Posted in writing

BroBot

A loud, rapid knock at the door jarred Ryan out of his usual Friday after-school cartoon binge, the regular occasion lasting from the time he got home from school to the first click of keys in the door of his mother getting home.

Mom can’t be home yet, did they have a short day or something?

Running to the door, bare feet pattering against the hard-wood floor, Ryan rushed up to grasp the knob, swinging it open lightly just in time to see the big brown delivery truck pull away from his house.  Sitting by his feet upon the worn-down ‘welcome’ mat sat a thick-looking cardboard box, almost like a crate or coffin, taking up a large section of the porch.

The delivery man had slid it awkwardly, wide side towards the door, impossible to bring inside without turning it.  Who ordered this?  Mom?  Dad?  Ryan peered down at the box, looking at the crisp shipping label.  The ornate, modern label of whichever company sat up in the corner, noting his own address below, but only using the words “Current Resident” as the recipient.

Moving to the top of the long box, Ryan attempted to lift the end up, only to immediately be stopped the the thing’s massive weight.  Pushing his bare feet into the cold concrete, Ryan shunted the box against the ground, slamming into the jamb of the propped open door.  Something inside the box shifted uneasily.  With the short end of the crate now aligned to the door, Ryan found himself able to shove it forwards and into the entry way.  The cardboard grated against the hard floor, skating across the dust and dirt from countless shoes passing over.

The box was glued shut around the edges, and bound tightly with hard plastic straps.  Ryan’s feet eagerly took him to the kitchen and back, stopping to grab a steak knife from the jumble of silverware in the drawer.  The straps snapped off simply enough with a twist of the serrated blade, sending the ends to clack down on the floor.  Starting at the bottom corner, Ryan stabbed the blade through the layers of cardboard, straight down.  After much furious sawing and bits of cardboard starting to fray all over the floor and into the air, the side of the box toppled over.  Ripping what little remained from the top and the bottom of the box, Ryan folded the top of the cardboard over.  Inside sat a human-like figure, wrapped in a dainty layer of foam.  Behind the pale material, a pair of eyes looked back at him, though not entirely human-like.

With a quick swipe, his fingers dug into the material and pulled it aside, snapping and pulling the long strips of tape holding the material together.  The eyes of the thing suddenly shifted awake, turning slowly to Ryan.  Surprised, the your man toppled back, shoving the knife to the side.  With a snapping of more tape, the thing sat up; something the shape of the small human, fitted with strange mechanical joints and metallic skin.

“Greetings, young human.”  I spoke in a near emotionless voice.  “Are you my new owner?”

“Bro…”  Ryan muttered.  “Are you like… a robot?”

“Bro…”  The thing repeated.  “Is that what you wish for me to be called?”

“I don’t know if my mom will let me keep you…”  Ryan pondered, looking back to the door.

“I am fully prepared to be self-sustaining, if not more.”  The thing stood up quickly, turning around to asses the cardboard cocoon from which it had just exited.  Ryan sat in awe while the machine-like human quickly gathered up the mess, depositing the entirety of the box and its contents into a small ball.

“Bro…robot… BroBot.”

“And your name is?”  The bot quickly made eye contact with Ryan.


Ten Years Later

“This is way out there.”  Ryan exclaimed, leaned towards the TV intently as images of scantily-clad woman danced upon the backdrop of revving muscle cars.

“Ryan, my parental guidelines suggest this is not appropriate yet for your age.” BroBot warned.

“You’d get it if you had junk, BroBot.” Ryan continued staring at the screen.

“Junk?”  BroBot queried.  “Ah yes, a penis and testicles, like you had said, Ryan.”

“How long until mom comes home?”  Ryan glanced nervously at the window by the door, looking out at the empty street outside the house.

“According to trends, she could be home anywhere from 15 minutes from now to 2 and one half hours.”  The robot turned back to the TV, eyes studying the imagery.  Suggestive music of female vocalizations played through the speakers.

“Think I could ever get a girl that looked like that, BB?”  Ryan studied one of the dancers, now starting to fade from the screen.

“In Statistical, Physiological, or Sociological terms, Ryan?”

“Never mind.  That’d never happen.”  Ryan scooped up the remote and begun flipping through the channels.  “All I do is hang out with a robot.  If only you were a chick robot.”

“I technically have no sex, Ryan.  I am neither a chick nor a… dude.”  Brobot explained.  “I simply use a masculine voice to emulate yours, being the first one I came into contact with.”

