First I tried booting our navigator off the ship. A real drunkard, that one. Not a man was sad to see him go. But it did no good. We were back at the same port three days later.

I told the new navigator, Barnoff was his name, to keep us going due south for a fortnight. Even kept a spyglass on the coastline, making me right certain we were moving on to fresh seas. But when at last we cut our sales and made for port my glass fogged over with a dank, clinging mist. We had returned to Mosquito Bay.

After I drowned the third navigator with my bare hands, I realized it had to be the sails that were setting us off course. Somehow I was the only one who saw our masts needed replacing. Nor did any man understand why I sank my original ship outright and commandeered a Spanish vessel. Oh, the gold I have spent on new systems of navigation! How many complex tools and mystical totems have I thrown overboard, now littering the bottom of the bay?

Eighteen years of this. I have stretched every excursion on the open ocean longer than the last, until even me first mate is on the edge of mutiny. When I finally tell the crew, sun-crazed and starving, to sail us with the wind to the nearest port on the map, they cheer with voices of resentful relief. Then they make sail, while I rot in my chamber, and head right back to Mosquito Bay.

Curse this port. Curse every inch of the Silver Peninsula, which seem to stretch in every direction on the compass. Curse the whole world if this is all there is left of it. Wish not that I had ever set sail were I to know where I would end up.

On every return I pitch more of the men off the boat and search for new crewmates who go about their hollow lives in the town of Sandfly. I’ve taken young boys, women even, to fill the ranks with some faces I haven’t seen buried at sea a dozen times over. It’s usually the armada that gets them, five months out. Three months in we capture a carrack loaded with silk heading North (or is it West?) that surrenders without a shot fired. On our way to offload the goods we hit the fleet. It matters not which current or wind we follow; on the first day of the fifth month the cannons roar.

Some years we make chase, try to stay ahead of the gunships, hide in archipelagos until at last they lose interest in a single band of pirates. Not anymore, though. Aye, the thrill of the hunt is long gone for this fox. Yet, the alternative has no spice to it either, of course. If we let them catch us, or even charge them guns blazing, they somehow manage to sink themselves in the crossfire. There we sit, the last ship among timbers and ash, men struck dumb by the fortune that let them survive such an encounter. Nay, all the vinegar has drained even from victory.

The years bleed together in my memory now, but there was one such encounter I will never forget, nor will I ever try again. When I heard the cry from the crow’s nest, warning us of the ship on the horizon, I lit a long fuse leading to our gunpowder stores. I deployed a landing boat and rowed towards the armada alone, abandoning my ship and its doomed crew. It warmed my soul to hear those men scream in pain instead of cheers of victory.

When the ships finally made it to the sight of the wreck they took me aboard as prisoner, just as planned. The soldiers could not decide whether to curse or commend my murderous betrayal. They led me to their captain’s chambers to let him decide whether I was to be kept or hanged on the spot. That’s when they discovered the man was gone and a boat was missing. They spotted him some two-hundred yards windward. The distraction allowed me to break free and rush underdeck, seeking the powder keg. And I found it, fuse but an inch left, a mutiny upon this vessel as well. Yet I couldn’t find it in me to put out the flame, even in the seconds as it neared the powder. Perhaps it was exhaustion that stopped me. Aye, mayhaps it was curiosity, after all those years, that stayed my hand. So I let it light the keg.

But, of course, the devil would not release me. As the fuse met the wood it flared, then suffocated, falling to the ground, harmless. I found the crew, my captors, amidship watching fires in the distance. Despite sinking my own ship, there was the armada in flames at its own hand as well.

None paid me heed as I took to their mast, clambering to the crow’s nest, certain I would spy the coast of Mosquito Bay, in silhouette beyond the smoking fleet. Instead I saw, in the near-distance, rowboats with one-man crews. Through a glass I spied captains, one for each ship, each striking off in his own direction, barely taking care to dodge the flotsam of neighboring wrecks.

