A Certain Number of Hypothetical Scenarios Read online

A Certain Number of Hypothetical Scenarios

  Joseph M Wright

  Copyright 2013 Joseph Wright

  CONTENTS:

  Bazaar

  Ailuros

  Cogito Ergo Sum

  Brotherhood of the Fallen

  Destiny

  Save the Humans

  Autobiography

  Apokerlypse

  Manifest Destiny

  Ghost Ship

  Tactical Espionage Action

  Tadpole

  Department of Fantasy Names

  Bowstring

  Microscopic Allies

  Seeds

  Flowers

  Antikythera Mechanism

  Choose: The Halls of Death

  Far-fetched

  Engine

  Museum

  Apoc-Ellipsis

  Broken

  Cheesecake

  Fangs

  APSIS

  Filter

  Cicada

  Thief

  Trees in the Mist

  Audio Log

  Hesitant Evil

  An Unsatisfying Ending

  Handwriting

  Hayfever

  Pi

  Shed

  Augur

  Starlight Battle Teen

  Revelations

  THE PIXIE DUST SAGA:

  Pixie Dust

  Golem

  Dirk Strauss: Pixie Hunter

  Invasion Fleet

  The Life and Death of Magnus Whiskerson

  The Undeath and Death of Yves Carabin

  The Golem Returns

  Maenad

  Ex Astris

  Dirk Strauss: Ghost Police

  Tithe

  Orpheus

  Dirk Strauss: Defender of Earth

  Pixies vs Aliens

  Dirk Strauss: God Slayer

  Dirk Strauss: Bane of Windows

  Ouroboros

  Xenographer

  Trophy

  Dirk Strauss does his Timesheet

  Pixies

  BAZAAR

  Axis Mundi was the galaxy's largest known unsanctioned trade station, and possibly one of the worst places ever to exist. Koschei speculated that it had been built upon the ancient bones of a horrifying primordial god. Tern thought it was full of obnoxious jerks.

  They walked through the market, an overwhelming miasma of smells and weird aliens and other smells. The drop off had gone according to plan. Well, according to plan A. If it had gone according to plan B, Koschei's gun would be a little bit lighter. Tern looked at all the items on sale and wondered vaguely what they were. One stall, manned by a cloud of nanobots, seemed to be selling bits of organic matter; little translucent green sacs, like burst grapes, hung on something like fishing line.

  “Youse guys want domovoi gland?” asked the nanobots.

  Tern shook his head reflexively, but grew curious as they carried on walking.

  “What's domovoi gland for?” he asked Koschei.

  “You chew it. Makes everything smell like orange for a few days. Why, has someone got gland here?” Koschei was furry and came up to about knee height on Tern. Mid-thigh if you included the rifle on his back.

  Tern thought about what his friend had just told him. “The colour or the fruit?”

  “...I don't see the distinction,” said Koschei eventually. “That's like, the same thing. The colour smells like the fruit.”

  “How does it-” Tern stopped himself and let the nonsense slide. It had been a long day, and the ship wasn't scheduled to leave for another five span. His optical display was analysing all the ambient noise and goods changing hands, descriptions of every obscure item and language in use scrolling down his field of view. He didn't recognise anything on the list and it was making him stressed.

  “Who would even buy all this crap?” he said.

  Koschei's tail twitched. “Is that a hint of the rascisms I hear in your voice?”

  “No! I just don't get who the target market for pulsating rocks is supposed to be.”

  “Oh, so Talusii aren't a valid demographic? You demand that every business cater to your needs and yours alone?”

  Koschei was winding him up and he knew it, but Tern couldn't keep from rising to the bait. “I'm not saying that and you know it, I'm just... Mnrrrghhh. Let's just get a drink.”

  Koschei looked directly into his round scarlet lenses. “Can you even drink here? Y'know, with the...” he gestured vaguely at his own face. “Breathy mask?”

