[AA]: The Roger Thompson Chronicles (3/6)

Brism Wanor brism at earthlink.net
Fri Jan 21 08:42:20 PST 2005


                         FIFTH INFINITY PRODUCTIONS

                        with the kind assistance of
                          Mademoiselle Muse, Inc.

                         and sore toes courtesy of
                  United Narrators, Speakers, Presenters,
                         and Other Talkers (UNSPOT)

                          Furtively Bring You ...

                       The Roger Thompson Chronicles

                            Part Three (of six)
                              Ammused To Death

      "Each of these rooms holds the works of an Author," the girl, Daphne,
according to her name tag, tells me, as we pass rows of doors, marked with
indecipherable symbols.
      "I wouldn't think you'd need that much space," I say, slightly
startled. (Alliteration Police, take note.) "Even a large book--"
      She chuckles. "Not books, scrolls. Like in the old days."
      "Whatever for?" I cry.
      "Well," my guide shakes her head, tiredly, "somehow, the idea of
updating never hit the Muse of history. Clio still *lives* in the twelfth
century."
      "B.C., or A.D.?"
      She turns to study me. "You know, I'm not sure. When did they start
writing on scrolls, anyway?"
      "Just be grateful it isn't stone tablets, and forget it," I suggest.
      "Yeah, my back'd never forgive me."
      We share a laugh.
      I'm not certain what I expected when I came here. After my rather
metaphysical, and somewhat disappointing meeting with the Sage, I was a
bit leery of barging into MMI's offices, unannounced. On the other hand,
considering that the clock was, quite literally, running out, I couldn't
afford to follow normal channels, but it didn't hurt to be polite.
      Politeness got me the information that I wanted Archives, generally
overseen by Clio, Muse of Historians, and collector of trivia.
      Clio, it turned out, was on vacation, and had been for the last year
or two, but, could someone from the department help.
      I agreed that this was quite likely, and a few phone calls brought my
current companion ambling into the reception area, from which we embarked
on our current tour of the Archives building.
      "Listen," I say, "I appreciate your taking the trouble--"
      "Its no trouble," she assures me, "beats playing more solitaire."
      "Oh," I raise an eyebrow, "do a lot of that?"
      She sighs. "Unfortunately. You'd think the IS department for the
Muses would be ... well ... fun, right?"
      "Well, I never thought about it," I admit, "but, yes."
      "It was, for a while. Lots of stories, lots of things to read
through, catalog, index. Now, its all just maintenance, dusting scrolls,
and keeping out the damp."
      "All because the Authors aren't writing?" I ask.
      "Yes, I'm afraid so. We're looking at the twilight of a
       universe. Its ... sad."
      I nod, sympathetically.
      "Hey," she says, stopping by a door which looks the same as all the
others, "in there are all the works of Gary Olson."
      "Really? All of them?"
      "Yep. And down that way is Chris Angelini, and I think Eric Burns is
back ... that way," she pointed semi-randomly.
      "What about Bill Paul?" I ask, teasingly.
      "Oh, he filled the basement."
      I whistle. "Damn, he really was prolific."
      "Too right.
      "Now then, your Author--Brizle, was it?"
      "Brism," I correct, "Brism Wanor."
      "Rii-ii-ii-ight," she drawls, "I doubt there'll be a room, this
Brism's stuff'll be in with everything else from the last couple years."
      "Hmm, probably," I agree, "there's not that much."
      "O-K," she says, pushing an errant lock of hair off her forehead,
"we'll check the catalog starting from ... Hmm, oh-three? oh-two?"
      "Three," I confirm. Then, "don't you have all this on computer?"
      She blinks. "Well, sure, of course."
      "Well then, why not do that?"
      She looks at me, a bit surprised. "Its just ... you ... You don't
look ... Well, you ... Never mind."
      "Don't look like I know my USB from my elbow?"
      "Um," she blushes, "yeah."
      I laugh, gently. "My first job was presenter for a sci-fi series.
That's carried over."
      "You're a sci-fi fan?"
      "Sure, and science fiction, too."
      She stops, blinks, then throws back her head, and laughs. "Wow," she
says, finally, "and you even know the difference." She pulls out a tissue,
and wipes tears of laughter from her eyes, "come on, we'll use my
computer."
      The computer, when we reach it, isn't anything remarkable, just a
grey box with peripherals, nice monitor, though.
      "This," Daphne says, patting her toy, "is Orac."
      "Oh? How'd you get away with that?" I ask, innocently.
      "If anyone asks, I tell 'em its short for Oracle, which, come to
think, it might be."
      "Might," I agree.
      She sits down, clicks something to put the Solitaire away, then pulls
up a listing of Superguy stories.
      "OK," she says, "you said oh-three, so ..."
      The list scrolls by. "July," I add, helpfully.
      "Right. Here we are, July nineteenth, post from Brism, 'Paradigm
Inc.' number one." Turning in her chair, she asks, "so, what exactly *are*
you looking for?"
      I sigh. "I wish I knew, the Sage wasn't real helpful."
      She snorts. "From what I've read, he never is."
      "Times," I mutter, "times and eye colours."
      "Well, we can skim through this," she says, "and see if anything
jumps out at us."
      Halfway down the first screenful, something did.
      "Wait," I say, "there ... No, back a bit ... There it is."
      Daphne looks at the screen, then at me. "I don't get it," she admits.
      I point at the screen. "Time," I explain. "Jessa left her home
