Phillips Park, and recklessly clambered up onto the crumbled block of monument stone. Tears made her vision blurry.
From the top of the stone, she had a rich view of the island. Charles Bay surrounded Beacon Point. Spots of gold shone from the dome of the old State House, where Union Parliament met. Treetops dotted the hills, between rows and rows of quonset huts and barracks on the Common. The whole island lay at her feet.
Across the Inlet, in the other direction, she could see the raised gray stone sea wall of the Institute braving the tide. She turned the memory card over and over in slender fingers, watching its edges crumble onto the monument stone.
(C)2016 Myra Hope Eskridge
Written about a Boston just prior to the one detailed in John Michael Greer's Retrotopia
Owen Bookman, tall for his age and a little uncoordinated, trotted along the cobblestones from the pier, clutching a small linen drawstring bag. When he reached the shop he ducked under the bright green, white-speckled sign and into the single small, clean, cluttered room. The inside was surprisingly tidy, well lit by skylights, packed with stacks of consoles, screens, cables, and other ephemera and bisected by a thick maple countertop.
The thick-set proprietor, leather-aproned and topped with bristly gray hair on his pate and chin, hand-scrawled "GREG" blazoned across the pocket of his canvas shirt, barely glanced up. Owen approached the counter and wordlessly handed over the bag, then, soundly ignored, let his gaze wander to a little curtained doorway behind the counter. As he had on all of his previous trips, he busied his eyes with the beadlike strands of the curtain; small metal tubes, each striped with a code of colorful lines, were connected to each other by thin wire loops that swung in the gentle breeze made by his entry.
The lanky youth had pale brown skin, with long blonde hair pulled into a neat bun at his nape. The initials BPL shone in gold from the pocket of his dusty powder-blue tabard.
Behind the maple counter, big, calloused fingers held the bag’s contents, a square of green plastic. The shop’s proprietor peered through a jeweller’s monacle at the piece, gray brows furrowed as his eyes traced the white-painted lines across its surface.
“This is very interesting, boy.” He sounded bored. “Where’d you say you found it?”
The youth’s boot scuffed the plank floor. “My mom found it. It was in the new archives, stuck between two boxes of uncatalogued broadsides and carnival fliers. She said it might be a, um, storage backup? We’re looking for course materials for a Shakespearean… That is, my mom is…”
“Yeah, yeah, I know your mom.” The older man suddenly bellowed over his shoulder, startling the youth. “Alice, get in here!”
There followed a dimly audible scuffle and the soft clank of metal on metal. Presently a mop-haired brunette, taller than the youth by an inch, shouldered through the curtained doorway. Her tan leather apron, speckled with silvery droplets, matched the proprietor’s. She directed a cheery smile to the young man. “Hi, Owen!”
Her Master halted anything she might have said next by proffering the green square of plastic. “Any thoughts about this piece here?”
Alice barely glanced at it. “That? It’s crap. It’s a memory card outgassed and crumbly from what looks like heat and… “ the girl bent towards the plastic and sniffed at it. “…What smells like it was cozy with a fried motherboard. I’ll bet it’s striated under your thumb there.” Greg moved his thumb away from the corner in question. “Yup - it’s worthless. Where did it…” She looked up, into the crestfallen face of her friend. “Oh. Sorry, Owen.”
The boy’s face grew hotter. “It’s okay, Al.”
Greg ignored the boy and nodded with approval. “Fine.” He handed the green plastic back across the counter, without looking, and continued talking with his apprentice. “How’s the Trash-80 coming?”
Alice was still watching Owen, but directed some attention to her report. “I, um - I’ve just reconnected the disk and seen light from the CRT, so I know it’s getting juice and the tubes aren’t fried. Now I’m troubleshooting the floppy drive. I had to turn the thing off so it wouldn’t overheat.”
Greg nodded again. “Ignore the drive. I need the generator back. When you’ve got the fan working why don’t you hustle down to Copley and help Miriam wire up the new ‘fiche in collections? Sounds like she could use a technical eye.” He raised an eyebrow at Owen, who colored again.
Alice was looking at Owen, a little wistfully, and Owen sneaked a look from his boots back to her. Greg looked exaggeratedly from one to the other, unnoticed, until he couldn’t stand it any longer.
“Oh, fine. Get the hell out of my shop, both of you, and quit mooning at each other. It ruins the oppressive atmosphere I’m trying to cultivate.”