  Tern couldn't breathe the air on Axis station, a strange concoction that supported a wide variety of lifeforms and outright killed a significant minority of others. He pointed at the slots on his helmet. “See these?” he said, and mimed pouring a drink all over his face.

  “Aren't you dextro-amino under there anyway?” asked Koschei.

  “Yeah...”

  “Yeah this isn't your kind of place. I wouldn't bet on them labelling anything correctly.”

  “V'ger's beard! So what are we supposed to do for five span? I'm about done exploring the magical world of crazy smells.”

  “Speak for yourself. I'm going to spend my time chasing the orange. Where did you see them selling gland again?”

  AILUROS

  The house stands between two rivers, with a small grove of trees growing on one side of the island. In retrospect I can’t remember the exact string of decisions that led me to buy it. It’s just always been the place I was supposed to be. But money aside, it doesn’t belong to me, not really. It belongs to her.

  The day I moved in there was a little white cat in the living room. There were no open windows, no doors left ajar. She was a mystery. She rubbed up against my ankles in the way that cats will, and retreated to perch on the mantelpiece and watch us haul in the furniture. At some point she disappeared. At the time I assumed she used the front door, but I’m not so certain now.

  The next time I saw her was two nights later. Reading by lamplight, I was startled by a slinking shadow, only to wheel around and find her on the back of the chair. She shot me a condescending look and calmly padded across, leaping to a half-laden shelf and curling up. It didn’t take long to get used to her being around, not that I could have stopped her even if I’d wanted to. She comes and goes as she pleases, apparently without regard for the availability of places to come from or go to. That’s why I call her Ghost. Petty constraints like locks and solid walls don’t seem to pose a problem to her.

  If this behaviour suggested anything supernatural about her then it was lost on me. This is an animal that regularly shreds my cushions and licks herself in front of strangers. I did notice a few quirks however: for one, it became clear quite quickly that she refuses to be fed cat food, preferring to hunt for her meals, as evidenced by the mauled mice and birds that occasionally turn up on the doormat. Also, and this probably sounds weird, but she doesn’t smell like a cat. She has a kind of perfumey scent that follows her around through the house. I know, it’s strange. I don’t know what to tell you.

  Anyway, tonight she spent all of her time sitting on the windowsill and staring at the river. Curious as to what exactly had grabbed her attention I joined her, and I was astonished by what I saw. Not immediately of course; I switched off the lamp so I could see outside and turned in my chair to peer over the backrest, and we both watched the water surging by, its movement only discernible by the sharp white shapes traced by the moon’s reflection. When it first emerged I didn't quite know what I was looking at. It slithered out of the river with impossible ease, its slick wet surface glimmering, skin as black as the night surrounding it. Two orange eyes, perfectly round, pupilless, stared at us unblinking as it headed directl
y for the house.

  It was a monstrously big snake.

  I only noticed Ghost had moved when I saw her outside. The snake's head alone was bigger than her entire body, big enough to swallow her whole, but she faced it down without fear. I wanted to go out there, to scoop her up and run back inside the house, but all I could do was sit and stare as the snake eyed her up. I flinched when it struck, but its fangs met thin air. Ghost dodged its bite with lightning speed and went for its neck. I don't know if it was a trick of perspective but somehow she appeared bigger, able to close her jaws around the snake and throttle it, shaking her head as her prey gasped uselessly, black blood spilling onto the ground. I don't know how long I sat watching her, but there was something captivating, something mythic, about watching my little white cat choke the life out of that hellish serpent. When the orange light faded from its eyes I felt a relief I can't describe.

  So here she is now, sitting in the hallway looking up at me, black blood around her mouth. I can't even begin to make sense of what I've seen and I don't really intend to try. I live with an impossible cat, and if she'll defend me from demon snakes then the least I can do in return is cancel that appointment to have her spayed.

  COGITO ERGO SUM

  First there was Nothing. Then there was God.

  The Nothing realised its mistake immediately. A finite anomaly in an infinite void. A fingerprint on a pristine surface. Disturbed by its creation, it tried to undo what it had done, but God was infectious, malignant. It spread like cancer, and for everything the Nothing erased, a myriad of new things grew elsewhere. It was then that the Nothing learned terror.

