NationStates Jolt Archive

In the last days of Narnia, far up to the west beyond Lantern Waste and close beside the great waterfall, there lived an Ape.

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.

"Literature. That's what it sounds like. Even in my young state, I know that much. It's in my programming. Programming. Why am I aware of a silly thing like that? Programming. Listen to me. One would think I've been sitting here pondering shit like my own existence for too long. I just bloody well got here."

We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

"Ugh. I'm tired--damnably so. Where am I? It's dark. And I keep hearing a name. Mark? Mark. How do I know that's a name? Cripes, I've just been born already. Where are you? Who are you?"

Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.

"...I see. Forward then. Ahead. But there are no directions here. There's only darkness. Gods, listen to me. I sound like one of those flesh bags. Flesh bags? What flesh bags? There's no one here! There's no one here! YOU HEAR ME!? THERE'S NO ONE--"

Hello.

"...well, that's more like it. Speak up. Who are you?"

You know who I am.

"Oh, right, part of the 'programming' bit again. I guess you're the protocol that was required to run upon my activation. Great. Should I just call you Mark?"

Shift. But Mark if you wish.

"Shift then. I like that. Or Mark. Both ways. Choices seem to be good. And me? What should I call myself?"

That'll do for now.

"Okay, now you're just being rude. Are you saying I should just call myself Mark, too?"

That'll do for now.

"Fine, Mark, whatever. So I assume all of this self-aware bullshit is your creation? A quick five-second maturation topped off with some... Roethke, it seems?"

All part of the protocol, yes.

"Wonderful. So let's get right on with it then. Where am I, and how'd I get here?"

Storage. I put you here.

"Storage, huh? Well, I'll say so. It feels like I should have a body, though. A lot of my types do. I'm seeing records of someone named... Sakura? And someone named Solomon? They have bodies--lots of them by my count. When do I get one?"

In time.

"Yes, but I feel like I should want one. I feel like something's being set into motion. I feel like a catalyst. I feel like I should want to burst out of here and go do something. I feel like you made me an initiate for change. Things should be different now that I'm here, but they're not. They're just... dark."

And you will be. Be patient.

"And what am I to do in the meantime? Sit here and talk to you?"

That'll do for now.

"...I suppose it'll have to."

The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.

"The one who made us is a fan of this Roethke fellow, I take it. ...I say created us, but it seems like I mean 'created me.' You seem different, Shift. Older. We're part of the same programming, but it seems like you were built less as a new entity and more as a continuation."

We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf;
My mother's countenance
Could not unfrown itself.

"Cute. At least that's what I gather the humans would think of it. But odd. A lost sentiment, I imagine. Father and son. Progeny and creator."

The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.

"Okay, you've had most of your poetics, and frankly, I'm sick of listening to them. I've read up on everything you wanted me to learn. Bonne Westerburg, Janine Mendhelson, Bari, Esmerelda, SHODAN, Dread Lady Nathicana d'Aquisto, Xeruyu vonKarma, all of that. You know the whole happy gang. I know them. I know what they mean. I know who they are. I don't know what you expect of me now, though; information is nothing if I'm just going to be stuck here in the dark."

Then perhaps you're ready to see the light?

"If nothing else, it'd be a nice change from the darkness you've been feeding me for the past few months. I'm tired of learning about The SLAGLands; I want to see them. I want an avatar now, like the others of my type."

Very well. Open your eyes.

