Shiverfinger's Stories

Automaton II: Monitor

2007-06-14T07:36:55Z

Monitor listened in sleep mode as Cook lumbered off. The clock struck six.

The smaller robot woke from its corner station, its gears whirring to life. It unlocked its treads and drove across the room, ticking, to the bed.

“Time to wake, sir,” Monitor announced in its tinny voice.

No response.

“Sir?”

It picked a course of action from its clockwork differential. It cranked its core higher to see over the bed.

“Please wake, sir.”

The Admiral laid completely still, his face grey and bloated, streaked with blue. He had been this way for days.

“Sir?”

Monitor searched its differential again. It had nothing for such a situation. Monitor reached out with a clawed hand and tugged on the Admiral’s sleeve, trying to shake him awake. The robot wheeled backwards and the old man’s body fell from the bed with a wet thud, spilling tea and scattering biscuits across the room.

Monitor’s differential contained nothing for such a situation. Its gears slowed and changed rhythm, the ticking heavy like sobs.

“Sir?”

Automaton I: Cook and Cleaner

2007-06-14T07:28:09Z

The dishes towered in heaps, festering and sprouting patches of furry mold. A rotten stench lingered in the corners of the kitchen, fed by globs of congealing food. Cook had tried to wash the dishes, but it was a difficult job. Its hands were fit for cooking and handling ingredients: the glass slipped right through its iron fingers. Cleaner had been broken for two weeks.

The Admiral said he would fix Cleaner, but he hadn’t.

So Cook just retrieved the kettle from the stove and prepared the Admiral’s breakfast. A daisy in a vase from the garden, the tea, the biscuits, the kettle, and a piece of toast and jam.

Cleaner clicked from the corner, tried to rise on its legs, and crashed back down, spewing cogs and gears. Cook helped it back to its power station before leaving.

Cook laid out the morning tea, alongside the trays from yesterday, and the day before yesterday, and all the yesterdays before that. But that did not come into its equations. It clanked back to the kitchen. That was Monitor’s concern.

Chain Lightning: Interlude I

2007-06-12T11:37:03Z

Sophia marveled at how beautiful the flowers were this summer. Flower boxes tumbling with blooms lined every main road of Meris this time of year. It even held the nickname of the Green Port for the impressive skills of its gardeners and green witches.

But the flowers were thickest here by the fountain dedicated to the deeds of Jean, the first Rose Sorceress. Even the stone podium holding the plaque telling of her legend crawled with ivy.

Sophia cleaned her hands in the cold flowing waters, then disposed of the crumb riddled napkin in her lap. It had certainly been a good place to take her lunch.

Full from crusted lamb skewers and content with the perfume of so many flowers, Sophia set toward the busy market district, each step jingle-jangling from her full pocket of coins. She had been eyeing that vacant shop for some time now. Old Mamora had packed her bags and fled from her tax inquisition. Come fall, come winter, Meris would be in need for another local tailor.

Sophia smiled. Lucky her.

Chain Lightning: Captain

2007-06-09T09:26:49Z

The crate’s warding sigla gleamed even in the ship’s shadows, traced by golden sparks. Intrigued by the spells, Lithilian stepped nearer. The crate had been the only cargo loaded.

She ran her fingers over the wood. It vibrated beneath her touch, cold as bone. She began to unfasten the top’s latches.

“Wouldn’t do that,” Captain Ghar’s voice said from behind her left ear.

Lithilian yelped and jerked back toward Isthmar. His ears flickered and all his fur stood on end as he stared at Ghar, horror on his face. She followed his gaze.

The once tidy captain wore only salt stained rags. His hair hung around his face in a dirty, stringy curtain. Blood seeped from the corner of his mouth and stained his teeth.

Ghar contorted his face into a hideous harlequin grin. “Leave the nice box alone and go back below deck. We’re busy, right, Frey?”

The emaciated woman stepped from the shadows beside the captain, leaning on a long wicked-looking spear. Her ratty hair hid her face.

“Right,” Frey breathed.

Chain Lightning: Star Struck

2007-06-08T00:23:15Z

Buzzing filled Lithilian’s ears as she stepped on to the deck, but her mind was too sleep addled to notice. She pushed her hair back and folded her arms for warmth. With the cold Lierian night wrapped around her she was thankful for her thick robes.

The twin moons of Divere shone overhead, casting enough light for her to see. The crew the captain sailed into port with stood at one end of the deck, staring at the sky. The sailors who joined in Brent huddled near the mast, whispering.

One spotted Lithilian and rushed over. As he neared she recognized him as Isthmar, one of furred Cachians that resembled animals more than humans with their tails and ears.

“They won’t move,” he said.

Lithilian rubbed her eyes with her palm. “Why?”

“Don’t know. They stopped a few minutes ago and did that. Can’t shake them out of it. And… and they brought something from below up to the deck.”

“What?” She looked down at him from between her fingers. “What was it?”

Isthmar pointed over her shoulder. “That.”

Chain Lightning

2007-06-07T14:21:00Z

Dreams of inhuman skeletons disturbed her sleep, long boned and joints clicking. The skulls were horned and more like those of a wolf than a human. Deformed hands like sharp pincers.

Lithilian woke in the middle of the night with the realization The Narwhal had stopped moving. A stream of watery moonlight poured in from the dew covered porthole. Ribbons of fog pressed to the glass, swirling to almost resemble faces and hands.

‘Fog always puts me in a bad mood,’ she thought, pulling the blankets back and rising. ‘Can’t see through it. Always tricks you.’

She thumped the wick of her unlit candle. It burst into flame and lit the room for her to dress.

It was almost a ceremony. First the thin silk purple under robes. Then the thicker blue robes that marked a Storm Warden as a cleric of Rapida. She fastened her leather belt, slipped on her heavy boots, and grabbed her carved staff.

The candle snuffed itself out behind her as she trudged up the stairs to the deck. She would have a word with the captain.