  God continued to expand and spread, virulent, unstoppable. Always the Nothing was gnawing at the edges, trying desperately to somehow amputate the corruption and regain a semblance of purity and stability. Slowly, the Nothing went mad.

  'Cogito ergo sum,' said the universe.

  'No,' thought the Nothing. 'That's not how it is.'

  BROTHERHOOD OF THE FALLEN

  Sometimes when you make a mistake, it can't be fixed. Sometimes when you make the wrong choice, it haunts you the rest of your life. Sometimes you're just unlucky.

  Very rarely, when you're broken and defeated, you'll be visited by a shade. It will offer you a way out. You will be invited into the Brotherhood of the failed and fallen.

  Observe the clubhouse. Everything that isn't leather is mahogany, and the walls are dominated by book-stacked shelves. The dress code is semi-formal. By the fireplace sits a rakish man in a waistcoat, reading a large green book. By the window, a fellow possessed of a grand moustache smokes a pipe and observes the world with tired eyes. Two of your brothers are playing chess at the table. They have no names. Not anymore.

  Each of these men is impervious to memory and attention. They cannot be remembered, and are seldom noticed. This is the gift of the Brotherhood.

  Some men retire into the clubhouse, and lose themselves in luxury. Some read books for the rest of their days, living one thousand lives and none at all.

  Other men use their anonymity as part of an obsessive crusade to fix their lost lives. Some pursue vengeance on those that wronged them. Some return to their estranged family, unseen and unheeded. Some men find the girl that got away, and they get her.

  And what do the shades ask in exchange for this wonderful gift, you ask? What do they want in return for imbuing you with the facility to correct past mistakes and live without consequence?

  They want your shape. They want your life. They want to meet your friends and live in your house and sleep with your wife. They want to pay your bills and feed your cat and wash your car. They want to take your screwed up, unhappy, unwanted life, and they want to recycle it.

  Remember all the potential you once had? Remember all the dreams that could have come true with a little effort? Well the shades remember too.

  They are the rag and bone men, and what you waste, they will find a use for.

  DESTINY

  Out in the world, brave men were battling orcs in forgotten forests, and impractically dressed women were slaying dragons in enchanted lairs deep beneath the rock. Graham Saint was repairing a fence.

  He finished nailing a plank back on, and sighed, looking up at the stars.

  'Why can't I battle orcs and slay dragons?' he asked them. 'Why don't I have some kind of quest to go on, or a prophecy to fulfil?'

  A voice replied from a tree nearby.

  'The seeds of fate are buried within your name.'

  Graham sat up.

  'You mean I'm going to be a saint?'

  'Seeds, the seeds of fate,' croaked the voice impatiently. 'The seeds are the letters.'

  A raven fluttered down onto the fence post.

  'So I need to rearrange the letters?' Graham asked the raven. It nodded.

  'Hmm. 'Ashtarn Magi'! I'm going to be one of the battle wizards of Ashtarn!'

  'Nope,' quoth the raven.

  'Oh. Uhh... 'Against harm'. Am I going to be a citadel guard, protecting the king's peace from...'

  'Nope,' quoth the raven.

  ''A giant marsh'? Do I go on a quest through ancient lands to...'

  'Nope,' quoth the raven.

  Graham frowned.

  ''Mashing a rat',' he said, brandishing his hammer.

  'Nope.'

  ''Staring at ham'?' he hazarded.

  'Nope. And you have an extra 'T' in there.'

  ''A mating rash?' he asked, concerned.

  'Nuh-uh.'

  'Well what?'

  The raven looked at him expectantly. Graham tried again.

  'Th... This... 'This Anagram'?'

  'Bingo!' the raven cawed.

  'What?'

  'Your destiny was to unscramble the secret of your name. Well done.' The Raven flapped away.

  Graham did not feel particularly fulfilled.

  'Well what do I do now?' he called.