“But… you could talk like a girl if you wanted to, right?”

“That’s correct, Ryan, sweetie.”  BroBot modulated, using the same voice as Ryan’s mother.”

“Maybe less like mom.”  The teen rolled his eyes.  “Try like Chrissi Jennings from the one TV show.”

“Like this?”  Brobot vocalized in the sweet, valley girl tone.

“That’s… kind of hot.”  Ryan leaned back, switching off the TV.  “Can… we head to my room for a bit?”

__

Using an intricate set of sheets, pillows, a clean sock, and a generous amount of tape, Ryan had constructed a device atop the robot, who laid, covered up, atop Ryan’s bed.

“This is kind of kinky.”

“What do you wish me to do, Ryan?”  Brobot asked, still in the young lady’s voice.

“Just, like… moan.”  Ryan pondered.  “Just like the song in that commercial.”

“Oh?”  The robot attempted, unsure.

“Thats’… good enough.”  Ryan unzipped his fly, picking up the comforter from the floor before jumping atop the bed.  “Maybe move a bit.”  Ryan suggested, before carefully aligning himself.  His body shook, but a wave of ecstasy washed over him, pushing out the feeling of shame.  The robot made awkward moans, hips jolting… robotically.  The scotch tape rustled and groaned as Ryan shook his wavering hips, zipper occasionally brushing against him harshly.

“I believe the tape is coming undone, Ryan.”  The femininely-voiced robot warned.

“Just… a little bit… more.”  The teen breathed heavily, the comforter threatening to fall on the ground.  Behind him, the door creaked suddenly.

“Ryan?”  His mother’s voice called out.  “What are you two doing?”   She asked judgmentally.  With a clunk, Ryan quickly panicked and fell from atop the small single bed, slapping the back of his head upon the ground, and quickly covering himself up with the bed cover.

“Hello, Sally.”  BroBot voiced, still in the modulated voice.  Playing a sound to simulating the clearing of his voice, the robot repeated the statement, in his regular voice.  “I mean, Hello, Sally.”

Advertisements
Posted in writing

At times like this.

At times like this, people who are disconnected have the luxury of picking how they want to feel.  One death is a tragedy, a million death is a statistic.  Joseph Stalin.  Except that statistic is happening in your back yard, like seeing individual tiny green seedlings begin to poke out of the ground at the first sight of spring.

Who benefits from statistics alone?  Nobody, probably.  But if you can do something that will push a statistic one percentage one way or the other, you can tell yourself that you make something of yourself.  But, like a tree falling in a forest, the simple act of it coming down to earth doesn’t mean that people will start caring about deforestation.  It’s only when people start counting that statistics matter.

When they see their own statistic, the numbers injured, sent to the hospital, the number of phone calls coming in to check up, the endless stream of sirens… that’s when they know they they won.  This is when people begin to process it all; whether to be sad, or to be mad.  But when the news pops up, telling of the man, his face, what he did, and how… people are provoked into madness– blinded– and that person has won.

That’s terrorism.  A terrorist is someone who wants to inflict terror, to make people fear going out because something similar could happen to them– without warning.  Should people be mad?  Yes.  Should people be sad?  Yes.  But should people allow this person, their acts to rule their consciousness?  No, because that’s the only way we can win against them.

Posted in writing

To Print

Check that one off the list- Above a Whisper has gone to print.  After much fiddling with page numbers and pixels on my cover, I uploaded it all to amazon so that I can buy it for myself, and probably no one else.  It’s even almost 100 pages more than the first book.

marsback.png

Speaking of which, in celebration, for the next five days, Mother of Mars, the first book of the series will be free for E-Book copies.

What’s that?  I third book in the works?  Who knows…?

Posted in writing

Where it Lives

‘I hate airports,’ the thought kept running through my head.  I kept trying to push it out of my mind, knowing it would make the whole process even worse.  The line through security was long, same as any previous time I had gone thorough it.  One of the TSA agents, looking more like a bouncer at a bar, kept looking my way.  In turn, I could feel my mind trying to make my body move like natural, though it seems that somewhere between offering up my passport and taking off my shoes I had forgotten how.

