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Of Machines & Magics

Page 27

by Adele Abbot


  “Parts of it are human or animal. It has arms made from skin and muscle and blue eyes?”

  “Well,” Calvin’s image paused in the now-familiar manner. “It must have sharper wits than we gave it credit for. It was built with two mechanical arms; in fact, it was purely mechanical, but now it seems to… blue eyes?”

  Roli nodded.

  “And oversized anthropoid arms and that hand?”

  Again, Roli nodded.”

  Calvin shook his head. “I don’t suppose we have looked at it for several hundred years, perhaps longer. So long as its duties were being performed, we wouldn’t bother.”

  “How long is one of your years?” Calistrope asked, standing up and walking closer to the translucent interface.

  “How long?” Calvin looked a little puzzled. “Ten thousand hours. Five hundred standard days.”

  “Hmm,” Calistrope nodded. “A twenty hour standard day. Yes, about what we term an old year. Time scales have changed over the past epoch you see. A year no longer exists since the world stopped turning.”

  “Stopped?” There was a moment of inaction and then again, “No, I suppose not.”

  “Speaking of the world’s turning,” Calistrope continued, “It reminds me of our objective. Gessen told us, I believe, that we have arrived too late.”

  “What was your objective?” asked Calvin.

  “The sun shrinks again—the engines which drove us into the colder parts of the solar system must be restarted to take us back again.”

  “Ah, I see. You really don’t remember?”

  “Remember what? I carry only the past, what—thousand old years? Before that, my memories were transferred to a vault for safekeeping.”

  “Really?” Calvin said with a smile. “So being part of a machine may have more compensations than Ponderos believes. I remember it all very clearly. The journey back to the inner system was begun a quarter of a million years ago—in old years. You and I were the engineers who came here to do just that.”

  Calistrope sat down heavily, for the shock of this news was considerable. “I am two hundred and fifty thousand years old?”

  Calvin shrugged, his mouth twisted in a smile. “Give or take a millennium or two. But once the work had been done we—like most of our colleagues—went into stasis for several thousand years in case we were needed again. Awake and functioning, you will have experienced somewhere between five and ten thousand standard years.”

  The Mage absorbed this silently for a few minutes. “Did you say engineer?”

  Calvin nodded.

  “Hmm,” Calistrope nodded ruminatively. “How many of us were there?”

  “About four thousand at the start. The driving systems were several million years old. We needed a lot of old-fashioned work in the early days; the devices are spread throughout the world’s mass, and all of them needed to be overhauled or replaced. Later on, only a hundred or so stayed on.”

  “And they’re all copied as well, to live in there?”

  Calvin shook his head. He raised his hand and appeared to tap the interface with a knuckle. “Twenty-five of us. Four are like me; our physical counterparts left to live out there, on the Earth. The others have also left, but to go to their home worlds or to other places. The system monitors the planet’s course; it will call us if necessary.”

  “So we truly are too late? Our journey to this place was quite unnecessary?”

  “Well, yes. But surely a journey can be sufficient in itself? Surely it has not been without interest? After all, that is why you left us originally—to find interesting things.”

  “Yes,” Calistrope leaned back and thought. “Yes, it has been very interesting. Dangerous, too… You are right, however; the journey has been worth it, as has our arrival. It is an amazing place. And I really am—or was—an engineer?”

  “Oh, yes. All who came here were among the best of our time—we came to save the mother world from extinction—as did those who moved it in the first place.”

  Ponderos, who had been listening to the conversations without taking part, rose and went to stand in front of Gessen’s image. He tapped the glass with his finger. “Do you eat in there?” he asked. “Out here, we are hungry.”

  “Why yes,” said Gessen. “We can eat in here if the fancy takes us. We can also provide victuals for you out there.”

  Later, the companions left on a tour of the place, with a disembodied voice giving them directions. Just before they left, Roli asked, “Where did Calistrope come from?”

  “We came from Earth,” Calvin replied. “Originally, we left and journeyed to other worlds. Eventually, we returned here, and as you see, we stayed.”

  Above them, the sky was almost black. Towards the west it changed degree by slow degree to a deep cobalt blue and at the horizon, to purple where the merest flicker of garnet sunlight might be seen between the mountain peaks. On the other side of the sky, the black became absolute with the hard, unwinking points of starlight punctuating it: a scatter of splintered gems across an inky backdrop.

  “Voss once told me that I would enjoy this journey—that travel broadens the mind—indeed, that I would find myself.”

  “And now you have found yourself, Calistrope.”

  The remnants of the circle world shone redly, away to the east. The anchors which tethered them in place were rooted far into nightside, but at nearly eight thousand leagues above the surface, they still caught the sunlight.

  The two companions fell silent again, and then they both spoke at once.

  “You know, Calistrope—”

  “Ponderos, I—”

  Both had spoken together, both fell silent once more until eventually, Calistrope started again.

  “Ponderos, I don’t wish to return to Sachavesku, I can’t say why. I don’t know.”

  “I was about to say much the same,” said Ponderos.

  Calistrope sighed. “Looking back, I think I was bored at Sachavesku. I used to be very content there but at some point, satisfaction turned to boredom. And we’re different people now, we have no real reason to return.”

