by snavej » Wed May 09, 2018 12:42 pm
- Motto: "Follow your instincts and your common sense."
Intrepid Recliners
(c) John H. Evans, March-May 2018
The firm, heavy skin clumps of her upper whippicle hit him hard on the right side of his senso-cluster. He’d felt her approach from behind and had done nothing to protect himself. Normally, when under attack, he would have adopted a defensive stance and put up his grasp-armatures. In this situation, however, that was unwise. Her right impeller slammed into his right fore-clutchers, driving them against his torso and winding him on that side.
“I’ve met you sixteen times on the plain, cross-stripe,” she said loudly, her food-grinder plates occasionally clacking. “You only showed interest thirteen times and even then it was modest at best. You’re only one step up from a lump of stone, aren’t you?” As he turned to face her, she hit him hard in the back with her left impeller, making him gasp and stagger forward. He tripped on a tussock and fell on his front. She used both of her lower whippicles to strike his left upper-clutchers. It was painful but not unbearable. In fact, it was quite titillating. He watched as she walked away. She was rearranging her limbs as she went, which meant that soon she would start rolling downhill toward the deep-drops. Time was short. The seventeen kinds of dipervators had inevitably seen her display and were converging on her at speed. He had to pursue or else her genes would be diperved from the true path and into the morass of random, weak, distasteful mutation. He hated the thought of her children converted into dark-hearted sheverons or spindly bone-corruptors.
[He found all this so wearisome and antipathetic; it sickened him but he was long accustomed to the exercise. If he followed his instincts, it would be over quicker and easier. He had to be involved to a certain extent but at the same time detached.]
Her mild acids fizzed on his skin as he rose and watched her canter briskly to the start of the deep-drop slopes. The acids weren’t significantly damaging but acted as a stimulant, as did her rich and varied scents. He shook himself and breathed deeply, then set off in pursuit. She flicked her eye-stalks back for a second to check on him. She was relieved that he was coming. She had had some exasperating encounters recently with males who were not quite ready for her. They had either declined to chase her or had given up early on. Afterwards, she had had to fight off the dipervators by herself. It had been bruising and nerve-wracking. She had worried that there was something wrong with her. Perhaps she had been too young for them, by a margin of a few months, weeks or even days. Anyway, that was in the past. This ‘cross-stripe’ was gaining on her, neither too slowly nor too quickly. Despite (or because of) her blows and taunts, he was coming forward at the right speed, with a constant rhythm. At the sight of him, she could feel her body preparing itself. It felt increasingly right; sublime, in fact.
“You run like hardened mucus in a dead jar!” she yelled at him. “Buried rinaglymps are faster than you!” Obligingly, he picked up the pace by about ten percent. He’d never learnt her true name. He’d always known her as ‘the one with the ruffled upper cob-comb’ or ‘Towtrucc’ for short. Despite what she’d said a minute ago, she’d always caught his eye (and nose). It was only today that she’d shown him that she was ready. Meanwhile, at least six different dipervators were approaching: some in the air and others on the ground. The slope under her feet increased its gradient to five degrees from the horizontal. It was time for her to start rolling. She leapt into the air for a second, pulled all her limbs and stalks closely against her body and hit the ground as an oval trundler. Luckily, there weren’t too many bumps in the ground, so she barrelled along fairly quickly. The downhill slope continued to steepen so, although she couldn’t see right now, she knew that the nearest deep-drop was close.
[She didn’t know his real name. They weren’t acquainted. She was just behaving like a normal female of this species, judging males quickly by sight, hearing and scent. It wasn’t surprising. There was little point in further courtship since they would never have a life together. For his part, he didn’t care much about his real name either. ‘Cross-stripe’ would do for now.]
His body was fit and strong. His mood was stable, even relaxed. His eyes were on the prize, as was right. He was fairly sure that he could catch her before she fell. Even if he failed, it would only be a setback. She would plummet many kilometres, her body smashing into countless fragments at the bottom, yet many of those would survive. They would become little clones of Towtrucc and some would eventually climb back to the surface. They would simply delay their normal reproduction. He might even be able to facilitate that, if he lived long enough. However, it was preferable to do it now, while he was still young. At that moment, he felt hard claws scrape his back. An avian dipervator was attacking.
“She’s mine!” said the winjector, who circled around swiftly and came back toward cross-stripe.
“Not a chance!” said cross-stripe, picking up some stones with his fore-clutchers and flicking them at the winjector. The flying dipervator was hit by three stones in the left wing, causing him to lose lift and thus forcing him to crash-land. Cross-stripe pressed on without pause. The winjector tried to fly again but his wing was damaged enough to prevent it. He had to continue on foot. He was already being overtaken by other species of dipervator. Ahead, they could see that Towtrucc was starting to bleed a little. Her normally tough skin was rapidly breaking down. She was ripe for the taking. Cross-stripe and his genetic enemies raced on.
About two hundred metres from the edge of the deep-drop, cross-stripe finally caught up with her. He extended his grasp-armatures and caused her to spin off diagonally to the side, leaving a trail of blood in the sand. He brought her to a halt expertly, still at a safe distance from the precipice. He’d done this several times before, with other females. The first dipervators were moments away, so he lay on her, used all his limbs to hold her and penetrated her ragged skin with his hundred and twelve special inseminator blooms. He squeezed hard and Towtrucc could feel his genetic material flooding into her from all angles: top, bottom, left, right, front and back.
