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Post by steve on Dec 12, 2012 19:24:39 GMT -6
Hi. I'd like to thank everyone for all of their positive comments. I hope that you have been enjoying the story so far.
Here is some useless trivia -
* The "hoop bed" wasn't the first means of escape thought of. One possibility (hinted at earlier) was to "pry" the red energy neck band off by placing an arm right on the neck, forcing the neck band to wrap around a larger area, giving the possibility to "pry" the neck band off. This method ultimately wasn't used for a multitude of reasons.
* At one point, the inmates in the Quarantine were going to have a much larger role. This was abandoned early on as the nature of the story and of the humans changed.
* I'm still deciding between adding a prologue or not.
Anyway, thank you all for reading the story so far. I don't think that it's revealing too much that the conclusion of the story is coming into view.
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Post by steve on Dec 13, 2012 19:19:39 GMT -6
PART #0121
We walked for what felt like forever. Passed by so many cells filled with so many "humans" in them that neither of us bothered to look anymore.
The Zekopors enjoyed using teleportation to move humans during those times when humans did not prefer to be moved. How teleportation works is still a mystery to me and anyone else, for that matter, that isn't part of the Zekopor clubhouse.
However, that didn't mean that there weren't other modes of transportation. Hallways, for instance, still had a purpose in Zekopor architecture because, supposedly, teleportation was not used exclusively.
So we walked. A really long while.
Did I mention that there were "floors" of these cells, as in "stories"? Yeah.
I don't know about Oola but barefoot walking is for someone not named me. Between the forest and all of it's sharp objects on the ground and this cold floor... No one could ever accuse me of not getting enough exercise throughout all of this.
"We should arrive at the Archives soon," Oola stated, "We must stay hidden from other humans once we arrive there."
"Other humans?" I asked, "You mean the re-enactors?" No offense, they were large and I saw what their wilder feral cousins could do but... I never took the re-enactor humans to be be that aggressive.
"The Zekopors can see through our eyes," Oola explained, "At least, those that they still consider worthy of being in the Town."
"Woah, wait," I said, stopping in my tracks, "We're just like... Security cameras to them?"
Oola didn't get the security camera reference.
"As long as they think that we are still in Quarantine, they will not pay attention to our memories or what we are seeing now," Oola explained, "There are too many humans to monitor. They only pay attention to the most privileged ones."
"They don't have eyes of their own?" I asked.
"They can see but... They prefer to see through others," Oola informed me.
"You seem to know a lot about these guys," I confessed, "How long have you been in this place?"
"I will be ninety-eight soon," Oola stated matter-of-factly.
"Ninety eight?" I replied incredulously, "Oola... Look at you... No one I know would consider you older then twenty-five... Thirty, tops."
Hey, that wasn't a pick-up line... It was the truth. Ignore the weird anatomy and I'm standing next to an oversized supermodel just hitting her physical stride. Ninety-eight? There are forty year-old women wishing to look half as good as that, never mind the geriatric crowd.
And that gave me the idea that I needed to confront the Zekopors.
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Post by philipinoregon on Dec 14, 2012 0:36:48 GMT -6
Time I checked into this story, last stopped at #01089.... this is one of the better stories I have read on the internet for our ~taste in reading~ and I have been to other forums for quite a while. I am glad I saw it listed at another writers blog...
Thank you, Steve...
philip, in Oregon
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Post by steve on Dec 14, 2012 19:35:20 GMT -6
PART #0122
I shouldn't complain - I wasn't walking on sticks or twigs or rocks. Still, at least the floor of the Quarantine was clean if not cold.
The floor in the Archives was cold and dirty.
If I had ever lived through this, I swore that I would never walk barefoot again - Anywhere - For any reason.
My legs were also getting tired. How many miles had we walked? More than what was comfortable, I can tell you that much. To be fair, walking next to a very undressed Oola took the sting out of the feet and the legs. Hey, I'm a guy, so sue me.
"Oola," I asked, "How come the Zekopors talk so weird? You know, mixing up their sentences and all of that?"
"Oh, you mean spoken English?" Oola replied.
"No, wait," I replied, "We're speaking English, normal English, right now. They're speaking weird because they mix up the words in their sentences."
"I do not understand," Oola confessed, "We are speaking written English. The Zekopors speak spoken English. It is very confusing."
"What...? Wait. Stop," I commanded, physically stopping for a moment. Oola stopped and turned to me.
"Mixing up the words in a sentence is 'spoken' English, is that right?" I asked, slightly incredulously.
"You can not contradict this fact," Oola explained, "We have solid documented evidence that spoken English and written English were vastly different from one another."
"And this evidence is what?" I asked, folding my arms in genuine curiosity. No offense but I really wanted to know.
"You can listen for yourself," Oola stated, "In the museum. I am surprised you did not hear it sooner."
I had other concerns at the moment. We began walking again.
"Say," I asked Oola, "Do you know where there might be some clothes I could wear?"
"In the Archives?" Oola replied.
"Most of the artifacts are too delicate for normal use," Oola explained, "But there are simulations of costumes in the museum."