Alice beamed, and hopped around the counter for the door. Greg turned away, so the departing youngsters wouldn’t see him grin.
Owen and Alice traversed a maze of loose cobblestones and occasional horse droppings, down Phillips Street to the Beacon Pier. Mid-day shoppers, some in aprons or in tabards marking them as fellow ‘prentices, strode purposefully up or downhill on their several errands.
Their easy banter was as familiar as their shoes, and as old as friendship could be, at 15.
“I have an idea where I'm headed,” Al continued, “but G hasn’t made it official. He knows some of the meckees across the river at the Institute. People still bring all kinds of parts and equipment in to be assessed and recommissioned. We visited last year to pick up a shipment of cables. It’s magic; like a big “Tronics’.”
“That sounds perfect for you, Al. It’s math heaven.” He circled his forefingers and thumbs in a halo, and held it over her head.
Alice giggled and swatted his hands away. “Oh hey, that reminds me. Do you know what a ‘Barbie’ is? Is that a thing? I heard G call, um…” She cut her eyes at Owen. “… Somebody a Barbie.”
“Yeah, that sounds familiar.” Owen thought for a moment, looking at the surf. “Mom told me once that a few decades ago, before the seas rose, a Barbie was a powerful totem. It was like a magic wand that destroyed your self-confidence.”
Alice frowned.
“How on earth did it do that?”
Owen shrugged. “I have no idea. It was made of plastic, and I guess it could speak? It used declarative sentences alleging inferiority.”
“Huh. Interesting.”
Owen frowned. “I guess. Whoever G was talking about, I’m sure it was meant as an insult.”
Al nodded, looking at her shoes, until Owen rescued her with a light punch on the shoulder. “Let’s get a snack, I’m starving.”
On the Commons side of Beacon Pier, food vendors had set up stalls to provision the lunch traffic flooding in to and out of the housing arrays. Owen and Alice stood in line at a fried foods stall, then carried greasy paper envelopes to the stone wall on Beacon Street. There they clambered up onto the warm stone and ate fried kippers, looking out over the busy rooftops, just two of many apprentices playing hooky on the sunny afternoon.
They shared a comfortable silence, munching and licking the last of the sauce from their fingers.
“I’m almost ready for walkabout, Al.” Owen dried his hands on his apronfront. “Once I index the last of the Simmons archives, I can…” he cleared his throat, messily, and looked up at the rooftops down the hill. “Well, Mom has asked me to take the next caravan of book carts up the mainland and out to the library expansion in Pittsfield.”
Alice let out a slow whistle. “Pittsfield! That’s…”
Owen waited, watching the treetops while his friend did the math.
“You’re not coming back?” Owen shook his head, finally looking up at her face. “You’re moving to a Tier One community for your walkabout.”
Alice looked at her hands, and past them to the speckles of silver in her lap, and thought about electricity, and circuits and wiring. “You’re going to be a Librarian, like your mom. That’s fantastic for you.”
Her voice trailed off, and her shoelaces got interesting.
Owen reached in his apron pocket for the thin wafer of green plastic, and turned it over in his fingers. “You could come with me, you know, for your journeywork. Everyone needs people who are good with tools.”
Alice smiled, sadly. “A circuit board's a different kind of tool than the one they need in Pittsfield. I tried carpentry and small motors… PCBs are different.” She reached for Owen’s hand, and gave it a squeeze. “To me, they’re a lot like books. Some of them are whole libraries.”
Owen nodded, sadly. "I've got to go, Al."
"Yeah, I know."
When Owen leaped from the pier onto the half-hour shuttle skiff to Copley Island, Alice didn’t stay to watch the wake. She ran all the way up the hill from the pier, weaving around loose cobblestones and horse droppings, to Phillips Park, and recklessly clambered up onto the crumbled block of monument stone. Tears made her vision blurry.
From the top of the stone, she had a rich view of the island. Charles Bay surrounded Beacon Point. Spots of gold shone from the dome of the old State House, where Union Parliament met. Treetops dotted the hills, between rows and rows of quonset huts and barracks on the Common. The whole island lay at her feet.
Across the Inlet, in the other direction, she could see the raised gray stone sea wall of the Institute braving the tide. She turned the memory card over and over in slender fingers, watching its edges crumble onto the monument stone.
(C)2016 Myra Hope Eskridge
Written about a Boston just prior to the one detailed in John Michael Greer's Retrotopia