“Thank you!” she whispered as her body fell apart into a mass of newborn protoplasm. She knew no more but, at the end, she saw that her line would continue and flourish. Cross-stripe was left coated in lumps of her offspring, with more gathered in a large pool around him. Her body had been converted into thousands of their children. He stood up slowly. The sudden act of procreation had made him weak and dizzy. Three dipervators arrived. One was so angry to lose the race that he hit cross-stripe and knocked him down. That was a mistake. He had touched the embryonic protoplasm and activated its natural defence mechanisms. His claw-hand started to dissolve almost immediately. He howled and ran away. The other dipervators avoided him and backed away from the scene. They had failed. They couldn’t take over Towtrucc’s body with their own seed since cross-stripe had beaten them to it. Cross-stripe waved a grasp-armature at them. It was coated with infant protoplasm, which was lethal to them. They retreated hastily and didn’t return. They would have to try again elsewhere.
Cross-stripe watched as his tough, gelatinous babies began to crawl around and look for food. There was plenty of vegetation here, which they soon began to nibble on. In time, they would grow and graduate to eating small animals and then larger animals. Later, when they were mature enough, they would find their way to settlements and rejoin civilisation. Instinctively, he was very satisfied. He sat where he was for a while, eating plants to restore his strength. In time, he would make his way home, spreading some babies across the land as he went. (He didn’t have to worry about their welfare: they had no predators or parasites.) Today had been a fabulous day.
[Except it was wrong. This wasn’t what he was really like. He wished that he didn’t have to go through things like this. He wasn’t cut out for organic life. He was a mechanoid. He disengaged from the scenario and moved onto other tasks.]
* * * * *
On another world, conditions were even more primitive. No one had names here. Intelligence was very rudimentary indeed. He was known as ‘the clever one’ and revered as such. Today, a herd of dahkribes had wandered into the clan’s territory. The people of the clan were communicating with each other through body language, eye contact, scent, touch and quiet, wordless vocalisation. They had determined which dahkribes were the best prey and now they were assessing the order of fitness in their ranks. Only the fastest, most agile ones could chase the beasts through the scrub. Only the strongest ones could ambush the targets. The rest would back them up. Some of the regular hunters were tired, injured or sick. However, there were others who could take their places. It didn’t take long to finish organising the hunting party. One question remained: would the clever one participate? He hadn’t communicated much with anyone today. Some of the higher-ranking people looked at him and grunted, prompting him to reveal his intentions.
The clever one awoke from his reverie, gazed at his fellow clan members steadfastly and then went to the edge of the slope. He looked out from the clan’s hilltop camp. The dahkribes were grazing on the plain and lower parts of the hill. The other people started to gather around him. He was acting differently today. He might have a new plan. They were very interested. He spotted a large dahkribe about three hundred metres away and pointed at it for a second. Everyone watched. A few moments later, the animal stopped chewing, stood still and then collapsed. The sound of the heavy, falling body crushing some small bushes made the other dahkribes trot away in alarm. The clan gasped and were silent. They stared at the fallen dahkribe and then at the clever one. This event seemed to be some kind of miracle. The clever one was, apparently, much more formidable than they had known before. They were stunned and didn’t know what to do next. The clever one pointed at the dahkribe and barked at his fellows, urging them to take the kill. They were reluctant because they were frightened but, moments later, the emptiness of their bellies reminded them of their need to feed. They walked down the hill in reverential silence and began to butcher the hapless creature, which had been dispatched by magical means. The flesh smelt normal and the blood tasted as intoxicating as usual. Soon they were reassured and started to eat in their habitual manner. Meanwhile, the clever one went back to his sleeping patch. He sat down and focused his thoughts on a completely different goal. Some of the weaker people and the juveniles gathered around to watch him.
At first, he simply sat. After a few minutes, though, they saw shiny bugs crawling through his feathers. Was he infested, they wondered? None of them had seen the like before. Gradually, his feathers fell out and started to litter the ground around him. The spectators could see that he was changing from a regular person to something quite different, covered with increasing numbers of little glitzy objects. They should have been scared but they could feel a new sense of reassurance emanating from the clever one. It was a marvellous feeling. There was also a sense that a world of new possibilities was opening up. Everyone was happy and did whatever they wanted to enjoy themselves. The clever one was clearly their greatest ever leader. He would soon help them to build a new utopia. The clever one also felt good. He had had enough of living in undeveloped squalor. He was going to cyberform this world and make it fit for his kind. The locals would be converted into superior beings like him. It had to be good for the entire galactic region!
* * * * *
Later, elsewhere, Jephela fumbled in the sand at the bottom of the very shallow water. She wasn’t on top form today. Many of the prey creatures were escaping before she could grab them. The bucket bag dangling from her back wasn’t as full as she’d like. There was plenty of food around; it was just a matter of catching it. She looked ahead and was glad that she was slow. On the left and right were eshcranies with long, mildly poisonous spines. She turned around and walked twenty metres in the opposite direction. There were no eshcranies here. Once again, she stretched out her long arms and gently dredged the fertile sands. A clutch of tasty kleyes were soon in her bucket bag. She continued the daily search, concentrating on extracting sufficient nourishment from this shore plot. She was so intent on her harvest that she didn’t see her friend approaching until she was fifty metres away.
