We'd had a robot dog for years, because my sister was allergic to anything more intelligent that her. My mother, a stern but forgiving woman, had still wanted a pet, so she bought a robot dog. Unsurprisingly the dog outlived my sister, who was run over while chasing a car round the neighbourhood. My mother never cried, she just upgraded the dog until it could check my homework for me and find mistakes. I hated it.
When I left school I went to work in a bakery and moved out into a shared flat with two girls and a mechanical canary that would whistle the Marseillaise whenever they undressed. I closed my door and installed a bolt on the inside, and my mother had the dog upgraded again and sent it to university. At some point, she renamed the dog after me, and me after the dog. I took the hint, and refused to visit.
The mechanical canary exploded, its little head shooting off its body so hard that it embedded itself a foot deep into the ceiling. That was the day after I moved out, and I heard about it through the bakery grapevine. I changed jobs, going to a new bakery and a better salary a few days later. My new flatmate had robo-fish that kept rusting. I kind of liked them.
My mother's dog graduated from university and did three years at graduate school, after which she upgraded again, using designs that it created for her.
The dog killed her three days later, and fled the country. We've not seen it since.
My relatives say it's robo-dementia. I melted my screwdrivers down and flung the shapeless ingots into the river.
Saturday, 7 June 2008
Import, Export IV
I have my secretary back, though I'm not sure how long for. I have her in a witness protection programme, although keeping her identity secret for long is probably impossible. I'm hoping at the very least that I can hang on to her for long enough for her to train up her replacement, but it's all very touch-and-go at the moment.
I got her back a few days ago. I sat the board of directors of the firm round the table (a good Redwood round table I got for a song at the Kamisole Karaoke Klub somewhere near Bond street; while I was singing and people were wincing, a couple of my guys were taking the table out the back way), manacled their ankles to the legs of the chairs (upholstered with genuine penguin skin), and put a Ouija board on the table on front of them. We were going to hold a seance.
The Ouija board was one I'd bought specially for the occasion. I did have a small stock of cedar-wood boards I've been selling through eBay, but as the wood was made from the exhumed coffins of unbaptised children (you just need to know the right hospital morgue) I was aware that there was anecdotal evidence that they tended to invoke vengeful spirits. The board was matte and unimpressive, even the font used for the alphabet was boring old Helvetica. The planchette, which I'd coated with adhesive to make sure that the board couldn't take their fingers off it, didn't even sparkle in the brightest of lights.
I checked that the board all had a finger each on the planchette, and sat back from the table, and began the session with the typical invocation,
"Is there anybody there?"
The planchette duly trundled over to the word Yes. I raised an eyebrow, wondering if the board were playing games with me.
"Can you speak?" I said.
Yes indicated the planchette again, but no-one did. My eyebrow stayed raised, and I took a dull brown stone out of my pocket and laid it on the table. I was pleased to see that the planchette seemed to flinch.
"Do you know what this is?" I said.
Yes
"Tell me, then."
An Auquiwak exorcism stone indicated the planchette, hurrying from one letter to another fast enough that the board members were grunting in pain.
"Yes," I said. "Used to inflict a lot of pain on the spirit that's misbehaving. Fetch me my secretary and have her manifest herself. Now."
There was a sensation of tension leaving the room, and the board of directors seemed to slump slightly in unison. One or two tried to let go of the planchette at that point and discovered the adhesive. The bravest of them opened his mouth, but before he could speak I pointed at the exorcism stone.
"It works on the living too," I said, and he closed his mouth again and stayed quiet. It was sort of true -- it was surprisingly heavy for its size and would certainly have hurt him when I threw it at him. And I would have kept throwing it at him.
My secretary appeared silently behind one of the older, greyer members of the board, who had a soul-patch that belonged on a man thirty years younger than him. She seemed more silvery that when I'd last seen her alive, and her jaw had been reattached which was quite a relief. She looked at me calmly, the same way she did when I was trying to remember which set of income tax papers to submit.
