Extraordinary Machines

“Men and women of science need not be godless. To believe in something is not zealotry, not faith gone rampant: believing is merely letting oneself be inspired.”

 Professor Aberdeen was in rare form today, standing tall and steadfast before a sea of rapt, glimmering eyes. Other sexagenarians would have shrunken in the spotlight of a smaller lecture hall, yet here he was at the Seven Ox Institute of Technology, commanding an audience like no other with his keynote speech.
“Many of the world’s greatest minds were driven to discovery by their beliefs, yet could any one of you roll your eyes at their theses? One god or seven, a thousand or none, what does it matter, when they sparked the laws and principles that you and I live and breathe? There is already so much that scholars cannot observe, but faith is no exotic particle. Do not discount it, but learn from it, or risk making the very same mistake for which you scorn it.”

 It came to questions not long after, with the bravest of the student body filing up behind the mic stand. They asked him to expand on his earlier struggles in academia, about the people he admired like many admire him today. One even asked him, to the delight of the entire hall, if an apple had been involved in his ground-breaking discovery of the Diomedes Effect – that is to say, the phenomenon in which an exotic field can alter the malleability of reality. Then came a small, unassuming voice that somehow silenced the room. “My name is Lora Vale. Can I ask, professor, what inspires you?”

The old man seemed glad, from the gentle smile that bristled his salt-and-pepper beard. “Why, a parable. Often told in days long past, and withering-old even in the early lives of our ancestors. You youngsters may have heard of the Wandering Engineer, but that is a... fancy new name for a simple, eccentric Artist.

“It is said that when the Artist gazed upon the seas, it built the first ship and called it Muse. When it looked up and glimpsed the skies, it built the first plane and called it Dream... but when the Artist first laid eyes upon mankind, it built the first coffin, and called for Death.”

Murmurs washed over the hall like waves, until the young woman spoke again. “That’s... that’s really depressing, sir.”

“It is, isn’t it? Funny thing about humans, it’s the sad that always seems to stick.” The crowd laughed at that, refreshed by his candidness. “Now, while the truthfulness and plausibility of the tale are debatable, the parable itself poses no less a troubling question. Narcissists will tell you that mankind could not be improved, and so the Artist, faced with perfection, was robbed of meaning and of life. Cynics and people who watch the news, however, wonder if the Artist even saw a thimble of potential in our flawed design... and then there are the outliers, who wonder about the coffin, of all things.”

“What about it?”

He answered plainly, shrugging. “Who was it meant for?”

An uneasy quiet fell over the lecture hall, catching in the students’ throats like cherry stones. Noticing it, he threw up his arms and gave them a humorous smirk before continuing. “Or maybe the Artist simply realized that man was someone else’s work, unlike the seas and the skies, which are public domain. Who can blame it for dodging that patent war?”

 When the lecture ended, the hall emptied in a slow trickle, and it was hard to make out anything from the excited chatter. Professor Aberdeen made his way stage left, vanishing into a dimly lit corridor of cords and equipment. There, an old friend had waited to... greet him, as it were. “A smidgeon of creationism and two small shakes of intelligent design. You must tell me how you keep flying under the censors’ radar.”

 Derek Latham used to be someone. A decade ago, he was provost of science and technology at this very institute, as well as head of research at Bolgia Dynamics. In fact, he used to be somebody even before that. The Deftspark, they used to call him. If Aberdeen thought outside the box, then Derek turned it into a balloon and flew off with it to far-off never lands.  Now, however, he was only Mad Derek. Derek the Deuce. The Daftspark.

“If I preached something today, it was for them to keep their eyes open wide, and their minds even wider.”
 “Not too wide, I hope. You wouldn’t want them becoming like me.”

 “Your beliefs didn’t drive you, they devoured you,” Aberdeen snapped. He paused for composure, but the sharpness could still be heard. “Why have you come?”

 “To invite you, of course,” he said matter-of-factly, handing the old man a wax-sealed letter. “It’s done.”

 That took him aback, and for a moment, Aberdeen struggled with his words. “That’s... impossible.”

 “Do what I say, not what I do. Where’s your open mind, James? Be inspired.”

Aberdeen scoffed. “And what inspires you, Derek? Who are your gods?”

Derek smiled that sad little smile, and the professor felt a pit of regret churn in his stomach. “My friend, there are no gods. Only madmen who lost their homes.”

And with that, he left.

[To be continued.]


"Extraordinary Machines" - Jean Phan

Theoclast

It was on the twelfth stroke of his toothbrush that Samuel Cassian lost his mind.

To be perfectly honest, he always did feel his brain was a few pages short of an owner’s manual. This, however, seemed unlike anything Sam had ever experienced in a long parade of mental disorders. Vertigo hit him like a brick. The strength left his legs. He could barely catch the edges of the copper basin as he fell.
Sam’s next-to-last coherent thought was one of regret. Before going certifiably insane, he had missed the chance to thoroughly scrub his tongue: halitosis could not be excused no matter what the circumstance, and spontaneous madness was no exception. His actual last thought? That the previous one had been rather lackluster, and that he was lucky no one would ever know.

In his daze, he saw the plastic brush rattle in the sink, saw the foam of peppermint paste swirl round and round and into the drain. Flashes of nonsense flared in his mind: broken eggs, a dribble of ink, then squiggles of paste and a sadistic spoon. It scraped and scraped against his skull, brewing the infectious images inside the cauldron of his thoughts.

Spirals emerged from the black and white pain – endless, brilliant. Galaxies, he knew, but the word itself had been lost in his psychosis. Sam pulled himself upright, grunting under the strain as he made his last stand. He must have looked ridiculous, legs dangling like those of a marionette with its strings snipped away. Facing the bathroom mirror and a decade’s worth of crust stains and soap scum, he tried to compose himself. Only then did he see his reflection.