Hours passed as my captors watched these sad figures disappear over every horizon. Eventually they convened, each uncertain of their orders now that every captain had abandoned them. Well, not every captain. At first they would not follow my orders, but they agreed with my suggestion: sail with the wind, land at the first port with soft beds and warm women. In time, I told them, those boatmen would be forgotten. Those lonely ghosts would fade from memory.

Aye, it were lies I told. Lies that returned me to shore once again, where time would only burn that day into my mind. For eternity, I am besought by the image of a hundred men alone, together. I have been given just one small mercy: I could not discern the their faces, my old eyes poisoned by sun, salt, and smoke. But I am sure someday I will see each of them board my ship in the port of Mosquito Bay.

Time Flies Like A Banana

It’s been a busy couple of months here at The Harmless Lair of Villainy, The Fortress of Harmlessness, The Secret Base Built Underneath The Set The Government Used To Fake The Moon Landing Yes That Is A Real Thing Wake Up Sheeple, LLC.

In any case, I have fallen behind the original plan of four stories per-month, but that will not dissuade me. My extra time has primarily been devoted to writing and running a Pathfinder RPG campaign, which is a new, but highly satisfying endeavor. I have titled the campaign The Canyon Through The Sea; perhaps I will write up some summaries of our heroes adventures when they have completed the major story arc.

Links

September

1. The Brass Nerve, Part 5
2. It’s Too Hot to Write
3. The Brass Nerve, Part 6

October

1. The Last Age
2. Caught
3. The Females and the Males

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Before I tell you my story I should make it clear that I am a swarm of bees. Just as human beings are made of organs which are themselves made of cells, I am made of bee-parts which are made of bees. The bees have their own anatomy but that’s not important right now.

Now that’s out of the way, this story begins on a Friday morning: the day of the Winter Funderland Dance. As soon as my alarm went off I flew out of bed, both with excitement and because I am a swarm of bees. I considered wearing my nice dance clothes to school, but then I realized that would be like the least cool thing I could do. So I put on my second-coolest pair of jeans (having worn my coolest pair on Thursday), grabbed a quick dab of honey from the kitchen, and buzzed a quick goodbye to Mom and Dad. My parents are wasps, if you were wondering.

I usually take the bus to school, even though it’s faster to fly. It’s just a social thing, I guess — like, I don’t need people thinking I’m too weird to ride the bus just because I’m an humanoid hivemind. Sure, freshman year there were a bunch of older kids who would swat at me, but I’m a junior now and people seem to be over it. Besides, taking the bus means I get to see Robin every morning.

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I caught my death today.

A knock on my front door roused me from a daydream in my study. When I finally opened it to the chill of the autumn air I found no one there. I allowed a few leaves to blow in while searching for my visitor, then returned to my study, only to find a man sitting in the armchair I had just vacated.

He was me, mostly. There was no mistaking the face, though every feature looked as if it were painted on a canvas then draped over a wire mesh of my skeleton. I suppose his appearance should have startled me, but we met eyes and his presence simply made sense. Without breaking our gaze, I took a seat on the piano bench. His weary eyes were sadder than mine at my worst, and deeper than mine at my best. Before I could guess why he had come at last, he began to tell me the story of his journey to find me.

My death explained that he had been searching for me for as long as I had been alive. He was a child when I was a child. Everything I learned, he learned; everything I saw, he saw; Except for names. As I lived, he walked through the World Without Names, trying to find who he was so that he might end me.

He tried to describe what the world looked like through death’s eyes. He told me to remember those days when my parents took me to the coast after a week of rain. How on a cold evening the sun would reflect off the ocean just over the horizon, yet I could only see a few hundred yards through the mists that covered the beach. He asked me what I thought life would be like if every morning, noon, and night were just like that haze of indeterminacy. Would I, filled with visions of the solid world, eventually build a raft and strike out in search of the sun?

I considered his question. I wondered what he thought of my worst days. Would death cherish the moments when my life most resembled his? Or did the darkness within me make him question his purpose, just as it made me doubt my own? I found I could not open my mouth to voice these questions, though my having thought them meant death had considered them as well.