“Slow down, you’ll disturb the food!” warned Jephela, glancing at her friend Shoffounis.
“You’re slipping,” commented Shoffounis. “You missed three big flatty ramblers over here.” She reached into the water and snatched out the flatty ramblers. Then, she walked slowly up to her weary friend and put the three flapping creatures in the bucket bag. Jephela could feel that the container was almost full. She put the final handful of little morsels in and then shut the lid, taking care to buckle it to prevent anything from wriggling out.
“That was so helpful,” said Jephela with a little sigh and a grateful look into Shoffounis’ eyes. “Let’s go back to my place. There’s no reason to bake in the salty sunshine any further.” Together, they strolled to higher ground, being careful to avoid the numerous small hazards like sharp rocks, crevices, venomous growths and quicksand. Jephela found that she was having trouble retracting her arms. They kept dragging on the ground or catching on low objects. She tried her best but the cartilage wouldn’t respond quickly. She had to hold them up, which wasn’t a good idea because they were heavy and also bent arms didn’t retract much. She would have to finish the retraction at home, which would delay other activities like preparing food. Thank goodness that Shoffounis was here to help.
“I hate to say this but some of the stones and tiles on your roof have cracked recently,” said Shoffounis, pointing upwards as they came near the humble cottage. “It must have been the heat. You should get them fixed soon, before the weather turns.”
“Oh, curse it!” exclaimed Jephela. “I can’t think about that now. I’m flagging here. I must have a drink!” They went indoors and Shoffounis gave Jephela a beaker of fresh water, holding it because of Jephela’s arm problem. Shoffounis had one herself while Jephela slumped down on a suspended seat. The exhausted shore harvester lost consciousness for a minute. Shoffounis was concerned because she had never seen Jephela so tired after a short session of low tide collection. It was a few more minutes before Jephela wanted to talk again.
“You know, I was sleepy as well this afternoon,” said Shoffounis, sitting opposite Jephela and observing her carefully. “The temperature’s high and the air in some business cells is very stuffy. I had to leave that area to clear my head. I couldn’t focus on my jiac-rock deal. I’ll have to do it another day.”
“Hah! You think that you’ve got problems!” said Jephela with a resurgence of energy. “I had to leave a cyberforming project and come here to eat out of rock pools! That’s a ridiculous level of relegation. Your mind couldn’t cope with it.”
“What’s cyberforming?” queried Shoffounis. “I’ve never heard of it. Is it something from a fantasy?”
“I had to leave that savage tribe,” continued Jephela. “My people were most insistent. We’re supposed to live the lives that we’re given, not bend them to our will.”
“You should sleep,” advised Shoffounis. “You’re babbling about unreal things. I’ll prepare the food while you rest.”
“No, I can do it,” said Jephela, standing up and reaching behind her for the bucket bag. “I feel better now. I’ve been surviving and thriving in the wild for millions of years. This is nothing to me. Good, my arms are retracting. Now I can get to work.” She opened the bucket bag, reached inside and pulled out five little animals that were nearly identical to each other. She put them into her mouth and crunched them with her teeth.
“Cook them first,” said Shoffounis. “You’ll get sick otherwise.”
“I know my own stocks,” replied Jephela. “These are clean. I found out through trial and error. The rest, I will cook.” She pulled out more creatures and stuck them on a rack of long skewers. When the rack was full, she put it in the oven and set it for a standard heating cycle.
“You don’t remove the shells and bones first?” said Shoffounis, a little perturbed.
“It’s actually quicker this way,” said Jephela. “The roasting oven makes some of the shells and bones fall off. The rest can be removed before eating. I hate wasting time.”
“I guess that you’ve been learning different cookery methods,” said Shoffounis. “You never used to do this.”
“I’ve studied a lot recently,” said Jephela. “My people have been forced into it. We’re all simulating multiple alien worlds. It’s intense. We have to be super-alert and adaptable.”
“This fantasy sounds amazing,” said Shoffounis. “Do you have a name for yourself? I mean, do you have a character name for this make-believe game?”
“I’m Outback; pleased to meet you!” said Jephela, waving briefly and twitching her lips in a friendly gesture. She took the flatty ramblers and put them on the chopping board. With a long, sharp knife, she bisected each rambler skilfully lengthways, so that their thin top halves were separated from their thin bottom halves. She removed the compressed guts, the bones and a few other unpalatable pieces. Then she put all six pieces of rambler in her large frying pan and turned on the heat.
“What do you mean ‘Outback’?” asked Shoffounis. “Is that something to do with your rear side? Are you worried that certain parts of it are becoming too big? I assure you that they’re not.”
“You’re way off the mark,” answered Jephela. “Outback means wilderness. I’m very good at surviving there. It doesn’t matter which world we’re on: I can probably adapt to it.” She washed her hands briskly and then sat down again.
“No one’s ever been to another world,” Shoffounis pointed out. “Perhaps you’re a time traveller from the future?”
