Joe took note of the way Ridley stared at him, then at the noob, then back to him with an even larger grin before taking one step toward the shrinking black nothingness.
'Hey,' said Ridley, peering in deeply, 'is that...?'
With his curiosity piqued, the noob leant in further, unknowingly providing Ridley with the opportunity to push him in head first. Shaggy hair filled the void before becoming more distant. Strangely, it wasn't smaller, and wasn't really further away, it was just...distant. Then vwoop he was gone.
Joe was filled with an upsurge of some foreign feeling. He guessed it was adrenalin. Without waiting for Ridley, he leapt in...
There were no wavy transitions, no streaks of white, not even a colourful rotating wormhole; nothing at all like film and TV had taught. He looked behind him and through the black speckled haze could still make out Ridley, waiting before the hole, seemingly frozen. For a moment a fear rushed through him. Perhaps he'd soon be alone in another time period, forced to survive by his own wits; a terrible and short future. Worse, he might be left with the sole company of the noob.
And then everything disappeared.
floated
Images
in by
seemingly
rando
m directions.
Joe's eyes closed involuntarily. A rush of voices filled his thoughts. His thoughts became reality when he was bumped, nudged, and even edged aside. He opened his eyes to a throng of fast-moving bodies, all paying little attention to the small human body of Joe. Screeches and vibrations pounded into his ears as a passer-by pushed into his body, forcing him to the ground.
'Heelo milo,' said the passer-by, although it sounded more like 'Stupid human' to Joe.
'Qwa,' said a different passer-by, which sounded like 'Why do they look like that? Can't they buy better looking clothes? And why are they always begging on the ground? It ruins such a nice evening.'
I'm a bit embarrassed about using this kind of joke. Not embarrassed enough to use it, though!
I think I'll skip the drawn-out translation process from now on, if that's OK? It'll save time. And to be honest, Joe's boring me right now with his passiveness and negative energy.
BOOM!
The noise was distant but loud. Do you see how large that font is? It must have been very loud! It shook the area enough to almost topple Joe. But he kept his balance the way you do when a bus takes off abruptly, by widening your stance, stretching your arms out, and looking slightly more idiotic than a galloping praying mantis.
A siren rang out. The crowd dispersed enough to create a pathway for loud, heavy footsteps. Joe cowered as each clump-clump went by. When he realised they were not after him, he managed a peek through some extremely thin legs. He saw only black boots rush by, blacker than black, the kind of black that makes you wish for the brightness of regular black; that is, a brighter black that doesn't swallow your soul and devour your every thought.
Now, you've probably looked ahead here and have already seen my example of (ordinary) black. Spoilsport! I know it's hard to concentrate sometimes with your TV right over there, which you could easily switch on and watch something so-so, but hey, it'd be TV, so who cares, right? And I know the computer gives you the opportunity to multi-task, to pretend to be doing three things at once and then think, two hours later, what was it you were supposed to do? But stay with me here and we can both find out what happens next.
Oh yeah, and here's that regular non-soul-destroying black I promised:
Oh yeah, and here's that regular non-soul-destroying black I promised:
 | |
| Figure 3-1: Black(ish) |
The pathway filled in and the throngs of bodies went back to rushing by, which gave Joe the impetus to scurry to his feet and dance around the passing masses. In between stomping feet and bobbing “heads” (for wide enough definitions of head), he saw a massive spiral tower growing from the smaller buildings below it, up into the dark night sky.
A push. A shove. An 'Ow.' It had gone from awe and wonderment to bloody irritating. It was hard to see above the large bodies but Joe hoped this was just a thin walkway, perhaps a busy spot for the locals to head home from a long day at work, or some other ill-thought anthropomorphism on his part. So he headed to the left side. Or was it the right? He skipped past one local whose cheeks boasted large moist horns and who walked on three legs. Three legs, people! How wacky is that?! Joe just managed to evade another local with purple skin and a long tail. He thought it was like an episode of Star Trek, and hoped he wasn't the one with the red shirt.
OK, I'm sorry. I thought about this quite a bit. Sure, the red shirt Star Trek joke is kinda old now and yes, even the latest high-action lens-flare-filled “reboot” gave it a nodding reference, but that shouldn't stop me from using it for those two Star Trek fans in Iceland who haven't heard it yet.