  “The Mages wait for news that the world is returning to the sun,” Ponderos sighed and turned to look towards the west. “Perhaps we could send the curator. I hear the creature has been rather morose since it was taken to task for sending messages to recipients who don’t listen. It would, I’m sure, enjoy the journey.”

  Calistrope didn’t answer the question directly. “Perhaps the Mages deserve to meet a machine with as much self-esteem as their own.”

  “Let us send the curator then,” Ponderos smiled. “There are other things to do.”

  “Other places to see,” Calistrope agreed. “That is, after we have recuperated sufficiently and I have taken time to examine these computers. The whole idea of computers opens up all sorts of possibilities.”

  The two slim segments of the circle world flickered. Earth’s slow creep in pursuit of its sun was beginning to move the terminator.

  In some future time, the world would turn again.

  The low chime from the communicator drew Voss the Despondent’s attention from the shining waters of the lake. That ramshackle collection of machine and creature parts that called itself “the curator” had already visited Sachavesku and returned to Shune. Nevertheless, here was a message from that creature, for he recognized the less than harmonious tones that followed, and wondered if he should indeed have gifted the mechanism with a communicator.

  “I am told,” the curator said in a rusty voice, “that Calistrope and his friends have now left the City of Shune.” There followed what might have been an indrawn breath. “They travel in an easterly direction.”

  Voss nodded. The thinnest of thin smiles touched his lips. He was not amazed at the information. As it happened, Voss was guiltily absorbing the content of a memory vault—that which he had purloined from Calistrope’s Manse—it had taken him until now to overcome the seal on the device. It was filled with the memories of those travels Ca
listrope had made and forgotten, but now, obviously, wished to retain.

  The current segment bore the title My Crossing of Lower Earth. An image entered Voss’ mind: a huge glass ovoid which held nothing but an energy-free vacuum and thus floated, bearing up a long punt-like undercarriage with a cabin and propulsion engine. A great wheel that was as wide as a man is tall governed the direction taken, as well as the speed of travel.

  Voss’ smile broadened fractionally; nostalgia came with the memories he observed. “I remember this myself,” he murmured. And now, examining his own recollections, he saw the huge machine that Calistrope had assembled, how it had hung in the air, how the brass railings had gleamed and the vented steam had floated like fist-sized clouds in the thicker air of so long ago.

  So long ago that there were still mornings, Voss recalled. Mornings were always the best time to begin a voyage. In his mind’s eye, the sun edged above the dark horizon and Calistrope’s craft and his tall, flamboyant figure became black silhouettes against the yellow sky. Calistrope’s arm rose, his hand weaved briefly from side to side—his farewell.

  The End

  About Adele Abbot

  ADELE ABBOT graduated from Manchester University, where she majored in law. Her interest in Fantasy was first fired when she came across the Lyonesse series by Jack Vance. Working backwards from there, Adele discovered Vance’s earlier works, including the Dying Earth series, and was immediately fascinated by the way violence and evil could be hidden behind beautiful prose or absurd situations.

  After several false starts and plenty of encouragement from friends and family, she began writing her first book, Of Machines & Magics. While shopping for a publisher, Adele began work on another fantasy, Postponing Armageddon, which she entered in the “Anywhere But Here, Anywhen But Now” contest for aspiring debut novelists, sponsored by Sir Terry Pratchett and Transworld Publishers. Out of more than five hundred entries, Postponing Armageddon reached the prize shortlist of just six novels.

  In addition to pursuing a writing career, Ms. Abbot is a full-time law partner by day. She currently resides in Yorkshire in the United Kingdom with her son. Find out more at her website, www.adeleabbot.info.

  About Barking Rain Press

  Did you know that six media conglomerates publish eighty percent of the books in the United States? As the publishing industry continues to contract, opportunities for emerging and mid-career authors are drying up. Who will write the literature of the twenty-first century if just a handful of profit-focused corporations are left to decide who—and what—is worthy of publication?

  Barking Rain Press is dedicated to the creation and promotion of thoughtful and imaginative contemporary literature, which we believe is essential to a vital and diverse culture. As a nonprofit organization, Barking Rain Press is an independent publisher that seeks to cultivate relationships with new and mid-career writers over time, to be thorough in the editorial process, and to make the publishing process an experience that will add to an author’s development—and ultimately enhance our literary heritage.

  In selecting new titles for publication, Barking Rain Press considers authors at all points in their careers. Our goal is to support the development of emerging and mid-career authors—not just single books—as we know from experience that a writer’s audience is cultivated over the course of several books.

  Support for these efforts comes primarily from the sale of our publications; we also hope to attract grant funding and private donations. Whether you are a reader or a writer, we invite you to take a stand for independent publishing and become more involved with Barking Rain Press. With your support, we can make sure that talented writers thrive, and that their books reach the hands of spirited, curious readers. Find out more at our website.

  www.barkingrainpress.org

  In the Autumn of the Unfortunates

  by Christopher Treagus

  Print ISBN: 978-1-935460-26-8

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-935460-27-5

  Experience a new twist in the tale of Jack the Ripper, as seen through the eyes of renowned artist Walter Sickert. Though Sickert was not a suspect in the crimes during that time period, in modern times he has been identified as a person of interest.