Going through the metal detector, I attempted to hide my bandaged hand the best I could from the discriminating eyes of the agents.  I breathed a sigh of relief as I made it through the point without triggering any alarms, but my solace ended there.  The big bouncer looking fellow trotted my way, asking for my identification, looking me up and down before I could even have a chance to pull my passport back out of my coat pocket.

“Travelling internationally today, I see.”  He grumbled, looking at my boarding pass stuck in the pages of my booklet.

“Yes, sir.”

“That looks like a pretty nasty wound on your hand, being bandaged up like that.”  He looked down at the hand I had been holding part way behind my back.

“I got bit.”

“Bit by what?”  The big man continued to hold onto my Passport.

“A big, rare, type of lizard.”

“Godzilla?”

“A Karaqual.”  I rolled my eyes just quick enough so that he wouldn’t notice.  “I’m heading down to the Amazon to try and find another.”

“So you’re a poacher?  Or trader?”

“A zookeeper.”  I held out my good hand to hopefully trick him into giving my passport back.

“You know you have to clear animals before they come back past the border… especially on an exotic thing like your… quarrel.”

“Karaqual.”  I shoved my hand out more forcibly this time.  “If we get one… it’ll get shipped back on a boat back to our zoo.  Me on the other hand… well, perhaps we’ll meet again.”

“Be careful of any jungle fever down there.”  The big guy seemed to joke, still stone-faced, before shoving the passport back at me.  Before I could respond, he turned back to the checkpoint, most likely to harass another person.  I quickly checked the watch that I had shoved into my pocket, before collecting my stuff and waddling off to the gate in my socks.

The flight was calm and unexpectedly quiet, but my stomach felt like it hurt the entire time.  I managed to sleep through a good part of the 12 hour flight, and by the time we landed, my stomach had settled.

At the baggage claim, I ran into a man holding a signboard with my name sloppily scribbled on it.  The man introduced himself at Cézar, working with our sister zoo there in Rio, who would be working with me to head into the Jungle.  The second we stepped out of the terminal, it was muggy, the air heavy.  The same uneasy sickness I had felt on the plane returned, and I immediately regretted having my deodorant and a change of lighter clothing packed deep in my suitcase under all my research notes and equipment.

Cèzar and I rode in his little beat-up jeep down the tiny, packed roads just outside of the airport which I discovered was much smaller than it seemed from up in the air.  The rough streets jostled my stomach, but I was much relieved to see what looked like a motel.  Sadly, I learned that it was more like a dorm for the zookeepers there, and that we would not be staying there for more than an hour or two.  My body had yet to even remember what time it should have been at, but the day was still young here, and I knew there would be no rest for a while.

I popped a malaria pill, following it up with a nice caffeine pill just to make sure I would be able to make it at least until we made it out to the site in the jungle.  After taking a quick shower, changing, and applying a gratuitous layer of deodorant, we set out.  I managed to knock myself out sitting in the back seat, trying to go over the packet of information my boss had given me.  All the information about the thing’s preferred food sources and sleep cycle wouldn’t mean much if the thing hadn’t even been seen for quite some time in this area.

The indigenous people say they see them, but they’ve also been recorded killing Karaquals on site as well.  Even though the thing isn’t dangerous really to humans on their own, they are definitely big enough to kill livestock like the goats some of the peoples keep out here.  Unfortunate, but for the people living out here in the bush, they do what they must.

Cèzar finally awoke me when we arrived at the camp.  Some of the other guys had been there for a day or two, having set up tents and a campfire, roasting some tubers and an assortment of strange looking meats on a spit.  I saw a few cloudy plastic containers holding several strange looking species of spider, happily spinning webs among the twigs they had thrown in.  I kept my distance, content myself with reptiles rather than arachnids.

The heat of the day crept up on us quickly, and some of the men went and hid in their tents for a siesta.  Cèzar stuck around with me for a bit, explaining how they had staked out the area around the camp with several cage traps to possibly catch any smallish animal if they might happen to pass by.  So far, though, they had only succeeded in pissing off a raccoon mom and her cubs.  When the men got up, I managed to wander around with them for a bit to check said traps, but empty they remained.

I had Cèzar ask them if they had seen any signs of big reptiles; shredded skin, black and white scat, or burrows.  Nothing, it seems.  Exhausted from my day of travel, I quickly collapsed again after a quick dinner.  The following day produced similar findings of nothing.  My stomach continued to bother me, and I kept chugging water to counteract all the sweat I was producing.  A headache slowly grew, and when midday came by, I decided to simply call it a day with the others for their siesta.

