[AA]: The Roger Thompson Chronicles (5/6)

Brism Wanor brism at earthlink.net
Tue Jan 25 19:25:51 PST 2005


                         FIFTH INFINITY PRODUCTIONS

                           with plot devices from
                          Mademoiselle Muse, Inc.

                and a throat lozenge courteously provided by
                  United Narrators, Speakers, Presenters,
                         and Other Talkers (UNSPOT)

                          Confusedly Bring You ...

                       The Roger Thompson Chronicles

                             Part Five (of six)
                          Do You See What I Hear?

      "My kingdom for a dune buggy," I remark, as we hurry back along the
beach, toward the place of our arrival in this worldlet.
      "It wouldn't"--gasp--"do you"--gasp--"any good," Daphne pants.
      "Why not?"
      "I tried, bringing a, tape player, for Ecce, to, to listen, too, but,
it, it didn't, work, here," she got out between breaths. "Don't, know why,
something, about, this place, I think."
      Looking back at my companion, I'm surprised. She looks rung out, as
if she's been running a marathon, not merely walking quickly. On the other
hand, we've been walking quickly for several hours now, and I'm tired too.
Only concern keeps me going. A glance down the beach shows that Ecce isn't
having any problems, she's running along, skipping in the waves, looking
as if she wants to laugh.
      "You all right?" I ask Daphne.
      "I'm, more a, geek nymph, than, a Greek one. I'm fine, just, not,
used, to all, this, exer, cise, that's, all."
      I glance at her again, she doesn't look like your typical desk
jockey, but still ...
      She must have caught my look, because she pants out, "nymph,
genetics. Without, those, I'd be, the, size of, a house."
      "Coffee cake and chocolate ice cream lunches?"
      "Mmmmm," she agrees.
      Damn it. If she collapses, that'll make things even worse. Besides,
there are some answers I want--no, need--from her. Also, I can't see that
fifteen minutes, one way or the other, will help much at this point.
"We're going to rest for a bit," I decide.
      Ecce nods, then wades out into the water.
      "Where's she going?" I ask, rhetorically.
      "Swimming," Daphne answers, from where she's collapsed. "She always
enjoyed it."
      "You two must be close," I remark, sprawling on the ground, and
rubbing at a cramp in my left calf.
      "I came here a few years ago, for a bit of a rest cure. Ecce's the
only permanent resident, but she doesn't mind a bit of company, now and
then."
      "And you became friends?"
      "Sure. Come on, you're already charmed, and you can't talk to her."
      I grin ruefully. "True, all too true."
      "We played games, and ran, and swam in the ocean, and I'd tell her
stories, and she'd ... she borrowed my laughter, but it was hers, too."
      I nod.
      "Later, I tried to go back. Back before it happened. There's a ... we
use it for accuracy, sometimes ... a way to go and see ... things."
      "A time machine? The History Archives have a time machine?"
      "Quite a few, actually."
      "Terrific," I grumble.
      "We're not allowed to get involved, we can only chronicle."
      "Why?"
      "Clio likes accurate records, and, historians--most historians--are
more interested in being right than being accurate."
      "I've noticed that," I agree.
      "Umm, yes. Anyway, I knew I couldn't help, couldn't change anything,
but I went back." She slams one fist into the other palm. "If you could
have *seen* her. Laughing, running, making jokes. She was a musician, a
singer, she loved the world. Narcissus was only part of the problem, she
... she mocked a goddess, imitated her so well that the entire forest
laughed at the impression."
      "Do not interfere with dragons," I mutter, "for you are crunchy, and
good with catsup."
      She nods, grimly. "I saw it happen. I saw the horror on her face when
she realised what had been done to her, when she tried to scream, and
couldn't."
      "I'm sorry," I say.
      "I know. That's why," she hesitates, "why I think you can help."
      "Me?"
      "You're a person, a very nice, kind, and sympathetic person, but
you're also your Author's character. That means Brism's a nice person, at
least, I think it does."
      "Capable of being nice, anyway," I agree.
      "The Authors, they're not like, like the poets of Ecce's time,"