An infinite recursion.

It was over. Sam was trapped.


*

(TBD)

*



There was a popular saying among the cynics of Mistral, that they spend a third of their lives waiting for the train to come, another third waiting for it to stop, and the rest wondering where the time has gone.

Yet every morning, without fail, people massed at the station gates. They lined along the platforms, filed into overcrowded wagons, and put up with the perpetual rocking of the railcar in an otherwise mechanical silence. Time in transit was time in stasis, a soul-numbing state of stagnation that could only be broken by the hissing of hydraulics… but even with their freedom restored, passengers still disembarked in a sea of stolid faces. Grateful smiles never came easy, especially when everyone knew they would be back for the evening commute.

 Sam sat at the back of the last coach, craning his neck to face the round gap of an open window. Though not much, it was a good measure of relief from the cramped space and stifling air. Carefully secured on his lap was an aluminum portfolio, containing the latest storyboards for his semi-popular series of picture books: ‘The Tacky Tales of Thom Tabletop, the Paladimp’.

 The doors slid open, letting in the damp breath of falling rain. It was the last stop before the Bilröst Bridge; the passengers stumbled out in haste, ushered by forceful prods that had mostly gone unnoticed. Stranger yet, no one had embarked on the coach, leaving him to share the tense silence with only a handful of strangers. The framework groaned as the old train left the station; within moments, they were crossing over the east river.

Sam peered out through the scuffed and grimy porthole, reveling in the scenic beauty of the watercourse that divided the old-timey boroughs from the shimmering skyscrapers dotting the mainland. Even with this era’s state of the art maglev systems replacing most wheeled trains, he knew that this antiquated machine would never fall into disuse, if only for those special few minutes one could spend in quiet wonder gazing at the city’s skyline. Of all the naïve daydreams the man entertained on a daily basis, his favorite was getting the chance to bask just a little longer in this fleeting moment of perfect peace.

He blinked: twice, thrice. His wish, it would seem, had been granted. The train had stopped midway through the bridge, the grinding of wheels replaced by the pitter-patter of rain on the windows. A nearby shuffle of cloth brought him back from his sightseeing, and he noticed that the men and women in the railcar had gathered around him; they were all wearing an assortment of ski-masks now, and Sam almost swore an oath when he realized could recall none of their faces.  

“This guy must be the most pathetic one yet,” one of them spoke with the distinct drawl of a Borean accent. In his hand was a dial of some sort, a wheel-shaped instrument crafted from the strangest alloy of sterling silver he’d ever seen. “It’s only been eight hours, but there’s almost no trace of distortion anymore.”
“Then he definitely won’t survive this.”

   “Hi, hello,” Sam said with a hesitant wave, finally deciding to interject. Considering the blatant threat on his life, it seemed as good a time as any. “I’m guessing you kindly people didn’t unhinge this railcar just to have a private chat amongst yourselves?”

 “Hey. Are you sure we can’t just knife him? It seems like it might actually work on this one.”

“Can’t be too careful. Nobody wants a repeat of last time.” This one was clearly the ringleader: the others obeyed him without being given any orders. He merely nodded, and they dropped the heavy bags they carried to the floor. By the time Sam realized these were explosive charges, it was already too late. “Let’s go.”

 Everything that followed seemed as a blur. The hijackers passed through the doors, leaping into the stormy abyss without a moment’s hesitation. The last one to go had closed them behind him, affixing a magnetic clamp to lock them from the outside. Then, they were gone. Impending death notwithstanding, Sam was amazed: it all happened in the time of seven blinks.

 Now that he was left to his own devices, however, Sam felt rather uneasy. Not knowing why he was about to die didn’t exactly sit well with him. What little he could glean from this cursory meeting was that they were a close-knit squad, that they worked with the frightening efficiency of a well-oiled machine, and that there had been many other victims before him. Not a particularly cheery thought.

 Sam sighed; there would be time for musing later. He dashed for one of the scenic portholes near the front of the car, much larger than the passenger windows. Bringing his aluminum case to bear, he swung at it with all his might. The chassis shook, but the glass seemed unscathed.

He bit the inside of his cheek, exhaling deeply as if to vent the sudden burning in his nerves. He cussed for good measure, and then banged away at the damned thing like a genuine madman. Hope began as a grinding sound, like gravel being pulverized, until it turned into a loud buckling. One last hit, and he sent a shower of glass shards diving into the black waters below.

There was a short struggle as he clambered onto a seat; he reached out, his left hand rasping against the outer wall of railcar, and he grinned in relief.

First there was light. Then, fire. The wagon had exploded.

“Here we go again.”

Exhilaration. Untimely death aside, this flaming freefall was as close as he would ever get to a joy ride. He closed his eyes. A wet breeze slapped him across the face, and he could sense each individual pellet of water. White noise buzzed all around. The rain had soaked him through and through, but he hadn’t touched the river yet. It all felt so sluggish, and even with the drumming of his heart, he felt oddly at peace.

His eyes cracked open, slowly, carefully. He was falling, but the waters came to him without hurry. A look over his shoulder showed him a cloud of debris: charred panels, some wiring and bits of insulation from what used to be a functioning railcar. He also thought he saw a blurry figure, flying about the wreckage, but the mirage had vanished in a blink. It was an odd phenomenon. Everything around him seemed to plummet at a snail’s pace… almost as if Sam were caught outside the flow of time. Caught in limbo.

Then, it stopped.

His body cut into the freezing waters, a thin screen of splashing froth trailing behind him. The vise of darkness closed around him. The numbing cold overran his veins.

One second. Five seconds. Ten.

Nothing.

For the second time today, Sam was gone.

[To be continued.]

"Theoclast" - Jean Phan