reality at about five after eight, but doesn't arrive in the Superguy
reality until early evening."
      Daphne shrugs, "I still don't see--"
      "But," I continue, "the story was posted early that afternoon,
*before* Jessa arrived in Superguy."
      "Huh?"
      "July nineteenth, its all the nineteenth, but the times don't work,
there's no way they *can* work!"
      "I thought," Daphne says hesitantly, "I thought time wasn't a
constant across altiverses."
      "It isn't," I agree, sighing. "Still, its damned weird."
      "Well, OK, I'll give you that. Next one?"
      "Sure."
      <Click>
      "Hmm, nothing, except the characters breaking the fourth wall,"
Daphne concludes.
      "Agreed," I agree. "Next."
      <Click>
      "Whoa!"
      I nod. "I remember that one, the recap, then the rewind, and the
reprise."
      "So," says my guide, "all this takes place before Episode Two."
      "Before, or during," I add, "only the end is really new."
      "I wonder if that's what he meant," she muses.
      "Who, oh Willard. Maybe, but I don't know."
      "Next?"
      "Next."
      <Click>
      "Major time jump, from August to March of next year," she remarks.
      "Yeah, but still occurring on that first day," I add.
      "The continuity note makes your Author look a bit crazy."
      "Mmmm."
      "What was the other thing the Sage mentioned?"
      "Hmm? Oh, something about eye colours, why?"
      "Because, here," she tapped the screen, "it says Paradigm's eyes are
blue."
      "So?"
      "Earlier, they were blue-green."
      I shrug. "Change of light, side-effect of Paradigm's power, Jessa not
bothering to qualify her statement, I don't see the problem."
      "Her eyes are green. It says so in the first post."
      "So," I ask.
      "So, you know the old joke, you buy a new car, and suddenly
everyone's driving your car?"
      I nod.
      "I can't imagine *any* woman not noticing someone else having her
eye-colour, even partly. Its too ... too intimate a detail. Oh, I know it
sounds silly," she flounders, "but its not," she finishes, defiantly.
      I nod slowly. "Time slips, Brism can't keep the story moving forward
in time, and this, bleeding of colour ... Around, and around, and around."
      "Huh?"
      "My Author's caught in a Moebius Loop," I explain.
      "Which is?"
      "Something weird from topology," I explain, "make a circle from a
strip of paper, only, put a half-twist in the paper beforehand. You can
make one line, which goes around the outside, and the inside of the
circle."
      "Oh," she nods, "I've seen those. Didn't know they had a name."
      "Well, they do," I frown, "and if Brism's trapped in one--" I stop,
because I don't want to think about the consequences.
      "Why do you do that?" Daphne's question breaks into my despondent
musings.
      "Hmm?"
      "You always say 'my Author' or 'Brism', but not 'he' or 'him'. Why?"
      "What makes you think Brism's a 'he'?"
      "That 'Lord Dugl' bit."
      "Never read _The Left Hand Of Darkness_, hmm?"
      "Well sure, but ... Oh. That's weird, you know."
      I nod.
      "And what's this?"
      "Where?" I ask.
      "At the end, here?"
      "Oh, the signature? Its either from an old movie, or a program state.
Probably both."
      "No, this 'Keeper of the Eighth Echo'. What in Hell(TM) does that
mean."
      "That," I admit with a shrug, "even I don't know. And I doubt, I'll
get a chance to ask."
      "What are you going to do?" she asks, gently.
      "Hmm?"
      "Well, this--" she waves at the screen "--evidence, if we can call it
that. What are you going to do with it?"
      "I've no idea," I admit, tiredly. "I've got to pull Lord Dugl out of
the loop, by finding an audience, and a Muse."
      Daphne blinks. "Hmm, hang on a sec." Her fingers tap on the keys.
"Hmmph."
      "What?"
      "Well, according to this, your Author not only doesn't have a Muse,
but is, well--"
      "Brism inspires Brism," I sigh. "Another part of the trap."
      "I'm starting to see what you mean. What a mess."
      "If only I could--I don't know--interrupt that flow, somehow."
      "Sorry, I've never heard of an Antimuse."
      "Anti--What?"
      "No, that'd be worse wouldn't it, creativity and non-creativity
colliding ... messy. Forget I mentioned it."
      "Already forgotten," I concur.
      There's a sad silence between us. Finally, she says, "I'm sorry, I
wish I could help more."
      "You have," I tell her. "At least now, I think I know why this is
happening."
      "Damn it," she shouts, hitting the desktop, "it's not fair. We barely
have anything to do, and now some screwed up mess is taking away a
potential author. It's just"--Thump!--"Not"--THUMP!--"FAIR!"
      "Whoa, whoa, easy, easy. You're taking this harder than I am," I tell
her.
      "It's just"--sniff--"just"--sniffle. She breaks down crying.
      Damn, can you spell awkward. I thought you could. Nothing to do but
wait, I can't really hug a near total stranger in public, after all.
      After a bit, her fit of sorrow passes. "I'm--I'm sorry. I--I just--"
      "I understand," I console, "it's not as if it's your fault."
      "I know, but first my cousin, now thi--Wait... Wait a minute!"
      "What? What?"
      "I think," she says, with a huge grin, "we can help each other, and a
bunch of other people besides. Interested?"
      "Tell me more."


                           WHAT IS DAPHNE'S IDEA?
                            WHO IS THIS COUSIN?
                            WHAT CAN HELP BRISM?
              WHY AM I PUTTING TEASERS IN AA POSTINGS, ANYWAY?

Answers in Part Four: Echoes From Distant Shores,
coming Monday on The Roger Thompson Chronicles


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

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