[AA]: Roger Thompson Chronicles (6/6)

[Brism Wanor]

                         FIFTH INFINITY PRODUCTIONS

                       with plotting assistance from
                          Mademoiselle Muse, Inc.

                     and grandiose verbosity donated by
                  United Narrators, Speakers, Presenters,
                         and Other Talkers (UNSPOT)

                         Conclusively Bring You ...

                       The Roger Thompson Chronicles

                             Part Six (of six)
                                 Ex Machina

      We stand in a room, tile floor, white, spotless walls, and in the
middle, a glass-enclosed bed. On that bed, a huddled, sheet enwrapped
form, like some Egyptian mummy.
      "Is that Brism?" Daphne asks, pointing.
      "It is," I confirm.
      "Looks like someone's trying to help," Daphne remarks, "look at all
this stuff!"
      "I am," I reply, grimly. "That," I say, pointing, "is a creativity
damper, and that, an inspiration recycler. That," I continue, feeling my
rage building, "is an Edit blocker, and that *case* is a writer's block."
      "But, that means," Daphne's eyes are wide, her face slowly flushing.
      "We were wrong. We were all wrong. None of this is natural! This
isn't an accident! Someone trapped Brism here! Someone is trying to
*destroy* an AUTHOR!"
      "But, who?" Daphne asks. "Why?"
      "I don't know," I growl, heading for the door, "but I'm damned well
going to find out."
      The place is definitely some form of hospital. The same white walls,
white tile floor, bleak, impersonal lighting are everywhere. There's one
other thing that makes this a hospital.
      "We're lost," I admit.
      "That's hardly your fault," Daphne says, consolingly, "I mean, look
at this place. No numbers on the doors, no signs, nothing to tell one
corridor from another."
      "No people, either," I add.
      "There should be."
      "True."
      Daphne tries one of the doors. "It's not locked. Shall I?"
      "Go ahead."
      Empty, white room, empty bed, one chair that's probably even more
uncomfortable than it looks, and ...
      "A window," I point out.
      Daphne crosses the room, and peers through the window. "That's
weird."
      "What is?"
      "This view."
      "What's wrong with it?"
      "See for yourself," she challenges.
      Eche and I cross to her, and peer out.
      "You're right," I agree, after staring for a while, "that is weird."
      "It's like a painted backdrop," Daphne mutters, "like all this is
some kind of stage, or something."
      "Maybe it is," I agree.
      She turns to stare at me. "That's absurd."
      "Unless someone goes around pasting painted backdrops over perfectly
good windows, it isn't."
      "OK, but why?"
      "I don't know, yet, but ... "
      "But?"
      "I've got some nasty suspicions. Come on, let's find someone who can
answer questions."
      Returning to the hall, we begin opening every door we find. It's Eche
who finds the first different room. Not different in appearance, another
white room, another bed, but with a patient, this time.
      "Excuse me," I say softly.
      The patient turns to us. The face, a woman's face, is a caricature of
humanity, too wide eyes, too pale cheeks, body reduced to an androgynous
lump beneath too many blankets. And the eyes, the eyes are empty, no
recognition, no cognition, nothing.
      "It's ... some kind ... of doll, I think," Daphne suggests.
      Then, the hand moves, pressing a conspicuous button. Outside, there
is a loud buzzing sound.
      "Routed," I mutter. "At least now, we may get some answers."
      Footsteps in the hall, and a nurse sticks her head in. She doesn't
even notice us. "What *is* it, Mrs. Swingnert?" she ... asks, no demands,
no more like states. Formula question, without any interest in the answer.
      As the patient begins a litany of complaints, Daphne, Eche and I
exchange bemused looks. Several attempts at getting the attention of
either party meet with no success.
      Finally, we leave the room, and the complaints behind.
      "Some kind of ... display, maybe?" Daphne suggests.
      "Maybe," I agree. "It'd explain the windows, and the halls ... But,
why make something *this* elaborate?"
      "No idea. Should we wait here?"
      "Why?"
      "Follow that nurse when she comes out, find somebody, anybody." Then,
softly, "this place gives me the creeps."
      "Creeps," echoes Eche, "creeps ... creeps ... creeps."
      I frown at her. "You're trying to tell us something, aren't you?"
      "Tell ... something," Eche agrees.