I awoke with a shooting pain in my stomach, rumbling downwards towards my posterior.  The only light outside was the fire burning down in the embers.  I quickly grabbed my torch and a roll of bog paper and ran out into the darkness to find an appropriate tree.  I finished with the foul-smelling business and felt much better.  As I was finishing cleaning myself off, I heard a crinkling among the foliage.  Quickly shining my light upwards, I saw the scales glisten.  Eyes fixated on it, I quickly shoved the torch under my arm and pulled up my trousers.  The thing’s tongue flickered in the air, smelling my refuse, strangely enough.  It was, without a doubt, what I had come to find.  The air was cold this time of night, and I could see it moving slowly, tentatively.  I took my change to quickly jump upon it, torch still grasped awkwardly in my armpit.

Holding it behind it’s stubby flailing front legs, tail flapping back at me furiously, I ran back to the camp, trousers wanting to fall down the whole way.  I must have caused enough confusion, as a few of the men came out of their tents, sleepily eyed.  The creature still furious, we shoved it into one of the larger crates, narrowly avoiding another bite.

Posted in writing

The Last of It’s Kind

I ran down the hallway, clutching at the thick fabric of my uniform’s sleeve, hoping to catch all the blood that had begun trickling down my palm and fingers.  As I turned to push through the swinging door to the bathroom, I quickly looked behind me to make sure that none of the drops of crimson liquid had followed me in a trail down the hallway.

Hovering over the sink inside, I quickly pulled back my sleeve, now soaked.  With my opposite hand, I turned the sink on full blast to hot water.  Steam slowly began to rise and catch on the mirror in front of me.  With a quick breath, I shoved my torn-up hand under the stream of water, wincing as the liquid ran over it with searing heat.

The stall behind me opened up suddenly.  From my quick glance in the mirror, I could see my coworker, Marshall from the African exhibit pop out.  “Jackson?  You okay?”

“Just got a little scrape.”  I muttered through gritted teeth, the faintly red-stained water washing down the drain.

“Is… that a bite?”  I could see him from my peripheral vision, looking over my shoulder.

“It’s not that bad.”  I pulled my hand out of the stream, shaking it back and forth.  More blood began to pool up in the shallow, dark bite marks.  “He didn’t draw blood.”

“Care to reassess that statement?”  Marshall shifted around to my side, pulling out a fistful of paper towels from the holder to begin wiping up the stray drops of blood and splashed water from around the sink.  “Why did you come here, rather than the first aid station?”

“It was the Karaqual. He got a good chomp, probably wanting to play with me.”  I shoved the water off carefully with my wrist.  “Didn’t start bleeding right away.”

“Damn that thing.”  Marshall attempted to start patting my hands dry.

“Wash your own damn hands, first.”  I grumbled, snatching the wad of paper from him.  “Do you know what they would want to do if they thought it got a taste of blood?”

“It’s endangered.  They wouldn’t put it down but… they wouldn’t let anyone near it anymore.  Especially not you.”  He mumbled.

“The thing is just acting out because it doesn’t see enough activity.”  I sighed, wrapping up my hand in several layers of the paper towels.  “It won’t act nice with any other of the reptiles from the nearby exhibits.  What it needs is a mate.”

“Yeah right.”  Marshall shook his head, leaning back against the counter.  “And you’re just gonna head down there and find one out there, if there even are any?”

“We have that grant being divvied up right now.  I think I can convince them.”  I looked down once again at my hand, paper towels slowly taking on a reddish tinge.  “That big old lizard probably it reaching the end of it’s breeding cycle right now, don’t you think?”

“We don’t know that.”  Marshall shook his head.

“Then they’ll be less likely to risk it.”

__

The airport was bustling.  Nervously playing with the tied-off strips of gauze and bandages on my hand, I looked up at the gate listing, heading south to Brazil.

-To Be Continued.

Posted in writing

Grip

“Please hold out your arm.”  The man in the white coat scooted forward slightly, legs of the stool grinding irritatingly against the gritty tile surface.

Lyla sat up neatly against the edge of the bed, paper rustling under her seat.  Running her palm against the opposite arm, she could feel her touch stimulating the tiny hairs atop her skin.  The end of limb was blunt, rounded over just above where her elbow would have been, old wound sealed shut with a tiny line of skin, scar tissue rather.

