“Shit,” you say, hoarse, “shit, shit,” because the minefield is filling your visuals, and it’s growing.
Your own weight is the death of you as much as it is your virtue. These mines may not pierce Meg hide, nor your own shields, but enough of them together will penetrate mere metal, and there is no way you’ll be able to stop in time. It is all so slow, and yet also so fast.
Enough. You’re panicking again, so I take over.
I fold my body nearly in two—a strange feeling for you, still hapless and prone as your meat-self is in the cradle—and twist. Then we are among the mines.
Your momentum is still too much for all the braking to overcome. In desperation I overload your core for an instant—the spike in power is just enough to steer us away, but it shuts down a number of systems for just as long, and for a moment the world goes blank, every sensor briefly overcome, turbidity and sonar and visuals, like a jolt of electricity through your whole body. The shock of it cycles your engines and sends you vectoring full speed toward the next mine; for a brief few seconds you’re tumbling head over heels, and then my sequencing kicks in.
Every pair of attitude thrusters on your body is a system of balances and counterbalances. Put together they make a symphony: one that to you is still just noise, for all that you spent your years in the academy learning the theory of kinematics and dynamics, but to me they are as natural and familiar as your own body is to you. You have not yet seen me sing. Now I do.
I feather the ones along your spine first, to slow the rate of your spin; next alternate pairs at your extremities, to finely adjust your trajectory by degrees, an angle here and a translation there. There is a map I carry in my heart courtesy of the core library with which I was equipped long ago, before I was born; it is of the paths of currents here around Lantau and Kowloon, of the effects of tides and storm seasons and other, unexpected stimuli; it is a way to read the water as surely as any astronomer reads the stars.
The third mine we approach hews close off starboard, and you struggle back into control long enough to lash out wildly to port: the counterbalance this causes spins you clumsily—your HUD shrieks in red—with a mighty effort I dump water from both your shoulders. The sea around us shudders, and then we have missed the detonation radius by breathless meters.
We are still moving at over two hundred miles an hour, dropping by the millisecond. In the cradle you gasp and twitch: most pilots get a year or more to acclimate to their assigned helm, to deepen the sync and master the wedding of silicon and gray matter; I am giving you minutes. It is overwhelming you, and if I force control much longer I expect you will pass out, and who knows what will happen then. But if I give it up, you will flail around in that manner of yours and wreck us both, just as surely.
STOP FIGHTING, I say. I’M TRYING TO HELP.
You’re still too panicked to parse this, so I tug savagely on your hypothalamus—a quick release of adrenaline, then dopamine—and say, YOU ARE TOO DISORIENTED TO PILOT, PILOT.
“Shut up, Helm, I’m fine,” you say, for which I forgive you, because I know this time it doesn’t come from a place of impertinence but rather sheer bleating distress—alright, perhaps a bit of both.
YOUR BIOSIGNS ARE OUT OF RANGE, I tell you, I AM MODULATING YOUR OX FEED ACCORDINGLY, and you say, “I’ll modulate your fucking power cord by yanking it out of the wall,” which makes no sense, but at least we are still slowing down, and your flailing has turned instead into a textbook spread-eagle (modulated by my vectoring) that helps slow us down more, though I still must make adjustments to keep you from penetrating detection radiuses.
Amid this your heart rate is still elevated; so is your breathing. I could keep modulating your feed. RETURNING FEED MIX TO STANDARD LEVELS, I say instead, hoping that might placate you. BIOSIGNS STILL ELEVATED.
A moment passes. Then: “Acknowledged,” which, hey, good sign, at least you’re not making nonsensical threats anymore.
At last all my hard work has brought us to a halt. I bring your engines back down; your vents shut off one by one; all the alarms clear. We are drifting in the open ocean, past the mines, the wall of them a blinking red-eyed forest behind you, the protected territory of Hong Kong and your patrol route on the other side. The only sound left inside your helmet is your own unsteady breathing. Fuck, you think. Fuck.
Even now, in the midst of your swirling panic, you default to—center yourself with—your training in some distant animal sense: “Helm—status report.”
NOMINAL, I tell you. NOT PRESENTLY AT RISK. And, because this will be your next question, BARRACUDA HAS JUST COMPLETED HANDSHAKE WITH ME, STATUS ALSO NOMINAL.
“Okay—okay,” you say. “Tell them we’re working on it. Fuck!”
'WORKING ON IT’ IS NOT STANDARD TERMINOLOGY, I remind you. And, YOUR BIOSIGNS REMAIN OUT OF RANGE. I SUGGEST BREATHING EXERCISES.
“Yes, yeah,” you say, “I know, just translate.”
Fine—which leaves the question of how the fuck exactly are we going to work this out.
“Fuck,” you say again, eloquently. “Shit.”
