In the Leviathan’s slipstream, like tin cans on the rear bumper of a ‘just married’ car; like rats on the mooring lines of harboured ships; the sun catching their edges; are the hangers-on.
Denied access to the Mission by rote of their class and without sufficient power to gain access to the quantities of material required to make their own Leviathan, many citizens had banded together to make their own plans, refusing to be excluded from the life-raft. Launch pads were constructed at a million different locations, and since all of the Bureau’s attention had been focussed on the task of creating the Leviathan; many of these privately funded efforts had succeed in creating suitable vessels and indeed launching them in the correct trajectory at the correct time. Having successfully hitched a ride they now trail in orbit around the planet, they are glittering tears in the Leviathan’s wake.
Perhaps we may give a moment of silence for these most desperate of creatures – unlike those suspended within the Leviathan’s womb, these travellers are conscious. Furthermore, since it is reasonable to expect many scientific minds to be of their number, we can assume that many of them are aware of their decaying orbit; their imminent, and likely fiery, return to the planet’s surface.
The planet ripples red, reflected on the Leviathan’s shiny hide. A child watches from an observation window ten Tears from the Leviathan’s tail.
Her life is wonder.
Her name is Phoebe.
She has disabled the smoke alarm but is hesitant to light the cigarette – the old man will beat the shit out of her if she’s caught. No pain no gain – she once heard someone say – it echoes in her head like a chant to mischief – she lights the cigarette, takes a small puff, holds it in while she extinguishes the orange coal before exhaling a pale green cloud which she ionises with the subroutine that Knut had programmed into her com-unit.
Keep your cards to your chest and your eyes on the prize,
Keep your own council in the kingdom of lies.
She’d read that somewhere and now she whispers it to herself as she reactivates the smoke alarm.
Denied access to the Mission by rote of their class and without sufficient power to gain access to the quantities of material required to make their own Leviathan, many citizens had banded together to make their own plans, refusing to be excluded from the life-raft. Launch pads were constructed at a million different locations, and since all of the Bureau’s attention had been focussed on the task of creating the Leviathan; many of these privately funded efforts had succeed in creating suitable vessels and indeed launching them in the correct trajectory at the correct time. Having successfully hitched a ride they now trail in orbit around the planet, they are glittering tears in the Leviathan’s wake.
Perhaps we may give a moment of silence for these most desperate of creatures – unlike those suspended within the Leviathan’s womb, these travellers are conscious. Furthermore, since it is reasonable to expect many scientific minds to be of their number, we can assume that many of them are aware of their decaying orbit; their imminent, and likely fiery, return to the planet’s surface.
The planet ripples red, reflected on the Leviathan’s shiny hide. A child watches from an observation window ten Tears from the Leviathan’s tail.
Her life is wonder.
Her name is Phoebe.
She has disabled the smoke alarm but is hesitant to light the cigarette – the old man will beat the shit out of her if she’s caught. No pain no gain – she once heard someone say – it echoes in her head like a chant to mischief – she lights the cigarette, takes a small puff, holds it in while she extinguishes the orange coal before exhaling a pale green cloud which she ionises with the subroutine that Knut had programmed into her com-unit.
Keep your cards to your chest and your eyes on the prize,
Keep your own council in the kingdom of lies.
She’d read that somewhere and now she whispers it to herself as she reactivates the smoke alarm.
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