      Then, we hear footsteps from down the corridor. Hurrying footsteps.
      "Finally, some answers," Daphne mutters.
      "I wouldn't bet on it," I reply.
      Nor am I wrong. A half dozen doctors, and the same number of nurses
come rushing down the hall, all chattering to each other in a flood of
incomprehensible babel. We have to jump aside to avoid being run over.
      "They don't even see us," Daphne remarks, in amazement.
      "They are *not* doctors," I say.
      "How do you know?"
      "I know double talk when I hear it," I tell her, "and all that was
double talk, and nothing else."
      "But why?"
      "The eternal question," I agree. "Shall we follow them?"
      "You!" At the shout, we all turn, to see a grim-faced head nurse
descending on us. "Visiting hours are between seven and nine, and this
patient should be in her room. Imagine letting someone run around naked."
      "She's a nymph," Daphne protests.
      "I don't care if she's a kleptomaniac, get her back to her room, get
her in bed, and get her gown on. Then, get out of here."
      "That," I remark to nobody, as the nurse storms away, "was a very,
very bad joke."
      "I don't think she knew it *was* a joke," Daphne remarks, "her face
didn't even twitch."
      "Well," I say, "at least *that* one could see us. Feel like becoming
a patient around here, Eche?"
      The nymph of echoes shakes her head, violently.
      "No! Neither do I. So, where do we go from here?"
      "That way," Daphne suggests, pointing. "It's where all the doctors,
and that nurse went."
      We hurry along, but the 'people' we're following have all vanished.
      Abruptly, a hand grabs my arm, and Daphne's voice hisses, "look!"
      I stop, and turn, following her pointing finger.
      The next door is half open, showing not another hospital room, but
some kind of storage closet, and inside that closet, two figures, both
female, dressed, or rather half-dressed, as nurses. They are kissing,
hands groping each other's bodies, occasionally reaching inside
half-buttoned uniform tops to grope and fondle.
      "It's ... revolting," Daphne gags.
      "I'm not sure I'd go *that* far," I say, "we shouldn't judge--"
      "I don't mean that! Love's the most valuable thing in the universe,
and love, and intimacy, between souls is more valuable than all other
treasures." Blushing, she glances at a gently smiling Eche. "But, that's
not love. It's not even *lust*! Look at them, their eyes aren't even
closed. They aren't *feeling* anything! They're just ... empty. Going
through the motions, the semblance of arousal. It's ... Ugh!"
      "Semblance," I agree, "nurses who simply do what's routine. Doctors
who ignore everyone. Pseudo-medical sounding double talk. No souls in this
place, no heart. Just shadows, just echoes."
      Eche nods, her face turning grim.
      "And," I add, "now this. A homosexual encounter, just to get
attention, just to boost ... *ratings*! Just so a bunch of bored Christian
housewives in Des Moines can click their tongues over breakfast, and act
superior. I know what this is! I know where we are!"
      "Where?" Daphne asks, sounding ill.
      "Where?" Eche repeats.
      "If we go far enough, that way," I point, "we'll end up in a police
station, or a law office, or some Beverly Hills mansion, but always,
somewhere that doesn't exist."
      "Television?"
      "Or books. Books written to formula, without souls, without
characters, only caricatures, books that hit the best-seller lists because
of hype, not skill. Books, that poison creativity."
      Daphne's eyes widen. "Then, Brism's trapped here because they need--"
      "No! The last thing a formulaic world can tolerate is creativity. It
reminds the ... the victims how empty this so-called world is, how
meaningless it all is. It reminds people that there's something better.
Creativity doesn't sell books, or TV series. Ever. It's all FORMULA!"
      "Formula, formula, formula, formula, formula, formula, formula!"
      "I didn't need *that* much agreement, Eche," I say.
      She shrugs, apologetically.
      "I think," Daphne says, slowly, "you must be right."
      "He is," says a new voice.
      Turning, we face a man, a dark man, in a beautifully tailored white
suit. He is smiling, gently, but the smile never reaches his eyes. His
eyes. Unlike all the other 'people' we've seen here, his eyes are alive,
alive with a vicious, calculating, judging cruelty.
      "He is," this figure continues, "in all ways, right. Which, I'm sorry
to say, is why you cannot be allowed to leave."
      "Who are you?" Daphne asks.