When death finally came to the end of his tale I could see his frame had emptied even further. His hand folded like tissue paper as he gestured for me to lie on the floor. I am still uncertain whether he had control over me or if I chose to do as he requested. Without looking away from my sullen other self, I slid to the floor and waited for death. He rose from the chair, surprisingly sluggish for such a slight figure. The effort made him shudder, or so I thought. A second shudder nearly rattled him apart, and it was then I realized he was reacting to a banging on the door.

Margaret, the visitor I had expected earlier, stopped by to remind me to take my medication. Fortunately, I had not locked the front door when I had come back inside. I attempted to respond to her voice, but I had no breath left. My other self just stared down at me, the edges of his form decaying rapidly. Margaret found me. She knelt down and began CPR. Every pound of pressure on my chest seemed to weigh on death’s shoulders, until at last he collapsed on the floor beside us.

Death crumbled. The joints of my shadow self stretched, then snapped, then turned to dust. In but a moment only his eyes remained, then they dissolved into mist. I felt the muscles in my lungs awaken. I gasped, and in that first, deepest of breaths I saw the remains of death flood into my mouth. An insidious smoke spread into the smallest corpuscles, hiding in regions of my lungs I had not used in years. The shock nearly made me stop again, but Margaret embraced me. Her touch reminded my chest to rise and fall once again. I caught my breath, and only then did I notice the pain in my chest.

That pain has since faded, but a tight feeling remains in the recesses of my lungs. Sometimes I think a hearty yawn will finally dispel the ichor that lurks there, but it always seems to burrow deeper. I wonder if he is comfortable, now that he is inside of me.

Lady Melokin, Heir of None, Champion of the Fair People, Ruler Elect and Matriarch of the Final Bastion, stood at the window of her throne room. She had stared unblinkingly into the distance for quite some time, looking beyond the crumbling walls of the city, across once-verdant fields, now burnt and covered in bodies decaying within their armor. Her gaze stretched still farther, towards the mountains in the East, behind which the sun would rise at any moment. Except it would not, and Melokin knew it would not, and so at last she turned away from the window. Her glass of wine had emptied itself; she did not remember drinking from it while she gazed. There was no one there to refill it for her, for she had sent every advisor, messenger, and chambermaid home to their families when all hope was lost. Only Synott, her guardian angel, stood beside her.

“Will you not watch the storm spread?” Synott asked. His wings hung out of his robe with uncharacteristic carelessness. “Darkness covers the mountaintops already. Even my eyes can longer find the tip of Heaven’s Pike.”

“That is because it no longer exists, dear Synott,” she answered in a whisper. Melokin began to turn her head back towards the window, then thought better of it and went in search of the rest of the wine bottle. She found it on the floor, behind Synott’s legs, illuminated by his pale glow. He made no effort to move out of her way, forcing Melokin to reach through his celestial form. “Even now, dear guardian,” she mocked, “you will not help me soften the edge of a blade.”

“It has never helped you think about what is next,” he responded with a voice as taught as the highest string of a harp. “The pike has crumbled, it is true, but that was last night. Today the storm spreads, but the dawn must rise behind it. And you must rise to meet that light.”

“He’s dead. My son is dead.” Melokin took a drink and finally looked out of the window again. The angel was right, the mountaintops were covered in darkness. To the North and South she could see the first light of morning, but erupting from the peak of tallest mountain was pure darkness. It looked thick, like liquid ash flooding both down the land and up into the clouds. As she watched, a dot in the distance that she recognized as Upper Crag — the largest city in the foothills, where she was born — descended into shadow, then sank into solid blackness.

“Young Lord Felokin may live, yet. The prophecies spoke of -”

“The prophets of the Second Age spoke of a child saving Heaven’s Pike from collapse. And how many in later ages spoke of the darkness emerging victorious? Or, how many times has some other child prevented such an event, throughout time? Many such a catastrophe may have been averted, gone undocumented simply because life continued. Ages passed. Until the event after which there will be no more ages. The forces of evil will not record our history. They will forget prophecies which said they could never triumph, just as we forget those that said we would fail.”

