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"TheElephantAndTheMole.0"

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The Elephant and The Mole

http://www.rustybarnes.com/phpBB2/viewtopic.php?t=484

The elephant sweated under the hot sun, its trunk twining with carved trees, moving them from a large pile in the newly-created clearing towards a growing pile next to the river. Its rider was tired--stretching his mind to control the elephant was nothing except for the time lags involved in transmission; thinking up to fifteen seconds ahead for the simplest of muscle twitches was draining, and with the time lag he did have to consciously consider nearly every muscle twitch involved with building a bridge. But it wasn't the sort of thing that really pulled at his attention--quite the opposite, the elephant kept dropping things as his mind wandered. A popular tune was running itself through his head, and in his head, he was singing along.

Two owls flew out of the forest and stood on opposite posts that had been set for the bridge's framework. They chittered warningly; Mickhael's efforts slowed, but became more constant. Part of his mind kept on them, and that kept his mind on his work. He could feel fear and anger trickling through his veins, but the owls were observers of his actions, not his self. His actions betrayed nothing beyond a convict's disinterest.

The owls conferred with each other, and flew off.

:Now:, voiced the slightest subconscious whisper.

Mickhael had spent years of time, biding, exercising his mind in little ways. Mickhael had done everything his little mole had bade him. And so now, he jumped forward with his entire ego into the elephant; the elephant stumbled forwards as the signals bled over and were misinterpreted; he smelled protein, burning; his self-image stretched, twisted, pierced, thickened, darkened, brightened, spread...

Now, he had the fullness of the beast; Mickhael raised his forelegs, ponderous on hind legs the thickness of trees--the connection was immediate. Cycles abounded for thoughts other than menial control. His trunk coiled in the air and blasted triumph. His eyes could just make out the two owls circling back.

He knew they would be cautious, but counted on them to be disconnected, and disoriented. It was a tribute to their training that they were still in the air--it hadn't occurred to them, yet, what their disorientation implied, or they wouldn't have approached him. That was a tribute to their training, as well.

His spotters swooped overhead, chittering--he knew they couldn't communicate without the homelink, but they were sorely trying. Their wing flaps jumped them from breeze to breeze.

Mickhael picked up a log from the ground, thrilled at how much easier it was without the lag. He swung the log back and forth with his trunk, first, then extended this motion to his head, feeling its heft, finding its moment--

With a sudden flick, then, he tossed it high--hitting one square and clipping the other.

The clipped owl fell faster, but was soon joined by two more thuds. Mikhail walked up to them and crushed their bodies flat with his bare feet. The feeling of pure power, bones flattening under him, drove itself through his blood and strengthened his heart.

Now he had to return to The City, and trust the codes were good.

He walked quietly, but swiftly--for an elephant. The planet, he knew, had a full ecosystem; nothing that would take down a wary elephant, but an unwary one could easily be finished by a jaguar or a pack of jackals. And everyone would be coming back to The City, once they gathered their wits, guards and convicts alike. And they'd probably be bringing the herds back with them, too.

Mickhael wondered how many of the pachyderms he met would be enlightened. He didn't relish the odds of an equal fight--nobody won, that way. Still, it would be good to have a couple fall in behind him if he could push them; until the bodies arrived.

His steps quickened him along the road, and while at one point some wolves thought to chase him, he reached the outskirts of The City with minimal bloodshed. The city's polyceramic shell had a dull sheen in the afternoon light. The carapace would be ablaze with colors once the sun began to set, and he looked forward to seeing that. Cons didn't get to work past dusk, but he'd seen vids. That would be one of the small perks of escape, though he'd rather see it through a human's eyes.

In time.

Tension slowly spreading into his muscles, he walked past the rows and rows of pens, spread out radially from the center ship. The animals penned would be, for the most part, riderless. Still, many of them paced, as if they could sense something was wrong.

Then he saw the smoke.

He hadn't asked how the mole would do it--it hadn't been important. But now he was worried. What if things had gone wrong? What if the mole had been injured? If the mole wasn't able to make it to the C7 A9 branch--well, whatever happened was worth the chance, wasn't it? A chance, versus the lifetime of servitude? It was too late now to back out, only--it wasn't. He could just pen himself and pretend the whole thing hadn't happened.

Without him, the mole would be hard pressed to exert his authority. That was his role, here--muscle, lackey. He guessed the mole needed him as much for the mental assurance as for any actual duty, but regardless--no, that was it. The mole could probably still carry out his plans, if push came to shove. Or at least, there were gambling odds. Mickhael did not want to face that creature's retribution if it did succeed without him.