Finally, finally, Joe made it to the wall. He rested his back against it and breathed in deeply. Then heard a laugh. Then another laugh, louder. He looked up. Ridley was sitting on a ledge, laughing his donkey off. *Clears throat* Sorry for the language, children.
'That was hilarious,' said Ridley. 'Just watching you release-waste-products yourself when those formal looking dudes came out. Man, wish I'd had a camera.'
Joe unceremoniously scrambled his way up to Ridley. 'Thanks for your help.'
Ridley continued to laugh.
'What now?' said Joe, already tiring.
'That bit when you asked for help and they thought you were begging? Priceless!'
'Wait, you were already here? Why didn't you help me?'
'I can't help and laugh.'
'The Tank would've. He would have laughed his head off while pulling me to safety. He should have been here instead of you.'
'Ooooh,' said Ridley with mock indignation. 'Poor baby gonna cry?'
'Oh yeah, thought you said this was some kind of time machine,' said Joe, using his own brand of sarcasm.
He paused a moment to take in their surroundings. They seemed to be perched just above a plaza of coloured tiles that were almost hidden beneath the throngs of peop...no, alie...no, locals, none of which looked at all human-like. Beyond the plaza, a hoggery of thin towers squatted together, assembled from dirt or mud or something equally brown. In the other direction, a murder of massive towers shone with a darker material, covered with lights and colour.
'Doesn't look like we've gone back in time to me,' concluded Joe.
'Could be the future,' proffered Joe. 'I didn't say a time machine to the past. If we find some apes who can talk, we might be on to something!'
'And those things?'
Ridley looked up, seemingly for the first time. His shocked gaze fell on the red, pot-holed moon, much larger than earth's own satellite. He had only just closed his gaping mouth when he noticed the second and third moons, both much smaller, covered in a bluish mist. 'Ah,' is all he said.
I totally got you with the time travel thing, right? You thought our intrepid heroes would be fighting off velociraptors or killing Hitler or arresting the earth's shift from its obvious pre-renaissance flatness into the spherical bundle of joy it is today. You really thought that, didn't you? Please say yes. I need validation.
'Ready?' said a fast-standing Ridley.
'For what?'
'Did you want to stay here all night, princess?'
'It's probably as safe as anywhere.'
'Yeah, yeah, “I'm too scwared to go anywhere. Pwease don't make me do anything I dun wanna.” How about we try that massive spirally thing in the distance?'
'No. I've got a bad feeling about that place. We should go in the exact opposite direction.'
Ridley looked in the exact opposite direction, but only ended up staring at his shoes. Then he looked to where Joe had actually meant, toward the smaller muddy towers, past an invisible line separating the two parts of the city.
'I see what you mean,' said Ridley. 'That way does look like a cheap dive. Makes sense you'd be keen on going there. On the other hand, we could always go to where the money obviously is, like that massive glittery spiral tower in the middle of the damn city. How's about that?'
While the tone was not exactly enticing, Joe had to admit it made sense. He'd previously had a conversation with Ridley about what would happen if they were to somehow go back in time to the medieval period, and how they'd survive (or not). Joe didn't know what he'd do. Try to teach modern science or mathematics, or something technological perhaps? Ridley suggested in a kind-hearted fashion that Joe didn't know too much about those topics. Which was a good point. Ridley also pointed out, with surrounding colourful language, that even if Joe had the knowledge, he'd just get himself burnt as a witch. Another good point.
No, said past-Ridley, the best idea was to approach the king or local landowner, the person with power. Being a man of love not war, he wouldn't tempt him with weapon technology. Instead he would sell the king and, more importantly, the queen, on good sanitation – pipes taking away the smelly smells and leaving the palace or castle in much better shape, and bestowing upon him good graces and, possibly, land and/or money.
You really shouldn't say and/or out loud. You just...you really shouldn't. Promise me?
They briefly touched on whether it'd be best to talk about the spread of disease and use this as an extra marketing point, or if that would also brand them some kind of witch, but failed to come to agreement on this point.
Of course, Joe had none of these skills. He wasn't personable and couldn't even imagine himself talking his way in to see the top brass at all, let alone convincing them of the benefits of such a gift. Worse, he had no idea how to design or create the actual piping. The latter issue spurred a brief foray into the glorious world of plumbing, plumbing the depths of brown sloshy milkshakes and his own pride. At least it would have if he'd been able to get an apprenticeship. Apparently lots of people wanted to get their hands dirty, so to speak.
