Monday, October 02, 2017

Giant Impact Theory

The sign reads: Markov 53.4N 62.7W
Shouldering the bag, I step down from the train onto the platform; stuttering relays in the station’s antiquated gravity unit cause grey dust to levitate a centimetre above the pointed silver tips of my shoes – my eyes follow my feet through the ovine throng of icon bearing pilgrims to where the matt-black clad security units are scanning the arrivals for contraband and chip-infringements.
I am not afraid.
Markov’s mind pings my chip and as it reads me I read it back and find it wanting; my implant convinces Markov to find me acceptable and it opens the turnstile before me, worn mechanical inefficiency adding to the parallel clatter of its companions as I pass through.
I have never arrived; I have never existed; all memory of my eye-patched razor face erased from Markov’s history.
I am the sword.
I am the arm.
I am the lord of change.
This god-fearing little police state will learn to know real fear.

An alternate ending to Dali's Egg

Tales for an attention deficit world

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