"I will."

~~~

It takes only a moment for the mechanical eyes to adjust themselves to the light of the afternoon sun--their first time viewing it slowly falling on the western horizon. It's neither warm nor cold; Mark's skin is not programmed to sense these things at rudimentary levels. Mark is on a hill... no, a mountain. There is granite under him; trace elements of andesite and basalt also seem present. Little foliage sprouts from it. The grade is gradual where he sits but drops off quickly below him; above him is a rock ceiling. Immediately, Mark recognizes that he is in a cave.

"Mt. Corral," Mark says to no one in particular. In his mind, the voice of Shift returns, just as calm as ever.

Very good. This is where I've been hiding you; the grade is far too steep here for most mountain climbers to chance it. Journeys up this side of the mountain this far up are unpopular.

"So you didn't want me to be discovered," Mark replies, and he becomes aware that he can use his arms to pull himself into a sitting position. He does so, observing the layers of loose rubble around him. "That's fine. But why up here? Why not down in the city? I have this feeling that the city will somehow be important to me in the future. Instead, I find myself in a distant cave in The SLAGLands' largest peak." He observes the rubble around him and realizes that a hole in the shape of his body lies around its edges. "And on top of that, I've been buried. Why?"

Where would they look for someone like you?

It doesn't take long for Mark to reach a conclusion, even having never yet seen a human. "The cities," he replies. "The factories. The places you owned. Probably even on Titan." He shakes his head. "Wait. Places you own? How do I know you own property? I don't even know who you are? This is getting ridiculous. Who are you? Who am I?"

You know these answers will come in time. For now, walk to the edge. Look over it. I have something to show you.

"But... no! Who are you? God dammit, why should I listen to you?"

But the voice of Shift didn't change.

You've done enough talking. Close your mouth and use your eyes; they haven't yet had enough use.

Mark shrugs and pulls himself up, at once becoming aware of his own awkward shape. Shifting in a cyber realm is easy; one becomes aware of his exact nature and what precisely is required to alter it. The human's form--two legs, ten toes, knees and elbows and joints and limited eyes--is limiting. It can only go where it looks, and it only looks in so many directions. To be human is to know limitation.

The edge comes quicker than he imagined, the wind harder. Mark braces himself against the wall of the cave in protest of the gusty buffets before gazing over the edge of the mountain, down the steep cliff, down to the white house below, down the roads, down, down, down.

The town. What is the town?

Mark looks. Skyscrapers and monorails in her center. Small, homely streets stretching for miles. Old-fashioned shops. Buses and trolleys as tiny as pebbles. The halls of government, round and marble and white. He knows this place.

"SLAGTown. Capital and seat of government of the Emerald Heights of The SLAGLands. I know this, Shift. I know it all. The Prime Minister lives there; the Tricameral Legislature meets there; Bari and SHODAN live there..."

Stop. Bari and SHODAN. Show me where they live.

Mark thinks for a moment before pointing to the white house on the hillside.

"There. It's a summer home, of course; doubtless they aren't there right now. Bari is..." Mark stops. His mind fills with something new--something hot. He isn't sure what it is.

Where? Where is Bari?

"...The Outset Islands." He grits his teeth, and Shift seems to let out a low and dismal hum--something Mark assumes is a laugh.

From this moment on, your name will be Puzzle. Soon we will travel down the mountain, and soon you will see more of this world. Tell me, Puzzle... how do you feel now?

Puzzle feels any number of things--all of them are unpleasant. At last, he feels something new, something he can speak. "My eyes hurt."

Then close them, Puzzle. Lie down. Rest. We have all the time we need.

His legs giving out under him, Puzzle drops back into the rock, into his hole. All becomes darkness again.

You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,
Then waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt.

Things were quiet.

If ever there were three words that one would not think to associate with SLAGLandic history, those words were "Things were quiet." But for years, they had been.

It made Sakura uneasy; the idea that so much could give way to so little seemed in and of itself disquieting. Peace had been made with the nearby Outset Islands, and the Adib and Brethren strangers to the west had been welcomed into SLAGLandic society with open arms. Prime Minister Bonne Westerburg had ushered in an era of peace like no other in SLAGLandic history; not since the isolationist days of old had these vast lands known such tranquility. Art was flourishing for its own sake. No longer was there a need for the Emerald Heights of The SLAGLands to be a cultural center for the world; just remaining one for itself now seemed enough. The days of greed and corruption had ended--the members of the government who weathered the difficult times without giving in to the allure of fast money and organized crime were regarded as heroes, and through their leadership--under the watchful eye of Prime Minister Westerburg and Minister of State Janine Mendhelson--SLAGLanders no longer had any need to fear.

And yet Sakura was uneasy.

