by Grace Bridges -
Eleon McManus loped through the lush open area of Zirconia’s sector B3. The curved window to his right formed a sky beyond, which glimmered with occasional schools of fish in the murk.
Passing a fruit tree, he longed to snag an orange. But these plants passed down from Earth were too rare, and he didn’t want the Enforcers to chuck him in the slammer, not when he had some time off tomorrow.
He slipped through the last of this sector’s forest and reached the stairs to the residential pods that overlooked it. After climbing up to the third level, he swung onto the walkway that rattled with his steps. He paused a moment, then raised his hand to a buzzer.
Half a minute later, the door unsealed with a whoosh and Gryphon Sylt looked out. “Mac! Sight for sore eyes. Come in!”
Eleon passed through the thick rubber-rimmed frame into his friend’s abode. “How’s life, Sylt?” He peered at the other man’s haggard face. “What’s going on?”
Gryphon shrugged, a wild, flailing maneuvre. “System’s down again. All the history’s inaccessible. And I have no apprentice to help write down what’s in my head.”
“Can’t the system be fixed?”
“It’s not graded as essential. There’s not enough spare manpower from the IT department.”
Eleon didn’t know what to respond, so he wandered to Gryphon’s kitchenette and poured two lavabush ales from the plastic barrel in the coolstore.
Gryphon sighed. “Maybe they’re right. Maybe it doesn’t matter, as long as we survive.”
Eleon pushed a glass into his hand. “We’ll lose our identity if we don’t remember where we came from.”
“Oh, I’m writing down what I can, never fear. It’s not a lost cause. Only almost.”
“Well then.” Eleon lifted his drink and the two clinked together. He took a sip and grimaced at the slightly bitter taste. “Here’s to happy writing!”
Showing posts with label Gryphon Silt. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Gryphon Silt. Show all posts
Monday, October 24, 2011
Saturday, April 2, 2011
The Last Historian
by Grace Bridges -
In the Year 179 A.F. on this thirteenth Day of the month of Celeste.
Gryphon Silt wielded the unfamiliar writing utensil and scratched his malformed letters. Once again the archive computers were down, and no resources could be allocated to fix them. So he began all over. It had happened before, he’d learned from his mentors—the older historians that trained the younger in their days. But now he was the only one, with no student allocated.
Files pertaining to the founding of our proud Colony have been discovered to be corrupted, and so we have taken it upon ourselves to assemble what precious little information remains in the memories of those who had read it most recently.
Our distant foreparents were sent out from the earth in a large ship called the Avenir. Now you may wonder at that, for she orbits the skies of Eclectia still. But she has been modified to serve as an orbiting station, and seen many enlargements since.
Gryphon peered up at the murky water on the other side of the ceiling. The sun would rise soon on a summer day, not that it made any difference to him. In here the constant temperature created a stable, safe environment. He had taken a seawalk once, but once was enough.
Contact has always been maintained between the water people and the Avenir itself. When we had lived in the seas for a short while, we began to send reports of the creatures of the deep which we had the opportunity to encounter and study. Some reports claimed the beasts were telepathic, and sentient, and that some were benevolent and others aggressive. While this has never been scientifically proven, it has lodged in Eclectia’s folklore and is even considered true by some of the more eccentric scientists on the Avenir.
Now that more generations have come and gone, there is a certain segregation between Avenir’s people and the planetsiders. Down below are the miners and hunters, living on the land wherever it stays still long enough. Below them again are the sea-dwellers, who continue to investigate their environment as they build ever more efficient survival tools. Life in the underwater cities is surely almost as luxurious as on the Avenir.
Those who must stay on the land to mine its treasures have little contact with the Avenir, from necessity. They retrieve the ore that generates power for the Avenir and the underwater cities as well as their own settlements. It must be said that these are rough types who consider themselves the only true colonists of Eclectia.
The historian stared at the page. Was this all there was left? He dredged his memory for any flake of remembrance, any piece of what had gone before.
A shadow passed over the room. Gryphon squinted upwards and thought he recognised Mac’s sub coming in. He threw down the pen—a drink with his friend might just help to jog his brain.
In the Year 179 A.F. on this thirteenth Day of the month of Celeste.
Gryphon Silt wielded the unfamiliar writing utensil and scratched his malformed letters. Once again the archive computers were down, and no resources could be allocated to fix them. So he began all over. It had happened before, he’d learned from his mentors—the older historians that trained the younger in their days. But now he was the only one, with no student allocated.
Files pertaining to the founding of our proud Colony have been discovered to be corrupted, and so we have taken it upon ourselves to assemble what precious little information remains in the memories of those who had read it most recently.
Our distant foreparents were sent out from the earth in a large ship called the Avenir. Now you may wonder at that, for she orbits the skies of Eclectia still. But she has been modified to serve as an orbiting station, and seen many enlargements since.
Gryphon peered up at the murky water on the other side of the ceiling. The sun would rise soon on a summer day, not that it made any difference to him. In here the constant temperature created a stable, safe environment. He had taken a seawalk once, but once was enough.
Contact has always been maintained between the water people and the Avenir itself. When we had lived in the seas for a short while, we began to send reports of the creatures of the deep which we had the opportunity to encounter and study. Some reports claimed the beasts were telepathic, and sentient, and that some were benevolent and others aggressive. While this has never been scientifically proven, it has lodged in Eclectia’s folklore and is even considered true by some of the more eccentric scientists on the Avenir.
Now that more generations have come and gone, there is a certain segregation between Avenir’s people and the planetsiders. Down below are the miners and hunters, living on the land wherever it stays still long enough. Below them again are the sea-dwellers, who continue to investigate their environment as they build ever more efficient survival tools. Life in the underwater cities is surely almost as luxurious as on the Avenir.
Those who must stay on the land to mine its treasures have little contact with the Avenir, from necessity. They retrieve the ore that generates power for the Avenir and the underwater cities as well as their own settlements. It must be said that these are rough types who consider themselves the only true colonists of Eclectia.
The historian stared at the page. Was this all there was left? He dredged his memory for any flake of remembrance, any piece of what had gone before.
A shadow passed over the room. Gryphon squinted upwards and thought he recognised Mac’s sub coming in. He threw down the pen—a drink with his friend might just help to jog his brain.
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