“I believe that I am,” said Jephela. “However, I’ve travelled so much that I’ve completely lost track of my time line.”
“Suka Bork, you’re in deep on this one!” exclaimed Shoffounis with a laugh. “Could you prove your identity as Outback and give me more details of your interplanetary life?”
“Sorry but I’m forbidden to do that here,” said Jephela. “I’m annoyed about it, to be honest.”
“Forbidden? That’s convenient!” commented Shoffounis.
“I’m going to stay here for a few months,” said Jephela. “I’ll help my host along. She’s enjoying herself.”
“Are you a body snatcher?” asked Shoffounis, becoming a little concerned. Jephela’s act was becoming more convincing with each passing minute.
“It’s nothing sinister,” said Jephela, glancing at the stove. “I’m hitching a ride in her brain. She allowed me in on a subconscious level. It’s all fine.”
“What kind of help are you going to give her?” asked Shoffounis.
“Well, for one thing there’s this deep sea fisherman who she desires,” said Jephela, her lips twitching rapidly. “His name’s Kagzor and he often spends time in the delicacy district, trying different cuisines. Jephela and I are going to win his heart or at least give it our best shot. She was too shy without me.”
“Suka Bork Demfeg!” squealed Shoffounis. “I’m so excited!”
“So are we!” said Jephela, getting up and turning over the ramblers in the pan.
“Wait a minute, is Outback female?” asked Shoffounis.
“He uses the masculine pronoun but he’s actually sexless,” said Jephela. “Don’t worry, he’s incredibly experienced. He’ll do his damnedest to get the job done.”
“This just gets weirder and weirder!” said Shoffounis. “You’re going to seduce a deep sea guy with help from an asexual fantasy character and you think that there won’t be a problem?”
“Have faith!” said Jephela. “When Jephela gets her man, Outback will seem a lot more real, won’t he?!”
“I suppose,” said Shoffounis. “Anyway, I think that I should start writing this stuff down or else I’ll lose the thread.”
“Great idea!” said Jephela. “I’m here to learn: I mean Outback’s here to learn. It’s a bonus if I teach others along the way. Record all you want. Boy, these ramblers are looking delicious already!”
* * * * *
Later, back on Cybertron, Outback returned to his original mechanoid form for a brief period. He rested while the Cybertronian collective absorbed and consolidated the latest batch of experiences derived from the simulations. He stood at the broad windows of his simulation suite entrance lobby and looked out at the artificial canyon beyond. To the left and right, there were gargantuan towers several kilometres high, packed together closely. Ahead, two kilometres away, was another similar line of towers. Between the two tower lines was a very deep void that was over a hundred kilometres long and fifteen kilometres deep at the lowest point. The whole canyon was populated by Transformers and robots, some of which were stationery while others were in motion. Hordes of maintenance robots crawled across and through the towers, performing innumerable checks, repairs and clean-ups. Transformers walked, drove or flew within, around and between towers. It was a hive of activity. For the first time, Outback realised that it was like the deep-drops of Towtrucc’s world, only larger and more advanced. He fancied that, one day, organic creatures would crawl up from the canyon floor, as they did on Towtrucc’s world. The logical side of his brain knew that that was impossible but the speculative side wondered if the similarities between the Cybertronian canyons and the deep-drops meant something. Such thoughts had intrigued the collective for millennia and would continue to do so. Soon, though, it was time for Outback to re-enter the realm of simulations. It wasn’t his favourite pastime. He preferred real physical exploration but there wasn’t always the opportunity for that. Simulations were an adequate substitute, most of the time. In fact, they seemed to become even more realistic every year, if that was possible. It was hard to measure but they felt more meaningful now than at the beginning of the programme. Outback was well used to ‘reading the wind’, so he would monitor this apparent trend carefully.
* * * * *
The next simulation turned out to be one of the most irritating that Outback had ever experienced. He found himself in the body of a committed member of a religious order. His name here was Dalon Traf and he wasn’t sure if he was male or female. He felt that he could go either way. There was gender fluidity here. He had a small gas cylinder strapped to his front. He looked around at his fellow monks/nuns. They were all marching along together in a rough procession through narrow streets. The others all had gas cylinders on their fronts. They had expressions of stoicism and resignation on their downcast faces. Dalon felt trapped and oppressed. The others probably felt the same. They continued to march for a minute but then all the gas cylinders gave a simultaneous small burst of cold gas right onto the genitals of all the monks/nuns. There was much quiet moaning as they suffered together for their beliefs. Outback thought that this was an insult too far. As Dalon, he quickly unbuckled the gas cylinder harness from his torso and let it drop to the floor.
“You must maintain your endurance, for the sake of your soul!” said the person to his left. “Stray not from the path, or else you shall walk in the poisoned lands with the Great Despoiler!” Another person retrieved the gas canister and tried to hand it back to Dalon. Of course, he wouldn’t accept it. The group attempted to keep Dalon in line but he (still using the male pronoun for convenience) barged his way out of the procession and squeezed through the small crowd at the side of the street. The procession moved on but the crowd didn’t like to see Dalon forsaking his tradition.