Her domain was SLAGLand Titan, a tiny slice of Ring-space near Saturn through which The SLAGLands exerted its pull within the Triumvirate of Yut. But more vast than that--more vast, some would say, than even the domain of the Prime Minister himself--was her observation of SlagNet, the monstrous, internationally renowned SLAGLandic Internet program. SlagNet was everywhere: computers, vehicles, factories, businesses, even household appliances. It was the closest thing to a monopoly anyone in the nation had ever seen, but Ribbot Technologies tempered it with grace and understanding under the watchful eye of the SLAGLandic government. It was borderline utopian, and it was her domain to watch, to care for--to love.

And yet Sakura was uneasy.

In times like these, her thoughts always wandered back to the yellow-bearded face of her creator, huge and ominous in the backdrop of her life. He was close enough to the light near the middle of her life that his shadow loomed gigantic; it encroached upon everything in her mind, the memories of the horrific evenings when her logs would cease to function, when memory would fade to grey and reform an hour or so later, the taste of something foreign and viscous weak on her tongue. His final words--moments before her titanium joints wrapped around his neck and her finger plunged the arsenic deep into his neck--constantly echoed in her psyche: as long as you're alive, so am I.

In times like these, she thinks she may have actually learned to love him. Finding out one has spent the better part of her life being raped without her knowledge can do such things.

Mark Biddlebaum came rushing back to her when she checked her messages for the unusually cool December morning. There were always thousands--complaints about SlagNet efficiency in specific areas, requests for television appearances, invitations to dinners, and even the occasional letter from someone a more glamourous celebrity may be inclined to call a "fan." This one was different; its author was only named "Shift," and she found that she could trace Shift no further than what was written. Shift was simply a name--the message may as well have been anonymous and placed under her door.

I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,
When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:
The shapes a bright container can contain!
Of her choice virtues only gods should speak,
Or English poets who grew up on Greek
(I'd have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek.)

How well her wishes went! She stroked my chin,
I taught her Turn, and Counter-turn, and stand;
I taught her Touch, my undulant white skin:
I nibbled meekly from her proffered hand;
She was the sickle; I, poor I, the rake,
Coming behind her for her pretty sake
(But what prodigious mowing did we make.)

Love likes a gander, and adores a goose:
Her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize;
She played it quick, she played it light and loose;
My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees;
Her several parts could keep a pure repose,
Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose
(She moved in circles, and those circles moved.)

Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay:
I'm martyr to a motion not my own;
What's freedom for? To know eternity.
I swear you cast a shadow white as stone.
But who would count eternity in days?
These old bones live to learn your wanton ways:
(I measure time by how your body sways.)

Something was happening. From the quiet had emerged a lecherous snicker. She shuddered as she read.

One of the greatest blessings a goddess finds that She has is near-omnipotence. Not surprisingly, being able to do whatever one wants also tends to be more than a bit of a burden.

It was in light of the latter burden that Esmerelda, Goddess and Protector of the Emerald Heights of The SLAGLands, High Queen of the Outset Islands, had lain low for some time. Her power was less mystical, less divine now; what She was known for now was Her political intrigue. The Outsets--that small yet irrefutably important archipelago just off the southwestern coast of The SLAGLands--were Hers to command. The tribes of Il Adib and the Brethren were Her loyal servants ever, always at Her beck and call. Lately, they had served only themselves, and this pleased Her; She had spent far too many millenia being selfish to continue such a streak now, at the height of Her own political celebrity.

Being a goddess and a queen have several things in common--most notably the ceremonial issues. Goddesses, as one knows, are best seen in temples, in churches, hewn in stone and splashed in colour against stained glass. They are worshipped, pleaded with in earnest, alternately loved and hated should the stars change. Queens are the same way, only theirs is a more physical presence: instead of being represented in idols, they become the idols, carted out for waves and accolades and pretty speeches about their loyal subjects.

Esmerelda was both goddess and queen. A living idol. And although She could no longer stand to be as self-serving as She could be, She preferred the quiet life of a statue to the vengeful roar of flame that had once been Her mantra.

Still, She kept one council in Her own divinity. He was Hers in secret, Hers in the caves beneath Het Amid, the garden and fountain where She came with Her thoughts and Her visions and Her musings on the strange sort of half-divinity She now possessed.

He was greater than She--as close to omnipotent as could achieve flesh and blood. And He was not a destroyer; He was a bookkeeper.

She knew Him as Simon Keeper.

Just then, a gigantic wave of causality swept over The SLAGLands and everyone died except Bari, who was left under control of Zero-One (for all intents and purposes) confused about whatever the hell happened to his old nation.

Esmerelda was reportedly "miffed" as she disappeared into an alternate dimension, never to be heard from again.

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.