Terosan Tales
Copyright 2014 Edward A Thomson
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
Story One
Story Two
Story Three
Story Four
About Edward Thomson
Acknowledgements
Thanks to everyone that helped me along the way. Particularly to R. James Stevens (twitter.com/RJamesStevens) for his frequent encouragement to get past the last hurdle of self-publishing: to finish writing the book.
Story One – Deck 20
“Qevon, breakfast.”
A dull hum filled the otherwise silent household. Thick walls killed the concerto of myriad extractor fans. No house, not even the poorest houses, were without computerised utilities. The city was a sprawling networked hive of freezers, vacuum cleaners and light switches. Waste heat was sucked from the circuit boards and pumped around the tower block to be reused where needed.
A criss-cross of wires hid beneath the skin of the walls; carrying power and communication between the nodes, the human conveniences, that covered an entire planet of metal towers and walkways.
Footsteps thumped erratically down the hallway. That wasn’t Qevon. Crannor lay down his cutlery and peered out into the hallway. The door of the master bedroom swung shut and bounced against its frame. He shouted to his son again.
The toast popped up. A golden brown hue to the bread indicating it was perfectly ready to receive the butter. Crannor poured the coffee and grabbed the butter. He shouted out again to Qevon. The reply was the noise of aeroplane engines that children make.
NEE-AM! Qevon grasped a plastic spaceship that flashed with red and blue lights. The plastic toy bleeped as it landed next to a cereal bowl.
“Starship Belar 3 reporting for breakfast,” Qevon announced.
“Lucky Asteroids or Honey Planets?” Crannor asked.
“Can I have both?”
“Eh…” Crannor puffed, “sure.” He lifted the box of Asteroids and began to pour.
“Let me do it, let me do it. I can do it, watch,” said Qevon as he grabbed the cereal box from his father.
“Where’s mum?” Crannor asked his son.
“Don’t know,” Qevon replied. “Shower,” it was more of a statement than a question although Crannor guessed his son didn’t know. Crannor stammered for something to say but he didn’t know either. He suspected she had just come home. A whiff of gin lingered in the hallway.
Qevon poured from the Honey Planets box while holding his starship in the other hand. He purred with engine noises.
“Come on, stop. Just pour it normally. Did you not hear mum leave the bathroom?” Crannor said all at once.
“I’m getting changed,” a barely audible voice shouted through from the bedroom.
“Your toast is getting cold,” he shouted back.
“I’ll make some more.”
“Can’t you just eat it now? We can’t afford to keep wasting food, I chucked half of the leftovers this morning. The vegetables were black.”
No response came.
“Daddy…” Qevon spoke in the way he did when he wanted to ask a difficult question.
“Yes, Qevon?”
“How many stars are there? Hundreds?”
“There are many, many stars. Too many to count.”
“More than a hundred thousand hundred hundred?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“Hasn’t someone tried to count them all?”
“Yes, some have tried but you can never quite get them all. We do know that there are more stars in the sky than there are people on this planet.”
“Daddy, do you have to work today” the words were chewed with the breakfast cereal.
“Qevon, don’t speak with your mouth full. Yes, daddy has to go to work today. There have been a lot of malfunctions with the machines in our district and it’s daddy’s job to find out why.”
“What sort of machines, daddy? And why can’t they fix themselves so you can stay at home.”
“Sometimes they can, Qevon, but it isn’t always possible. The machines are government owned machines. They monitor the districts; cleaning up and sometimes carrying out repair work. But they aren’t sophisticated enough to fix all problems, especially not their own internal problems. The machines can perform a self-diagnostic apply patches from the government’s central node but sometimes that just isn’t enough. When that happens my team is called in to solve the problems.”
Qevon spooned another mouthful of cereal and mumbled something about going out to play with Keth on the lower decks.
“I don’t want you anywhere near deck 20, tell Keth he has to comes up if he wants to play. It isn’t safe down there. Make sure you stay within the tower, Qevon, there are plenty of places to play inside. Are you listening to me? Qevon? The lower levels are dangerous, I don’t want you down there.”
Qevon scratched at his arm. Angry red patches of skin covered both forearms and the inside of each elbow. The summer months were the worst for irritation. Crannor noticed the scratch marks around the bump Qev’s ID chip was hidden.
“Do I have to keep it, dad?”
“It’s for the best, son. Remember when grandad was ill and his chip alerted us to his condition? The chip’s sensors tripped the alarm, and let us knew he was in trouble. It saved his life.”
Qevon scratched his chip with renewed vigour, but finally relented. He conceded that his dad was correct. Everyone had to have a chip. Why does it have to be so itchy?
Crannor eyed the clock on the fridge again, “I need to leave. Remember, no lower than level 21 and don’t go further than the next tower, and stay away from Red areas. The Reds don’t look after their neighbourhoods, and they don’t look after their children.” He kissed Qevon on the head then grabbed his jacket. “Love you honey, love you Qevon. We’ll hang out when I’m back from work, doesn’t that sound great”
“Love you dad.”
The apartment door slid open between breaths, the house computer system bade Crannor good day. As soon as his feet were clear of the opening the door slammed shut. Crannor’s heart raced everytime he had to take the induction lift. There was no way of knowing what robot calamities he would encounter in his line of work. Entering the lift was often just the start of another crazy day.
He mentally counted his data pads and power tools; main laser torch, fine torch, insulation spray, left pocked datapad, right arm compdevice, powerbelt, traction boots, carry box… and a few more items he picked up but couldn’t remember. He could feel a sharp point from something that hung at his waist but he couldn’t see what it was.
Once inside the induction lift his boots sealed to the floor. The lift dropped faster than gravity would allow. Crannor gritted his teeth and curled his toes.
The lift door opened. It has plummeted eighteen stories in the blink of an eye. Crannor exited and walked towards the Express Port. ‘Shuttle 1312, upper platform,’ he mumbled inaudibly bumping his way through the crowd.
His eyes fixed upon the shiny metal walls of the vast lobby, his sight cut through the bustling crowd to look upon his green and cleanly shaven face. Mirrors had a way of drawing attention to themselves like nothing else could.
Goggles! Crannor just remembered they were in his back-pack. This pair was recently upgraded with a new processor and increased databank.
‘Good morning Crannor. Power levels: two days remaining. Charge soon.’ The words flicked in front of his eyes. ‘Shuttle 1312 is on time, you must walk faster. Suggestion to increase step rate by 5%.’
Crannor hurried but found himself distracted, ‘Great new products just in, picked especially for you by our human specialists. Would you like to view our power wrenches now?’ An ad-blimp passed Crannor as part of it
s pre-programmed circuit around the station. His goggles were able to access the blimp’s diagnostics; the owner’s logo projected on his lenses with a run-down of the blimp’s status. Power level high. Uptime 508 days. Owned: Til Corp.
Crannor’s neck whipped back as a stout man shouldered his way past. Cran broke his concentration with the advert to rub his neck. “Fucking Red,” he muttered.
The thickset shoulders turned towards Cran. A chest-beating pose suggested danger. It was soon followed by an untranslatable roar of expletives.The two of them stood eye to eye. Heads almost touching. Pupil-less goggles staring deep in one another.
“Watch where you’re going,” Cran declared then turned to walk away. The stranger grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back. Cran’s tools rattled and his legs protested at the awkward force from twisting.
“How about I cut those green lips of yours and make them “fucking red”?”
The 1312 shuttle came into view. It slowed as it pulled into the station. A warning sounded in Cran’s goggles. ‘Late! Hurry now! Shuttle