Turning, Nick walked out the door he’d come in and down the hall toward the stairs. He wanted to see where the other voice had come from.

His room.

The stairs weren’t long, and their soft, blue carpeting cushioned Nick’s footsteps. Upstairs, the hall was L-shaped, turning left at the room that had once been the guest bedroom before it became his father’s study, continuing past his sister Jessica’s room and the master bedroom. At the end…

His room.

The door swung open, and there he was. Nick saw himself at seven, with that dopey little haircut and the shirt with a cartoon character on it. He was kneeling on the floor, surrounded by a pile of toys, playing.

Nick looked around the room. The walls were still covered with brightly colored balloon wallpaper, the stuff that hadn’t come down until eighth grade when Nick became painfully aware of how childish it looked. His little bed, not to be replaced for years, still rested in the center of the room, covered by young Nick’s favorite Star Wars bedsheets.

Little Nick looked up “Who’re you?”

Nick blinked. The room was empty; its white walls were decorated only by a pattern of sunlight filtering through the windows. Dazed, Nick stumbled down the rickety wooden stairs, through the other barren rooms, and into the sunshine of the yard.

This post is part of the June 2011 Blog Chain at Absolute Write. This month’s challenge is a simple descriptive setting.

It was raining in Heden. This was evident in the way its citizens scuttled to and fro in the few open spaces, avoiding the heavy droplets as best they could.

It always rained in Heden. There was a faint shimmer to the bright, bizarre fabrics worn by the people that indicated waterproofing, and each person shed a wake of droplets that collected near thousands of drainage grates.

It would always rain in Heden. There was no way to be sure of this, but the water-worn and rusted surfaces of the Towers suggested it. Looming up into the ever-dark sky, they seemed resigned to an eternal pelting from the neverending storm.

The original design of Heden had called for six of the great Towers, forming the simple hexagon shape found on many of the great neon billboards and television screens that dotted each Tower much as lichens dotted the occasional real rock. The Towers had grown together, fused into one great shapeless mass by centuries of construction, destruction, rust, and rainwater. The simple glass walkways that had connected them had been long shorn of their panes, and hundreds of homegrown, rickety, winding paths of iron and steel had appeared to supplant them.

A monitor was suspended above one such improvised walkway, placed to ambush passersby with its message. Its bright, flashing image wasn’t an ad. Ad Boards were hard to afford, anymore; people who wanted to advertise just added more crumpled paper or laminate fliers to the mass that coated every surface reachable by human hands. This screen was an Info Board.

Info Boards were there to ‘illuminate possible interpretations of information for the purpose of educating the people’ according to the Boards themselves. This particular Board was playing the ‘History of Heden’, and everyone passing beneath had seen it before.

Check out this month’s other bloggers, all of whom have posted or will post their own responses:
juniper
LadyMage
dolores haze
jkellerford
Ralph Pines
TheMindKiller
AuburnAssassin
pezie
WildScribe
Inkstrokes
Irissel
Guardian
Lyra Jean
egoodlett
cwachob

The Tuy’baq are a physically weak race, and must be augmented cybernetically to gain sentience; typically, this is done at birth. As almost inherently cybernetic organisms, Tuy’baq are naturally gifted users of data systems. After the Vyaeh conquered the Tuy’baq homeworld of Q’otwaa, Tuy’baq were placed on Vyaeh ships to act as programmers and hackers.

The Tuy’baq cybernetic exoskeletons are not designed for combat, but are nevertheless resistant to small arms fire, and the creatures are equipped with a fusion pulse launcher for self-defense. While typically controlled by a Vyaeh slavemaster, in the past two decades Tuy’baq have recently begun a rebellion against their masters.

Some Tuy’baq have been equipped with upgraded armor and improved weaponry for operations in more hostile environments, and these are typically identifiable by their purple armor. Tuy’baq programmers can be equipped with a cloaking generator that conceals all but a faint outline of the creature. These cloak-capable programmers are typically used for covert missions, but have been employed as assassins as well.

In the seventeen years since the first Tuy’baq slave rebellion, the Vyaeh have taken steps to prevent its spread. By redesigning the programmer exoskeleton, they have been able to maintain firmer control of the enslaved Tuy’baq. The redesigned unit is also more combat-worthy, with a smaller profile, thicker armor, and a significantly upgraded fusion pulse launcher. Older exoskeleton models continue to see use in reserve fleets, however.