Daphne continues. "They're kinder, more gentle."
      "I bet Trudy Galloway, or Akane Moroboshi, or the Tribe of Behn would
disagree on that point," I reply, sarcastically.
      She nods, biting her lip, before saying, "but, Saber, he hates what
he did to Trudy, what he put her through. The Swede, well, he made
everything come out right in the end, even if most people don't know the
truth, and Frobozz is fond of the Tribe, no matter what he did, or does,
to them, he likes them. The poets, they used Ecce, used her like she
didn't matter, like she was ... "
      "A god's toy?"
      "Yes, exactly."
      "Daphne, the gods were used by the poets, too."
      She nods, slowly. "That's the only reason I don't hate them. They,
the poets, they made the gods stupid, and spiteful, and cruel. Then, they
told stories. Stories of scorn, and selfishness."
      "They were trying to explain things," I interject, "things no one
understood, back then."
      "That's no excuse," she explodes, "no excuse for destroying a kind
and gentle soul. Whatever their faults, these Authors aren't like that,
they *care* about their characters, whatever else happens, they *care*."
      I nod in agreement. "In that case," I say, then rise, "let's show an
Author that *we* care, too."
      "Right," Daphne agrees, springing to her feet.
      Turning toward the ocean, I come face to face with a softly smiling
Ecce. "You heard?" I ask.
      "Heard?" she agrees, nodding happily.
      "Well then, let's move."
      There's not much more to say about the rest of the walk. The breezes
keep us cool, and the silence between the three of us is no longer
uncomfortable. Sometimes, Ecce walks with us, sometimes she runs out into
the ocean, and swims along.
      When we get back to the place we started from, the gate opens at
once, and Daphne, then Ecce, and lastly myself, step through, to emerge on
the Author's planet, once more.
      Daphne leads us back to her office. The fact that people don't pay
any attention to a very attractive, naked girl with sand in her hair is
either a sign of the tolerance of Author's altiverse residents, or the
obliviousness of the average office drone. Which it is shall be left as an
exercise for the reader.
      Leaving us in her office, Daphne hurries off to the cafeteria,
returning with a heavily laden tray. For me: cheese burger, French fries,
and a soda. For Ecce: a salad, and some kind of pudding. For herself: two
pizza slices, and a large hunk of carrot cake.
      Ecce tries my fries, and a bite of Daphne's cake, as well as some of
the meat from the pizza, and seems quite happy.
      "Say, Mr. Thompson--" Daphne begins.
      "Roger," I interrupt, "or RT, to friends."
      "Fine," she smiles winningly, "Roger, you're a narrator, aren't you?"
      "I am."
      "Then, why not just say, 'meanwhile, where Brism is...' and be
there?"
      I sigh. "This is going to be hard to explain. All right, all this," I
say, gesturing at the office, "is real. It existed already."
      "I hope so," Daphne remarks.
      "But, right now, it's all part of my story, my narrative. I'm a
character inside a story I'm narrating."
      "Hmm, like Alice in _Through The Looking Glass_."
      "'He was in my dream, but I was in his dream too,'" I quote. "At
least, I think that's how it goes."
      "So, you can't narrate where you can't go?"
      "Right."
      Daphne smiles, "but, you can go where Ecce, or I go, as long as we're
in your story?"
      "I should think so, barring, hmm, private matters."
      "Ecce, would you, please."
      Ecce nods, then ... flickers. Daphne points at a spot behind me.
Turning, I see Ecce. Same person, same face, same hair, same lack of
modesty, but smaller, paler, almost washed out. Another flicker, and
standing next to this extra Ecce is another figure, also Ecce. Again,
again, again. The room is filling with images of Ecce.
      Turning back, I can see the original Ecce, looking slightly strained,
but clearly amused. Then, I feel a hand on my shoulder, and turn around,
again.
      To find one of the Ecce images smirking at me.
      "That's not an image," I say, slowly.
      "No," Daphne agrees, "they're as real as she is, they *are* her, in a
way, solid echoes."
      I turn to Ecce. "That's amazing," I say.
      She smiles, and nods happily, like a kid.
      "But I don't see how--" and I stop, because the Ecce I'm talking to