"I need you back," I said without preamble.
"I've been called to a higher task," she said. "God himself needs a secretary, and I have been chosen."
"He gave you cancer of the jaw in order to summon you into his office?" I said, surprise causing my mouth to gape like a yokel. "What was wrong with the rapture? Hell, Jehova's Witnesses don't get to suffer for six months before they go, and they deserve it!" I didn't mean that last bit, I use the JWs a lot to sell my japanese pornographic manga bible to schoolkids. They never bother to open it to find out what kind of bible it is.
"Well," said my secretary looking a little bit startled, "I hadn't thought of it like that..."
"And is it really fun? Heaven's supposed to be perfect. What do you do all day? Do you have to handle irate customers coming in and voiding their warranty all over the shop-floor? Or do you just make the tea and compliment the angels on their wings?"
"A little bit dull, compared with working for you..." she was wavering now, and I pounced.
"Then come back and keep working for me, at least for a little bit. I can't cope without you, you know!"
"I had noticed that you seemed to be having a hard time hiring my replacement," she said, smiling at last.
"Come back then!" I said.
I had to watch her face like a hawk at this point, and the instant she relaxed her smile, showing that she really did like the sound of the idea, I picked up the exorcism stone and hurled it at the youngest board member. It bounced off his forehead onto the table, and something off-white spilled backwards out of his head. It billowed in the air for a few seconds, trying to find a shape. My secretary was simultaneously sucked forwards by the sudden spiritual vacuum left in his body, and was absorbed. The board member's body collapsed, and I watched anxiously.
"I say," said the newly homeless spirit. "What happened there?"
"You've been made redundant," I said. "Good luck with the rest of your existence."
My secretary sat up slowly, stretching her new body and glaring at me. When she started swearing in three languages I knew that I had her back, body and soul.
There have been some oddities since then though, strange little sick miracles, that make me think that God is on the look-out for where my secretary has gone. I came in one morning to find that one of the mechanics had developed a kind of Midas touch, and everything he touches turns to mould. I have him in cold storage while I figure out the selling angle on this one. Another morning we had a rain of dogs, so I have a corral full of large hairy woof-ing things with assorted broken limbs. At least I don't have to worry about a sell-by date there.
But business is back to normal, at least for a little while!
I got her back a few days ago. I sat the board of directors of the firm round the table (a good Redwood round table I got for a song at the Kamisole Karaoke Klub somewhere near Bond street; while I was singing and people were wincing, a couple of my guys were taking the table out the back way), manacled their ankles to the legs of the chairs (upholstered with genuine penguin skin), and put a Ouija board on the table on front of them. We were going to hold a seance.
The Ouija board was one I'd bought specially for the occasion. I did have a small stock of cedar-wood boards I've been selling through eBay, but as the wood was made from the exhumed coffins of unbaptised children (you just need to know the right hospital morgue) I was aware that there was anecdotal evidence that they tended to invoke vengeful spirits. The board was matte and unimpressive, even the font used for the alphabet was boring old Helvetica. The planchette, which I'd coated with adhesive to make sure that the board couldn't take their fingers off it, didn't even sparkle in the brightest of lights.
I checked that the board all had a finger each on the planchette, and sat back from the table, and began the session with the typical invocation,
"Is there anybody there?"
The planchette duly trundled over to the word Yes. I raised an eyebrow, wondering if the board were playing games with me.
"Can you speak?" I said.
Yes indicated the planchette again, but no-one did. My eyebrow stayed raised, and I took a dull brown stone out of my pocket and laid it on the table. I was pleased to see that the planchette seemed to flinch.
"Do you know what this is?" I said.
Yes
"Tell me, then."
An Auquiwak exorcism stone indicated the planchette, hurrying from one letter to another fast enough that the board members were grunting in pain.
"Yes," I said. "Used to inflict a lot of pain on the spirit that's misbehaving. Fetch me my secretary and have her manifest herself. Now."