"What about the clothes I used to wear?" I asked, "How do I get those?" Look, I wasn't a fashion maven; I just wanted to stop feeling a draft.
"Those are made by the Zekopors," Oola stated, "I do not think they will give you another set."
"I don't want another set," I quipped, "I want their attention and I think, to do that, we'll have to go to the museum."
"Why?" Asked Oola, "What is at the museum that you want?"
"Something that is going to grab a lot of attention," I replied.
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Post by kaijafon on Dec 14, 2012 20:53:28 GMT -6
for some reason I'm thinking of that movie with Sylvester Stallone and Wesley Snipes... the one where Taco Bell is "gourmet" dining and Sandra Bullock talks about "murder death".... I cannot think of the name of it for the life of me right now.... but does not the "museum" play an important part? ? lol!
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Post by steve on Dec 15, 2012 15:55:45 GMT -6
PART #0123
The museum... It provided such a stark visual contrast to the Archives that it almost appeared like it was a different world. In many ways, it was.
"Here," Oola pointed out, jabbing her finger in a direction like a javelin, "I told you. Written English is different then spoken English."
OK, you want to know what I'm looking at - A museum display of televisions, radios, record players, tapes & 8-tracks. Wave a hand over some sort of sensor in front of the device and it plays for you.
In each case, here's what you hear - Garbled, disjointed dialog... You know, like you would hear if the television channel was exceptionally static-y or if you could barely receive a radio station that constantly fades in and out.
"The...fore...sun...chance of... and...," a radio spat out the remnants of a garbled weather forecast.
So that was the big reveal - "Spoken English" was just their interpretation of television and radio stations that had lousy reception. Really?
"Oola..." I began to say, but was interrupted.
"Clear evidence," Oola protested, pointing at the display, "Spoken English different then written English."
I just sighed to myself, shook my head and turned to Oola. There were larger priorities at hand and, if my plan worked, I would have the last laugh anyway.
"I need access to some of these exhibits," I said to Oola, "Preferably, one in particular. Each of these displays is protected by some sort of... Force field or something. Do you know how to lower any of them?"
"Of course," Oola stated, "I have placed most of these items on display. Here, let me show you."
Oola went to the back of the display and waved one of her hands, palm forward, in a circular motion. The force field faded from view a moment later. Oola reversed the motion and raised the force field back up.
"Can anyone do that?" I asked, "Could I do that?"
"I do not know," Oola answered, "Try it."
I went to the back of the display and mimicked Oola's actions. Sure enough, the force field lowered and raised with no difference.
Talk about your lax security... The only thing a thief would need to rob this place blind is a shopping cart.
"OK," I stated, "Oola, I'm going to level with you. What I'm about to do, you don't want to be a part of."
"I do not understand," Oola replied.
"I'm going to have a talk with the Zekopors," I answered, turning to Oola, "Someplace where everyone can see it."
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ahsga
New Member
Posts: 32
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Post by ahsga on Dec 16, 2012 10:34:43 GMT -6
Very different and interesting story. Thank you.
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Post by steve on Dec 16, 2012 13:33:05 GMT -6
PART #0124
There it was - A 2-door, early 1970s car. Red color. Vinyl seats. Looked like one of those cars you see at a car show from some old, fat car collector who cherishes the car more then his wife.
"Is that drivable?" I asked Oola, pointing to the car.
"It is drivable," Oola replied, confused, "But you should not drive it."
"Why not?" I asked,m slightly rhetorically, as I went to the back of the display to make that hand movement that Oola made to lower the force shield. The force shield lowered as Oola replied.
"The body is authentic," Oola stated, looking nervously around, "But the engine... We replaced it."
"Really?" I asked, almost a little amused, "With what?" I was imagining some sort of futuristic V-8 engine with flashing lights and... I don't know... Futuristic parts. Futuristic sounds. Electronic beeping and booping and... I don't know.
I know my way around a car and popped the hood a moment after I opened the driver's side door. Oola was protesting my handling of the vehicle the entire time because, you know, she's an expert on such things.
"You are not wearing a white T-shirt," Oola explained, "You can not examine or repair an automobile unless you wear one!"
"This isn't the 1950s," I quipped as I lifted up the hood, "And before you ask, I left my pompadour elsewhere, too."
"What is a pompadour?" Oola inquired as I looked under the hood of the car.
Do you know what I saw? Look for yourself. Go ahead. Your eyes aren't fooling you - That's a cardboard cut-out or whatever of what a car engine is supposed to look like. It's like someone took a picture of a car engine, blew up the picture, pasted it onto a large piece of cardboard and then cut the cardboard to fit inside the engine cavity.
"Oola," I asked, motioning her over to the car with my head, "What's with this?"
Oola walked over and saw the cardboard cutout picture of the car engine.
"Oh," Oola explained, "The engine is underneath this."
Without provoking, Oola lifted up the cardboard whatever to reveal the real engine underneath. She should've kept it under wraps.
It's a box. Literally. A box about eight inches square and six inches deep. A box with a few wires running from it and supported with some minimal metal frame.
"That's an engine?" I asked, staring at the box.