      "Call me Editor, call me Sponsor, call me Publisher, call me
Producer, I am all these things, and more."
      "You're the Destroyer of Dreams, aren't you?" I ask.
      He bows. "You have named me, sir."
      "I should have known earlier," I admit. "Who else would be trying to
destroy creativity. I suppose you're the one who lured the Authors away to
spend all their time on IRC servers, or glorified MUDs."
      "I only *wish* that were true," he smirks, slimily. "I regret to say
that you give me too much credit. They did that themselves. Simply stopped
trying to create, and started submerging themselves in other people's
pallid dreams."
      "But," I prompt, "Brism--"
      "That infernal meddler. This universe will die. No one is writing in
it, no one cares. The mailing list only exists because Allbery is too lazy
to remove it."
      "Bullshit," I snap. "Frobozz, The Swede, they hardly count as
*nobodies*."
      "They will lose interest. And if they do not," a wave of hands, "they
will be encouraged to lose interest."
      "You bastard," Daphne growls. "How dare you destroy something fun?
Something beautiful?"
      "Something stupid, and pointless, and boring," the Destroyer mocks.
"Does it sell books? No. Does it sell *anything*? No. It's a complete
waste of time, and we'd all be better off without it."
      "Without creativity?" I ask. "Without fun?"
      "Bah! I bring you fun. See, here," he gestures dramatically to the
half-open closet, which transforms into a dirty living room, complete with
a stained couch. The two 'nurses', now look more like harlots than
healers, with tight, artfully torn, and thread worn clothes, makeup
applied by a paint roller, and hair that's been bleached, permed, moussed,
dyed, bleached again, and teased to the point that a wig would look more
real. "Let me introduce you to MTV's fall stars," he cries, "these are
Honeypot and Datbitch, and they'll have the teens tuning in by the
millions."
      "Yeah," one of them (no, I don't know, or care, which one) simpers,
"we're gonna be staaaaaarrrrrs!!! Ain't that coooool!"
      "Hehehe, staaaars, coool, coooooool, staaaaaaaars. Think we'll get
laaaaaaid!"
      "Perfect, aren't they?" the Destroyer chuckles. "Now then, to deal
with you three ... "
      "What will you do?" I growl, "summon up Storm Troopers from that
crappy Lucas film, or maybe import the Knights of Tahkisis from Krynn, or,
maybe the officers from the 24th Precinct, wherever that is?"
      "All of those are good ideas," he admits, "and I could do it. They're
all mine, after all. All the stories that replace originality with
formula, truth with trite truism, all mine." He laughs, mockingly, "But, I
don't have to do *anything*! You've already lost. You lost a long, long,
*LONG* time ago."
      "No," says a new voice. Looking past the Destroyer of Dreams, I see
that Eche has walked into the living room, and now stands next to the two
harlot stars.
      Contrary to popular belief, the Greeks didn't carve nude statues
because they were perverts. The nude human form was seen as art, and the
finest form of art, at that. No carefully carved statue needed to be
ashamed of its nudity, but could wear the perfect exposure of the perfect
form with pride. Eche was, first, last, and always, a nymph, the
perfection of the female form. I had been aware, from the start, that she
was naked, but had never felt any attraction. She was beautiful, yes, and
naked, also yes, but not sexual. It was the nudity of a child, innocent,
and somehow now, I saw, more alluring than all the artifice of man. Next
to her, the harlot stars of vapid television fare were truly pathetic. I
think they realized it, too.
      "No more," that voice continues, and I realize, with a shock, that
the voice comes from Eche. The nymph of echoes is *talking*. "You are
empty," she tells the two blank-eyed 'women' on the couch, "empty
reflections of an empty mind. I did not make you, I do not accept you.
Begone!" The couch, the women, the living room, vanish into a terrible,
howling void.
      "What the--" the Destroyer of Dreams shouts.
      Eche walks out of the void, apparently unharmed, but seething with
anger. She marches up to the Destroyer of Dreams, and pokes him in the
chest with a finger. "You are pathetic," she tells him.
      "Ha! A mere nymph, a pathetic piece of nothing insults *me*!" The
Destroyer throws back his head, and laughs.
      Eche merely smiles. Softly, she begins to speak. "I am Eche Vagire,
whose name means to wail. I have answered the cry of the wolf, and the