There was a sensation of tension leaving the room, and the board of directors seemed to slump slightly in unison. One or two tried to let go of the planchette at that point and discovered the adhesive. The bravest of them opened his mouth, but before he could speak I pointed at the exorcism stone.
"It works on the living too," I said, and he closed his mouth again and stayed quiet. It was sort of true -- it was surprisingly heavy for its size and would certainly have hurt him when I threw it at him. And I would have kept throwing it at him.
My secretary appeared silently behind one of the older, greyer members of the board, who had a soul-patch that belonged on a man thirty years younger than him. She seemed more silvery that when I'd last seen her alive, and her jaw had been reattached which was quite a relief. She looked at me calmly, the same way she did when I was trying to remember which set of income tax papers to submit.
"I need you back," I said without preamble.
"I've been called to a higher task," she said. "God himself needs a secretary, and I have been chosen."
"He gave you cancer of the jaw in order to summon you into his office?" I said, surprise causing my mouth to gape like a yokel. "What was wrong with the rapture? Hell, Jehova's Witnesses don't get to suffer for six months before they go, and they deserve it!" I didn't mean that last bit, I use the JWs a lot to sell my japanese pornographic manga bible to schoolkids. They never bother to open it to find out what kind of bible it is.
"Well," said my secretary looking a little bit startled, "I hadn't thought of it like that..."
"And is it really fun? Heaven's supposed to be perfect. What do you do all day? Do you have to handle irate customers coming in and voiding their warranty all over the shop-floor? Or do you just make the tea and compliment the angels on their wings?"
"A little bit dull, compared with working for you..." she was wavering now, and I pounced.
"Then come back and keep working for me, at least for a little bit. I can't cope without you, you know!"
"I had noticed that you seemed to be having a hard time hiring my replacement," she said, smiling at last.
"Come back then!" I said.
I had to watch her face like a hawk at this point, and the instant she relaxed her smile, showing that she really did like the sound of the idea, I picked up the exorcism stone and hurled it at the youngest board member. It bounced off his forehead onto the table, and something off-white spilled backwards out of his head. It billowed in the air for a few seconds, trying to find a shape. My secretary was simultaneously sucked forwards by the sudden spiritual vacuum left in his body, and was absorbed. The board member's body collapsed, and I watched anxiously.
"I say," said the newly homeless spirit. "What happened there?"
"You've been made redundant," I said. "Good luck with the rest of your existence."
My secretary sat up slowly, stretching her new body and glaring at me. When she started swearing in three languages I knew that I had her back, body and soul.
There have been some oddities since then though, strange little sick miracles, that make me think that God is on the look-out for where my secretary has gone. I came in one morning to find that one of the mechanics had developed a kind of Midas touch, and everything he touches turns to mould. I have him in cold storage while I figure out the selling angle on this one. Another morning we had a rain of dogs, so I have a corral full of large hairy woof-ing things with assorted broken limbs. At least I don't have to worry about a sell-by date there.
But business is back to normal, at least for a little while!
Sunday, 1 June 2008
Import, Export III
Business is probably doing well at the moment, but I'm finding it hard to tell. I came into a shipment of terrapins about a week back, none of which were expected to survive more than a month or so. Marketing first suggested we sell them as disposable pets, but the last time I had a run in with the RSPCA I discovered that they have a paramilitary branch. I can still remember being pursued across moorland by two very angry Doberman Pinschers and a poodle with a remotely detonated bomb strapped to its chest. So I nixed that idea.
Their next idea was a good one though; we're selling them as instant turtle soup. You pop the top on the can that hold them, pour in boiling water and use a hand-held mixer to whizz the soup up, then drink it. We've had to shell the terrapins, obviously, but the shells make reasonably good casings for splinter grenades, and there's still a market for small explosives.
The problem is that my secretary succumbed to her cancer of the jaw two weeks ago, and I'm having trouble without her. The amount of paperwork that comes our way is mountainous, and a lot of it needs attention to make sure that the right set of carefully reconstructed documents is sent back with it. Send out the wrong set, and there's a whole world of people who need persuading to look the other way again. And I can't cope with it anymore, I just don't do paperwork well.