"It works," Oola stated, "We were going to use this automobile for the Town but the stupid legacy breeds were too big for it and... Well, operating an automobile was very difficult for them."
She paused for a moment, then added, "No offense."
"None taken," I replied, putting the cardboard cut-out back and then closing the hood, "How fast does this thing go?"
"Oh," Oola perked up, "The engine is geared for historical performance accuracy. It can achieve maximum speed listed."
I looked at the speedometer. It went up to 150 miles per hour.
"Well," I agreed, "I won't need to go that fast."
"Why not?" Oola asked, "That is the speed all humans used to drive, especially during your daily ritual."
"What was it called?" I smirked, opening the driver's door to get in, "Nascar? Indy?"
"No," Oola declared with authority, "It was a parade called 'Rush Hour,' and you, as a 'real human,' should have known that!"
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Post by kaijafon on Dec 16, 2012 17:51:33 GMT -6
LOL! I love how WRONG she is with things! but it is so RIGHT that she is WRONG!!! I think about the things that people today say people of "yesterday" used it for, etc... and wonder how WRONG we are! thank you so much, I'm so much enjoying this story!
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Post by nancy1340 on Dec 17, 2012 18:51:08 GMT -6
It took me a while but I'm starting to get into the story. Thanks
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Post by steve on Dec 17, 2012 19:29:02 GMT -6
PART #0125
"I am coming with you," Oola stated, forcing her way into the front passenger's seat. Watching her attempt to fit her oversized frame into the seat was akin to watching a grown adult attempt to sit at a child's school desk.
"You can't come with me," I admitted to Oola, closing the driver's side door, "It's dangerous. I'm going to get into trouble. I don't want you to get into trouble."
Oola looked back at me with a mix of disappointment and anger. Great.
"Oola, look," I began to say but Oola interrupted me.
"I..." she began to say, "I... Know history. I study it. You... You are all wrong with history. You are only going to get yourself back into Quarantine and this time... This time you will not escape!"
If watching Oola struggle to get into a smaller-than-comfortable car seat was frustrating, watching her attempt to quickly wiggle her way out of one was quietly awkward.
"You..." She continued once she got out of the car, her face beginning to contort with emotion, "You think you know it all. You are just... Just some feral who wandered in. A reject thrown away and given false memories. A failed re-enactor dumped into a nature preserve. Wandered into the Town. Disrupted everything! Now you are just going to make life more difficult for everyone!"
"I'm not going to pretend to be someone I'm not," I countered, "And I can prove to them that I am the last authentic human. I know how to do that now."
"Your memories are all lies!" Oola nearly shouted, "Implants!"
"Keep it down!" I protested, "You told me that the Zekopors can sense our emotions. They'll appear!"
"That was when we were a part of the Town," She bitterly replied, "We are no one now. They still think we are in Quarantine."
"The Zekopors want to rebuild the planet the way it was before they accidentally devastated it," I reasoned, "I have that memory. I just need to show them that."
"They have already seen your memory," Oola stated, "And it was all erased up to the point where you wake up in that coffin of yours."
"It wasn't a coffin," I countered.
"Whatever," Oola sulked and a cold silence followed.
"If I can show them that my memory still exists," I proposed, "Earth can be rebuilt back to the way it was before. Isn't that something you want to see? Don't you want to see those buildings in the Archives as they truly were before the destruction? Don't you want to walk through a real town, meet real humans?"
Oola looked at me for a moment, her face still sulking, a brow still furrowed with anger and disappointment.
"You deserve to see the world as it was," I admitted quietly, "To be free and independent to make your own choices in life. All humans should have that right. You deserve that right. I want you to have that right."
Oola's face softened a bit.
"If you are right," Oola slowly replied, "And the world is truly like what you say, then where would I fit in?" She motioned at her own body and I understood exactly what she meant. How does a seven-foot tall, orange-skinned, blue-haired, four-breasted woman blend into modern-day society?
"You are right," She said, so softly it was almost a mumble, "I should not go with you."
And I stood there, like a jerk, watching her walk slowly away towards the Archives until she was out of view.
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Post by steve on Dec 18, 2012 21:06:16 GMT -6
PART #0126
I didn't need a shopping cart here at the Museum. I just needed some clothes. Any clothes.
The police uniform would do.
The uniform itched. It was too large. I had to roll up the pants legs and sleeves. Wearing underwear would have been nice. I looked like a 12-year old wearing Dad's clothes. I didn't even bother with the shoes or the hat.
Going back to the car, I decided to see if it even started. I made absolutely certain the car was in park. I applied the parking brake. Then I turned the key in the ignition.
The lights went on but I didn't hear anything. Not a peep. You know when you turn the key the your ignition but the car doesn't even turn over? You get this Pavlovian "Oh, f**k" response. That's what I got - The lights turned on but no one was home.
How do you repair a car engine that you know nothing about? You can't.
Sighing deeply, I pressed the gas pedal a few time just for kicks. Surprisingly, the tachometer moved. The f**k...?
Cautiously, I released the parking brake. Pushing the brake pedal down as far as I could, I shifted the car from park to drive.