All of this would have been more interesting if the wormhole really was to the past, where he could really put his futuristic “skills” on show. But here, on another planet, possibly another galaxy, what skills could he present to the alien king in his colourful tower? Still, it was a worth a shot.
Joe sniffed. His thoughts seemed to have brought with them the scent of a seat without back or arm rests, as if mere memories could ferment their way into his olfactory senses. He sniffed again. Then blushed at the source.
'Fine,' said Joe. 'We'll go to the clearly ominous large tower with, I'm sure, millions of guards and large perimeter fences and all kinds of weaponry. Sounds perfect. If I get killed it's all your fault, just letting you know.'
Ridley did his best to spit out the same sentence with as much baby talk and condescension as possible.
Joe simply wiped his face, hopped down, and started walking.
'Thank goodness we can finally leave,' said Ridley, 'something really stinks around here...'
The flashing lights and colour of the city at night reminded Joe of Tokyo. At least, what he'd seen of Tokyo in movies and TV shows. But yes, definitely just like Tokyo.
Each step took them closer to the principle tower in the centre of the city. It loomed down on them like a step-father with a belt behind his back and a manic smile on his face.
Joe was looking sideways at another tower. This one wasn't as big as the other, but held his interest for a different reason.
'Is there a floating human face on the side of that thing?' he asked. 'A statue of a massively giant floating human face looking down at us?'
Ridley twitched. 'Nope. There isn't.'
'Oh,' said Joe. 'You don't see it? I guess we do that a lot. Always putting faces on things that don't have a face. Like on Mars, where the light and shadow hit it just right for it to look like-'
'No, I mean it's a whole body. Not a face.'
There it was: feet, recognisable feet, with ten toes. Above them two normal, slightly hairy legs. Then a torso, arms, neck and, on top of it all, a human head.
Joe looked around erratically. 'Are there other humans here? We're not alone?'
'Why do you care?' asked Ridley. 'Seriously. Maybe these aliens are much better people than people could ever be. Maybe they are generous, sexy, hot, beautiful...'
'Or maybe,' interrupted Joe, 'they worship humans. Maybe we're they're god. A more advanced version of the cannibals in old cartoons.'
'Hmm, I'm liking this more and more,' mused Ridley. 'And you didn't even want to venture through the looking glass. Silly boy.'
That was true, thought Joe. He had wasted his life fearing action. More accurately, fearing the consequences of that action, the unknown ramifications which could potentially leave him without the ability to undo.
If life was a computer game you'd spend most levels grinding, never get the chance to win a boss fight, be unable to save, and have only one life. That last one was the killer.
So, as a child, Joe's social life branched out at a conservative speed, barely spending time with his peers. Then, in later teenage years, he hauled back on all the childhood risk-taking. Throughout his twenties, discretion won out and his reckless thoughts of risk-taking were enough to see him safely couped up in his room playing online games (the ones which didn't require interaction with others).
But now he found himself in a place he could have only dreamed about. He was walking down the street of an alien city, heading for a tower that stretched into the night sky and had a human relief affixed to its exterior. He gave a secret admiring look over at Ridley. This is what you could get if you took a risk and actually tried to live your life. There wasn't always a bit of bad luck around the corner. Things didn't always turn out in an irrevocably horrible way.
Just as he was about to take another risk and open himself up to Ridley, explain why this was all so tough for him, congratulate his companion on being so open and brave, the world became black and a sharp jolt to his back rendered him completely unconscious.
Don't worry, I won't repeat the whole black picture joke, despite its immense hilarity. If you're feeling nostalgic and can't be bothered backing up a bit, just close your eyes. See, insta-blacktm! I should totally market that in some way. But back to the story...
...where Joe woke up. It was still black. No, not black, just dark. He blinked a few times and gave his eyes the chance to adjust to the gloom. He seemed to be in a giant empty room. Now on his feet, his scuffed footsteps took him closer to one direction. But there was something wrong. He stepped a few more times and noticed the distinct lack of echo.
'Hello?' he said. The sound stopped dead the moment it left his tongue.
He took a couple steps further and hit a wall. After the comical rubbing of the nose and shaking of the head, Joe examined the black shiny surface in closer detail. It was black. And shiny. Surprised? I should totally write an old-school text adventure game with Grues aplenty.
Now that his eyes had adjusted, it was clear the room was quite small, with most of the faint light sucked up by the black walls. Even the floor and ceiling were made of the same substance, bearing a striking resemblance to the massive tower he was looking at six paragraphs ago.