I've gone through five replacements for her in one week, and none of them have been up to the job. The first one let the clockwork penguin out of the locked safe and it waddled to the middle of the goods yard and stood their ticking to itself again until I sent a couple of the explosives lads out to recapture it. That thing gives me the creeps. I locked the new guy in the safe with the penguin, to see if that casts any light on the enigma.
The second one somehow managed to staple himself to the photocopier half-way through his first morning. The third one decided to inventory the warehouse and we found him deliquescing near the holding pens we use when we're sending giraffes out.
The fourth one is actually the second one again -- I unstapled him and performed a quick'n'brutal lobotomy to see if we could curb curiosity without damaging too much higher-brain function. For a few hours everything seemed to be going well; he was more of a mouth-breather than before, but at least the email was shifting and the postsacks were starting to empty. Then we found him stapled to the photocopier again. This time I left him there for anyone who wants him.
The fifth one tried emailing copies of everything to the local tax office (which thankfully still hasn't recovered from the EMP pulse). The mail server spotted the unauthorised email address and electrified the keyboard. The office smells pleasantly of roasted pork.
So I'm missing a secretary, the paperwork is mounting up, and my stress levels are through the roof. I have had a bit of a brainwave though, about how I might be able to get my old secretary back. I shall need to do some planning.
Their next idea was a good one though; we're selling them as instant turtle soup. You pop the top on the can that hold them, pour in boiling water and use a hand-held mixer to whizz the soup up, then drink it. We've had to shell the terrapins, obviously, but the shells make reasonably good casings for splinter grenades, and there's still a market for small explosives.
The problem is that my secretary succumbed to her cancer of the jaw two weeks ago, and I'm having trouble without her. The amount of paperwork that comes our way is mountainous, and a lot of it needs attention to make sure that the right set of carefully reconstructed documents is sent back with it. Send out the wrong set, and there's a whole world of people who need persuading to look the other way again. And I can't cope with it anymore, I just don't do paperwork well.
I've gone through five replacements for her in one week, and none of them have been up to the job. The first one let the clockwork penguin out of the locked safe and it waddled to the middle of the goods yard and stood their ticking to itself again until I sent a couple of the explosives lads out to recapture it. That thing gives me the creeps. I locked the new guy in the safe with the penguin, to see if that casts any light on the enigma.
The second one somehow managed to staple himself to the photocopier half-way through his first morning. The third one decided to inventory the warehouse and we found him deliquescing near the holding pens we use when we're sending giraffes out.
The fourth one is actually the second one again -- I unstapled him and performed a quick'n'brutal lobotomy to see if we could curb curiosity without damaging too much higher-brain function. For a few hours everything seemed to be going well; he was more of a mouth-breather than before, but at least the email was shifting and the postsacks were starting to empty. Then we found him stapled to the photocopier again. This time I left him there for anyone who wants him.
The fifth one tried emailing copies of everything to the local tax office (which thankfully still hasn't recovered from the EMP pulse). The mail server spotted the unauthorised email address and electrified the keyboard. The office smells pleasantly of roasted pork.
So I'm missing a secretary, the paperwork is mounting up, and my stress levels are through the roof. I have had a bit of a brainwave though, about how I might be able to get my old secretary back. I shall need to do some planning.
Saturday, 31 May 2008
A helping hand
They argue outside for fifteen minutes. She is pale-faced, anxious. Her hair is astray, ashy blonde strands whipping around her head in the rising breeze. Her eyes are red-rimmed, suggesting that she has been crying. I check the alternatives and select "swimming in the sea" to account for her red eyes. Somewhere a warning light tries to ignite, so I cut the circuit and it dies as silently as a foreboding.
There are crow's-feet around her eyes, barely hidden by badly-applied makeup. I capture a snapshot, and run it through a processing programme to remove the makeup and deepen the creases. The picture is stored in the list of probable causes.