“It’s healed well.  The x-ray hasn’t revealed any abscesses forming.”  The doctor ran the tips of his fingers up her bare arm.  “Have you experienced any discomfort?”

“No…”  Lyla mumbled, watching the metal bell of the stethoscope dangle in front of the man’s paisley tie.

“Good, good.”  The doctor spun around atop the stool to the counter behind him, peering into a long rectangular box.  “Before we get you fitted with something permanent, I’ll allow you to take this home and get used to the feeling.”  The doctor pulled a sheet of tissue paper out from the box, followed by a peach-colored plastic arm, held together with a glaring stainless steel hinge.  “Get used to operating it, as well.”

“It looks gross.”  Lyla looked up at the device, dangling various cords and electrodes off the back.

“Well…”  The doctor spun back around, producing a small mesh pocket shaped to the stub of her arm.  “The permanent version will be matched to your skin color, and will have much of the mechanical stuff tucked away, hidden.”

Setting down the prosthetic, the doctor slipped the cloth over Lyla’s arm, pulling it snug. He quickly picked the arm back up, grabbing the wires in his fist and tucking them by Lyla’s side as he matched the socket at the end to limb.

“This will hold on like this.”  He continued, fiddling with the strap to go around Lyla’s back.  “Now, if you just hold on to this and tell me when you feel the muscles in your back start to react to the stimulus.”  The doctor grabbed the vinyl pillow off the bed behind her, placing it between her hands, new and old.

The man moved beside her, and Lyla could feel the cold electrodes move underneath the strap on her tank top and attach to various points on her shoulder blades and spine.  The weight of the new arm pulled down on her arm, but the strap could be felt pulling against her neck and shoulder, dragging the piece of equipment up and down with her troubled movements.  The muscles up her back tensed, and the pillow in her hand twitched as the new hand slowly tightened around it.

“Can you feel it?”  The doctor came back to her front, looking down at the now twitching fingers on Lyla’s fresh hand.

“It feels… so numb.  Like it isn’t real.”  Lyla looked down at the pillow just as it fell from her grasp and onto the ground with a soft thump.

“Let’s test your range of movement, your grip.”  The doctor offered his hand out towards hers.  Lyla lifted her fresh hand towards his, fingers clumsily wrapping around his. “Imagine you’re picking up an egg, or… picking up a pet, your child perhaps.  Imagine pulling your fingers inwards towards the palm.  Softly.”

Lyla concentrated, back muscles twitching, eyes fixated on her own hand.  Between her fingers, The doctors’ sat, relaxed, before pulling in slightly.  The man quickly stopped, attempting to pull back.  Lyla’s face twisted up in concentration, frustration.  The doctor’s face turned to a grimace, unable to pull his own hand away.  A loud cracking sounded through the room, and the two intertwined hands twisted and buckled suddenly.

Lyla quickly jumped back in surprise from the sound, arm now limp.  “I’m… sorry.  I just…”

The doctor pulled at his wrist, shaking it back and forth.  Tugging at the torn vinyl glove, shreds of the material came away, revealing mechanical joints of his own, connected to a length of plastic material extending up his sleeve.  “It can take some time to… get used to the lack of feeling.  But, we can work through it.”

Posted in writing

Eclipse

You would think that you wouldn’t need to tell most sensible grown-up people that you shouldn’t look up at the sun.  Yet, it seemed like they wanted to reinforce it so badly.  I mean, the draw of something that only happens ever 8 or more years or so really makes people want to do something potentially harmful.  I get it.  People take precautions, though.  Those crazy glasses.  Tiny viewers with peepholes.  Tutorials on how to record it on your camera without burning out the sensor.  They say you can take in the experience, but it’s still behind a filter.  It isn’t the real thing.

My boss told me not to look at the sun.  The morning news squeezed it in between the traffic updates and the weather.  Even Twitter, in that little “in case you missed it section,” that never goes away despite trying to block it– that was saying it too.  I decided to ignore it.  I’ve worn glasses since I was in the fourth grade, and gone through at least seven different stages of prescriptions.  It’s not like my vision can get that bad.  I mean, I’ve gotten to see Eiffel Tower before, so it’s not like I’m missing out on much either.

