“And you’re sure?”
“Of course I am. Our best statisticians have said it to be true,” it said, moving closer to the window. The curtains parted and looked over an ocean of lavender stars against a marbled blue and white backdrop. “Besides,” it added, turning, “can’t you feel it in your being?”
“Feel what?”
“It’s time. Has to be. The alignments of our orbits? In such a wide time window? We wouldn’t even get a chance for another… who knows how long. It must be right.”
The other being in the room looked out, standing further away from the window, and the heat that was now coming off of it.
“This… ‘instinct’ kick you’re having. I don’t like it.”
The first made a shrugging motion, the rippling matter that made up its form heaving with the gesture. “Either way. The math doesn’t lie. Our gift should arrive right when they’re projected to discover interstellar communications. I mean look at them! The progress they’ve made… from fields to factories in mere cycles. It’s exponential!”
The doubtful one looked back to the board that held formulas and charts aloft. “There’s nothing to indicate that they would slow down, I agree but… it seems so presumptuous. They’ve squabbled in the past. Who’s to say a bigger one isn’t on the horizon?”
“I know, I know. Most phase out conflict before they have the industry to support it on that scale but…” there was a sound of air being sucked in. “Believe in them,” it offered.
“Believe in them,” the other scoffed. “Oh, your logic was so much firmer before this Investment nonsense. What am I going to do with you?”
“I guess you’ll just have to bask in the thermal radiation with me until launch,” it said, moving towards the other.
The other gave a laugh that sounded like scraping metal. “You get away from me, you hear?”
“Come to the window, my love!”
“No! You’re so- you’re so unusual!”
“Bake with meeeee. Turn to clay and harden in the light...!”
The two were chasing each other around, forms flickering, laughing, before the first pinned the other to the wall.
“Ohhh no my Depositor… what ever shall you do with me now?” the latter asked.
“Hush hush,” it said. “Look…”
They both swung their forms to the window. In an instant, a green streak of light pierced the display before them.
“What was that?”
“It was the deposit. I moved the delivery ahead, just like I said.”
“So it’s- you’re- official?”
“I am. The 47th.”
“Ever?”
“Ever.”
“Goodness,” the other said, picking itself up. “We need to celebrate! That foodservice you like, we should go there. We might still be able to reserve a pl-“
“We have all the time in the world to celebrate, love. For now…” it moved to rest on a plush chair, facing the window. “I think we should enjoy the view.”
It followed the green streak that was already barely visible. It grew smaller and smaller until it could no longer be seen. And then, a much brighter flash of green filled the sky for just an instant, before everything settled back to the swirl of piebald night it was before.
----------------------------------------
November, 1913.
The tavern was alight with the sounds of revelry. Everyone in town had come to a tavern at the center of it, handpicked by the mayor for two reasons: its central location, and its region-defining turkey legs. A brawl was happening outside, where warm orange light cast long shadows on two men, one holding the other in some sort of headlock. Both were laughing. Inside, tables were set with bowls and bread, and a stew was brewing in a pot large enough to feed everyone present. People continually trickled in and out, hiding from the snow for a few minutes, grabbing a bowl, maybe paying extra for a stronger drink or other delicacies. Small-town chatter filled the room, news of people moving away to cities for jobs in factories, of sows giving birth, of how the harvest had gone and so on. And, of course, the scratching of pen against paper.
If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
“Now, this horse you’ve just got. How heavy would you say it is?” asked a lady, clad in a vest and tie. She looked out of place only in appearance. She found herself quite at home in this culture, thank you very much.
“Oh he’d have to be two tonnes. Maybe more, honestly,” replied a farmer nearby, who proceeded to take a draught from the mug he was communing with.
She laughed. “Your farm horse weighs two tonnes? Let me get the Times on this one, I don’t think Arnsfeld Weekly has the pulling power you need here.”
“It’s true! It is. Here, ask the wife, she’ll tell you-,” he said. He trailed off and looked out to the crowd, stumbling towards a gaggle of older ladies after a few moments.