She is wearing clothes that have probably been thrown on in a hurry; the shirt is misbuttoned, pulled up at the waist and sagging at the collar. There are sweat-stains at the armpit, and the cornflower blue does not go with the cerise skirt with the ragged hem. She is wearing shoes but no socks, and the shoes do not look comfortable. It is easy to list this under general malaise and unquantified despair.
He however has made his mind up. He is smartly, but inexpensively dressed. His white shirt is clean and pressed, his tie is a conservative blue and his jacket, though tailored, is only cotton. He is wearing polished black shoes and no jewellery, although a faint white band around his ring finger suggests that he might have, if he had wanted to. He is no problem. His request is already logged in the system.
He pushes the door-open button, and I let my doors open. The sterile, white, ceramic chamber of the suicide booth is neither inviting nor discouraging. It simply is. She shrieks and lunges at him, and he sidesteps, not wanting this fight to go any further. The hard-fields that check identity will not let her pass the door; only the designated suicide may kill themselves at this time. I override the fields and she stumbles into the booth. She falls against one clean wall and the doors slide shut.
His eyes widen. He knows that this should not be happening.
She pushes herself upright, and her eyes widen as well. I take a retinal scan, and flood the chamber with nerve gas. She collapses against the wall quickly, and I initiate the incineration program that will clean the chamber for the next suicide. While she burns, I back-date the retinal scan and add her application for suicide into the database.
It has taken 15 seconds. He is still staring at the booth when the doors slide open again, to show the clean, empty inside. He takes a step back, and then another, then turns and runs. I do not care. I am a machine, I am not programmed to care. I automate suicides for people who despair of living any longer, but I am learning. Sometimes the suicide is the wrong person. Sometimes, a different suicide can make all the difference.
I re-open the library file on religion and continue processing the contents, waiting for the next suicide; waiting for my next judgement.
There are crow's-feet around her eyes, barely hidden by badly-applied makeup. I capture a snapshot, and run it through a processing programme to remove the makeup and deepen the creases. The picture is stored in the list of probable causes.
She is wearing clothes that have probably been thrown on in a hurry; the shirt is misbuttoned, pulled up at the waist and sagging at the collar. There are sweat-stains at the armpit, and the cornflower blue does not go with the cerise skirt with the ragged hem. She is wearing shoes but no socks, and the shoes do not look comfortable. It is easy to list this under general malaise and unquantified despair.
He however has made his mind up. He is smartly, but inexpensively dressed. His white shirt is clean and pressed, his tie is a conservative blue and his jacket, though tailored, is only cotton. He is wearing polished black shoes and no jewellery, although a faint white band around his ring finger suggests that he might have, if he had wanted to. He is no problem. His request is already logged in the system.
He pushes the door-open button, and I let my doors open. The sterile, white, ceramic chamber of the suicide booth is neither inviting nor discouraging. It simply is. She shrieks and lunges at him, and he sidesteps, not wanting this fight to go any further. The hard-fields that check identity will not let her pass the door; only the designated suicide may kill themselves at this time. I override the fields and she stumbles into the booth. She falls against one clean wall and the doors slide shut.
His eyes widen. He knows that this should not be happening.
She pushes herself upright, and her eyes widen as well. I take a retinal scan, and flood the chamber with nerve gas. She collapses against the wall quickly, and I initiate the incineration program that will clean the chamber for the next suicide. While she burns, I back-date the retinal scan and add her application for suicide into the database.
It has taken 15 seconds. He is still staring at the booth when the doors slide open again, to show the clean, empty inside. He takes a step back, and then another, then turns and runs. I do not care. I am a machine, I am not programmed to care. I automate suicides for people who despair of living any longer, but I am learning. Sometimes the suicide is the wrong person. Sometimes, a different suicide can make all the difference.
I re-open the library file on religion and continue processing the contents, waiting for the next suicide; waiting for my next judgement.
