Zadown Posted February 11, 2003 Report Posted February 11, 2003 The wind was whispering already. The scout should've been back, days ago. They tried to contact him, before the talented ones were put away behind the shields, under the green liquids and bluish steel machines. Just murmurings of the approaching storm, they said. Just cackling insanity. So they had a man up there in the tower, above land, out and exposed to the sands. Wind was rising, and so were voices rised in argument and anger: the scout is dead and the bird lost, finish the watch and seal the fort. There is a storm coming. A big one, with searing sand and burning heat and voices in the wind - a storm like they had not seen since the Fortification. Old pioneers, some of them old enough to be second generation, faces worn away by sand, eyes blind, nodded sagely smiling the toothless smile of tragedy and ruin. But the commander, a young man of the fourth generation, held firm. "We will wait for the scout. As he does his best for our benefit, so will we do our best for his. Not before the watch runs shrieking down, beset by visions or suit punctured by sharp rocks shall we end our vigil." And there he was, the watchman - up high in the tower of rotting iron, fierce sunlight reflecting from the twin goggles of his suit, the steady soft roar of cooling devices fighting with the slithering sound of sand on sand below on the surface. The horizont darkened, faded and vanished. He stirred, nervous - the suit was a familiar comforting weight upon him, a thick leathery protective shield but still his heart missed a beat, then made up the miss by racing forward. Nobody had survived a storm outside in ages. Sun blazed, trying to burn the beaten and battered metal, then darkened and turned red, flared with a rusty halo made of the fine sand raiding the winds. Horizont rose up making distant mountains appear on the plain, mountains turning into black talons reaching towards the outpost. And finally he could hear it, listen to the true voices of the storm. It shouted and raged inside his head, trying to tell him how it was on the other side, how much agony and pain they were in. Still too far to make out the words. Still too far, thank gods ... if any had chosen remain on this desolate corpse of a world. Then he saw it, the bird. It hang in the air, sand almost on its heels, torn and battered but remaining afloat by some miracle. Voices were louder now and rising in numbers, far-away faces forming in the dark hand that reached towards the outpost. Sand added its keening moan to the cacophony, to the true hell this damned place on this damned world was turning into. World was dwindling from great open desert to his own personal one-man nightmare. And still the bird hang in the air, kept afloat partly by the very same storm that was trying to rip it apart. It tilted and swayed, lost a piece of its left wing but kept on coming, guided by old memories or lucky gusts of wind, straight towards the target. And so the bird crashed on its perch, ripped open, spilled out its guts. The scout was saved, even with the ghosts in the storm shouting in the watchman's head, no matter how the sand tore at the suits, despite the darkness. As he was carried in and the massive metal airlocks were shut behind him, they got his helmet off. On his sun-burned and sand-scratched face was imprinted the pale horror of death upon death. Last sane thing he managed to say, dripping blood on the concrete floors, trying to wave his spasming limbs to different directions, was: "oh .. my .. god .. it's .. full ... of .. souls"
The Portrait of Zool Posted February 18, 2003 Report Posted February 18, 2003 I enjoyed that Z. I've been thinking myself for some time how I might combine sci-fi with the occult. Certainly, fantasy and sci-fi have become nearly inseperable, but, as I think you have done here, I envision a genre that stands on it's own - sort of Edgar Allen Poe writes Stranger in a Strange Land... Ray Bradbury explored this, though his style and penchant for using historical figures lent itself more to the fantasy tale in the future. The physical universe grinds on, but the metaphysical is always just under the surface. It is unseen, but inevitably driving events. Are God and the Tao one? Are there places where the door is not so tightly bolted - one way or the other?
Archaneus Posted February 18, 2003 Report Posted February 18, 2003 Wow! I really enjoyed this. I have always liked Sci-Fi and like Zool said the metaphysical twist was great. Good work.
reverie Posted February 18, 2003 Report Posted February 18, 2003 (edited) i'm sorry zadown, but i have to ask... did the book/movie 2001 have any influnence in the last line? I like it. Pretty vivid... I swear i could see the desert world in my head... I picture the bird as a crow from some reason... must be all of the talk of poe, i've been hearing of late... revery the dreamlost "bunnies aren't as cute as everyone supposes..."(buffy songs) the dream continues... Edited February 18, 2003 by reverie
Archaneus Posted February 18, 2003 Report Posted February 18, 2003 Actually, I agree with Reverie, I imagined a crow too.
The Portrait of Zool Posted February 18, 2003 Report Posted February 18, 2003 I imagined a hawk, though I never ruled out a cybird.
Gwaihir Posted February 18, 2003 Report Posted February 18, 2003 I pictured a crow, but I blame that on Nyyark :yuigrin: Now that's really creepy. Awesome stuff, and classic Z. Absolutely incredible.
Zadown Posted February 18, 2003 Author Report Posted February 18, 2003 Thanks for the comments again everybody, it's feedback like this which makes me log off EQ and write even when I don't have the absolute need to do so. The end line is from 2001, yup .. and slightly cheesy, in a pratchetty sort of way. I really really liked the line. *shrug* The idea for the storm is from Greg Bear's Psychlone book and the rest of the stuff is just digested and regurgited assorted scifi stuff. It all just serves the Vision though - iron tower standing alone in the sea of sun-baked sand, storm of wind and stone and psychic powers rising in the horizont, and a lone watchman sweating in a protective suit, praying to the gods of ancient and twice-repaired science that his suit holds through...
The Portrait of Zool Posted February 19, 2003 Report Posted February 19, 2003 Well, my dear Zadown, do keep regurgitating that 'vision'. It is rather pungent - in a good way.
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