He felt the sudden urge to free himself from this obvious cell. If only he had a communicator and could tell Scotty to beam him up.
He noticed how strange it was that there was enough light to clearly see his own hands, which he raised and aimed at the wall. His thinking was this: the wall looks like obsidian, obsidian breaks fairly easily, I'm going to break it with my fist. Personally, I'm surprised he'd even heard of obsidian. What he didn't know was that the walls were made out of a completely different manufactured substance and would need a lot more force than a puny-muscled chubby human called Joe.
'Hey, that's not fair,' he said, dropping the hand by his side.
'What, no more snide comments?' he said, seemingly to no one.
'Come on, I'm waiting.'
Only silence responded.
'No it didn't. You responded.'
Err...
'What, cat got your tongue now?'
Umm...
'Who are you, anyway?'
OK...
'And why can I hear your voice? Is this some kind of torture, where they read out a commentary on your every movement to make you go mad? Or are you really just in my head?'
I ummm...you can hear me?
'Err, uhm, err,' mocked Joe. 'Yes I can hear you!'
But...how?
'I don't know! Shouldn't you know?'
OK, let's look at this logically. When did you first start hearing me?
'After I moved through that black hole.'
So somehow the wormhole not only transported you to another place, but also allowed you to listen in on your creator?
'Creator? Pfft. I don't believe in god.'
I didn't say god, you heathen. I think it's pretty unequivocal that I'm the one that created you.
'How do you know?'
What? What a stupid question. I know because I know.
'Typical religion. Have to resort to gobbledegook.'
Stop arguing, you illiterate character. It simply follows from the axiom, I think therefore I am. I know because I know. You are because you are.
'I'd appreciate a bit of respect. If you really were my creator you'd be a bit nicer, don't you think? And what's with all the Star Trek references? I don't even like that crap.'
Oh. Oh yeah, that's the other guy. What are you interested in, then?
'Just...I dunno. Interesting stuff.'
Right...
'No, OK, I like umm Kafka. He's pretty cool. And anything by David Lynch.'
Ahh, gotcha. You're one of those types that like to think of yourself as cerebral. I bet you've got a blog that discusses the meaning of the dog bark in the first part of the seventh scene of some avant-garde Swedish “masterpiece”, and how it really is a metaphor for the decay of civilisation.
'Well, the blog isn't quite about that...'
And I bet you accuse any piece of media that comes even remotely close to being financially successful as selling out, as being immediately lesser than the true art form of the artists you like.
'Sure, but in my defence, take a look at any pop act today and tell me the manufactured wa-'
And everyone who disagrees with you is just some phony.
'I wouldn't say everyone.'
OK, OK, I think I'm getting a better understanding of you now. Tell you what, I'll cut out the Star Trek talk from now on and make sure to insert references to all that amazingly deep, serious art that you appreciate so much. Deal?
'I'd prefer if you were quiet, but I don't think I have a choice.'
Good-o. Now, instead of talking to me, you might want to take a look down at the hand poking out from the wall.
Joe jumped back.
The hand was old and wrinkly and dusty. And human. It reeled itself in and was replaced with a voice.
'He-hello?' it said. 'Ha-have I caught you at a ba-ba-bad time?'
Joe thought about being flippant: stuck in a cell on a strange planet was probably not the best time, no. Instead, he said, 'No, it's fine.'
'Oh,' said the old voice, tinged with disappointment. 'Oh, oh, uh, that's good,' it said, brighter. 'I uh, I didn't want to, uh, interrupt you. What's your, uh, what's your name?'
'Joe,' said Joe, bending down to look through the hole. He saw movement but not much else.
'Joe, ey?' said the voice. It made a sound whenever it inhaled, inhaled at every pause, paused at every word, and kept growing fainter, as if its very spirit were leaving.
'Joe, Joe,' it repeated. 'Don't think I've, uh, don't think I've ever known a Joe. You sure your name isn't Ed?'
'I'm sure,' said Joe.
'Knew an Ed once, uh, good, uh, good fellow. You, uh, you sure I'm not, uh, not interrupting you there, Ed?'
'Joe,' said Joe. 'And no, it's fine.' The last part he said with gritted teeth. He was close to ending the conversation right there but he was curious as to why the voice was so concerned about interrupting him.
'Why are you so concerned about interrupting me?' he said.