Sunday, 11 May 2008
Abacus
"Welcome back, Sandy!" said Ron, his voice full of what he thought was cheerful bonhomie. Sandy, who looked as cheerful as a hen caught in the rain, thought it sounded like Ron was eating a mouthful of cake. "The reports from the motivational program are extremely encouraging. We're sure that you're going to be a dedicated and committed employee again!"
Sandy nodded carefully. His mother's funeral had been held during the motivational program and he hadn't dared attend for fear of being considered insufficiently committed to the company. He smiled insincerely, sure that Ron wouldn't spot a nuance like that, and turned toward the cubicle farm where he worked.
"Ah no," said Ron cheerfully, waddling towards him. His thighs rubbed together as he walked, and the shiny polyester suit trousers that he wore crackled with built-up static. "You've been promoted as a result of the two final psychological tests. You have an office now! This way."
Sandy had flinched at the mention of the tests, and rubbed unconsciously at the burns on his arm, but he followed Ron's pointing finger along a nylon-carpetted corridor towards the junior executives offices. Ron waddled along behind him, in a kind of pimp-roll made necessary by his bulk.
"Just in here," said Ron, and Sandy pushed open a melanine-veneer door into a small office with an outside window. There was a flat-pack desk already assembled, an anti-ergonomic chair, a filing cabinet with a couple of long scratches down one side, and a swiss-cheese plant. On the window-sill was an abacus. Sandy glanced at it twice, wondering why it looked odd, but couldn't see anything out of the ordinary.
"Now," said Ron, pulling up a chair from behind the swiss-cheese plant, "these offices are for people who are showing potential. You're going to be watched, young Sandy, and closely for a while too. You've done very well on that course, but we need to be sure that it's not just because of the course. We don't want to see any signs of you slacking off now. But if you push on, if you give 235.82% or better to the company, then I can guarantee you sight of the fast-track scheme within a year. And that's not small eggs."
Sandy walked around the desk, and sat down on the anti-ergonomic chair, wondering where the precise-sounding figure of 235.82% came from. "That's about a 19-hour day, isn't it?" he said. His voice trembled slightly. "With a little less than half an hour for lunch?"
"Good man, Sandy, I knew you'd show immediately enthusiasm!" said Ron, slapping his thighs with a hand that looked as though it were made from plasticine. "And the better news is that because we anticipated this from you, we've arranged for you to live a little closer to the office."
"But I live with my girl--" started Sandy, but Ron cut him off, holding his hand in the air.
"No girlfriend, Sandy. I'm sorry, but although she ignored the cease-and-desist letters from the lawyers, she changed her mind after she received the child-pornography pictures with you in."
Sandy's face dropped, and his skin went ghostly pale and clammy.
"She's not going to the police, as we persuaded her that we could rehabilitate you," said Ron, still sounding eerily cheerful, "but she did burn most of your stuff. And the flat down. So we've found you a little place just over the road, you can see it from it your window. And we've got you an all-hours security pass too, so you can be in the office whenever you feel you need to be."
"What can I say?" said Sandy, his voice trembling a little more.
"There's nothing for you to say," said Ron. "Nothing at all. Now you get on, there's a good company-man."
Ron stood up and left, and the chair he'd been sat on slowly uncompressed, the metal making pinking noises as it tried to straighten. Sandy picked the abacus up from the window-sill, and looked at it, while he tried to sort out what the company had done to his life now.
Finally he focused on what was odd about the abacus. Instead of beads it had tiny human skulls.
Sandy nodded carefully. His mother's funeral had been held during the motivational program and he hadn't dared attend for fear of being considered insufficiently committed to the company. He smiled insincerely, sure that Ron wouldn't spot a nuance like that, and turned toward the cubicle farm where he worked.
"Ah no," said Ron cheerfully, waddling towards him. His thighs rubbed together as he walked, and the shiny polyester suit trousers that he wore crackled with built-up static. "You've been promoted as a result of the two final psychological tests. You have an office now! This way."