He wondered how much of his thoughts were being affected by the new shape of his brain. Elephants were known for their caution, after all.

And their stubborness.

He forced himself back along the plan. First, he had to find--yes, this was going to be difficult. He had to kneel down to read the tiny letters marking each berth, and even then he could just barely make them out. The letters and numbers changed in a pattern only a ship's designer could understand, forcing Mickhael to stop at every one.

Two hours later, one quarter of the way around The City, he found the door he was looking for. The entrance panel stymied him for several minutes before he thought to try suction--it tickled the tip of his trunk painfully, but he managed to squeeze enough pressure to pull the panel open against its catch. Five tries mashing the wrong buttons had him worried he'd misremembered the code, or that it was wrong--had him worried he'd lock himself out of the system--but two heart-pounding moments after the sixth try, the berth slid open.

Inside was dark--of course, lights wouldn't be on for a cargo hold, but every little thing that could was rattling around his large skull as a worry.

Mickhael spent another three nervous minutes tapping out the override code on the patch panel before his fumbling got it right. Finally, the elephant-sized lock slid open, and he squeezed himself into the depress chamber. The computer took thirty seconds to decide pressure was equalized, and opened the interior door.

Red strips of light lined the corridor, and Mickhael counted lefts and rights, careful with his bulk when turning.

Something dropped onto his back and he froze: small, with hard points making contact in four places, crawling; thoughts scrambled about his skull--a defense mechanism, perhaps, or...? Or? He tried to brush it off with his trunk, and--cold metal impacted itself into his neck; a burst of pain, and voices--one voice.

:Glad you could finally make it:

:Mole?:

:Yes:

:Why?:

:You took too long; I had to keep moving. Now, get!:

:The smoke?:

:Smokescreen. We're going to the control room.:

:And then?:

:Quit asking questions.:

:Where?:

Pain, more pain--he fell to his knees, and little mole thoughts scrabbled around his skull, picking him up, making him walk.

Mickhael's mind struggled for air, for self--who, when? He watched from behind a veil as the mole walked him down corridors he didn't know. He was hard pressed to concentrate well enough to count them, to remember the way out: corridors, lifts, more corridors; they blended until he wasn't sure of anything but the red lines slicing against his vision, and silvers, endless, shifting silvers.

He found himself standing in a control room. Virgin, from the look of it. This would some day run the planet.

Sooner than most expected, at this point. Fifty years behind schedule, nobody expected the planet to be done for another hundred, especially with the legal wars going on at home.

His trunk pressed control codes, and errors glowed onto the screen. Three times.

:Fer chrissake!:

The mole's thoughts bled out of his mind, and Mickhael noticed now soreness--his legs were mashed, his sides scraped raw, and a ringing in his ears, were most immediate. He eased himself to the floor as the mole clambered down his trunk.

:No, up! You can sit, but lift me up to the board. Up!:

Mickhael sighed; the mole's abuse was so--impersonal. Lifting his trunk, he let the creature onto the board, then closed his eyes.

It would be so easy--

But then he'd be back where he was.

Which was worse?

He would wait.

The mole scrambled back to its post on his neck.

:Let's get out of here.:

Mickhael stumbled back to his feat. The muscles were sore and abused. He shifted himself cautiously through the door.

:Faster, will you?:

:What's the rush?:

:Questions!:

Mickhael lumbered forwards, and the mole inserted directions as he needed them, or sometimes just a moment later, forcing him to slam his abraded skin against another almost-smooth wall. He let his mind focus on the twists and turns, the immediate aches and pains, and not so much his future.

Still, small thoughts careened just under his consciousness; he could feel their energy, if not their content. Every so often one broke the surface, disconnected from context, and its smoking remains would powder his more conscious thoughts. He wasn't used to silencing his mind--Mickhael had fallen to talking with himself to pass the years; he hadn't noticed, but it was proving to be an exceptionally hard habit to break all of the sudden. The mole was doing its best to interrupt them, but that just left him with even more scattered thoughts about his thinking.

Left. Right. Down. Straight. Further. Further. Further. Down. Left.

A door slid up, and they were out of doors--fire played against the three moons suddenly visible in the sunset.

Finally.

Mickhael breathed the out-of-doors freedom deeply, stretching his aching ribs with the breath. Stretch--

:Move!:

--his legs twitched forwards.