The woman with the pad gave a final laugh, and shook her head, getting up from the table. She packed it away in a messenger bag. The room was surely filled with stories, but at this point in the keg most of them were bound to be half-false or too mundane to write about. It was a real shame; nothing big and front-page worthy this time. If the news was good enough, some people from towns over might buy her paper, which meant more money, which meant she might be able to fix up something in the old shop. She shook these thoughts away. She would cover the event. It happened the same every year since the newest mayor got into office, and was always a feel-good novelty. After all, a town in England celebrating Thanksgiving? Why, that was supposed to be for the colonies, how bizarre!
She headed for the door. As she left, she was offered a few pleasantries from some town officials and the tavern owner. A paying customer who didn’t even get unruly, it was truly a holiday miracle. She lit up a cigarette from her bag, and had it behind the bar, away from the fights that were still going on.
She breathed in deep. The air was so fresh out here, it was only right to imbue some tar in it before it reached her lungs. That made her laugh. There wasn’t a need to smoke in a city bigger than this, someone else would do it for you.
She kicked at the snow. It was 1913. There was a revolution to talk about a world away, a war in the Balkans that had just died down, elections, assassinations, it was a great time to be a journalist, really. Just not one who was stranded in the English countryside. Not that she didn’t like her job, after all, she did bring some important stories to these people.
The ones who bothered to buy the paper, that is.
All of this thought about world events and her place in them had her distracted and deep in thought. When Dens Lieberman was deep in thought, she tended to idly look up at the sky. That was one thing that brought her some comfort out here: you could see the splattering of color something up there brought to the sky. When it was just dark enough, the ripple of purple, just barely visible. It was brilliant tonight. Purple and blue and yellow and green. So much green. A huge streak of green, actually. Speeding across her vision, high above. She guessed it was very far away, considering it ducked behind a cloud, only to emerge on the other side.
And then, it took a 90 degree turn, aimed right at her.
She took a single look behind her before he snuffed her cigarette and started walking towards it. Those Ruskies had had a meteor shower 4 years ago that people were still talking about. If Arnsfeld had similar luck, people from continents over would be climbing over each other to get their hands on an article about it, let alone the newspapers who would pay for her picture to mark their papers.
She broke into a jog. She might’ve been the only camera in a wide radius, but anyone could pick the stupid thing up. She took one last glance up and broke into the treeline. Now it was a matter of guesswork. Possibilities raced alongside her. Okay, take the picture. Do NOT reclaim the meteor, any potential impact site would be worth more in tourism than the actual piece would be. She forgot to take a piece while there was a clear sky in front of her, that was unfortunate. At least nobody else did, probably. Had any trains come by lately? Perhaps one of those stupid tourists had come by. No, people liked reading about their festivities. Being stuck in a room with a bunch of farmers is only about as fun as it sounds.
She closed her eyes, mapping out what she knew of the jungle. There was a clearing here, would she be so lucky?
The trees thinned. Here it was: her best chance at finding it. She eyed over the scene. Nothing out of place; there definitely weren’t any craters here. Had it burned up in the sky? No, it was far too large at far too low an altitude.
Hold on.
There it was. A beeping? Like a telegraph, but slower. She listened to it for a beat. It didn’t sound like it was transmitting a message she knew. Maybe a continuous pattern of the letter S, but nothing more. It was moving, and fast. First to her left, then the right.
She stood as still as she could and closed her eyes.
And then her world was green.
----------------------------------------
◔⨀◔ⵀ⊘◔ⵀ
◐⦸⦸⨀⦸▷◒◔⨀◵⊘ⵀⵀ◒ⵀ◕◐▷⦸◔⦸◒⊘ⵀ⦸
ⵀ◐⦸ⵀ◒◔◶▷◔⨀◵⊘⊘ⵀ◒ⵀ◒◕◒ⵀ⛒
⦸◐⊘◕⛒▷⏹%
0110010001101001011000010110110001100101011101000110100101100011▷00101101001000000011000000100101
𒅴𒂠▷𒐅𒍪𒅗𒋫
𒍣𒆷 𒍣𒉺𒀜
भाषा - २%
Lingua - quindecim centesimas
Lingvo - 60%
Matĉo Trovita!
KOMENCANTE...