advantage.
Someoneseemstorealyhateme.
Hateyou
The rest of the book is written in what reads at first like gibberish— random letters, scrawled slowly and carefully, or in real haste, but always gibberish. I close the book and grip it tight. I’m not even quite sure what patois is—some sort of meat paste? Or a way of speaking. I think it’s the latter.
Maybe I’m not me—or him. Maybe something’s been lost. Certainly I don’t have all of my memories, even all of my knowledge. But of course I don’t have any memories, really… if I was made just a short while back. Pulled out of a sac. Then anything I remember from before I was made, finished, whatever, is just imprinting. Instinct.
TIME RUNS OUT QUICKLY HERE
After a while, I’m settled in, about one good kick away from the ceiling, drifting and dozing. Best not to get caught away from shoving distance of a surface, in case something comes by—something that wants to clean me up and put me in the freezer.
One hundred cycles, the first page says.
I’m just a youngster , then.
Youngsters play games with words. I sort of see sunlight on a bedcover, a
notebook, and a game. I see a row of white pickets on a fence. Switch the pickets: fence rail code. The game has to do with letters in the alphabet, exchanging one letter for another. To make this simple code harder, I convert everything I write into pig Latin before transposing the letters. Then I show it to my kids in school to see if they can read it. (I can almost smell the schoolroom: chalk, pencil shavings, steam heat from old radiators, gym socks, ham sandwiches in paper bags waiting for lunch.) Some of the kids can unravel the code. They become my friends. Most can’t. We call them…
L osers.
That’s it, then. I’m not a loser. I know how to play the game. I come out of my doze and open the book. After a while, I’m reading pretty quickly. I might even be able to write in code quickly, with a little practice. I’m good at that sort of thing.
PAGE2
I’mmakingmywayforward.Mycold-burnsarehealing.Thegirlisdead. Shewaskiledbyatooth-worm.Ittorehertopieces.
I wonder if the little girl always dies, too.
S omeofthethingsherearealivebutactlikemachines.Therearen’tany robots—thoughIdidseeasilverwomanorthinfigueofsomesort,butonlyfor aninstant.
L etmedescribethethingsthatarehereandcanbedangerous. FACTORS:Cleanersmostimportant.Cleanerstrytokeepeverything spick-and-span.Theyhavethreeheads/facesandsixlegs.Mostofthefactorsdo
v erywelwithoutweight.TheyalsodoOKwhenthere’sweigh.Theytakeus awaywhenwedie—andsometimesevenbeforewedie,ifyoucan’tavoidthem. Otherfactors:fixersandprocessors.CleanersorscoutscalfixesiftheShiphas beendamaged.They’eprettysingleminded,butthey’reonlydangerousifyou getbetweenthemandsomethingthatneedsfixing.Processorslookscaryand canbeverydangerous,buttheytendtostickaroundjunkbals.Thetoothyeel isaprocessor.Itconvertsdeadorganicmaterialtosimplerslush.Ugh.
F ixersandprocessorsaregetingrare,Ihear.I’veseenonlytwo. Scouts:smale,thinner.Rarenowaswel.
Gardeners:They’etheonlyfactorsthathaverealcolor.Theothersare
d arkbrownordarkgrayorblack.
Factorsseeheatandaregeneralyinactiveduringcooldown. AndthereareKiles.That’swhatIcalthem.Knob-headscalthemXhh-
S haian.Hardtopronounce,evenifIholdmynose.Itseemstomean“Makerof Pain.”
Kiles.
Onlyafew ofushaveseenaKilerandsurvived.NooneI’vemetcangive acleardescripion.Kilesdestroyandleavethedeadbehind,buttheyalso colec—alive.Wheretheytakethosetheycolectisunknown.Thehul cooperateswithKiles.Theycangoanywhere—fas.Makesmeangry,likethe deckisstackedagainstus.(Thinkaboutthatandtrytoremembercardgames—
theirplayandtheirrulesmakeexcelentmetaphorsaroundhere.) Sometimes,thehulhelpsus—whythiscontradicion,Idon’tknow. Now—whythehulgetscool.Therearethreehuls.BasedonDreamtime,
Ithinktheyaresupposedtojoinatsomepointandbecomeone,butthat’snot
clearyet.TheBlueBlackssaythehulgetscoolbecausesomethingwantsusal
todie.Theli t
Someoneseemstorealyhateme.