Dear Sweet Lord of God! Even in idle, this thing bolted to life! The moment I started taking my foot off of the brake, this thing started rolling something fierce. 5 MPH... 10 MPH... The f**k?! How fast could I go just by idling? Spying a long hallway, I decided to idle down the hallway as fast as I dare go. Taking my foot off of the brake, I discovered two things - That I could drive at least 30 MPH without even touching the gas pedal and that the braking was sharp and sudden.
No wonder the re-enactors had a problem driving this thing - It was more bucking bronco then a normal automobile. Who knows what horsepower that wacky future engine was putting out.
I put the car in park, applied the parking brake and turned off the car.
If I was going to drive this car, I was going to need to clear a path. It wasn't going to be a path to the Town, though. I would need to make a stop first.
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Post by steve on Dec 18, 2012 21:07:41 GMT -6
Sorry for the late (and shorter then usual) entry. I couldn't get into the board until just recently today. Back to normal tomorrow.
Thank you for all of your positive comments and thank you for reading my story.
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Post by patience on Dec 19, 2012 9:40:08 GMT -6
Thanks for your work on the story Steve. It is probably the most imaginative tale I've read yet! ;D
Love the characters. Oola is good gal. I really hope she finds her place and a great future.
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Post by steve on Dec 19, 2012 20:00:36 GMT -6
PART #0127
I'm not embarrassed to say that I rode the brake of the car most of the way.
Let me tell you something - A silent car is as eerie as it gets. I don't think I could ever get used to driving a car that makes absolutely no noise except for the tires rolling on the ground and the air rushing past the car. I'm sure future generations will have no problem with it but... It just doesn't seem right.
I drove past a decrepit post office held up by some sort of technological force field.
Want to know what a mini-mall looks like after five hundred years of decay? There it is. Not a single pane of glass still existed in the entire place.
There's a log cabin that's mostly now just a pile of rotted logs.
I went past a whole section of boats and yachts that were just their skeletal remains, if that.
Even when driving, the smell of the Archives permeated everything. There was just that... Musty "dead" smell. It's like the smell you experienced when you're in a basement that hasn't been cleaned out in 30 years. Stuff that used to be damp but has dried out but not completely, stuff that has been continually heated and cooled with no air circulation and... Ugh. Not a feces smell, not a urine smell, but just a... God, I hope my house never smells like that when I get old.
There it was... The roller skating rink. I slowed up and stopped just before reaching the building. I was kind of glad to turn off the car - As good as I had gotten driving it, the darn thing scared me to death. Just bumping the gas pedal would've sent me flying down these aisles at 60+ MPH. The only thing worse then crashing a relic was crashing a relic into another relic.
As soon as I walked towards the roller skating rink, I heard a noise that made me smile. It was a noise I hadn't heard in nearly 800 years.
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Post by steve on Dec 20, 2012 19:37:33 GMT -6
PART #0128
Oola had big feet. Had I mentioned that before?
"Stupid rolling shoes," I could hear her mutter under her breath as I slowly walked into the remnants of the Rock and Rolling Rollerskate Park (I refuse to call it by it's 'other' name).
It was as though she had never worn a pair of shoes before in her entire life. The laces weren't loosened up enough. The trajectory of her foot entering the skate was too sharp. Worse of all was that her foot was too big for the skates. Did she even know how to tie a knot even she could manage to cram her feet into the skates?
I tried watching it for a moment but the situation struck too close to home. How many times had I tried to tell Uptight Mom that - What a Shock - Your kids feet are too small or too large for those skates? How many times had I told Absentee Dad that you don't need to cut the circulation off of your kid's feet for the skates to be on tight? How many times did we have to pull completely clueless children off of the skating rink because they were a risk, not just to themselves but to everyone else trying to skate around them? There are reasons why introductory lessons at our rink were free - It was for our insurance purposes as well as their own safety.
"You're doing it all wrong," I blurted out, painful flashback memories occurring of having to practically cut rollerskates off of kids' feet because they were wedged in so tight or pulling kids barely in grade school off of the rollerskating rink before some hapless high school student crashed into them or rolled over their fingers.
Oola bolted straight up into a standing position, the rollerskate clattering to the ground, briefly rolling until it fell over onto it's side.
"What are you doing here?" She asked, more in a demanding tone then anything else.
"I made a mistake," I merely said, "I shouldn't have said what I said before."
"What do you mean?" She asked.
"It wasn't right of me to tell you not to come with me to confront the Zekopors," I confessed, "You have every right to demand an explanation as to why they caged you for something they think that I did."
"I..." Oola began to say, her eyes shifting elsewhere, "I still do not want to go. And I do not want to be here anymore or talk to you."
Oola began walking towards me very fast to reach the door. Ever had an elephant charge you suddenly? Neither have I but I now understand why even grown men armed with rifles dive for cover. That's one vending machine you do not want falling on top of you.
"Oola," I confessed just as she began walking past me, "I want us to do this together..."
"No," she stated forcefully, stopping to turn around, "You want to escape. You... You are a feral or an illegally made human or... Or some experiment that did not work. you come in here and make all these accusations with no evidence to back any of it up."