Sandy had flinched at the mention of the tests, and rubbed unconsciously at the burns on his arm, but he followed Ron's pointing finger along a nylon-carpetted corridor towards the junior executives offices. Ron waddled along behind him, in a kind of pimp-roll made necessary by his bulk.
"Just in here," said Ron, and Sandy pushed open a melanine-veneer door into a small office with an outside window. There was a flat-pack desk already assembled, an anti-ergonomic chair, a filing cabinet with a couple of long scratches down one side, and a swiss-cheese plant. On the window-sill was an abacus. Sandy glanced at it twice, wondering why it looked odd, but couldn't see anything out of the ordinary.
"Now," said Ron, pulling up a chair from behind the swiss-cheese plant, "these offices are for people who are showing potential. You're going to be watched, young Sandy, and closely for a while too. You've done very well on that course, but we need to be sure that it's not just because of the course. We don't want to see any signs of you slacking off now. But if you push on, if you give 235.82% or better to the company, then I can guarantee you sight of the fast-track scheme within a year. And that's not small eggs."
Sandy walked around the desk, and sat down on the anti-ergonomic chair, wondering where the precise-sounding figure of 235.82% came from. "That's about a 19-hour day, isn't it?" he said. His voice trembled slightly. "With a little less than half an hour for lunch?"
"Good man, Sandy, I knew you'd show immediately enthusiasm!" said Ron, slapping his thighs with a hand that looked as though it were made from plasticine. "And the better news is that because we anticipated this from you, we've arranged for you to live a little closer to the office."
"But I live with my girl--" started Sandy, but Ron cut him off, holding his hand in the air.
"No girlfriend, Sandy. I'm sorry, but although she ignored the cease-and-desist letters from the lawyers, she changed her mind after she received the child-pornography pictures with you in."
Sandy's face dropped, and his skin went ghostly pale and clammy.
"She's not going to the police, as we persuaded her that we could rehabilitate you," said Ron, still sounding eerily cheerful, "but she did burn most of your stuff. And the flat down. So we've found you a little place just over the road, you can see it from it your window. And we've got you an all-hours security pass too, so you can be in the office whenever you feel you need to be."
"What can I say?" said Sandy, his voice trembling a little more.
"There's nothing for you to say," said Ron. "Nothing at all. Now you get on, there's a good company-man."
Ron stood up and left, and the chair he'd been sat on slowly uncompressed, the metal making pinking noises as it tried to straighten. Sandy picked the abacus up from the window-sill, and looked at it, while he tried to sort out what the company had done to his life now.
Finally he focused on what was odd about the abacus. Instead of beads it had tiny human skulls.
Sudoku
I've never understood your fascination with those number puzzles that seem to appear in every newspaper. You sit there for hours, staring at them, holding your pen like a surgeon's scalpel, eyes intently focused, lips moving fractionally. If I listen hard when it's quiet, I can hear rhythmic changes in your breathing, and I worked out that you're muttering to yourself just under your breath as you work out where the numbers go.
Every so often there'll be a sudden, darting movement as your pen lashes out at the paper and ink is applied with the precision of a tattoo artist working for the Yakuza. Your eyes will brighten for a moment, then tighten again and the rhythmic inflexions of your breath will pick up. There's a pattern there as well, you'll scribble rapidly at first, then slow down, and then finally there'll be a steady beat as the grid fills up and the choices for the numbers reduce.
But you never fill the last number in. Every grid you solve has a single, unfilled box. There's no question about the number that goes there, it's uniquely constrained, but you always leave it blank; you lay the puzzle aside, smile contentedly, and move on to something else.
I asked you once why you never finish the puzzle, and you gave me the strangest look. For a moment it was like your eyes turned inside out and something that should stay within you was all around me, something warm and huge and coloured with a hue I've only seen in nightmares. You told me that it was important that the numbers know their place.
I'm going to finish the puzzle for you. When you're done with one, when you lay aside the paper and put the pen down, I shall pick them both up and write the last number in, and see what happens.