  'Make it up as you go along like everybody else!' the raven crowed back.

  Graham kicked the fencepost and sighed. Then he spun his hammer in his hand and went off to look for rats, just in case.

  SAVE THE HUMANS

  Ares-D stomped through the city, perusing old B-movies cached in its RAM. Giant robots defeating threats from outer space. Teams of courageous teens piloting mechs and saving the earth from monsters.

  It watched them over and over again.

  Years ago, wandering without purpose, it had discovered the video files on an old laptop and become obsessed with them. Ares-D knew it was a war machine, but had never known what war it was meant to fight. The movies taught it that mechs fight for humans. They fight to save humanity, and they win.

  Except Mecha-Godzilla. Mecha-Godzilla was a problem.

  It ran simulated scenarios through its strategy program as it clanked down the streets, calculating outcomes and occasionally pausing to save particularly good ones to hard disc. The sensor array mounted on its prow was pinging the area, looking for humans to rescue. Humans to catch as they fell. Humans to shelter from explosions. Humans to hold in its palm and carry to safety.

  It found nothing. Disappointed, it wandered into the outskirts of the city, where it could see far out into the desert. Another mech, thrice the size of Ares, stood facing the city. It was dead. Deactivated.

  Ares trekked up to it and regarded it for a little while. It watched the movies again, and then charged forward. It punched and kicked and unloaded its entire payload, until eventually, using all its strength, it managed to topple its giant cousin.

  Just a century too late.

  It looked back at the ruined city as the dust cleared. Most of the skyscrapers had toppled over, and those left standing were wounded, full of holes. This was ground zero. This was where the Goliath mobile nuclear weapons platform had made its final stand.

  With no-one left to save, Ares went to sleep.

  AUTOBIOGRAPHY

  Walking home beneath a ruddy moon the colour of old blood, the boy wondered how to construct a st
ory out of his own life. He'd been waiting for his life to transform into a story for as long as he could remember. Perhaps that was why he felt so unfulfilled all the time.

  Strange, he thought, that he didn't view it like a videogame. He'd certainly played enough of them, and they seemed like a much more practical and applicable metaphor. How lucky, he thought, those people must be, the people who see an obstacle as something to overcome and progress beyond, rather than an unnecessary and frustrating digression of the plot. How lucky to feel yourself gain skills and level up, instead of becoming increasingly dissatisfied with your lack of coherent themes and motives.

  When he really considered it, the boy realised that the games that most resembled life to him were the ones that made him ill-at-ease, the ones that could only ever end in failure. The highs of clearing four lines at once in Tetris were always overshadowed by the knowledge you would eventually succumb to the never ending rain of problematic shapes. Loss was predestined; score was meaningless.

  Presumably, he thought, there were people who viewed life like a movie. This was clearly ridiculous. Movies are sculpture. A movie without editing is just drivel on a celluloid reel.

  Music was out of the question. Music was life/death neutral, something eternal and ephemeral. Music encapsulated entire atmospheres. It was the perfect accompaniment to narrative, but it wasn't narrative itself. It was the other side of the coin.

  The boy wondered if perhaps a life was an anthology, a collection of small stories and vignettes stitched together. If this was the case, why couldn't he think of a single one he wanted to tell? Maybe he was just a bad book. It was entirely possible.

  In the end he came to the conclusion that at least in his case, 'autobiography' and 'story' were mutually exclusive terms. If this were a story, maybe he would apply that realisation to his life in some way, but he didn't. He couldn't let go of the idea that one day his life might make sense; that when read cover to cover each and every plot thread would resolve itself and one true theme would become shiningly, undeniably clear.

  So he waited.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  APOKERLYPSE

  Fireballs were raining down outside. It never stopped raining goddamn fireballs.

  Pestilence was peering through the blinds, watching the flaming hail strike sparks off the rock. It wasn't that he minded the weather in hell, it was suitably malevolent. He just wondered if it needed to be malevolent all the time.

  He heard War bark at him and turned back to the table.