It was hard to keep my temper but I thought I did a pretty good job.
"I can back it up," I stated simply, "But I am going to need your help. In fact, you and all of these other humans... Re-enactors or designer or whatever... You are all the proof I need to prove that I am a human from before the disaster."
"I do not understand," she stated flatly, turning back around to leave. She walked quickly to the door but stopped suddenly, flinching and turning around with an astonished face.
"It was faster then walking," I deadpanned.
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Post by steve on Dec 21, 2012 14:09:58 GMT -6
PART #0129
"How did you do that?" Oola asked while pointing, walking slowly towards the car.
"Easy," I continued to deadpan, walking slightly behind her towards the vehicle, "I drove. The Zekopors found my driver's license, remember? I know how to drive a real car and I know how to drive this one."
"This is a real car," Oola pointedly replied, "Even the engine was designed to deliver historical performance."
I thought about responding but the last thing I needed was to get into another argument. Instead, I merely walked over to her side of the vehicle, opened the door and shifted the seat as far back as it would go. Perfect? No, but at least she wasn't about to look like she was a contortionist trying to fit inside of a shoebox.
"After you," I said to Oola, sweeping one of my arms dramatically towards the opened passenger side. Oola cautiously got in, not because of any space limitations but probably because her trust in the entire situation was dangling by a thread, if that. I gingerly closed the door and got into the driver's seat, making sure I put on my seat belt.
Driving this electric, futuristic-but-not-really car was weird. It made no sound and the gas pedal was so sensitive that the slightest bump or nudge would probably send you careening forward at ninety miles an hour or faster.
As soon as I took the parking brake off and put the car into drive, Oola's eyes widened and she leaned forward to the point where her forehead was practically touching the windshield.
"Hey," I cautioned, looking over at her, "Seat belts, seat belts." I stopped the car and put it into park.
"And let me guess," Oola said, "In your version of the world, people wear seat belts, right?"
"Yes, people should wear seat belts in my version of the world," I tried to be diplomatic, "But they don't and those who don't are considered stupid. They are considered stupid because if they get into an accident, they will get hurt by tumbling inside the car and smacking around the inside of the car very fast and very hard."
Oola thought for a moment and slowly nodded, "That actually makes sense."
"I'm glad that you agree," I acknowledged, watching her struggle to put on her seat belt. Needless to say, seat belts were invented for 'legacy' humans, not 'designer' humans that just so happened to have extra... Well, more 'stuff' on them then they would normally have.
"Here, let me help you there," I conceded, grabbing the buckle from her so I could clip her in.
"I do not think that you are doing that right," Oola suggested, accentuating her mild protest with, "Ow," as soon as I clipped her in.
"Here," I told her, grabbing the seat belt slightly outward from her body with my hand, "Hold this like this so that the seat belt doesn't chafe your... Well, so that it doesn't chafe."
"Out of curiosity," I asked, taking the car out of park and doing my best not to look like I was riding the brake the entire time, "What's your research tell you about seat belts?"
"It is only socially acceptable for older and ugly people to use seat belts," Oola declared, adding, "There are no documented cases of young or attractive people using seat belts because they are determined by society to be more capable drivers."
Don't say a word... Don't say a word... Don't say a single word...
"That's a very interesting theory," I finally blurted out, driving around a corner and heading back to the museum.
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Post by kaijafon on Dec 21, 2012 17:30:27 GMT -6
I SO love those "theories"! Thank you!!!!
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Post by steve on Dec 22, 2012 15:45:44 GMT -6
PART #0130
Driving this car was annoying. The engine doesn't make a d**n sound. The gas pedal is absolutely useless unless you've ever wanted to unleash your inner drag racer. Riding the brake constantly made me paranoid that I was about to shatter the brake pads.
Instinctively, my hand reached for the car radio knobs. Old habits die hard.
I was surprised to find that music actually played from the radio. It was an instrumental rendition of the National Anthem.
What surprised me even more (And it shouldn't have, given all the other events I've witnessed here) was that, suddenly, Oola began "rocking out" to the anthem, swinging her shoulders, arms and trying to sway her hips as much as she could within the confines of the car seat.
Just keep driving... Don't say a word... Just keep driving...
When the Anthem began to loop over, Oola took a break from her restricted gyrations to ask, "Why are you not swinging to the music?"
"That's the United States National Anthem," I replied, "You aren't supposed to dance along with it."
"It is music," she suggested, adding a bit more darkly, "And I know that people from your era danced to music even when they were seated in a car."
How tight could I grip this steering wheel without shattering it? I was about to find out.
"I'm not suggesting that people shouldn't dance to any music," I tried to reason in a very soft voice, "But people did not automatically dance to some music. There were exceptions. The National Anthem was one of those exceptions."
"Yes," Oola stated excitedly, "For instance, it was customary for this particular piece of music to be sung very badly as often as possible. We have found many instances for that. Highly unusual. Why was that?"
"Why don't we just concentrate on getting into the town," I replied, driving into the museum.
"Now," I stated as we drove into the museum, "You need to help guide me to a door large enough to drive this car into the Town. Would you know of an entrance like that?"
