Post by jackalope on Jul 7, 2013 5:26:32 GMT -5
Ultimate Ex Machina
#8.5 Machine Dreams
#8.5 Machine Dreams
April
The TV stations were still showing it. It was the most tweeted event, after Game of Thrones. It played over and over again on YouTube gaining a million views in the first 2 days. 'Inspirational speech interrupted' is what the most popular they dubbed it. An analyst on Fox had it slowed down to show the moment when it happened, when the Mayor disappears. The silent shock that ripples through the crowd is audible through a number of gasps of shock and confusion. People run to the stage. The Mayor's bodyguard is first in, an almost desperate look on his face. Dropping to his knees, the man reaches out, his hands disappearing, followed soon by his body as he lean in. Suddenly the scene changes. As the camera shakes, moving to a higher position, there lay the Mayor, arrow in chest, blood pooling around him.
'He looks dead,' the top comment read.
The sight still made temporary acting Mayor Dave Wylie want to throw up. Yet here he is, still watching it.
The sound of knocking on the door pulls him from his thoughts and he closes the tab. “Come in.” Lifting his head he sees Journal, holding her standard electronic notebook and professional smile. Wylie returns his own smile, perhaps less convincingly. “Hey Ms Moore, what's on the menu today?”
“This morning you have a meeting with Judge Lee; he wants to talk with you about the growing drug reform movement. Then there's the Episcopal Bishop Riley who also wants to talk to you about the same thing, except from the other side.”
“Okay cool,” Dave nods, scratching his beard. “Which one is which again?”
“Bishop Riley is pro drug reform; she's been pushing Delaware to legalize recreational use marijuana for years. Judge Lee is trying to roll back the Medical laws on it.”
“Right,” Dave quickly writes a note of this. “And after.”
“There's the introductory address at the newly built health clinic in New Troy, I've got the speech ready here. Then you have lunch with Tony Newman from Avalon Entertainment, he wants to talk tax breaks for filming in Metropolis.” Journal scrolls down her list.
“Fun...” The Acting Mayor rolls his eyes; how Mitchell put up with this crap day in was beyond him.
“You've got the city council meeting at 1.30. The final vote on the Aether Tower project is due to go through. Seems it will pass with a marked majority.”
“Well at least something good will...” He stops. Looking at her face now he realises she's right on the edge of crying. She looks at her schedule, lips clenched. “You can go visit him, I mean, if you'd like to take some time off, you've been through a lot, not that you're not appreciated...” He hesitates.
“I can't,” Journal says, catching herself, “I need to... stay busy, if I don't work I'll just sit there watching him, which is useless.” She lifts her large blue eyes, “Besides, he won’t forgive me if I let you run the city into the ground while he's out.”
“Fucker'll kill me.” Dave shakes his head and smiles. “Any update on his condition?”
* * *
“It's hard to tell what will happen,” the doctor says softly. Holding his clipboard like a chest plate his eyes move back from Mitchell Hundred, lying in bed with a dozen tubes coming out of his body. He looks in the mother's grey eyes. “As you know, we've managed to repair most of the damage done to his lungs from the arrow, but the oxygen deprivation, the blood loss and the concussion suffered when he fell has left his situation precarious.” The woman's eyes are tough, holding his gaze, she nods. He looks down at his notes, but also to try and avoid her painfully sharp look.
“When will he wake up?” There isn't any anger in her voice, just a plain asking, a desire for the truth.
“Well. I'm not sure if there's an easy answer for you.” The short Indian doctor pauses, looking down at his notes. When he looks back up he meets the steely glare of a mother. Glancing to the door, where the large blond-haired bodyguard stands in the hallway, guarding the entrance. He clears his throat. “OK, I'm not really supposed to be talking to about this. Technically, there is a military classification on it. I mean, his condition – how his powers manifest... uh. When we operated on your son we found a... I guess you would call it a network of interconnected wires of some sort material of unknown origin- the same stuff that is visible on his chest. The network seems interlaced throughout his nervous system and links directly into his brain. The real damage done to him probably happened when the arrow severed part of this “wiring.” Adjusting his glasses, he adds, “...we guess.”
Martha Hundred nods slowly. “But he's not brain damaged...”
“No, not as far as we can tell.” Looking through the patient's file once more, he continues, “His brain scan seems normal, though he seems to be going through periodical cycles of intense R.E.M. activity.”
“He's dreaming?”
The doctor nods, muttering to himself, “I'd love to see what's going on his head...”
Under the dark stare of the patient's mother, he soon leaves.
* * *
Through a city of silver skyscrapers, Mitchell floats, lifted by two clockwork angels. Fluffy white data clouds drift overhead. The skyline itself is alive, ticking and turning, screeching machines singing praises in some industrial choir. The twisting of cogs in the angel's framework is only barely visible in the joints of the exquisitely crafted messengers. Mitchell looks down to see his own naked body. The angels on either side of him seem unconcerned, they themselves only being covered in white cloth that somehow hangs off their bodies without falling. Their pale porcelain faces look ahead, towards the warm glowing light.
“Where are we going?” The words come out from his mouth, forming into a green script of strange symbols. It leaves a metallic taste in his mouth.
“To the Architect.” The angels reply in unison, their words shining golden before fading away.
This puts a strange feeling within him, swelling between his heart and stomach. He cannot tell if it is fear or awe. The clockwork angels wind up wings squeak as they turn in the air. Ahead of him two large towers start to part, leaning away from one another. As they approach, he can see now that the towers are only teeth on gargantuan gears which are turning. 'Powering what?' Mitchell wonders.
“Creation,” replies an angel.
As they pass through the buildings, he feels the warmth envelop him, shining through his blood and bones. The angels lower, gliding on the warm currents of steam. He can see a park or perhaps some sort of jungle. The natural green seems in stark contrast to the silver-grey and neon of the city. They lower him to the edge of the park, dropping him inches from the ground without touching it themselves. One of them takes off; the other lingers for a moment.
“Follow the path,” it says, before taking to the sky.
The concrete path is cold on his bare feet. It pushes into a forest; talk trees surround him as he walks. It's silent. For the first time in a long while he cannot hear their voices, the buzzing and clicking, the ceaseless listing of commands and functions. 'Of all the boring things one could talk to, machines had to be the worst,' he thinks.
“Try animals,” says a voice that sounds familiar. He looks about but can see no one.
The path twists around a thick brush and he finds himself stopping. A large creature flaps its feathered wings. Like his clockwork angels, it has a human body covered in white cloth, but unlike them it is flesh and its neck bares a large lion head, complete with mane and glowing golden eyes. It roars.
He turns away, cowering from it, but in turning he finds himself elsewhere. In...
“The Garden.”
The voice comes from a man; at least he thinks it does. Looking upon the speaker felt natural, but for the life of him he could not describe him.
“Do not worry about the angel, he serves another.” The speaker waves his hand dismissively and then smiles, “You have done well, so far, in completing my plans. The towers will stand soon.”
Mitchell rubs his forehead, trying to remember that he is only dreaming. He nods. “That's right, the towers.”
The Architect turns, looking out across the fields. “Now you must complete what comes next.”
A ball of burden suddenly weighs heavily in his chest. He tries not to show his anxiety but he is sure his queasy fear is creeping across his face. “What must I do?”
“Build me a Garden,” the Architect turns back, his glowing eyes holding Mitchell's, “and for that, you will need a Gardener.”