Every so often there'll be a sudden, darting movement as your pen lashes out at the paper and ink is applied with the precision of a tattoo artist working for the Yakuza. Your eyes will brighten for a moment, then tighten again and the rhythmic inflexions of your breath will pick up. There's a pattern there as well, you'll scribble rapidly at first, then slow down, and then finally there'll be a steady beat as the grid fills up and the choices for the numbers reduce.
But you never fill the last number in. Every grid you solve has a single, unfilled box. There's no question about the number that goes there, it's uniquely constrained, but you always leave it blank; you lay the puzzle aside, smile contentedly, and move on to something else.
I asked you once why you never finish the puzzle, and you gave me the strangest look. For a moment it was like your eyes turned inside out and something that should stay within you was all around me, something warm and huge and coloured with a hue I've only seen in nightmares. You told me that it was important that the numbers know their place.
I'm going to finish the puzzle for you. When you're done with one, when you lay aside the paper and put the pen down, I shall pick them both up and write the last number in, and see what happens.
Wednesday, 7 May 2008
Letters to Eric (I)
Dear Eric,
I turn my back for two minutes and when I turn back, you're getting married again? And to a man who couldn't even find gainful employment as shark chum? What are you thinking this time?
I know you've said it's only a civil union, but sweetheart, please, remember your first marriage for a moment. When you married Tania you said you thought the gay thing was just a phase, and after all, you could easily get a divorce if it didn't work out. Seven years later, after Tania had a child, a sex change, and enough plastic surgery that she avoided warm rooms (remember the barbecue when you weren't talking to each other and her face started to melt?), you finally got that divorce.
Think some more about it Eric, please. For all our sakes.
You asked me what would be a good Christmas present for Jacob this year; well I think crutches are probably what he's going to want most. I've been talking to various carers and his grandmother has said that she'll pay for someone to pretend to love him twice a week, which should help his depression out a little. It would be lovely if he could see his mother again, but Tania's a bit scary for adults, let alone small children.
The flowers were lovely, although freeze drying them was a little odd -- was this the new boyfriend's idea? I think you mentioned he's something squelchy in embalming? I put them in the hall, on the side table you like.
I hope we'll be seeing you at Norman's party at the end of the month. Norman said that he's not seen you since you made a pass at his son. We both hope you realise that Norman doesn't care at all, and that no-one blames you for the accident. Please come.
We're glad, of course, that your job is keeping you busy, please tell me some more about what it is that you do when you next write. Unless it's something squelchy in embalming, in which case tell me about the next job you're going to find.
All my love,
I turn my back for two minutes and when I turn back, you're getting married again? And to a man who couldn't even find gainful employment as shark chum? What are you thinking this time?
I know you've said it's only a civil union, but sweetheart, please, remember your first marriage for a moment. When you married Tania you said you thought the gay thing was just a phase, and after all, you could easily get a divorce if it didn't work out. Seven years later, after Tania had a child, a sex change, and enough plastic surgery that she avoided warm rooms (remember the barbecue when you weren't talking to each other and her face started to melt?), you finally got that divorce.
Think some more about it Eric, please. For all our sakes.
You asked me what would be a good Christmas present for Jacob this year; well I think crutches are probably what he's going to want most. I've been talking to various carers and his grandmother has said that she'll pay for someone to pretend to love him twice a week, which should help his depression out a little. It would be lovely if he could see his mother again, but Tania's a bit scary for adults, let alone small children.
The flowers were lovely, although freeze drying them was a little odd -- was this the new boyfriend's idea? I think you mentioned he's something squelchy in embalming? I put them in the hall, on the side table you like.
I hope we'll be seeing you at Norman's party at the end of the month. Norman said that he's not seen you since you made a pass at his son. We both hope you realise that Norman doesn't care at all, and that no-one blames you for the accident. Please come.
We're glad, of course, that your job is keeping you busy, please tell me some more about what it is that you do when you next write. Unless it's something squelchy in embalming, in which case tell me about the next job you're going to find.
All my love,
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