He'd have to enjoy it some other time.

:You are a tool. That shouldn't be something new to you. Now, South. We're going back to your clearing.:

Mickhael didn't even have it in himself to argue. A hatred was growing in his veins; every squashed thought fanned the heat in his blood harder, but then the thought was gone--only to be remembered seconds later. Minutes?

Time jumped, distance shifted; colors danced, then danced away. Grays and blacks, purplish blues suffused his vision.

Late. It's late. Mickhael fought back to the surface.

:It's late.:

:Good of you to join us. Not!:

:I exist.:

:And?:

:I exist.:

:You are a tool.:

:I EXIST.:

He felt the mole's mind shrug.

Felt.

Sliding, slippery, smooth, sweet, surrounding, sussuration...

:I EXIST!:

Noise whispered in his ears; sweat rolled down his flank, cold. The mole was coming for him.

He wanted to run.

He had nowhere to run.

He wanted to please.

There was no pleasing.

He wanted to be.

There was no being.

Sliding, slippery, smooth, sweet, surrounding, sussuration...

Undercurrents pulled him to the womb, warm nothing--

The mole was pulling him, pushing him, drowning him.

Killing him?

Threat or--

Drowning him!

Screaming.

Mickhael swallowed his breath and dove into the pool that was pulling him.

The tendrils relaxed, and he felt--knew--believed--them searching. Them. Searching. Him. Him. Him.

Deeper.

Him.

Deeper, deeper--

Him.

This was a game he knew. He'd seen it played time and time again.

He was better than they were. He'd practiced it. Daily. It had been too easy, then. Too easy, until he let them win.

Him.

He burst out of the water and pierced the resonance. Tendrils lashed the pool of his consciousness, now raging to an ocean, launching him at the sun, blinding existence. He exploded in ringlets of razor thought, then coalesced, tighter than a lazer. Coherent thought.

And then it was dark.

Cold.

He was flying.

Flying?

Landing--his small body hit with a wet thud; it was dark, and he tried to open his eyes, but they were already open. It was dark. Straining, he could just make out an elephant, thrashing against the ground--epileptic shock. He wondered if that's what he'd looked like when they finally captured him.

Where could he go, now? The clearing was far away, especially as a mole moved. So was The City, though. And he didn't know what he could do at either place. If he had the mole's memories--no, he was the mole. He couldn't refer to it like that any longer. The tech. If he had the tech's memories, maybe he could finish its plan. Unprecedented, but who knew? Presuming, then, that he could think that through, where should he go? He had no muscle, and he felt oddly vulnerable all of the sudden in a way he hadn't the entire previous time.

Shivers ran themselves through his body like the ghosts of two predatory owls. Yes, he was vulnerable.

At a loss for anything else, Mickhael crept into the forest and dug a hole deep amongst the roots of a tree. The elephant shouldn't be able to find him there, if it did recover.

He curled up against the surprisingly mellow dirt, scratched his back against a root, and promptly fell asleep.

He dreamed of blackness; he dreamed of running; he dreamed of digging.

He dreamed of pain, struggle, of holding his breath and diving through minds. He dreamed of drowning, cold water burning his throat and nose.

It was dark, and his eyes were open, and his throat and nose were burning, he was drowning.

How had the river gotten up here?

He clawed through the water, and it was bright, so bright, he closed his eyes and ran, and he was flying--flying, he prised his eyes open against the glare--the elephant had found him, after all--flying, and landing. His body was assaulted with pain, but he forced himself to run. Mickhael could barely see before him, from the sun, but he knew the sound of the elephant behind him.

He ran and dodged with only the faintest clue where he was going, the faintest clue where behind him the elephant was, where it thought he was going.

The elephant's thundering hooves paused in their beat, and Mickhael heard it trumpet a challenge into the air. This was where the elephant would give his all.

Mickhael already had.

The hooves beat harder and faster than his own heart. It was charging and would trample him underfoot wherever he ran.

Unless they had no purchase. He was at the river. He jumped.

He was flying.

Mickhael was getting very sick of the feeling of weightlessness.

A shadow passed quickly over him.

He hit rock, and water. A consciousness-rending pain shattered his left foreleg. Water swallowed him.

Cold, hot darkness.

Burning.

Smelled.

Mickhael's eyes shot open and he jumped forwards; straps bruised themselves against his chest.

He was alive!

He was human!