Programmers designed for high-risk combat operations have undergone the recent cybernetic upgrade as well. Vyaeh engineers placed special emphasis on the armor of these units, which is electrically charged and capable of resisting nearly twice as much damage as earlier models. A rudimentary guidance system has also been added to the programmer’s fusion pulse launcher armament as well.

Much like earlier models, the upgraded Tuy’baq can be equipped with cloaking generators. The efficiency of these devices has been improved, however, and they leave less of a telltale shadow when employed.

“Joy,” you say, “I’m an engineer. I might be able to design something like this if you gave me enough time, but I have no idea how to use it.”

“It is a simple point and click interface,” Joy says from your wrist in that not-quite-monotone voice.

“Joy!”

“Very well. Accessing database entries.” You could swear she sounds petulant that you didn’t laugh at her little pun. “It is an M-50 assault rifle, model 6. This rifle is considered one of the great follies of modern military technology. Under pressure from megacorporate leaders and government buyers, it was rushed into production with multiple design flaws. The result was a highly inaccurate firearm that was nevertheless widely distributed to EC military units. The large-caliber, can-feed, caseless round design proved dangerous and ineffective in battle. Historical Dictionary of Arms and Armor, 8th edition, amended.”

“Amended?” you say. “By who?”

“Unknown,” Joy says…smugly? “Citation needed.”

You sigh, and shake Joy’s interface unit. “Anything else? I need to know how to fire it!”

“Recording of an exchange between a senior EC general and a military procurement officer, recorded on an FNS hidden microphone smuggled into a high-level meeting in a box of donuts:

‘This thing couldn’t hit the broad side of a starship at twenty yards. How many did you say we ordered?’ – Maj. Gen. Eduard Montreaux

‘Twenty-five million, sir.’ -Unidentified ECC officer adjunct.”

Nevertheless, out of all the Great Cosmic Beings who ruled the earth in the Darkened Ages Past, it was Gotul who attracted the most interest. Gotul, He-Who-Sleeps-In-Darkness, was the primary Being mentioned in the ancient sources, and the one to which the various cults which tended to arise often devoted themselves.

In the old days, when the cultists vanished, it was ascribed to a variety of causes. Perhaps He-Who-Sleeps-In-Darkness had taken his faithful to the paradise of nonbeing where he was reputed to reside. Perhaps his wrath had been invoked and he had destroyed the flies that buzzed about him. Perhaps the cultists had found their supplications unanswered and had moved on to more lucrative yet still evil endeavors, such as law practice or civil service.

That ambiguity had the natural effect of encouraging another cult to sprout up, once collective memory had selectively forgotten the worst parts of the story and the occasional bloody torsos that remained behind. As such, when the latest Cult of Gotul arose in the 1970’s, its disappearance on March 23, 1976 was accompanied by a press release on behalf of Gotul issued by Featherby, Brooke & Whitmire:

“Please cease any and all attempts to contact, raise, or invoke Gotul, also known as He-Who-Sleeps-In-Darkness or Foremost-Among-Great-Cosmic-Beings. He is, as his name suggests, very sleepy and would prefer to remain asleep and unmolested in retirement. Those who disregard this warning do so at the risk of being subject to an automatic Ritual of Rending Annihilation. Gotul reminds would-be cultists that the reality of the Darkness would rend in twain the sanity of any mortal who beholds it, and suggests devotees find a less overwhelmingly fatal outlet for their spiritual energies.”

The fact that the Exchange is, well, totally and completely illegal makes things a bit tricky as far as compensation is concerned. Electronic currencies can be tracked: even though the Exchange’s network is not connected to the hypernets, investigators are always sticking probes and eavesdroppers of all sorts in our business.

So everything is done in cash or barter, probably one of the only places around where that’s still true. The fuzz can only tell that someone converted their currency to cash, not what they bought with it. That lends a nice air of plausible deniability that keeps business booming for sentients from 113 official polities and dozens of unofficial ones.

Guess who gets to convert all those currencies into Exchange scrip, by hand?

“I need forty Confederate Riyals in scrip!”

“How much can I get for seven Commonwealth Bits?”

“Why does the sign say no transactions of more than twenty-five Ethereal Shekels are allowed? All I have is fifty!”