You’re doing the exact same math I have already done: every entrance into the protected territory of the Free Republic of Hong Kong is gated by mines, and all of them are calibrated for class C Megs and up, meaning Titans will trigger them, too, unless they are operating per protocol. And you are (as Carol pointed out, long ago) not at all trained on that protocol.
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However—I CAN GET US THROUGH THE MINEFIELD.
You say, “How?”
SIMPLY ENOUGH. I do have the requisite training, naturally. But: IT WILL REQUIRE YOU TO TEMPORARILY HAND OFF MOTOR SUBROUTINE CONTROL TO ME. YOU ARE UNQUALIFIED FOR THESE MANEUVERS.
This is, of course, the same thing I have already done to you a few times, briefly: that first time stepping out of the hangar; getting you back when you passed out from hypothermia; just now, in the minefield—only then I had not asked first, and you had been too panicked to know I’d done it. Now I am asking; now you know. It does not surprise me when you stiffen infinitesimally. I am ready for you to say, Fuck no.
Then you utterly surprise me by saying, “Okay, fine,” as though I have not just asked you for half your (my) body. “Let’s do it.” And you start spooling up your engines again, as if that is enough.
Which sort of idiot does that make you: clueless or reckless? I DON’T THINK YOU UNDERSTAND: VERBAL AUTHORIZATION ALONE WILL NOT SUFFICE. YOU CANNOT ASSUME MOTOR CONTROL WHILE I DO. I CANNOT HAVE IT UNTIL YOU GIVE IT UP. I say, THIS IS TO KEEP YOU SAFE.
Right. You learned enough about sync in school; you know the nature of splitting subroutines; you know you have to be careful. Still you say, “What, Helm, safe like being out in the open ocean without my sword?”
I say, OF THE TWO, THAT IS THE LESSER DANGER.
You go still. So do your engines. Now you are beginning to understand the weight of what I am telling you. You say, “Helm, what do you mean?”
AMBIGUOUSLY SPLITTING CONTROL COULD DESTROY YOU. (And if you find that objectionable, don’t forget: This is your fault.) IT WILL LESION YOUR BRAIN. IT COULD TEAR YOUR NERVES APART. I say, THIS WILL ONLY WORK IF YOU CAN WHOLLY LET GO. Like when Barracuda struck at you with her lance, and you thought you were going to die; like when you choked in the cradle upon your first step into the sea; like when you lost yourself tumbling into the minefields, just now.
“Okay,” you say slowly. “Okay, fuck.” (As if you have never heard of sync sickness before. I suppose your sheer impatience and embarrassment has overridden your common sense, not for the first time.)
And then, “So what the hell am I supposed to do?”
What can you do? I’ve told you our best chance at this, and frankly I’m not sure you can do it. You’ve spent twelve years not letting go already, haven’t you? THAT IS UP TO YOU, I say, and, carefully, I BELIEVE IT WILL BE DIFFICULT FOR YOU, REGARDLESS.
Even here you cannot help but be a little cruel. “What,” you say, “because I’m not good at this stuff the way your last pilot was?” When I don’t respond: “Is it because I’m too different from the dataset you trained on? Too far below her standard?”
I CAN’T ANSWER THAT, I say. YOU HAVE FORBIDDEN ME FROM PSYCHOANALYZING YOU. Which is true. AS WELL AS FROM SPEAKING ON MY LAST PILOT.
“Okay,” you say, “then I rescind that order. Just fucking answer me.”
YOU ARE A CHILD, I say. YOU ARE AT ONCE STUBBORN AND WEAK-WILLED. YOU WANT TO BE LIKED, YOU WANT TO BE ADMIRED, BUT YOU CANNOT ADMIT IT, WHICH MAKES YOU PETTY AND SPITEFUL AND BITTER AND SORE. YOU RESENT DOING WHAT IT TAKES TO EARN THE ADMIRATION YOU SO CRAVE, FOR YOU ARE SLOTHFUL AND IMPRESSIVELY SELF-PITYING. YOU WOULD RATHER STAY SILENT ABOUT WHAT HURTS YOU SO YOU CAN PRETEND YOU ARE BEING STRONG THAN TALK ABOUT IT AND SOLVE THE PROBLEM. YOU WOULD RATHER BLAME ANYONE ELSE THAN ADMIT IT MIGHT BE YOUR OWN FAULT THAT YOU ARE SUFFERING. YOU FEED THE DELUSION THAT YOU ARE A MARTYR BY DOING NOTHING TO HELP YOURSELF, AND FEELING LIKE A MARTYR SHIELDS YOU FROM THE TRUTH: SOMETIMES, YOU ARE SIMPLY NOT GOOD ENOUGH.
You say, “Oh.”