"It is down that hallway," she said, pointing in a direction. Looking towards me, she physically jolted, an expression of shock leaping across her face.
"I'm sorry!" She cried out, "I totally forgot!"
I stopped the car suddenly, applying the car brake.
"What?" I asked, slightly panicked, looking around, "What is it?" I turned off the car radio in an effort to hear whatever might be outside the car.
Oola reached into the glove box and pulled out two small, shiny, cylindrical tubes. She handed me one.
"We forgot the 'good luck' ritual," she stated in a too-serious tone. Yes, we're about to go there. I should've seen it coming.
"The 'good luck' ritual," I repeated slowly, eying the cylindrical tube, "Educate me."
"The mirror," she stated, pointing to the rearview mirror, "You looked into it without using that. The driver always performs this activity at least once per journey. See? Watch me."
Do you want to know what she did? Can you figure it out by now?
She pulled down the passenger side vanity mirror and proceeded to smear on bright red lipstick. No offense, but even I could apply lipstick better then that and had I done so, it would be the first time that I had ever tried.
"I can't use the middle mirror because I'm not the driver," she stated, pointing the rearview mirror.
"We need to get going," I merely stated, taking the parking brake off and proceeding down the hallway.
Maybe we should have walked instead.
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Post by steve on Dec 23, 2012 20:22:46 GMT -6
PART #0131
It wasn't a door, at least, not the type of doors that you or I would recognize.
"They are not having a rehearsal," Oola stated with puzzlement, staring at the white, sparkly energy force field before us, "This is only in place when they are having a performance." She tapped at the force field a few times, hard as a steel wall but more transparent then a pane of glass.
Any chance to stop the car, turn it off and get out was a welcome opportunity. No one twisted my arm to do so as Oola went back and sat in the car, looking at the obstacle in front of us.
"So how do we turn it off?" I asked, "Is there some sort of hand-waving gesture that we have to perform, like with the other displays?"
"No," Oola replied, looking over at me, "Only re-enactors are allowed in during performances."
"How does it know who is a re-enactor and who isn't?" I asked. Oola just shook her head.
"I do not know," she replied.
Great. Stopped short by a stupid force field. I suppose it wasn't a deal breaker; If nothing else, we could just wait for the performance to end and cause a slightly minor stink once it lowered. Who knew, though, what the Zekopors would do behind "closed doors"? They had already imprisoned me once and they could certainly easily do so again. They had even imprisoned Oola by guilt of association. No, we needed an audience. A big audience. Something that they couldn't "sweep under the rug," so to speak.
I walked right up to the force field and, to my surprise, the force field began to dim. In less than a moment, the force field completely dissipated. I cautiously thrust my arm through the now open doorway. Nothing... Just air.
"They must still think that you are a re-enactor," Oola called out excitedly from the car.
As soon as I began to walk away from the force field, though, the force field came back into being. Walk right up to it and it disappeared. Step even a foot or two away from it and it re-emerged.
I walked back towards the car and got into the driver's seat.
"What are we going to do?" Oola asked, "We can not get the car close enough to the force field to lower it."
"We can't," I corrected, looking over at her, "But you can."
"What do you mean?" Oola asked, "It did not lower when I touched it."
"But it lowered for me," I explained, adding, "How would you like to learn how to drive a car?"
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Post by steve on Dec 24, 2012 19:19:09 GMT -6
PART #0132
The plan was simple - The door remained open so long as I stood right next to it. I would keep the door open by standing next to it while Oola would drive the car through it. I would walk through the door and then take the driving over from Oola.
I said the plan was simple, not executing it.
"OK," I stated, standing outside the driver's side door once Oola had muscled her way into the driver's seat, "All you have to do is coast forward. That's it. That's all you need to do. Once you get past the force field, push your foot on the wide pedal on the floor until the car stops."
Oola nodded her head nervously. I could see her give me a glassy-eyed stare.
"Now repeat back to me what I just said," I stated.
"I push my foot on to the wide pedal until the car stops," Oola nervously replied.
"Right," I slowly taught, "You push your foot down onto the wide pedal firmly. the more you push down on the wide pedal, the more the car slows down until it stops. Just push the wide pedal down all of the way. That ought to make the car stop."
"OK," I stated, "Here we go. When I walk over to the force field, it's going to lower. I'll give you the signal to coast through the door. Don't take your foot off of the wide pedal until I tell you to."
I ran over to the force field. As previously, the force field began to dissipate the moment I stepped up right next to it. I looked over at Oola and gave the signal.
Nothing.
"Oola,"I called out, "Lift your foot up off of the wide pedal."
"Now?" Oola asked.
One deep sigh later, I replied, "Yes. Now."
The car bolted forward, a bit too fast for my liking and, as it turned out, a bit too fast for Oola's liking either. She slammed on the brakes hard while the hood was just through the doorway, squealing the wheels.
Stay calm...
"You're doing a good job, Oola," I replied, "Just lift off..."
"That is too fast for me!" Oola protested, beginning to hyperventilate.