roar of the lion. I answer the cries of the lost and lonely men. I allow
bats to see, and men to fly to the stars. I wink at every soul from behind
the mirror, wherever there are echoes, I am. I am the Nymph of Echoes,
daughter of Light, daughter of Life, and child of Infinity! Grand things
echo themselves, and there, I *AM*. I reject your pale reflections of
grand things. I reject your pale and valueless hype! I reject you, maker
of hollow things!"
      He shrinks back, stunned. Then, he straightens, and laughs. "Very
nice. Very noble. Very useless."
      "No," Daphne says, quietly, "it isn't useless." Stepping forward, she
too declaims, "I am Daphne Elektre, child of the future, guardian of the
past. I have seen the history you whittle away, with your small soul, so
it can fit in tinier minds. I have seen the grand and noble things *you*
have reduced to mockery: the disaster of the Titanic reduced to a love
story, the horror of war reduced to an afternoon's diversion, great men,
and little men, kindness and cruelty, reduced to a joke beneath your
soulless fingers. I know you, tyrant, and I reject your candied history, I
reject your poisoned visions, and I reject *you*!"
      "Very ... very nice," The Destroyer of Dreams mocks, "but you know it
doesn't matter. People forget the lessons of history, prefer to forget
them, because it's easier that way." He turns to me, smirking. "What of
you, little man, will you waste your breath in futile denunciation?"
      "Futile?" I ask. "I doubt that." For all that, though, I'm drawing a
complete blank. What can I say, after all, I'm no cosmic power, just a
narrator, just a ...
      "I am the teller of stories," I begin. "I am the heir to the oldest
tradition of man. I am the cousin of communication, and spreader of
dreams. When I speak, others hear. I remember a time when there was more
to a story than tits and explosions. I remember a time when there was more
to comedy than insult, and vulgarity. I remember a time when men shared
dreams, to make each part of the dream better. I am Roger Thompson,
Presenter, Narrator, Story-teller. I reject your vapid formulaic stories.
I reject your insipid, insulting crudity. I reject your vision of dreams,
and I reject you."
      "Not bad. But you achieve nothing. Even if you escape, thousands will
keep buying empty comic books, millions will borrow best-selling dreck
from the library, and everyone will be exposed to *my* empty television.
You have lost!"
      "We reject you," Eche says, "that's a start."
      "Every time someone pushes aside the endless flood of derivative
novels, and looks for something new, every time someone picks up a new,
unknown author, every time someone makes the best-seller list through
sheer quality, not sheer advertising, you *lose*." I spit.
      "Every time someone researches the true history of an event, every
time someone goes beyond the pretty packaging of a car, or a computer, and
learns how it works, you lose," Daphne chips in.
      He laughs. "So what? Three rejections. Three people telling me what I
already know."
      "What I tell you three times is true," growls a new voice. A very
familiar voice. Only Vincent Pryce could match it for sheer menace.
Compared to it, James Earl Jones is a contralto. "Beware, Dreamkiller.
You've caught yourself a snark. And *this* snark is a boojum!"
      "Brism?!" I call out, "Brism! Is that you?"
      The power of Edit flares, and Brism appears, dark haired, blue eyed,
grinning maniacally. "I told the Lord of Hell(TM) he'd never hold me. What
made you think *you* could?"
      The Destroyer of Dreams steps back, hands outstretched. "Now, now,
now. There's no need to--"
      "To what?" Brism asks, softly. "Punish you, destroy you. No, you're
right, of course. I can't destroy you."
      The Destroyer smiles smugly.
      "All the Authors in the universe couldn't do that."
      "Exactly," the Destroyer beams, starting forward, "now, if you'll
just stop creating--"
      "No," Brism continues, "I can't destroy you. Not as long as people
buy into your emptiness, your lies, your drivel, your dreck. But, I reject
you, always, and forever. And," the Author adds, with a nasty smile, "I am
NEVER alone!"
      The Destroyer of Dreams leaps back, startled. With a howling discord,
he plunges into the void Eche left behind when she destroyed his earlier
creations.
      "Hmm," Brism remarks, "guess that solves *that* problem."
      "Um," Daphne says, uneasily, "I think the void's growing."
      "It is," I agree. "Bri, get us the Hell(TM) out of here."
      "Right," the Author agrees, and there is a scene change.