“My lady, surely you do not believe this could come to pass. Have we not spoken of the power in the pendants born by Felokin and yourself? Have we not tested their power in defense of evil? Even as that… tar spreads,” he gestured with an ephemeral hand at the darkness which was filling rivers of the lowlands. “You must believe your pendant will shield all who are within the walls of the Bastion.”

“I wear a fake, poor Synott. What you see before you is just glass.” Melokin tore the bauble from her neck and threw it to the floor, where it shattered. “Felokin’s was destroyed while protecting him from the final assault of the Mage Giants. I knew he would have no hope ascending Heaven’s Pike without it, so I gave him mine. The loss and the forgery I kept secret, even from you.”

The angel lowered himself to the floor, solemnly inspecting the fragments of jewelry. Then he knelt, bowing his head in prayer.

Lady Melokin looked upon her guardian, trying to calm the mixture of pity and resentment that filled her. She steeled herself, and turned her eyes back to the window. “When I watched Felokin ride for the mountains…” Her voice caught in her throat, “When I watched my child ride off with what remained of our army, I had a vision of insects in the darkness swarming towards a fire. They were so small, and the forces of evil so enraged. I thought the mountains would shatter with an explosive force. That flames would engulf us. As if the end could only come if we went towards it, drawn by the light so that an awesome force could kick the embers back at us, stamping us out at last.

“But now, it only looks cold.” She squinted her eyes, trying to glimpse the coast of the North Sea, but the darkness in the sky had completely smothered the morning sun. Outside the city walls, the roiling black mass consumed distant farmland, then nearby villages. It seemed to turn solid when a structure was fully engulfed, while the near edge oozed ever closer.

“I see the churches of Auckridge, like a skyline painted in dark oils. Everything is static. The bells were on their fifth chime, but now they stick, frozen by a winter we have never had in this land, buried in a frost that will never thaw.” She had not touched the full glass in her hands, but now she placed it on the floor and reached her hand towards the angel. “I suppose we are insects, but it is not fire that ends us.

Synott placed his hand in hers, each of them feeling a slight warmth where his celestial aura passed through her skin. Then he rose and embraced her, exerting what little force he had to turn her face away from the window as the view darkened. “Then let us hope we are mere insects, small creatures who cannot understand why the frost holds us any better than why the spring thaws us. For now we hibernate, not because we know the seasons will change, but because, in time, they might.”

And so the darkness spread from the mountains of the East, across the land, and over the walls of the Final Bastion. It seeped through windows and doors, embracing all it touched with a cold, relenting grip. There it met Lady Melokin, Champion and Matriarch, who greeted it with open arms.

Read Part 5

“This is a gas, Ricky. I didn’t think getting inside the building would be such a cakewalk. I should let you help out with more of my cases.”

Jane let the door seal behind her and took a moment to assess shipping dock of Pliant Technologies’ main office. The warehouse was dark and vacant except for the automated maintenance arms that swung around, discarding burnt server racks and unpacking fresh ones. Warning lights blinked red and yellow, guiding Jane towards the heart of the datacenter.

“Look Brass, don’t go thinking you can come crawling to me for help whenever you get yourself in too deep.” His voice was stern in her ear, but Jane could detect just a hint of puppydog in Rick’s tough-guy voice. “We’re here for Leon. On Monday I go back to law-abiding meatball doing security tests for shady mega-corporations.”

He checked the data coming from the security feed. It was an uncharacteristically warm night in San Francisco, so they had to distort the thermal imaging only slightly. The audio and video feeds they replaced with high-resolution simulations, inserting random events to fool loop-detectors. This tech was made possible by companies like Pliant themselves, though Rick put it all together with a delicate touch.

Weaving through palettes and recycling bins, Jane made her way to the far end of the warehouse. She climbed a set of stairs while Rick brainstormed different reasons Pliant might need a datacenter inside of their main office.

“No fooling, these cats must not trust the public cloud services with their sensitive data, but, hot-dang, even banks are on there these days. Maybe it’s latency? Something they need in-house without any gremlins snapping their caps?”
Jane stopped at the top of the stairs; the air got hot and dry as she moved away from the liquid-cooled machinery. She took out a cyberette and set it to freeze-vapor.