Lights exploded in his skull, made spots in his eyes. Barely, he made out figures between him and the spots. External?

He looked down at his restraints.

This wasn't him.

Mickhael fought a quick wave of vertigo.

This was the tech.

And this was corpmil and a med standing over him, waiting for him to come out. He had no leverage, no strength to fight.

He wondered what was happening to his own body.

"Christopher Well?"

A Christopher. Christlike. Yeah, that was him.

Why not?

Trying to speak, a rough cough ground itself out of his throat.

"Yeah, that's Seewa. I'm telling you, it had to have been him." Another voice. A tech?

"Wha?" he managed.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to come with me." The corpmil. Hands, the medic, were unbundling him. Testing his vitals. Needles. Reflexes. Pulling him out.

Firm hands were steadying him. Propping him.

Was this happening to his own body? Or was he coming out, slowly, disbelieving? Screaming that things were wrong, and nobody to believe him? How long would it take someone to believe him, screaming out confirmation codes--or would they get to him with thorazine before he got that far? How long could the shock treatment last?

He was walking.

They were leading him down hallways, all white and identical, too bright to see detail.

A pause.

A door opening.

Closing.

Being seated.

"Christopher Well?"

Mickhael nodded.

"We're recording this. Voice. Please speak for the record."

"Yes." It was a croak, an odd croak, like a reedy bullfrog. He tried to clear his throat, but it was too rough.

"Can you get him some water? We want a positive voiceprint for the record."

Footsteps leaving the room.

"Alright, off the record, then. What the hell happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"The City. The ship. The blackbox implies some sort of gravitic disturbance, but if that was before or after the microholes got loose, it's hard to tell. Chunks are missing. What happened?"

"I don't know."

"Tell us what you know."

"Us?"

"Me. Off the record. Tell me what you know."

"I don't remember."

"You don't remember?"

"I don't remember."

"Look, you're not some politician that's going to get sympathy for an ill-attempted lie. Tell us what you remember."

"I don't know."

"What's the last thing you remember?"

"I remember--I remember an elephant chasing me."

"Why was the elephant chasing you?"

"It wanted to kill me."

"Why would the elephant want to kill you?"

"I escaped it."

"Try to make your answers longer than one sentence, please. If I have to pull every piece--ah, thank you. Here, Christopher. Have some water."

Mickhael blinked; the room had slowly been adjusting, and the shapes were slightly more detailed than blobs. One of them was holding out a cup to him.

He took it in both hands, and touched the cold liquid to his lips. It felt extraordinary. He tilted back, and let it fill his mouth, soothing and lubricating. Mickhael opened his throat and let it slide into his stomach.

The new body's familiarity made the sensation that much more odd.

The cup was lifted gently out of his hands and set on the table.

"Now tell us what you remember, Christopher."

"Chris."

"Chris?"

"Call me Chris."

"Alright, then, Chris. Tell us what you remember?"

"For the record?"

"Yes, Chris, for the record."

"I--I don't really remember much, but--something had happened, and I was--I was crawling through--somewhere. To repair something."

"He bloody well wasn't!" The other voice.

"Quiet."

"But--!"

Mickhael needed all the information he could get. "Let him speak. Please--maybe it will help me remember."

"very well."

"Right. Well. He bloody well wasn't going to repair something. Sure, he said he was going to the C7 A9 branch, he had a hunch he'd be able to catch something there--see, the microholes had wobbled out, and--"

"Right. I'd gone there because I--no, I don't remember at all."

"You said you thought you'd be able track them from there, because of the shielding for the central storage units. But when you got there, you just kept stalling! I'd be dead now if I'd listened to you!"

"I don't understand."

"You were bloody well controlling the microholes, I don't know how, but I was coming down to check on you when three of them went through where everyone else was stationed. By the time I got to you, you were gone--I tried to check back in, and so was everyone else. You killed them, damn you!"

"I don't remember, but--that--that can't be right. Why would I do that? That's... that's silly!"

"Tell us what you remember, then."

"I'm trying."

...

"I remember--I remember an elephant. I was down at the C7 A9 branch, and something broke through. It was attacking me. It caught me--maybe. I don't remember. I remember it took me to the core, made me summon the sleepers--I don't know how it knew. It was in my--it was in my mind. I was pretty bruised. I think--no, I don't remember."

"How did it get in your mind?"

"I don't know."

"What then?"

"Then it took me outside. We were going somewhere. I escaped."

"How did you escape?"