      Drinks, and snacks have been handed out. Eche and Daphne are off in a
corner, chattering away like magpies, or, like friends who haven't been
able to talk in centuries.
      "After that last _Paradigm_ post," Brism explains, "I got trapped.
Lots of ideas, lots of scenes, but no ... No links, no way to put it all
together into a plot. I kept trying to rationalize it to myself, tell
myself I'd write tomorrow, or something, but ... " a helpless gesture.
      "You never did," I say.
      "No," Brism sighs. "Somehow, I found another excuse, then another.
Eventually, I crawled down into other people's creativity, and pulled the
covers over my head. I guess that's when the Destroyer grabbed me."
      "He nearly destroyed you," I say, "you would have been caught forever
in a universe of your own making. Unable to get out, or be reached."
      "My guess is, that was a back-up plan. I think he wanted to ...
borrow my creativity."
      "I thought *any* creativity was inimical to--"
      "No, no. Wild, unrestrained creativity *is* harmful to the
Dreamkiller, but, trite, soulless offerings camouflaged by *seeming*
creativeness. That's a pretty poisoned pill, and no mistake."
      "Hmm," I agree, "lucky you escaped. Which reminds me, how *did* you
escape?"
      Brism gestured to the chattering nymphs. "Your friend there, the
unclad one, she did it. Which reminds *me*, I should thank her."
      "Speaking of which," I say, then call, "Eche!"
      The nymph flickers, and, while one Eche remains chatting with Daphne,
the second comes over to join us.
      "Oh, so that's how she did that," Brism mutters, "neat trick, even if
it *is* a bit unoriginal."
      "I think that depends on your point of view," I say, then add, "Bri,
Eche Vagire, the first echo. Eche, Brism Wanor, Lord Dugl, Keeper of the
Eighth Echo."
      Brism nearly topples the chair, standing so fast. "The original, the
first. I'm delighted to meet you!"
      "Likewise," she says, smiling somewhat shyly.
      "If there's anything I can do for you," Brism continues.
      "Actually, there is," I put in, "Eche's cursed. She can't talk."
      "Oh, really?" Brism glances at the noisy nymphs, then back to the
local Eche. "She seems to be talking quite well."
      "But," I blink, realizing it's true. "I thought, that is, Daphne said
... "
      "It's true enough," Eche says, "I couldn't talk, only repeat. Then, I
stayed behind to help Brism here."
      "I thought you couldn't," I remark, "you said you couldn't stop the
feedback."
      "I didn't, and couldn't. But that was when we thought it was
natural."
      "So," I say, "while Daphne and I--"
      "And me," Eche adds, helpfully.
      "While the three of us were looking for answers, you went back and
messed with the equipment."
      "Right," she agrees. "After that, well, I was trying to learn how to
control what I echo, use it so I could *kind* of talk, you remember."
      I nod.
      "I tried doing that to the remaining feedback, and it worked."
      "Which broke Brism free, and cured you," I sum up, happily.
      Both of them look a bit furtive. I notice, to my surprise, that
Daphne and Eche are coming over, as well.
      "There's just one more thing," I say. "We've got to make sure nothing
like this happens again."
      "I don't think it will," Brism remarks, "I'm usually good about
learning from my really horrible mistakes, at least."
      "Still, according to Willard, you need an audience, and a Muse."
      "Who? Scott?"
      "No, the Sage."
      "Oh, *him*! Anyway, RT, that's been taken care of," Brism says,
airily.
      "WHAT?"
      "What? How?" Daphne asks.
      "Well, RT's story drew an audience, and I imagine some of them will
stick around. As to the other problem, that's been dealt with, too."
      "Give," I snap, "I'm tired, and I don't need any more surprises."
      Eche lays a hand on mine. "Roger," she says, "I broke the feedback,
the only way I could. I'm halfway inside Brism's head, right now, and I
probably always will be."
      "No," Daphne cries, "I didn't mean for you to get trapped--"
      "Dee, Dee, it's all right," Eche assures her. "I'm fine, honestly.
Brism's nice enough to let me use the overflow of creativity, and I
channel it so there won't be any more ... accidents."
      "But," Daphne's eyes are wide, "but that means--"
      "Yes," Brism says, "Eche's my Muse."
      Grinning, they add, in stereo, "and we've got a lot of stories to
tell."


                                    HUH?
                             WHAT DO YOU WANT?
                             TEASER QUESTIONS?
                        IT'S OVER. NO MORE TEASERS.

More stories of Brism and Eche
More stories of RT and Daphne
More encounters with The Destroyer of Dreams
The return of Paradigm
All coming up, on


                                 SUPERGUY!


-----------------------------------------------
Brism Wanor, Lord Dougl, Keeper of the Eighth Echo
brism at earthlink.net

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