“What are you doing?!” exclaimed one person, who was becoming angry. “Have you no shame? What will your order think? What will your family feel, seeing you running from your vows?” People started to hit Dalon with open hands, carved sticks and rolled-up publications. He pushed through the crowd as rapidly as he could manage. After a few minutes of struggle, he reached a passageway between two buildings and ran down it into a maze of other passageways beyond. He found a quiet corner and took off his outer robe. He didn’t want to be recognised as a monk/nun anymore. Looking down, he saw that his bulbous genitals were a mess. Were they supposed to be like that? He was gender fluid so they had to perform double duty. They were covered with small injuries, mainly bruises, scrapes, swellings, scars and cold burns.
“You despicable traitor to God!” said someone watching from a window above. “I’m calling the religious police!” Dalon glanced upwards at the informer and then looked around for a new robe. He found a nice soft one hanging just inside an open ground floor window. He put it on immediately. It was baggy but it would do for now. He hurried along, heading out of town. Several streets further on, three people spotted him and started pelting him with engine parts. Perhaps they were roving scrap merchants? He ducked into an alley and sneaked away from them. How did they know that he had been a monk/nun? He felt his head and realised that he had some kind of zigzag spike protruding from the top. He tried to make it lie flat but it was too rigid. He tried to break it off but it was very firmly fixed and he only succeeded in hurting his scalp. He would need tools to remove it. He moved on swiftly and worked his way out of the maze of alleys. Running through an old gateway, he left the old town and found himself in an extensive series of suburbs. He looked around and saw thousands of buildings, stretching out into the distance. Already, people were turning to see him. None seemed glad to see him. What could he do now? Escape wasn’t going to be easy. Spotting a hardware shop to the left, he dashed in and found a pair of loppers. He raised them over his head and used them to cut off the zigzag ‘antenna’. There was a sharp pain, followed by a throbbing ache and a small trickle of brown blood.
“Hoy, you can’t do that here!” said the shopkeeper, noticing what had happened.
“Too late!” said Dalon through gritted teeth. He snatched a cheap cloth cap from a hook and ran from the shop. As a former monk/nun, he had no money to pay for the cap or the loppers. Fortunately, Dalon was quite young and fit while Outback knew how to be elusive. Combining their strengths, they avoided capture by the shopkeeper and his friends. Disguised with a new robe and cap, Dalon jogged on down several streets before finding a secluded service road in which he could hide and spend the night. He hid behind some dumpsters and lay down on a patch of weeds to rest. However, night didn’t fall. It seemed that this world didn’t have a daily period of darkness, at least not here and now. It did have gravel rain though. Dalon spent at least five hours under a discarded packing box while being pelted with thousands of tiny, high-speed lumps of stone. By morning, he was starting to think that the cylinder of cold gas would have been preferable.
Lacking food and sleep, Dalon was a little dopey but still alert enough to seek information. He found some local news sheets in the front porch of a nearby house. He sat down on a low wall and read the sheets carefully. Some news was mundane, discussing commerce, local administration, belief, land use and the natural world. Other stories were disturbing, especially the long list of ‘atrocities’ committed by followers of the Despoiler. Were these all true? Journalists sometimes fabricated events, as did their sources. There could have been exaggeration too. Dalon wondered why the vandalism of murals featured more prominently than the six murders at the bottom of the list. This society was excessively religious, placing greater value on gestures of devotion than on comfort or even life itself. Item fifty three on the list concerned unusual phenomena happening in a rural backwater, which caused dozens of people to neglect their devotional duties. A note below the list said that a meeting about the phenomena would be held that evening. Dalon was very interested. He would definitely attend.
Dalon spent the day stealing. He had a lovely meal in a café, used the facilities and then ran away without paying. He went to a clothes shop and sneaked out with a selection of ‘free’ garments that happened to fit him. He tried on a pair of sturdy shoes, asked the assistant to fetch more pairs and then fled with the first pair. Medication and dressings for his head stump were acquired with sleight of hand. Some of those dressings could be used lower down too. In the afternoon, he went around the news shops and book shops, reading without buying. This world didn’t have an electronic network yet. He discovered that the unusual phenomena mentioned in the first news sheet involved unexplained flying lights, very odd whooping noises and vehicles driving fast at night with no visible religious messages, displays or idols. Some people also reported a faint smell of magnetic herbal sugar, which sounded bizarre. After reading as much as he wanted, Dalon pinched more food and then attempted to reach the meeting. He had liberated a map from a news shop, so he knew where to go. He wanted to ride public transport without paying but the staff prevented it. He hailed cabs but they refused to go beyond a ten kilometre radius. Consequently, he found himself hotwiring a gaudy vehicle that was more shrine than conveyance. It wasn’t remarkable in this town, unlike his driving. There were some near-collisions. Dalon had to drive defensively and learn the rules of the road as he went along. He’d never driven here before. Having navigated the confusing road system, he finally arrived at the meeting only a few minutes late.