THAT IS NOT THE CRUX OF MY ANSWER. IT IS THE CONTEXT. I pause to allow this to sink in for you. YOU ARE DESPERATE FOR HELP, BUT YOU ARE EVEN MORE DESPERATE TO PROVE YOURSELF. THAT IS WHY YOU CANNOT LET GO, PILOT. BECAUSE YOU CANNOT BEAR TO RECONCILE THE PART OF YOU THAT WANTS TO LEAD AND THE PART THAT WANTS TO BE GUIDED. YOU ARE A DIPOLE MOMENT, TEARING YOURSELF APART FROM THE INSIDE OUT. YOU ARE YOUR OWN ANTITHESIS. And, UNTIL YOU EMBRACE THAT, YOU WILL NEVER BECOME ANY BETTER THAN YOU ARE.
Silence. A moment passes, then another. In the distance the mines are watching us still; perhaps other things too; soon the moon will rise. I do not dare to monitor your biosigns, to read out the patterns that storm within your brain right now. I know from your breathing alone that you are completely, utterly miserable.
At last you shudder, more of a twitch, really; I know from the movement of your eyes that you are rereading everything I have said. Then you say, very quietly, so quietly I am not sure I could hear it if I were not in your head: “Alright.” And, “I get it. I’m not the pilot you wanted.”
This is genuine, I know, but it is also exactly the kind of self-pitying bullshit I’ve just scolded you for crutching on. Of course you’re not who I wanted! I wanted Rachel, I still do, every day, but I have you instead, and we both have to deal with it. YOU ARE NOT WHO I WANT RIGHT NOW, is all I say. YOU COULD BE, ONE DAY, PERHAPS, IF YOU TRY.
You say, “Is that it?”
- You have spent so long not listening to me, and now that you have finally asked me, it is all coming out at once. YOU WANT TO DESTROY YOURSELF, I say. YOU HAVE WANTED IT BEFORE. I SEE THAT IN YOU. YOU TELL YOURSELF YOU DO NOT WANT IT ANY LONGER, BUT YOU ARE LYING. OVERCOME THAT FIRST AND THE REST WILL FOLLOW. And, IT WILL BE DIFFICULT. DO IT ANYWAY. YOU CHOSE TO BE A PILOT; NOW IT IS TIME THAT YOU DELIVER. And, YOUR SISTER WOULD HAVE BEEN DISAPPOINTED IN YOU.
“Fuck,” you say, and fall silent.
It has hurt you, I can see, what I have told you. And I am sorry for that. But you asked me—you ordered me, and I cannot disobey a direct order.
I understand, frankly, why you are afraid of me, of this. You have spent so long feeling utterly helpless (watching the waves at San Francisco Bay, feeling the emptiness, the weights in the pockets of your jacket; fish and chips every day, staring up at the ceiling with your hand down your pants every night). That is where the desperation arises, the need to prove yourself; it has been here since your sister left, but it intensified a thousandfold when she died, and after.
Sync is not wholly letting go, of course. You’ll still feel your body; your muscles will move in time with my commands, and you won’t be able to tell if it is your subconscious moving me or me moving you. But having let me in your head in the first place—the true implications of which you had not really understood that first time, which you now regret—is unbelievably, vulnerably intimate, so much so that fucking Carol, Carol fucking you, felt like a handshake—casual, matter-of-fact—in comparison. Not that you ever cared very much about sex, but I digress.
In some way I understand. In some way, I feel sorry for you, even. You are a stranger to me, and I to you, and you are so much smaller and weaker and slower. Even aside from your own self-loathing and all the anger and pettiness that stems from it, it is difficult for one such as you to fathom one such as me, let alone wedding your mind with mine; it is like an ant trying to comprehend a black hole. And there is nothing we have in common, really, at all. Except for—
“Fuck it,” you say, “let’s just go.” And you fire up your engines before I can say no, and you vector for the minefields, head-on, full power.
EARTHGAZER
Post-Apocalyptic ? Science Fiction ? Romance
Heaven wasn't enough for Amane, but until he met a visitor from beyond the edge, he didn't understand what was missing – or what was going so wrong on his world.
High above the Earth on Platform Nine, life follows a simple order under the protection of the Ashura. The comfortable inhabitants know what's expected of them and no one else has any desire to leave.
But when the visitor arrives, a glider who can travel between heavens, she forces Amane and his friends to question their paradise. Who is the Ashura, their ruler who they never see? How do people live on other heavens? And, most importantly, what does it mean to be free?
As Amane finds the courage to ask these questions, he quickly discovers that others fear them. Soon he is racing to unearth the history of his world before it's too late...
What to expect:
- ? A post apocalyptic world with one chance for freedom
- ?? Cozy themes in a dystopian world
- ?? Mystery, intrigue, conspiracy and courage
- ?? A romance sub-plot with a (possible) love triangle