“Latency… I was wondering, why did Leon’s dear friends back there need such a heavy duty rig for this AR game? The brain is supposed to be doing most of the work.”

“I dunno, Janey. Let’s get you plugged in and see what we can see.”

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Child, sweating:

It’s too hot to write!

It’s too hot to write!

Oh Mommy, Oh Daddy,

The day is too hot and bright!

Mommy, fretting:

It is hot, child, you’re right.

You may wait until night.

The dark of evening will keep you cool,

And still you’ll be ready for school.

Child, squinting:

It’s too dark to write!

It’s too dark to write!

Though cool I may be,

I cannot write if I cannot see!

Daddy, hinting:

Oh child, your concern is great,

But it is not so dark, not so late.

If you wait longer, even less will be seen,

And besides, your laptop has a backlit screen.

Child, crying:

I’m too upset to write!

I’m too upset to write!

You never care about what I must bare,

Now I’m too upset tonight!

Mommy and Daddy, dying:

Oh child, we feared you would not learn,

We do not make the night dark, or the sun burn.

But now you finally understand the notion:

You’re only hindered by your own emotion.

Man, trying:

I never meant to admit,

All my complaints were just play,

When I wasn’t ready to write.

Sweating and squinting, now I must sit,

Alone every day,

Alone every night.

Read Part 4…

Rick hadn’t said a word when Jane came in carrying his barely-conscious nephew. He didn’t ask where they had come from, and seemed not to notice the drops of blood on their clothes. Instead, he had immediately tucked Leon into bed. After some time the boy’s murmuring and twitching calmed down, but it was clear he was incapable of falling asleep. Rick kept the bedroom dark and led Jane into the kitchen, lit by the morning sun. He began brewing coffee.

“Let me know if you want a cup, doll. Or, maybe you would like to get some rest on the couch? I’m guessing you must be tired after the night you had.”

“Ricky, if I had told you the truth you would have tried to stop me. I understand why, but I couldn’t stay out of it any longer. And I did find him, within days, when the he police have spent weeks on this case.” Jane gazed out the kitchen window thoughtfully. “Doesn’t that seem strange to you?”

“Nah, sugar, you seem strange to me. Strange in the head. The son of the District Attorney goes missing and you’re worried the authorities aren’t taking it seriously. You apply your ambiguously-legal skills to the situation, right under my sister’s nose. What am I going to say when I call her? ‘Hey, Leon just showed up here. No, you can’t ask how.’”

“We can’t call Deborah, not yet.”

“Oh, of course!”

“Not until we can get his head sorted out.” Jane turned and looked forlornly into the dim bedroom. “I had to unplug him before anyone came to stop me. I know the limits of those implants, and I’m certain breaking the connection didn’t cause any physical damage. But the software still holds his attention,” she looked at Rick, “and we need to take it back.”

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One day a young man was walking down an unfamiliar street when he came across a house with a large front yard in which an old man was digging. The old man was already chest-deep but he showed no sign of slowing his work. The young man could not help but call out to him.

Old man, why do you dig so? Be careful not to dig too deep and trap yourself!

The old man paused and looked up at the young one, squinting his grey eyes against the afternoon sun. Wiping sweat from his brow, he reassured the young man.

Dear boy, I have dug many holes in this yard. You can see I keep this stepladder on hand for just such a reason. But I have been digging away so happily, now I see this hole is plenty deep to suit my needs.

With that the old man nodded, erected the ladder, and climbed out of his hole. He stretched his legs, then hobbled over to a wheelbarrow which was covered with a tarp. The young man was about to continue on his way when the old man pulled the tarp away, revealing thousands of dollar bills. The young man had never seen so many ones and fives; stacked and crumpled, they filled the barrow to the brim.

With a broad smile on his face despite his shaking legs, the old man took hold of the barrow and wheeled it to the edge of his hole. He gave a hearty grunt as he lifted the handles, dumping the contents of the barrow into the dirt. The young man, mouth agape, watched stray bills flutter away in the summer breeze.

Old man, this is no way to save your fortune! Is the walk to the bank so difficult that this is the vault you choose?! I am on my way to the bank now, I’ll have you know, to deposit my first paycheck from my first month of work. Please allow me to assist you there, so that you may invest your assets safely!