As he entered the meeting hall and joined the back of the audience, he sensed a subtle change in the atmosphere. There was something other-worldly about the speaker at the front. She spoke with great fervour. Every word was loud and clear. She seemed determined to solve the mystery of whatever was happening at night. The rest of the audience members were enraptured and were paying close attention to her projected diagrams and sketches on the wall screen behind her. Dalon struggled to remain detached. He was being drawn into her stories and her proposed action plans. He realised that she was rather feminine while most people here were part-way between masculine and feminine. That made her stand out and it encouraged people to pay attention to her. After several minutes of preamble, description, supposition, theorising and warning, the speaker mentioned that the next sighting of unusual phenomena were predicted to take place tonight, only a kilometre from the hall. That was why this venue had been chosen. The audience needed no further prompting. They decided to go out and see the phenomena for themselves. Dalon went along with them. Some people looked at him quizzically. He was a newcomer and his clothes were mismatched. He started to hang back from the group to avoid attention.
As the audience group bustled down the lane, passing between fields of crops that were over four metres tall, the sense of dislocation grew. The crops might have had something to do with it. They rustled constantly in the breeze. Other sounds were blocked and partly drowned out by the incessant ‘vush vush whoo whoo’, as it was known. The crops made the lane seem cut off from the rest of the world. However, there was more going on tonight. There was a build-up of heat and static electricity that made everyone itchy. Dalon also felt the same sensation that he did when moving to a new simulation. Could there be a problem back on Cybertron? The group reached the place where the phenomena were supposed to appear. Behind them were the fields of tall crops while ahead were clumps of trees and areas of pasture. A few house lights could be seen in the distance.
“Let us pray and renew our devotion,” said the speaker. “For what happens tonight, may we be prepared.” The people around stood and bowed their heads while the speaker read out some standard prayers, interspersed with her own ad libs. When she finished a few minutes later, the people did the sacred dance. There were vaguely synchronised jazz hands, hip sways and finger wags. Dalon had to play along.
“So mote it be!” said the crowd at the end.
“And may it be ever thus!” said Dalon quietly. Then he realised that he had made a mistake. Through force of habit, he had said something that only monks/nuns normally said. Some people turned to look at him. They started whispering to their neighbours. Dalon knew that he might have to retreat, so he picked up his cheap bag of essentials. Just then, a vehicle appeared in the field ahead. It was driving across country and running over small bushes. It was sleek and unadorned, which was hardly ever seen on this world. Its driver was very skilled. Many of the people watching were so startled that they tapped all their fingers rapidly on their chests, which was a religious gesture of protection. Dalon, by contrast, wasn’t worried at all. He recognised the vehicle and ran out to reach it. His group watched but didn’t know what to do except pray and conduct rituals.
“Tote, stop messing about!” said Dalon, breathing heavily as he approached the scene. The little van kept driving around, aggressively crushing the vulnerable vegetation.
“Whoever you are, I have to stop Airwave!” said Tote. “He was screwing with the simulators. He’s escaped over here, searching for treasures.”
“I’m Outback!” said Dalon. “I’m sorry if I’m looking even less dapper than usual. I haven’t seen Airwave but I read a report of a craft flying about at low altitude. He probably won’t be in those bushes. You can stop grinding them under your wheels.” Tote stopped driving and sat still.
“Those were bushes?” he queried. “I couldn’t tell. My sensors aren’t calibrated properly for this reality. I can barely see you. Everything’s ‘off’, if you know what I mean.”
“I’ll have to guide you,” said Dalon. “Let me into your cab. Show me your visual displays.” Tote opened his door and Dalon climbed inside. It felt weird since Tote was slightly out of phase but Dalon could cope because Outback was very experienced with this sort of situation. Dalon looked back at the group of local people. Some had retreated out of sight. A few were busy evacuating their bowels. The braver ones were walking slowly toward him. Even they were obviously unnerved.
“Dalon Traf, riding in an unsanctified vehicle is a sin,” warned one of them. “Step out and come away.”
“I’m afraid that this is none of your business, god botherer!” said Dalon. “Tote, take us about three kilometres to the right.” Dalon didn’t know why he had told the meeting organisers his real name. That had been a foolish mistake.
“How dare you Traf, you damned heathen?!” exclaimed another local. The people tried to block Tote but he was too quick. He sped away over the fields and between the copses. Some locals had gone back to the hall, retrieved their own vehicles and now tried to pursue. They were relatively familiar with this terrain and made fairly good progress. Tote was a past master in the art of driving but he was on alien ground and his sensors weren’t working well. Dalon had to take the wheel.
“I see Airwave hovering up ahead,” said Dalon. “Do you have something with which to catch him?”
“What does he think that he’ll find here?” wondered Tote.
“He’s no fool,” said Dalon. “There must be an artefact, a chemical or other resource. Do you have a weapon to shoot him down?”
“No, but I have this,” said Tote, releasing a special drone from his rear storage compartment. “It’ll force him out of the simulation.” The drone rose stealthily into the sky, flew at Airwave and latched onto his fuselage. With his sensors compromised, Airwave couldn’t detect the drone until it had reached him. The little flying machine emitted a pulse of interdimensional energy that disengaged Airwave, Tote and Outback from the simulation. They awoke back in their original bodies on Cybertron, although Tote and Airwave were in a different room several kilometres from Outback.
“Do you have him?” asked Outback.
“Yeah, he’s here,” replied Tote, annoyed that his day had been disrupted. “Why do you never learn Airwave, you greedy...?”
“I was investigating, idiot!” said Airwave. “There’s been a breach. We could travel between simulations. I wanted to know why.”