“My ten thousand Planetary Suzeranity Units are only worth two Exchange scrips?”

“I need eighteen Violet Republic Talents changed, even though our glorious and beloved Republic is only recognized by a single independent asteroid!”

“Our history is…complex,” said the Ethereal. “It tends to happen when your civilization exists in fifteen timelines and seventeen dimensions simultaneously.”

“Well, just give me a rundown of the last few…times. You know, get my feet wet.”

“Well, right now my people are experiencing the Cosmic Age, a time of prosperity and renewal in which we are seeking to contact other beings.”

“Fair enough.”

“Before that came the Withering Time, when all our accomplishments as beings were laid low and we were reduced to mindless physical husks restricted to only seven combined dimensions and timelines. It was brought about by the collapse of the previous epoch, the Age of Golden Vices.”

“What made that happen?”

“The groundwork was laid in the Wholesome Age of Moons, when we experimented with tying our essences to satellites. The Myconid Implosion showed the folly of that line of thinking. The Corrupted Age of the Heretics immediately preceding it was to blame, since they had spurned any and all physicality.”

“I…see. and before that?”

“The Aeon of the Device,” the Ethereal said, making a reverent gesture (or at least appearing to).

“What was the Device?”

“We do not speak of it with outsiders!”

Quatrain the First:
In order to become a true warrior, one must first learn what it is to be vulnerable and weak. Only by proving oneself in the face of a superior opponent may one then understand the minds of those who wage hopeless battles.

Quatrain the Second:
As strength grows, one must find ways to exploit the weaknesses of the enemy while concealing and overcoming one’s own. Strike from behind; attack unceasingly without mercy; close rapidly. A weapon is little use beyond a club once the enemy is grappled with.

Quatrain the Third:
Only when one has shown courage in hand to hand fighting may one begin to attack from a distance. To rely on this is cowardly; to employ it is noble. Use the same tactics from a distance, and concealment or surprise become all the easier.

Quatrain the Fourth:
The final step along the path sees you stronger than many of your adversaries. Do not neglect what you have learned, for overconfidence is the most deadly sort of foolishness. Strike from afar, strike with blazing speed, and your enemies will know pain.

Quatrain the Fifth:
Those that are truly Honored spurn the weapons and equipment of their brothers in arms, for they know that true strength, true victory, comes from will alone. They have the strength of will to face any adversary on their own terms; do you?

Ramon examined the car on the precipice before the void with a steely gaze. In his eyes, the cladding and accents were of an IKA Carabela.

“My stepfather was so damned proud of that car,” he growled. “A big, shiny, American automobile to show the world that he had made his grand entrance, even if he was only a civil administrator in Córdoba. We could hear him coming from a half-kilometer away, riding that big engine block, and he’d bring in the hubcaps every night for my sisters and I to polish.”

“Why not just have you polish them outside?” Stennis asked, feeling that he should say something.

Ramon turned the full force of his baleful glare on Stennis. “He didn’t trust us to touch it. A fingerprint on that car was grounds for a beating. Knocking a branch into it got my sister Isabel a crown on her front tooth. That man wouldn’t even allow us to ride in it; the five of us were crammed into my mother’s old Model T, a prewar import! All the while he rode in his great, shining four-door coupe!”

“I’m in the hallway outside,” said Jordan. “I don’t see any more of those things.”

“Wonderful,” squawked Graves through the walkie-talkie. “Don’t you think you could have waited another forty seconds and simply come into the lab?”

“I wanted you to be expecting me.”

“I was already expecting you! Now stop babbling and cover the last fifteen point seven-two meters to your destination!”

Jordan gritted her teeth. “I told you before, Dr. Graves, I’m sick of your attitude.”

“And I told you before, Ms. Avery, that your feelings on the matter are strictly incidental. You should be grateful that I need a tool in accomplishing my ends; otherwise you’d have been left to rot with the rest of them.”

That was it, Jordan decided. When she met Graves, she was going to kick him directly in the stones. She’d had enough of his bossy, disembodied voice.

The lab door had been locked from the inside; it opened as she approached. Inside, she saw a walkie-talkie held in one of the lab’s manipulator arms, positioned next to a mainframe terminal speaker. Dr. Graves lay in a heap on the floor, with deep red marks around his neck.

“Surprise,” the terminal said.