  Set fifteen years after the original murders, this story begins when Sickert’s apprentice, Robert Wood, is accused of murdering a prostitute in Camden Town and comes to Sickert for help. Believing Wood to be innocent, Sickert agrees to assist him, but his investigation reveals an uncanny similarity to the Ripper’s crimes years before. Soon he must face a horrible possibility: Jack the Ripper may have returned—or, all the more likely—the Ripper never left!

  To save his friend, Sickert must uncover the true villain behind the original killings, following an unsolved case more than a decade cold. His search will lead him down an ever-twisting path toward a truth far more terrible than anyone could ever suspect—or believe!

  “Chris Treagus has a great talent for historical horror fiction, dragging the reader through time and space so that one feels like they’re actually there. A writer to watch!” —Ken Kupstis, Author, Clownwhite and Voodoo Highway

  View Our Complete Catalog Online

  www.barkingrainpress.org

  Bounty Hunter’s Moon

  by Lee Pierce

  Print ISBN: 978-1-935460-35-0

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-935460-36-7

  Mitty Andersen knows that rising blues star Bobby Tarleton didn’t die of a heroin overdose. He’d blown enough blues harmonica notes with Bobby to know that he would never let anything get in the way of his music. So when he gets the news in the middle of his blues set at Little Queenie’s, he suspects a cover-up—and he’s determined to put his ex-investigative reporter skills to work to find out what really happened.

  View Our Complete Catalog Online

  www.barkingrainpress.org

  Curiously Twisted Tales

  by P.S. Gifford

  Print ISBN: 978-1-935460-49-7

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-935460-50-3

  Curiously Twisted Tales is a masterful collection of short stories from the devious imagination of horror writer P.S. Gifford. If you are not familiar with Gifford’s previously published works, this book will serve as a deliciously wicked sampler of some of his most fiendish tales—both old and new.

  From cutthroat garden competitions to honeymoons from hell to wanna-be writers who are willing to do almost anything to get published, each story delves into the dark side of humanity with wit, charm, and a delectable dose of depravity. Creepy stories, twisted endings, unearthly beasties lurking in the corners—these nerve-rattling narratives will keep you turning pages as you turn on more lights!

  “The stories of P.S. Gifford are smart, inventive, and scary as hell. This is horror writing at its very best.” —Jonathan Maberry, NY Times Bestselling Author, Rot & Ruin and The King of Plagues

  “P.S. Gifford is a writer of great wit and talent. He remembers that most treasured of all storytelling purposes: entertainment! Keep an eye on this writer, because he’s going places and he’s delivering a lot of joy along the way.” —Scott Nicholson, Author, Red Church & Ashes

  View Our Complete Catalog Online

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  First Communion: A Collection of Modern Irish Stories

  by Jack Scoltock

  Print ISBN: 978-1-935460-32-9

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-935460-33-6

  What should a young boy do when he discovers that his father is involved in the IRA? Who can you trust when an insane murderer is trapped on the same train you’re riding? How can a Catholic child manage to fit in at a Protestant school in Northern Ireland?

  From the small towns and byways of Northern Ireland, this collection of short stories from renowned Irish author Jack Scoltock provides a rare glimpse into everyday life in the midst of religious and political strife. From coping with family members in the IRA to the trials of Catholic children attending Protestant schools, these stories reveal the complexities o
f modern living with a deft and insightful eye.

  “Scoltock captures the hopes and dreams of working class northerners, still characters rarely seen in modern collections, and at all times he does this in the twinkling dialect of his own city. Here is a pen that records all of human nature but gravitates habitually toward the good.” —Cahir O’Doherty, Arts Editor, The Irish Voice

  “Poignant day-to-day Northern Ireland life, with a touch of the Irish whimsy. Renowned author Jack Scoltock gives us a feast.” —Midge Baker, SimeGen.com

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  Revenge

  by Gabrielle Faust & Solomon Schneider

  Print ISBN: 978-1-935460-39-8

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-935460-40-4

  When Marcus Glenfield committed suicide, he took his place among the Legions of Hell as the Demon of Regret. When he learns that the Prince of Wickedness, Belial, is planning to take his former fiancé, Brenda, as his consort, Marcus’ s newfound belief in a second chance is quickly shattered in a fit of all too human rage.

  Incensed by the new demon’s disrespectful hostility, Belial plunges Marcus into the deepest pits of Hell. But Lucifer has other plans for Marcus. For in the tormented lands of Purgatory, a strange and powerful uprising has gathered to form a new plane of existence—one that would break the ancient caste system of Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, Limbo and Earth, thwarting both God and Satan’s permanency within the universe. Not only have these brash metaphysical pirates kidnapped the powerful child born of Brenda and Belial’s union, they have also guided Marcus out of the prisons of Hell to their new realm.

  When they promise Marcus freedom in return for his help, he realizes that he will have to choose a side. But can he find one that he can truly believe in?

 

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