"You are doing a fantastic job, Oola," I replied, calmly and slowly, "Just lift your foot off the wide pedal just enough to keep moving forward. I'll tell you when to stop."
Oola nodded nervously.
The car bolted forward again. Another quick brake and squealing of tires. The car was halfway through the doorway.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
It took two more jackrabbit start and stops before Oola was finally through the door. Thank Heavens. I ran over to the car and instructed Oola to put the parking brake on and get out. She more then happily complied.
"That wasn't so bad, now was it?" I asked rhetorically as Oola got back into the passenger side of the car.
"How did your species live so long while driving these things?!" She asked, exasperated.
"Good question," I admitted simply, getting into the car, taking off the parking brake and beginning to drive, "Hopefully, you're about to find out firsthand."
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Post by steve on Dec 25, 2012 10:21:36 GMT -6
PART #0133
I don't know why we weren't spotted sooner. After all, we were the only car driving around in "The Town." Then again... It wasn't as though the entire "Town" was being used for the performance.
In fact, the part of the town we were driving through was completely deserted of people... Or "re-enactors"... Or 'legacy' breeds... Or whatever you wanted to call them.
Have you ever driven though a completely deserted, cartoon depiction of reality? Probably not. And it was quiet. Deathly quiet.
"You guys should add some artificial noise to this engine," I suggested to Oola, "Real cars aren't silent like this."
"Oh," Oola responded excitedly, "There is noise! You just need to push this button here to turn on the noise."
Oola pushed a nondescript button on the steering wheel column, painted to be practically invisible unless seen up close.
Want to know what the noise sounded like? It was a push lawnmower.
"That's a very interesting engine noise," I stated, trying to mask a deep sigh.
"You know," Oola commented, "Since you are from the past, perhaps you know the answer to this..."
"Go on," I suggested.
"We have uncovered cars with steering wheels on the left side of the car and the right side of the car," Oola began to ask, "What is the real reason for two types of cars like that?"
"Why don't you tell me what the current theory is and I'll tell you if you're right," I replied.
"Well," Oola stated, "I think that the answer is obvious - There are left-handed people and right-handed people and people simply buy which type of car they require based upon their dominant hand."
"So the world must be filled with left-handed people?" I asked, trying to hide my smirk.
"Either that or right-handed people simply did not choose to drive as often," Oola theorized, "But here is something strange - There must have been pockets of right-handed people isolated in various parts of the world because you often did not see both left-handed cars and right-handed cars in the same area. I think there was huge prejudice between the two types of people, especially in the left-handed areas of the world."
I couldn't resist...
"And why is that?" I asked, failing to hide my smile.
"Because the only type of right-handed car we could find was this oddly-shaped white vehicle with some sort of weird symbol on the side of it," Oola reported, "And it did not go very fast at all, meaning that right-handed people were either not regarded as sufficient drivers or they were being discriminated against as punishment for their choice in which hand they used."
"Were there packages and envelopes inside these white vehicles?" I asked, now attempting to suppress actual laughter.
"Oh," Oola asked, "You already saw those vehicles in the Archives? It is very strange and unfortunate, those lands that meted out harsh punishments like that."
Where were the Zekopors when you needed them?
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Post by steve on Dec 26, 2012 15:02:17 GMT -6
PART #0134
There were the Zekopors. Oola and I could see their holographic, mostly transparent heads in the far distance.
There was everyone else, for that matter... The "re-enactors" in their badly-rendered costumes, their thoroughly unconvincing wigs parked on top of heads spewing out poorly pronounced words and recreating events that didn't exist with laughably historically inaccurate props.
I stopped the car. A part of me wanted to drive through the town like a bull runs through a matador's cape. Another part... Another part just wanted the whole thing over with, like walking into the doctor's office fully expecting a painful shot with a needle the length and width of a javelin.
For the briefest of moments, ethics caused me to stay in the driver's seat. It was rude, after all, to interrupt someone or a group - Be it a conversation or a "performance."
Was it ethical, though, to keep such a hapless charade like this "performance" continuing? Was it ethical to stop a drunk from enraging another patron before he got his head knocked off? Was it ethical, though, to stop a Best Man from making a complete fool of themselves in front of the entire wedding with an awkward speech that embarrasses everyone including the groom and the bride?
I was about to perform a service, not a disservice, to the Zekopors. I was about to show them the truth of the human race as it was, not as it was conjectured from the bits and pieces of rubble that they were fortunate enough to sift through.
"Let's go," I said to Oola, getting out of the car.
I didn't hesitate. Oola did. I understood.
I walked over to the passenger side of the car.
"It's OK if you don't want to follow," I said to Oola, "It wasn't right for them to put you in that cell. For all I know, they'll put us back in there before we can even speak. I'll be back in a moment."
I began to walk away. I heard the car door open and then slam shut.
"I want to go," Oola stated, gripping one of my hands unconsciously. It was a strong and nervous grip.
"Alright," I stated, "Let's go talk to them."