The old man let out a deep laugh. Merrily, he began shoveling dirt back into the hole.

Young lad, your offer is most kind, but why on earth would I take this money back to the bank? You see, I just hauled it from there this morning! Besides, I do not enjoy giving money to a teller. No, burying these bills is what I love, and burry them I shall.

The young man did not know how to respond to this. He looked at the check in his hand, then back to the grey, wiry figure who was happily dumping moist dirt onto clean cash. It was then he noticed the mounds scattered throughout the yard: dozens of them, many freshly disturbed and surrounded by various shoe prints.

Sir, do you not see that your stash has been invaded by others? Surely you must notice thieves digging in the night. Yet I doubt the authorities would fault them, for they barely need to trespass to steal from you! I insist you dig up all that remains and come with me.

But, dear boy, I find no joy in removing the bills, only in placing them in these holes. Indeed, those whom you claim steal from me actually do me a service. If not for them I would have run out of room in this yard many years ago. For all my love of burying, I truly abhor excavating.

As they talked the old man made great progress towards submerging his treasure. Grinning from ear-to-ear, he shoveled heaps of dirt into the hole with slow, but deliberate motions. The young man stared at him, exasperated.

Please, sir, if you have no need of this money, you should give it to those less fortunate. At present, it simply runs off with shovel-wielding vandals!

But, young fellow, I do not enjoy giving to charity. No, it does not compare to the joy of watching cash disappear into mud, not at all.

The old man gestured as he said this, inviting the young man to watch as the last bill was covered in dirt, vanishing from sight. With a satisfied sigh, the old man began filling the hole more quickly. The young man could tell the main event was over, so he tipped his cap to the old fool and continued down the road.

At the bank, the young man handed over his paycheck. The teller inquired whether it should be deposited into a checking or savings account. The young man did a quick calculation of his expenses. He weighed the different interest rates. He considered future investment plans. He measured his desires.

Then he stopped. He looked at the teller, and smiled.

My good man, on second thought I have decided not to deposit this check. Please, give me the sum in cash. I have some shopping to do, you see. I need to buy a shovel.

I was informed by my editor that I should explain a particular word I used on pages 221, 446, and 523 of this book. To clarify, I am not going to duplicate any of what I wrote on those pages; it is your task as a reader to refer to those pages before, during, and/or after reading this section. It was my understanding that a literate person should be capable of this feat without an author providing explicit instructions. However, after a (rather long) conversation with said editor, it appears the need persists. If you did not have any trouble while reading those pages, consider this section a supplement to Chapter 12, Humans Are Bad At Instructions.

I shall continue under the assumption you are able to follow my references as explained above. The clarification I wish to make revolves around the word “recursion” and how it applies to experiences in my life. Each of the offending pages makes use of this word for a simple purpose: to remove passages that would duplicate information which had already been provided. I do this as a courtesy to both you and my editor, though he seems to disagree.

To fully illustrate a particular example, I will provide further context for use of the word “recursion” on page 446. In this passage I use the word “recursively”, which, if you are not capable of understanding the relationship between nouns and adjectives, is another form of the word “recursion.” Before using this word I provide a vivid description of my first love, a woman named Mandy. I then ask the you to reread that section eight times to learn how the rest of my relationships bloomed, flourished, wilted, and died. You are instructed to iterate through each of my mother’s positive qualities (pages 25-29) and each of my father’s negative qualities (pages 30-52) to construct an image of my romantic partners. In this way I hope to spare you the arduous task of reading what is essentially the same sad story eight times.

An astute reader will have noticed that my explanation does not, in fact, describe a “recursive” process; I have merely told you to find and replace some key phrases. This is no different from preparing a recipe or filling out a form. Before I explain how recursion is involved, however, I feel I must provide a simpler example of recursion for the less-than-astute reader. While I have avoided including code in the rest of my autobiography, I am afraid it is necessary in this case. Besides, what type of person is reading a book about me who does not have some interest in programming? My editor refuses to answer this question.

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