Read Online Bonshoon: A Tale of the Final Fall of Man by Andrew Hindle - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Andrew Hindle
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birthdays either,” Glomulus commiserated, “although I do have this five-year anniversary coming up…”
“Hm,” Decay said, seeming – as far as Glomulus could really tell – a little uncomfortable at this reminder of his convict status. “So, anyway, that’s the nature of the experiment. I actually had fifty-odd crewmembers doing it, at its peak. A lot of my sample was lost, sadly, in The Accident. But it still has some-”
“Do you think I should try it?” Glomulus asked abruptly. “Do you think it would solve my problems?”
“I imagine being given a pen or scribing instrument would solve quite a few of your problems,” Decay said. Cratch smiled widely again in reply, and Decay pointed. “The flimsy should suffice.”
“Finger-painting is just so undignified,” Cratch mourned. “I feel like a toddler.”
“Brig rations will have to tide you over until we get more toddler.”
“You are funny for a Molran.”
Decay cleared his throat. “Blaran.”
“My mistake,” Doctor Cratch said, and rose to cross to his desk. “So can I tell you what I write?” he asked, picking up the flimsy. “Or is it like making a wish when you blow out birthday candles? Oh, that’s another traditional birthday thing, by the way,” he added, tapping the edge of the flimsy to stiffen it. He started swiping and jotting quickly with a slender fingertip. The senso-flimsy transcribed his touches into text, and could also store the information – if required – into its limited recall-memory. “If you tell people what you wish for, it won’t come true.”
“Yes, I’m aware of birthday candle wish etiquette,” Decay said.
“I just thought, maybe since you didn’t go for this ‘birthday’ thing that humans put so much stock in,” Doctor Cratch said, looking up fleetingly from the page. “I wonder if there’s a ‘five years in the brig’ cake tradition,” he continued whimsically.
“I’m sure the settings on the brig food printer can be adjusted to ‘cake’,” Decay remarked, and Glomulus allowed himself a shudder. “In this case it doesn’t matter if you tell or not,” the Blaran went on. “It’s the writing that’s important.”
“Good,” Glomulus nodded, writing busily. “I assume I can delete it again afterwards,” he asked, “or do I need to hold onto a record?”
“You can do what you like with it after it’s written down,” Decay said, “although you have to be aware by now that anything you write onto that flimsy is going straight into a tracking and supervisory database that Sally and the Commander scan for warning markers.”
“Oh Lordy Lord, you mean my secret love poetry and my famous brownie recipe have been pored over by prying eyes?” Glomulus lamented. “I may never learn to trust again,” he jotted a final line, nodded in satisfaction, and then held up the flimsy against the unyielding transparent smoothness of the metaflux. At least this time the special field-reinforced plating had been polarised so he could see out, as well as Decay seeing in. “Like this?”
Decay raised his hairless eyebrows. “You wrote it in Xidh,” he remarked. To his credit – although it was difficult to imagine what Glomulus could possibly do – he didn’t lean closer to read the delicate swirls and pictograms of the sentence Cratch had written three times on the senso-flimsy:
I will escape from the brig, decapitate the shit-dancing bat-head and fuck its nose-holes until its brain finally dies.
I will escape from the brig, decapitate the shit-dancing bat-head and fuck its nose-holes until its brain finally dies.
I will escape from the brig, decapitate the shit-dancing bat-head and fuck its nose-holes until its brain finally dies.
“That’s the idea,” Decay said coolly, “although ten times is probably more likely to get the concept firmly imprinted on your behavioural template. If that’s really what you want,” his ears flicked, and he glanced back up at the
“Hm,” Decay said, seeming – as far as Glomulus could really tell – a little uncomfortable at this reminder of his convict status. “So, anyway, that’s the nature of the experiment. I actually had fifty-odd crewmembers doing it, at its peak. A lot of my sample was lost, sadly, in The Accident. But it still has some-”
“Do you think I should try it?” Glomulus asked abruptly. “Do you think it would solve my problems?”
“I imagine being given a pen or scribing instrument would solve quite a few of your problems,” Decay said. Cratch smiled widely again in reply, and Decay pointed. “The flimsy should suffice.”
“Finger-painting is just so undignified,” Cratch mourned. “I feel like a toddler.”
“Brig rations will have to tide you over until we get more toddler.”
“You are funny for a Molran.”
Decay cleared his throat. “Blaran.”
“My mistake,” Doctor Cratch said, and rose to cross to his desk. “So can I tell you what I write?” he asked, picking up the flimsy. “Or is it like making a wish when you blow out birthday candles? Oh, that’s another traditional birthday thing, by the way,” he added, tapping the edge of the flimsy to stiffen it. He started swiping and jotting quickly with a slender fingertip. The senso-flimsy transcribed his touches into text, and could also store the information – if required – into its limited recall-memory. “If you tell people what you wish for, it won’t come true.”
“Yes, I’m aware of birthday candle wish etiquette,” Decay said.
“I just thought, maybe since you didn’t go for this ‘birthday’ thing that humans put so much stock in,” Doctor Cratch said, looking up fleetingly from the page. “I wonder if there’s a ‘five years in the brig’ cake tradition,” he continued whimsically.
“I’m sure the settings on the brig food printer can be adjusted to ‘cake’,” Decay remarked, and Glomulus allowed himself a shudder. “In this case it doesn’t matter if you tell or not,” the Blaran went on. “It’s the writing that’s important.”
“Good,” Glomulus nodded, writing busily. “I assume I can delete it again afterwards,” he asked, “or do I need to hold onto a record?”
“You can do what you like with it after it’s written down,” Decay said, “although you have to be aware by now that anything you write onto that flimsy is going straight into a tracking and supervisory database that Sally and the Commander scan for warning markers.”
“Oh Lordy Lord, you mean my secret love poetry and my famous brownie recipe have been pored over by prying eyes?” Glomulus lamented. “I may never learn to trust again,” he jotted a final line, nodded in satisfaction, and then held up the flimsy against the unyielding transparent smoothness of the metaflux. At least this time the special field-reinforced plating had been polarised so he could see out, as well as Decay seeing in. “Like this?”
Decay raised his hairless eyebrows. “You wrote it in Xidh,” he remarked. To his credit – although it was difficult to imagine what Glomulus could possibly do – he didn’t lean closer to read the delicate swirls and pictograms of the sentence Cratch had written three times on the senso-flimsy:
I will escape from the brig, decapitate the shit-dancing bat-head and fuck its nose-holes until its brain finally dies.
I will escape from the brig, decapitate the shit-dancing bat-head and fuck its nose-holes until its brain finally dies.
I will escape from the brig, decapitate the shit-dancing bat-head and fuck its nose-holes until its brain finally dies.
“That’s the idea,” Decay said coolly, “although ten times is probably more likely to get the concept firmly imprinted on your behavioural template. If that’s really what you want,” his ears flicked, and he glanced back up at the
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