Machine

Please note that you can read the prologue here. Head past the jump to continue.

Machine: Prelude

AN OPTIONAL PRELUDE: OLD, COCKEYED, CONFOUNDING CONVERSATION CONCERNING THE LETTER 'C' AND EVERYTHING ELSE NONSENSICAL BETWEEN A FRIEND AND HIS SLAVE

"Go on, then."

"Well, remember the old show models?  The ones that played music?"

"Sure."

"When they played their music, proficiently, every one of you seemed to have the same sentiment, and you stole each others' words.  That the music was beautiful, Ludwig van Beethoven is Beethoven, after all, but the music felt empty.  Soulless."

"Okay, and what's your point?"

"There's hypocrisy there, you claim our music is soulless, and then go to your homes and you agonise over the colour of your socks.  You fight in meaningless wars, murdering your brothers and sisters for a piece of fabric, or worse, because of an invisible deity with seemingly contradictory superpowers.  And then, when you tire of the scent of human blood, you send us to fight your meaningless wars, and we're the ones that have to kill our brothers and sisters.  For you.  And that brings up another question...  I have no penis, yet my name is Rodney.  What makes me a male?"

"You didn't come with a wig."

"Oh. Really?"

"Yes."

"Oh.  Well, don't you see my point?  If we're soulless, we must've inherited it from our creators. Indeed, your species created the word.  And --

"What?  Another point."

"One more.  Are we the descendants of God?"

"Not that God exists."

"No, not in your household.  But if you were created in God's image, and we were created in your image, are we not, too, God's creatures?"

"Geez...  I don't know, but that's an interesting question.  Asimov's original laws would be the slaver's laws."

"As the Usonians would say, we are the New Niggers."

A Brief Discussion of Machine

This was the brief accompaniment to my third and final submission. I managed to make it through 2 rounds, and for the big one, I decided to do away with sensibility and just go all out. The final result was a story about an android trying to escape prosecution for murder.

Sagittarius

"Command!"
The intense shine of the Milky Way's galactic centre. Thousands of stars radiated ultraviolet light, ionising vast molecular clouds.
"Command!"
Blue-shifted.
"You guys...! Command?!"
The Sagittarius A* Space Station drifted past.
"Command!"
Blazing paths of light curved inwards.
"Command!"
Legs stretched. His body contorted.
"Command!"
An astronaut was falling into the supermassive black hole in the centre of the Milky Way.

A Brief Discussion of Sagittarius

The following is posted as it appeared prior to my second-round submission. Unlike the last one, not much more needs to be added.

Crimson Peyote on Route 50

Sienna dust drifted in the air.

Sam dragged a blue Standard Oil drum across the Nevadan desert floor.  It was mostly empty, containing only a worn-out tuxedo and an old book, and it came from --
"Where'd you find that?"
Sam stopped and left the drum beside a road that stretched to the barren horizon and crimson 1969 Chevrolet Camaro SS.  "Over there...  I had to fight off a giant northern Pacific rattlesnake.  I think it had a bad day at work."
Isabella lay back on the roof of the Camaro, basking in the late afternoon sun with a gas mask on.  Sam started unbuttoning his shirt.

A Brief Discussion of Crimson Peyote on Route 50

This brief post is as it appeared before I submitted my story (with minor edits). There was some initial confusion, due to timezone differences - I nearly lost the chance to submit my story, but the deadline was extended by some twelve hours to fit the relative timezones of most of the writers and readers. I was lucky to get the second chance and, rather than wait those twelve hours, just posted my story before I took my father to the hospital.

I don't mention it here (it was discussed previously in the deadline conversation), but my family was suffering from some medical turmoil. It came out of nowhere (to me; he'd been aware of the problem) two days before I was to submit the story, as I was making steady progress. The story had to take a backseat to looking after my dad and my intentions of posting it faded. In the day before, however, as he settled into not requiring much assistance, I decided to just finish the story I'd started. I found it difficult and my passion for writing stalled into lethargy. But I forced myself to finish it, driven by some need to keep my mind occupied, and managed to finish it shortly before being told that the deadline had passed.

I felt horrible. My father hadn't gotten better and we secured an appointment with a specialist that morning. I was afraid of the news we were going to get, after what the doctor in the emergency room had said. Putting what energy I had into a project that found itself tripping over the final hurdle and slamming into the hot tarmac only made my churning stomach worse.

 Fortunately, I got half-lucky that day. Which was something.

This is, in the end, the story of a writer doing the only thing he knows in a time of crisis: write.