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Post by steve on Dec 27, 2012 16:04:48 GMT -6
PART #0135
They noticed us fairly quick. Not that we really blended into the crowd - One of us was naked, tall, orange, multi-breasted & blue-haired. The other wore a faded police uniform about four sizes too large. Even standing amongst the re-enactors, we'd stand out.
There were many Zekopors... Dozens of floating, holographic, nearly transparent heads as far as I could see and probably hundreds more behind those. their heads immediately swarmed around us and the only analogy I can think of would be a comical rendition of a swarm of bees encircling that of which they were about to pester or sting. Oola gasped at the sudden reaction of the Zekopors swarming us, gripping my hand painfully tight. I didn't care to show it but the sudden confrontation didn't suit me well, either.
"What doing are you here?" A dominant Zekopor voice shouted, while other minor voices in the background yelled, "That's impossible!" "Who is he?" "Why he is here?" "Who them let out?"
"Enough!" I blurted out, trying to make my best stern face possible despite the fact that Oola was only a few pounds per square inch away of crushing my hand like a vice grip.
"I know that you are speaking 'Spoken English'," I began, "Now I ask that you speak 'Written English' for this conversation."
"We not do understand," was replied by numerous Zekopors, followed by, "Spoken English?" "Written English?" "Why in written speak English?"
"Written English!" I emphasized loudly, trying to maintain a stern face, "I know you can understand it and now I ask for you to speak it for this conversation."
There was chatter amongst the Zekopors for a moment, too soft & too numerous for myself to remember any pattern of responses. Finally, a dominant voice emerged from an equally dominant floating, holographic head. Moderate gray, almost featureless but with an imposing brow and a gaunt frown that was intimidating. After all, who wants to be face to face with a head that measures over four feet tall?
"Very well," the dominant head boomed, "We shall speak in your inferior dialect and you shall explain why you have trespassed upon our presentation."
"I come to offer proof of my authenticity," I stated, looking around to as many of the Zekopors that I could, "That I am a human before the disaster that happened to Earth, this planet."
More chatter, briefer and quieter then before.
"You have no proof, feral," the dominant Zekopor stated in a low, booming voice, "And we have no further patience for your delusions."
"The proof I offer all of you is standing before you now," I replied quickly, "The proof is Oola."
At that, I felt Oola's hand completely let go of mine as though it was practically tugged away.
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Post by steve on Dec 28, 2012 18:42:31 GMT -6
PART #0136
For a moment, I thought 'they' (however floating, holographic, transparent heads could) had grabbed and yanked Oola away from me. Looking over in her direction, I found Oola completely free of aggression or assault from the Zekopors. Instead, she looked around quite nervously and then back at me with a mixture of fear, surprise & anger.
"How old is she?" I asked, pointing at Oola, repeating, "How old is Oola?"
"In your time frame?" The dominant gray floating head sneered, "Or ours?"
"In years," I answered, "Years, months, days. How old is she?"
"Ninety-seven years, ten months, four days," the dominant gray floating head replied, adding, "Although that type of measurement is not sufficiently accurate compared to our own."
"Ninety-seven years," I repeated loudly, "But how do you know? How do you know she is ninety-seven years old?"
"We made her," the dominant gray floating head answered gruffly, cheeks slightly puffed out, voice becoming lower and coarser with each syllable.
"But if you did not make her," I posited, "How would you know? How would you be able to tell that she was ninety-seven years old?"
"This is pointless," another voice shouted out.
"Put him in a hard cell and dispose of her," a third voice called out in the distance.
"We can't dispose of her," yet another voice cried, "She is a human. It would violate the Fair Treatment of Humans Act."
"There are several methods of determining the age of a designed human," the dominant gray floating head answered in an almost professorial manner, "Too many to be mentioned within the confines of this conversation."
"Of a designed human," I emphasized, "A human not created out of sexual reproduction but made through other methods. Correct?"
"All humans are designed humans," the dominant head clarified, "Some humans are designated as 'legacy breeds,' 'heritage breeds,' 'authentic breeds' or other such similar titles but every human within the confines of these facilities were designed, regardless of physical or mental attributes."
"The ferals," I began, "Are the ferals designed as well?"
"Ferals, as you refer to them, originally started out as designed humans. These designed humans were allowed to live in the wilderness in a bid to re-populate the planet. Our assumptions as to their capabilities were incorrect but, by then, the Fair Treatment of Humans Act had been established and they were allowed to live and procreate without interference so long as they stayed out of rehabilitation and archeological zones of interest," the dominant head replied in a practically mechanical manner.
"How can you tell how old any particular feral is?" I asked, "A feral not originally designed by your race but through sexual reproduction?"
"A review of their visual memory is sufficient to determine an estimated age," the dominant head stated.
"So for however long their visual memory is, that is their age?" I asked.
"Correct," the dominant head replied.
"And how do you determine when their visual memory begins?" I asked.
"There are multiple visual cues," the dominant head stated, the once booming voice now almost replaced by a softer but still stern professorial tone, "Including but not limited to visual scenes such as eye blurriness or focus, angle of viewing, color perception and social environment. A period of complete and total darkness precedes the birth or creation of any particular human."
At that, I smiled.
"Then I think you need to take another look at my visual memory," I stated.
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