has disappeared. "Where'd she go?"
      "Go? ... Go? ... Go? ... "
      Behind me. Turning, I face a still grinning Ecce, or one of her
reflections. Only, the reflections are vanishing as I watch, leaving
behind just one Ecce. "Teleportation?"
      "Not exactly," Daphne explains. "Anywhere there's an echo, she can
be."
      "That's useful," I say. "You're a one woman--nymph--army."
      Ecce nods, and vanishes again, this time without echoing herself
first.
      "Now where'd she go?" I ask.
      "She's back where she started," Daphne says. I turn back, to find
both of them grinning at me.
      "Well, you'll be helpful, if we get in trouble."
      "That's not, exactly, what I had in mind," Daphne interjects.
      "Oh?"
      "I thought of it, when you told me about Brism's problem. Brism's
caught in a feedback loop, right?"
      "True," I agree.
      "And a feedback loop is the result of--" Daphne prompts, smiling.
      "The same signal, being amplified, and repeated, and amplified again,
and ..." my words trail off, in amazement.
      "Echoed?" Daphne asks.
      I stare at Ecce. "Can you *do* that? Can you *stop* the loop Brism's
caught in?"
      Ecce shakes her head. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a second
Ecce flicker into being near the cake. She winks, and holds a finger to
her lips.
      I nod, grinning.
      "That wasn't what I had in mind, anyway," Daphne says, "Ecce may not
be able to stop the feedback, but she *can* go to its source."
      "And the source," I say, grinning, "is Brism."
      "Right."
      Ecce nods in agreement. Ecce's echo is devouring the rest of the
cake.
      "I've said it before, and I'll say it again," I exclaim, "that's
brilliant!"
      Daphne nods, and reaches for the cake, only to find it gone. "Ecce,"
she mutters.
      Ecce tries to look innocent, which would be easier without
       cake crumbs on her chin.
      "Her echoes can do things like eat food?" I ask.
      "Not exactly," Daphne corrects. "She left an echo of herself behind
for us to talk with, while the real her, ate *my* cake."
      "Oh," I say, noticing the Ecce I was talking to earlier has vanished.
      Daphne sighs. "Now, all we do is give Ecce here a tracker, and we
can--" she breaks off as Ecce shakes her head. "What? What's wrong?"
      For answer, Ecce picks up a paper weight, then flickers away. The
paper weight lands with a loud thud on the desk.
      "Damn," Daphne mutters, "I was sure--"
      "It *can* work," I say.
      "But if Ecce can't carry--"
      "She doesn't need to," I say, almost tripping over the words in my
excitement, "don't you see? She's part of my story, and all I have to do
is--"
      "You can follow her, without a tracker. You *are* the tracker."
      "Exactly!" I look around the office for Ecce, find her. "Shall we
go?"
      Ecce nods.
      "Hold it," Daphne says, "I'm coming too."
      "You're hardly a fighter," I protest.
      "And you are," she shoots back. "Besides, I want to know how the
story ends."
      I nod, slowly. "All right, but, travelling by narration is ...
weird."
      "I'll cope."
      "OK," I agree. "Take my hand, I'm a stranger in paradise."
      Daphne catches my hand.
      "We're ready when you are," I tell Ecce.
      "The nymph of echoes, first echo, reaches out, searching, seeking.
There is, somewhere, a place where the Keeper of the Eighth Echo can be
found. Somewhere, she can find, can feel, the feedback loop which holds
the Author captive, can insert herself into that echo, use it, appear
*there*!
      "A moment later, she is joined by her companions, Daphne, and the
narrator, who--"
      "We're--we're here," Daphne says, slightly stunned. "I didn't ... I
didn't think ... it'd be ... like that."
      "I did warn you about the trip," I reply.
      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!"


                              CAN IT BE TRUE?
                    WHO WOULD TRY TO DESTROY AN AUTHOR?
                 BESIDES THAT AUTHOR'S CHARACTERS, I MEAN?
                            CAN BRISM BE SAVED?
                       CAN ALL THIS REALLY BE ENDING?

Don't miss tomorrow's shattering conclusion: "Ex Machina"
on The Roger Thompson Chronicles


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

                                  END OF LINE


More information about the superguy mailing list