The time came, it began passing over.  The dark disk started to move into place, crawling like something out of a cheap sci-fi horror of Alien invasions.  I had my glasses just in case, but the moment the sun went into full eclipse, I removed them, looking deeply into the void of blackness.  It’s a finite point in time that it’s directly in front of the sun.  That’s when I saw it.  A quick blinking, followed by a quick glint of strange light like I had not seen before.  Up above at the edge of the disk, a man in light blue coveralls, on a footstool, holding what looked like a burnt-out bulb, stood.  Then, he disappeared, and the orb of light began creeping back out.  People started heading back in to their places of work, unknowing.

But I saw.

Posted in Series, writing

Strange New Land

Outland: Chapter 19

The long road out of the city seemed busier than any city I had ever visited back in the states.  I could see people clearing out of the way, looks of fright and intrigue on their faces, and I piloted Gulliver the best I could.  Lining the streets were many stalls holding all types of merchandise from clothes, handbags, food of all imaginable type, as well as shady looking stalls chucking flip phones and various sorts of beaten up technology.

We wandered out off the long city streets out into the slummy suburbs, eventually leading into a sort of no man’s land, covered in filth and remnants of civilization.  Some of the children from the city had chased me out on the street, but eventually lost interest and trail off.  I took a look back at the old port, with the boat as tiny speck out in the distance.

Carefully treading through bits of trash, I had Gulliver wade out into the water, the waves sitting just below the windows of the cockpit.  Flipping the switch to put the solar array up, I finally took a breath preparing myself to speak.

“Well, Gulliver.  We’re here.” Continue reading “Strange New Land”

Posted in Series, writing

The Expanse

Outland: Chapter 18

The cold spray flew up in my face, causing me to reel back and almost fall on the slippery ground, if it were not for my grip on the railing.  The unpredictable movement of the waves had not ceased to surprise me like that.  Tasting the salty residue on my lips, my stomach churned, and I quickly leaned over the edge to dry heave, swaying back and forth on my heels the whole time.

“What are you doing out here?”  The call came out, just barely audible over the sound of the water.

“Grabbing something.”  I hoisted the plastic bag over my head, filled with my various maps.

“Can’t it wait?”  Johnathan, the first mate, pulled at my long sleeve.

“I don’t want the let the opportunity pass.”  I quickly followed after him, shoes carefully treading against the ground.

Stepping inside, I pulled off the lift vest and heavy coat, both mostly soaked.  “You have to understand…”  I caught my breath.  “That mech is my home.  Everything I own is in there.” Continue reading “The Expanse”

Posted in Series, writing

A Way

Outland: Chapter 17

I never ended up seeing any other active ports along the coast like that man down in Los Angeles had told me of.  I fully prepared myself to take time travelling underwater to avoid any more of the same situations like I did down there.  Luckily, both for my sanity and the speed of our progress, I never was able to spot any more telling lights in the night.

I could feel the cold outside start to penetrate Gulliver’s metal skin.  For the first time in almost a year, I opened up the mechanical access panel to turn the knob on the boiler to high.  It had been set on the lowest setting to simple be able to heat water for drinking and the occasion shower, but never enough to send hot enough water to circulate into the cockpit’s radiator.  I knew it would decrease the efficiency a bit, by my teeth chattering at night from the near hypothermia told me it would be a necessary thing to do.  Despite that, my blanket became a permanent installation around my body as I sat inside the cockpit during the day.  I cured the fact that none of my old work uniforms had proper, insulated long sleeves.

Long stretches of water were bordered by tall cliffsides that stretched up even farther than the rising tide.  Rather than be pushed around by the chilling waves, I chose to pilot Gulliver up top, despite the often thick foliage that we had to push our way though.  Many of the trees were taller than Gulliver himself, and the undergrowth was dense and rich.  In a way, it was mesmerizing, like some sort of scene out of a sci-fi movie where adventurers find themselves on a strange planet that is inhabited by nothing but trees.

When the sun eventually set, however, I learned that it was increasingly more difficult to spot any lights on the horizon.  My fears were confirmed one night when sets of lights flickered on somewhere on the other side of a patch of trees.  Startled, I grabbed the controls and stopped Gulliver abruptly.  If it hadn’t been for his own systems taken over, we could have possibly toppled over.

“Andrew, I must stress that you must take care while performing such an action.”

“Sorry, Gul.  I can’t risk any other run-ins like the one down south.”

“I understand.  You see lights?”

“Some just came on out there.  They’re probably on some light sensor or timer by the look of it.  There’s a lot of them too.” Continue reading “A Way”