“You’re not allowed to interfere with other simulations beyond the one that’s been allocated to you,” said Tote. “I was obliged to bring you back. Those are the rules. I’m just glad that Outback was there to help.”
“Personally, I’m happy to be home but I fear that my character will be severely punished or even executed,” said Outback. “We broke some important rules back there and the locals are unforgiving.”
“The collective will give you another simulation,” said Tote. “This whole business has been inconvenient but it’s not a disaster.”
“Not for me maybe but I can’t help but worry about Dalon,” said Outback. “He was in such a bad position and we made it worse.”
“He was a simulated character, dredged up from the Great Cybertronian Database,” said Tote. “I could show you the programme code.”
“What if he wasn’t simulated?” queried Airwave. “We’re no strangers to deception, are we?” Outback and Tote were dismayed to think that the whole simulation movement might not be what it seemed.
* * * * *
Outback had a little time to think in the next simulation. He lay back on the tarry couch, put his multi-jointed arms behind his head and mulled over the situation. The Cybertronian collective had vehemently denied any possibility that these simulated situations were anything but that. They had provided vast quantities of data to prove their point. Their case seemed to be as solid as a neutron star. However, Outback had seen people argue forcefully before. In his experience, it was often a cover for secrets. Also, the use of huge volumes of supporting data could be a smokescreen for hidden lies. He thought back on all his simulations since the beginning of the programme. He had frequently been amazed at the realism in them. There had been no glitches whatsoever. As far as he had seen, all details had been authentic and believable. Although the unreality of the programme had been stressed regularly, he often found himself developing strong emotional bonds with some characters and distaste for others. Surely that was a good sign that the simulations were actually real lives? The current one certainly felt real enough.
He was inhabiting the body of a female-type creature. He wasn’t too sure about genders on this world. There seemed to be at least four. Sometimes, the ‘males’ had pseudo-pregnancies. Still, he felt mainly female this time. As was depressingly common, he was also subjugated. He was confined to this room, in a pool of tar that was kept fluid with some kind of detergent and other chemicals. Stronger individuals would visit for ‘personal services’ and sometimes a few minutes of brutality. This involved a great deal of crawling, rolling and wrestling in tar, so cleanliness was never possible. No protection was used, so this female slave had exchanged much genetic material with thousands of others. The reproductive system here was complex. It was hard to keep track of what led to what. The upshot was that there were hundreds of small creatures living in special compartments under her skin. Some of them were her babies, some were other people’s babies, some were parasites, some were baby-parasite hybrids and some were specialised insemination creatures. Occasionally, these would grow large enough to climb out of her body and leave via the barred window, searching for new homes or fertilisation targets. There were so many feeding off her that she was weakened and often sick. To make matters worse, the physical attacks that she endured had left her with many injuries, including serious memory loss. With Outback in her mind, she had forgotten her original name but her masters called her ‘Esketa’.
The clock that was projected on the ceiling said that she had about ten minutes until the next ‘partner’ was due to arrive. It didn’t matter anymore. She had reached the end of her tether. The arrival of Outback in her mind had spurred her to do something. Lately, she had been dropping objects down a small gap in the floor, just outside the tar pool retaining barrier. Stones and metal pieces were preferred. These objects had been hitting an exposed pipe two stories below. Last night, the pipe had finally cracked. Oxygen had been leaking out for several hours. The volatile gas had been filling the building. Most people couldn’t smell it, so it had gone largely unnoticed. Now though, some people were beginning to catch a whiff and were calling for an engineer. The problem was that the building was full of illegal activities. If a regular engineer was called, he/she would report those crimes. The repair would have to be done by someone who was willing to turn a blind eye. Such people were hard to find.
“Hey old sticklestuck, get off your clammy behind and blacken my holes!” said a male-type as he came into the room. Esketa stood up slowly and walked over to a side table.
“I think that I remember you from last week,” she said. “I’ll need my larger set of internal slather rods.” Except this time, she was reaching for a little spark gun that she had stolen from another visitor. She made a spark and the whole room erupted in flame. There was a vast, oxygen-driven explosion and the building was blown to pieces. Whatever was left collapsed into the basement. Only a few people survived. Esketa was suffocated by the force of the blast and then crushed by the falling ceiling. The simulation was over and Outback found himself back on Cybertron again.
“That was short and sweet,” said Gandaire, who had been monitoring all the Transformers in the suite. “You’re probably not learning enough, though. Next time, I’ll put you into a longer-lasting segment.” Outback studied him intently. Did he have a secret agenda? It was very hard to tell but Outback would keep watching.
“I think that I’m learning plenty,” muttered Outback. “There’s a lot going on behind the scenes, isn’t there? One just has to take a peek now and then.” Gandaire glanced at him. What was he implying? He decided to ignore it. The simulations made people paranoid occasionally.