"I don't know. I remember running. I dug a hole. But. But it flushed me out, and then I was running, and I remember falling--I fell into the river. A river. I fell into a river, and then I was here."

"Alright, well, we've got your testimony, then. You'll let us know if you remember anything else?"

"--you can't just let him go!"

"Corporal, can you help Mr. Carten back to his quarters?"

"You can't!"

The corpmil took the other tech by the arm, and guided him out the door.

"He's well-intentioned, I figure, but a little overexcited."

Mickhael tried to collect his thoughts.

"Admittedly, it seems a bit simple for you to have forgotten so much, but I'm sure it will come back to you. Meanwhile, you'll understand if we offer you a little vacation."

"Umm, sure. Yeah, I understand. There's no telling what really went on."

"Well, some information is immediately available. A con did go rogue, just at the point of disconnect. There are records of him going through the ship. There are a few eye-witness reports of you two struggling."

"What, er--what happened to him?"

"He didn't come back. I trust you can help yourself out?"

"Yeah. Er. Thank you."

Mickhael pushed his chair back and stood, slowly. The body he was in was shorter than he was accustomed to, and he nearly fell backwards trying to stand to his full height.

"The medic vouched for you, but are you sure you're alright?"

"Yeah. Yeah, just a bit overwhelmed by everything."

He steadied himself, and walked out to the corridor. Now where? Couldn't be too long until he found a map, right? He had to get out of there.

Ten minutes found him an evacuation map, which also described the normal elevators, and stairs. He didn't want to be trapped in an elevator, right now. He didn't want to see anyone he might know.

He'd killed--the mole had killed--how many people? Innocent techs. Well, there was only so innocent you could be and work for a corpgov like this one. But it's not like they were guards. Anyway, that could be serious time.

And his body--his real body--dead.

He wondered briefly if they had lied to him about anything, if they were tracking him now to see if he'd lead them to some sort of cell. Too much paranoia. There wasn't anything he could do just now but leave, as quickly as possible.

He took the stairs two at a time, trying to appear unhurried. Three floors down he was breathing heavy and starting to sweat. He had to slow down.

This tech was going to need some training. It was hard work being weak.

When he finally broke through the doors to the outside, it was overcast and wet. He fumbled through his pockets for a credit, and swiped it at the terminal.

He'd have to get rid of that. Traceable. There was no way he was taking over the tech--taking over Christian's life. He'd just have to make his own. It had been five years since he'd been on the street--five years served out of sixty--things couldn't be too different. He just had to figure out what exactly he had of value.

A taxi arrived shortly, and he swiped its door with the credit to let him in. A young lady was in one of the passenger seats; she smiled at him uncertainly.

He smiled back, wondering if he looked as horrid as he felt.

She looked down to her nails, and studied them, carefully, then pulled out a file. Apparently he did.

The taxi should have started when he attached his seatbealt, gone on to wherever the lady had chosen. It didn't. She must not have had a destination. A proxytute, then, traveling with the taxi. No wonder she looked a little nervous.

He punched in one of his old haunts.

She suddenly looked more nervous.

"Whatchyou going there for, Seewa?"

"Do I know you?"

"What, this my taxi, right? You not goin' admit me, it safe enough! What you actin' all strange for?"

The taxi had started, regardless of her claim. Mickhael shrugged; maybe she just rented the position.

"Sorry, I guess. I've had a hard day, I'm not thinking too clearly."

"You ain't soun' so clear, sure. But look, that what I here for. I clear you jus' fine. Cred?"

"Uh, look. No. Not right now, thanks." The thought of a proxytute after the mindfucks he'd been through--it just didn't strike him as interesting. Nothing would compare to what he'd just suffered, and he was glad. He didn't want anything more.

"You no want? Not right now? Seewa, you not right right now!"

"Yeah, you got it, miss. Look, I'm just going to get out, and you're going to forget you saw me, okay?"

"Seewa talk crazy! Fine. Fine, you cred an' I forget all this trip, taxi forget too."

He slid the credit down her proferred arm, and she tapped a code on the one-way window.

The rest of the ride was silent--the girl looked like she was pouting, but that's just the way it was going to be. He swiped his cred again to leave the taxi, and stepped out into a steaming drizzle. Yeah, this was what he'd missed. This hadn't changed.

But he wouldn't stay for long. He'd work his body a bit, get it into shape and make some money. Day labor sounded about right for his tech. And then, maybe, well--maybe he'd try one of those colony ships.