Hateyou
The rest of the book is written in what reads at first like gibberish— random letters, scrawled slowly and carefully, or in real haste, but always gibberish. I close the book and grip it tight. I’m not even quite sure what patois is—some sort of meat paste? Or a way of speaking. I think it’s the latter.
Maybe I’m not me—or him. Maybe something’s been lost. Certainly I don’t have all of my memories, even all of my knowledge. But of course I don’t have any memories, really… if I was made just a short while back. Pulled out of a sac. Then anything I remember from before I was made, finished, whatever, is just imprinting. Instinct.
TIME RUNS OUT QUICKLY HERE
After a while, I’m settled in, about one good kick away from the ceiling, drifting and dozing. Best not to get caught away from shoving distance of a surface, in case something comes by—something that wants to clean me up and put me in the freezer.
One hundred cycles, the first page says.
I’m just a youngster , then.
Youngsters play games with words. I sort of see sunlight on a bedcover, a
notebook, and a game. I see a row of white pickets on a fence. Switch the pickets: fence rail code. The game has to do with letters in the alphabet, exchanging one letter for another. To make this simple code harder, I convert everything I write into pig Latin before transposing the letters. Then I show it to my kids in school to see if they can read it. (I can almost smell the schoolroom: chalk, pencil shavings, steam heat from old radiators, gym socks, ham sandwiches in paper bags waiting for lunch.) Some of the kids can unravel the code. They become my friends. Most can’t. We call them…
L osers.
That’s it, then. I’m not a loser. I know how to play the game. I come out of my doze and open the book. After a while, I’m reading pretty quickly. I might even be able to write in code quickly, with a little practice. I’m good at that sort of thing.
PAGE2
I’mmakingmywayforward.Mycold-burnsarehealing.Thegirlisdead. Shewaskiledbyatooth-worm.Ittorehertopieces.
I wonder if the little girl always dies, too.
S omeofthethingsherearealivebutactlikemachines.Therearen’tany robots—thoughIdidseeasilverwomanorthinfigueofsomesort,butonlyfor aninstant.
L etmedescribethethingsthatarehereandcanbedangerous. FACTORS:Cleanersmostimportant.Cleanerstrytokeepeverything spick-and-span.Theyhavethreeheads/facesandsixlegs.Mostofthefactorsdo
v erywelwithoutweight.TheyalsodoOKwhenthere’sweigh.Theytakeus awaywhenwedie—andsometimesevenbeforewedie,ifyoucan’tavoidthem. Otherfactors:fixersandprocessors.CleanersorscoutscalfixesiftheShiphas beendamaged.They’eprettysingleminded,butthey’reonlydangerousifyou getbetweenthemandsomethingthatneedsfixing.Processorslookscaryand canbeverydangerous,buttheytendtostickaroundjunkbals.Thetoothyeel isaprocessor.Itconvertsdeadorganicmaterialtosimplerslush.Ugh.
F ixersandprocessorsaregetingrare,Ihear.I’veseenonlytwo. Scouts:smale,thinner.Rarenowaswel.
Gardeners:They’etheonlyfactorsthathaverealcolor.Theothersare
d arkbrownordarkgrayorblack.
Factorsseeheatandaregeneralyinactiveduringcooldown. AndthereareKiles.That’swhatIcalthem.Knob-headscalthemXhh-
S haian.Hardtopronounce,evenifIholdmynose.Itseemstomean“Makerof Pain.”
Kiles.
Onlyafew ofushaveseenaKilerandsurvived.NooneI’vemetcangive acleardescripion.Kilesdestroyandleavethedeadbehind,buttheyalso colec—alive.Wheretheytakethosetheycolectisunknown.Thehul cooperateswithKiles.Theycangoanywhere—fas.Makesmeangry,likethe deckisstackedagainstus.(Thinkaboutthatandtrytoremembercardgames—
theirplayandtheirrulesmakeexcelentmetaphorsaroundhere.) Sometimes,thehulhelpsus—whythiscontradicion,Idon’tknow. Now—whythehulgetscool.Therearethreehuls.BasedonDreamtime,
Ithinktheyaresupposedtojoinatsomepointandbecomeone,butthat’snot
clearyet.TheBlueBlackssaythehulgetscoolbecausesomethingwantsusal
todie.Theli t
Similar Books