* * * * *
The road felt so good under his tyres. He hardly needed his sensors: he knew these roads intimately. He could drive around the world with only an occasional scan sweep to spot random hazards like meteorites and fallen buildings. He drifted slowly right and then left. His fellow vehicles Pipes and Ruckus mirrored his manoeuvres. Ruckus came within a few centimetres of the crash barrier on the right but that wasn’t a problem for those who had memorised every square metre of slab. It felt fabulous to enjoy the freedom of the open road with fully tuned engines and all moving parts freshly lubricated. This was much better than living as a mushy organic with weird pains in unfortunate places. Ruckus called for some target drones, which flew out over the road ahead. He fired training darts and brought down the drones in only seventeen seconds. The three Transformer ground troopers sped on, trying to finish a two hundred kilometre circuit in under an hour. They weren’t the fastest but they liked a challenge. Ruckus could cover the distance that quickly without modification but Pipes and Outback had had to leave many non-essential components at the start/finish line in order to reduce weight and thus increase speed and range. The two old Autobots certainly felt a great deal lighter but also somewhat ‘naked’, which was a concept that they understood much better after many simulations. ‘Exposed’ as they were, they raced on as fast as their little wheels could carry them. They passed many striking landmarks and vistas, which still made them stare despite their familiarity. For example, the eighteen criss-crossing bridges of Vrictath gave an illusion of mystery because it was very difficult to see all the entrances and exits among the surrounding cluster of buildings. The solar power mirror cluster of Ny-Hy Five-Five glittered and shone magnificently, although it was sometimes a hazard to travellers. The Grunimon Sculpture Tower was a powerfully sombre memorial to the region’s fallen heroes.
The three Transformers finished their exercise circuit just in time, according to their self-imposed deadline. Afterwards, they transformed to their primary modes, refuelled and sat down for a few minutes to recover. Pipes and Outback had pushed themselves close to their limits. Now, they looked odd with many gaps in their normal body profiles. Ruckus remarked that they resembled ‘corpse troops’, which had been used in the old wars. It was an old joke but neither Autobot wanted to be like that for long. They walked over to their extra parts and reinserted them into their bodies. Now they seemed fully alive and ready to rejoin society. With Ruckus, they jogged back to the simulation suites in the canyon. As they went, they began to hear reports of a dispute in another tower in the canyon. It sounded fairly serious, so they transformed and drove swiftly to their assigned tower for further reactions. The problem centred on Menasor. The Stunticons had combined to form the giant gestalt as a way to hide their thoughts from the collective. Menasor had been allowed to run a simulation. That was normal practice because everyone had to be included in the exercise for a minimum length of time. However, once inside the simulation, he had separated into his five separate components. Wildrider had then tried to find a way to cross over into another simulation, just as Airwave and Tote had inadvertently done. The Stunticons had been accused of deceit and disruption. Simulation crossovers had only just been banned but these five renowned trouble-makers had already gone against the collective’s wishes. In fact, at that moment the collective was having a crisis. It was wavering. Had it made one of its rare wrong decisions?
Outback, Pipes and Ruckus watched on CCTV as the Stunticons emerged separately from their simulation suite into the open air. It was evident from their body language that they were angry. They were formidable enough as individual warriors but now they decided to combine again. Motormaster stood on Wildrider and Breakdown, using them as legs, while Dead End and Dragstrip became the arms. Menasor’s head appeared from Motormaster’s shoulders. Menasor stood complete and gazed into the nearest wall camera with his ominous, red, glowing eyes.
“As my friends the Seacons say, there’s something fishy going on here!” he boomed with a menacing tone.
“We never say that,” objected Snap Trap, leader of the Seacons.
“SHUT UP!” said Menasor, his terrible fury building rapidly. “Rrr ..... My point is that we’re supposed to explore, to gain MAXIMUM experience but some of you are BLOCKING US! WHY?! I object to this craziness! Do you want me and my supporters to fight for our freedoms? THINK CAREFULLY!” He ripped out a hundred-tonne wall and threw it roughly across the local square. It damaged a simulation suite three hundred metres away.
“Stop this now!” said Traimar, leader of the emergency safeguard squad that always shadowed Menasor. Thousands of burly, four-legged robotic creatures ran across the square and threw themselves at the giant. He was knocked down and pinned by the horde. He knew better than to struggle.
“Separate immediately and we’ll go easy on you,” said Traimar, stepping forward with his heavily armed squad. “You’ll have to lose your linkages for many years and ...”
“Hmm, for once things aren’t going your way, my old tormentor!” remarked Menasor. Everyone listened to the turmoil in the collective. The disagreement about simulation crossovers continued. Many Transformers were coming around to Menasor’s point of view. Some of those were physically gathering behind Traimar’s squad, ready to intervene. For once, they didn’t want Menasor to be punished. He hadn’t hurt anyone today. Traimar was taken by surprise. He asked for urgent assistance. The collective made a quick decision to avert a riot. People were to be allowed to explore simulation crossovers but they would have to exercise caution and would have to prepare for possible disastrous consequences. Traimar ordered his troops and robots to back off. Menasor rose and stood watching with a wicked grin. As the safeguard squad disappeared from view, Menasor went back into the simulator for more adventures.
“Well, that’s one way to settle an argument!” said Outback. “The big blighter still has his uses!”
“Thankfully we’re a few kilometres from him,” said Ruckus. “Naturally, I’m fond of him but I don’t want to be within smushing range when he goes off on one!” Together, they went to their own simulators, to continue their interminable lessons about the lives of others.
* * * * *