'Oh? Oh, uh, well, earlier, you see. I would have, uh, would have waited a bit but I, uh, I haven't got much time, you see. You just seemed, uh, so caught up in your conversation, uh, with your, uh, your friend, I mean.'
'To my...? Oh. You heard that?'
'It's, uh, OK, uh.' The breath was heavy, the sentences strained. 'I, uh,' it continued, 'I want you to know I completely understand. I, uh, I'm an old man and I've, uh, I've been trapped down here for, uh, for, uh, quite some time myself, uh, and have been known to have some, uh, some friends of my own. You have got to, you have to got to, uh, talk to someone, right? Uh.'
'I'm not crazy,' said Joe.
'No, no, uh, none of us are, uh, crazy.'
Joe suddenly needed the old man to believe in his sanity.
'Seriously. I wasn't just talking to some imaginary friend. I really did hear an actual voice-' He stopped. He knew how it sounded before he'd even said it. 'Doesn't matter,' he said, quietly. 'What's your name, anyway?'
'My what? Oh, uh, my name, ey. It's a long story.'
Here the voice began an epic tale of adventure and valour, of romance and tragedy, the kind of story that spurs the imagination of all who hear it, all who feel it, ingratiating itself into the very soul of the listener, causing lascivious laughter and perilous pity. I won't bore you with the details. It would simply excite you too much.
Honestly. That's the reason.
OK, fine, I'm a bit jealous. You happy now?
More importantly, the voice ended its story with a name.
'Really?' said Joe.
'Really,' said the old man.
'That's your name?' said Joe.
'Yes, uh, that's my name,' said the old man.
'Really?'
'Oh, uh, look, uh, I really don't have any time to, uh, to waste here.'
'I'm just a little shocked, that's all. I thought you'd have made me guess before just blurting it out.'
'Please!' said the old man. 'I must, uh, I must ask you, uh, something. A favour.'
'Well, err, I dunno. What is it?'
'I...' the voice started, before dying away. 'I am not well.' A cough, and then: 'I must ask that, uh, that you pass this *cough* message along.'
'Like some famous last words?' said Joe.
'In a way,' said the voice. It mumbled and wheezed out some words that Joe was unable to hear. Then, a little stronger, it said: 'It is, uh, to my grand-daughter, Anne.'
'Nice name. But look, is there anyone else who can do this?' said Joe. 'Like, don't you get visitors? The police, or whatever they are here? Can't you ask them?'
'No. No one, uh, no one comes to my door *cough*.'
'What makes you think I'm going to get out of here? I could be stuck for as long as you.'
'You will, uh, leave here. They, uh, they still have a, uh, need for your kind.'
'My kind? What does that mean? You some kinda ray-cist?' Joe said the last part with a southern American accent. He wasn't sure why.
'No,' protested the voice, coughing wildly.
'Coz I ain't gonna help no racist, see?' He kept the accent up, perhaps hoping for a laugh from some unseen observer. He wasn't getting it from me.
'You, uh, you misunderstand. You are, uh, still young.'
'So? It doesn't mean I don't understand things.'
'No!' The angry old voice boomed into Joe's cell. It slipped back into a quieter, raspier, breathless tone, and said, 'They will, uh, take you. You are young.'
'Really? You really think I'm young?'
'Please?' pleaded the old man.
'It's just...I'm probably not the right person to do this. I'm not very good at remembering and I can't really go out of my way to find this girl.' Joe coughed. 'Yeah...' he said, thinking to himself. 'Yeah, I think you'd have much better luck with someone else.'
Joe thought for a moment. Everything inside of him was telling him to say no, to avoid having any kind of expectations forced upon him. His whole body had assumed the flee position, in fight or flight parlance. His mind was slowly turning off, not even giving him the option of accepting the old man's request.
'Go on,' he said, quietly, almost to himself.
'Ey?' the voice croaked.
Joe breathed in deeply, then out again.
'What's your last message? What are your, you know, final words?' He screwed up his face.
'Oh, thank you, thank you,' said the voice. 'I *cough* can't thank you enough.'
'Yeah, yeah,' said Joe, dripping with a lack of enthusiasm. 'What do you need to say?'
Episode III is dedicated to people who wear red shirts.
Along with a hearty hello to Jason Isaacs (whose red shirt wearing history I am not privy to).
Find episode IV here.
© 2013 Ben Safta
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Australia License
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