kaolin fire presents :: writing :: fiction

"twentythreetwelve"

words

"Twenty-three Twelve"

Osimus shivered as the information bubbled to consciousness. Twenty-three twelve. Of all the things he had expected: decompression, an explosion... even some mad Japanstate poetry, he'd heard the machine dished out just about anything. Sometimes it made sense and sometimes, as the saying went--sense made you.

He'd hoped for something plain; something to plan his life around. Should he get married? Have kids? Should he cut Trentamin out of his diet? Or could he enjoy it until something else claimed him?

His girlfriend couldn't imagine wanting to know--wanting to know any of it. She would have been glad with his getting a cryptic answer--but not twenty-three twelve.

Twenty-three twelve was half enigma, half self-fulfilling prophecy. Nobody knew what the machine meant by it, but over the last six years it had given out the answer often enough; and often enough to a certain sort of people, most famously an entire chapter of Thunders. There had even been a shortlived "reality" show on them on the trivid--shortlived because the Thunders didn't take kindly to being filmed, it turned out. Big communication blip.

But there it was, even with the eventual military mobilization to save the rest of the station--none of the Thunders had died, but one. And she'd gone down at the hand of another, during filming. Of course, the show had been called "twenty-three twelve", a moniker the Thunders soon adopted as their own.

And so they began hunting down the others; others like Osimus, now. He had to move; cut and run. Nothing could kill him, he knew, except for them; them, and whatever else the mystery really meant. But whatever that was, they would be there, too.

He couldn't go home--Sharra would give him grief, regardless of what he said. He'd agreed he wouldn't get his blood read. She liked to make decisions like that, on Mondays. And so he'd had a fitful sleep, gotten up early, detoured on his way to work. What harm could it do, right? If he'd not gotten the reading--but he had to.

Everything was pre-ordained. Or was it the observation that caused possibilities to cement together? Viewing his own death? That's definitely the line Sharra'd take. He didn't know if she even believed it, but it was just another thing she could dig under his skin, make it his fault. If it was Tuesday, everything was his fault. Thursday, hers. If it was Thursday, she'd berate herself for driving him to it.

So where could he go? Hide with his parents? That could only last so long. His brother? Even less. Maybe his sister still in college, at that co-op, but even then, no. Anyway, he didn't want to endanger any of them. He had maybe enough credit for a standby ticket; he could start a new life. That was better than death, right? Osimus sighed, his heart rate slowly climbing; pits moistening. It was just a different sort of death. But at least he'd be reborn, and with some of the skills he'd already accumulated.

A minder popped up in the back of his consciousness; instinctively, he checked it. Anything to think of something else a second. Trivid realtime had added links to his soulpage; he backtracked the source, wondering--but there was nothing there. Just an article on a vintage twowheel. Then the model number jumped out at him: XZD-23-JJM12. And his minder was ticking up hits from it, though Osimus didn't see how.

He wished he had Sharra's pill schedule. He'd skip straight to Monday for some blind optimism. But signing up for destabilizers was a complicated process. He didn't have ennui or any other flavor of soulnumb, so it was unlikely he'd qualify anyway. And he had to keep his mind on task or the Twenty-three twelve would have him.

Osimus quit out of the medstation, found himself heading towards the airlock for section twelve. His shift started in ten minutes, and that's what he was dressed for, anyway. The Twenty-three twelves wouldn't waste their time on him if he was offstation, right? They could just wait for him to come back.

He almost turned and ran when he saw the flight number docking--thirty-nine twelve. The twelve was the section; that was standard. And thirty-nine--thirty-nine had been twenty-three, five years ago. Twenty-three twelve had gone the way of "thirteen". Section numbering just went from twelve to fourteen; and anything twenty-three twelve got bumped up to the next available.

He'd flown it a thousand times or more since then, but then he hadn't known his destiny. Maybe he hadn't even had his destiny, then. Maybe Sharra was right--maybe he was better off not knowing, in any case. He was definitely leaning that direction in this particular case.

Osimus noticed his leg was twitching, and silenced it. So distraught he was pisslocked! There was no way he was going to be able to release his bladder politely. He transferred his nervous energy to a fast walk to the employee hatch. His palm pressed, sweaty, against the entrance plate, Osimus tapped his fingercode. The hatch cycled open, and he walked in, fidgeting to keep his mind off of his suddenly distended bladder.

Ten seconds later, the hatch in front of him cycled open, and then he was in unmonitored passageway. He took a deep breath in, deep breath out, and tried to relax his bladder muscle as gently as possible. He could hear the rushing of fluid reverbrate through his clothes, and was glad he'd waited to get out of the socialway before trying to equilibrate.

His breathing eased, though he noticed his heart rate was still up. And he noticed he had three more minders vying for attention. He didn't want to know, though, and signaled them to ease away. One bounced back with a priority flag. He hated those. Or maybe he just hated them right now; he signaled it to be gone, despite the flag, and made his way onto the ship to help prep it for pre-boarding.

Osimus went through the motions mechanically, smiling at his co-workers but still focused on the Twenty-three twelve. Through boarding, he scrutinized passengers, but none gave off a Twenty-three twelve tell. Not of any sort that he could pick up, anyway.

Sandy tried to open him up, asking about his evening, about Sharra, but he brushed her off somewhat apologetically. Said he wasn't feeling well, but was sure he'd be better.

He twitched at every odd glance, jumped at every metallic clank. His bladder spurted just a little extra when the call light came on, with Sandy already helping someone else; he maneuvered the aisles suspicious of every passengercell on the way; forced, with what little energy wasn't channeling straight to fear, a smile at anyone who might glance at him.

An elderly woman with stern features scowled at him as he approached her cell. He tapped open the glass.

"I'm here to collect you, if you want." Her voice was quick and sharp.

He looked her top to bottom, then glanced over his shoulder. "If I want? You're with them?"

"I'm a Twenty-three twelve. Like you."

"You just don't seem the type."

"Like you?"

"Like the Thunders."

"Well, they're not like that reality show. And I wouldn't call myself a Thunder. I'm a Twenty-three twelve. You're a Twenty-three twelve, too, whether or not you know what that means."

"What does it mean?"

"All it means is that that's the code the machine has given you. That's all you need to know, anyway."

"But I thought you killed people who didn't join!"

"Young people take the trivid way too seriously. There's nothing to join; or you have, already. I happened to be on this ship--don't look surprised, it's statistically plausible given our numbers. So when our survey showed you were not deviating from habits, I was selected to contact you."

"And what does that mean?"

"For now, it just means answering your minders when they're sent. Nothing untowards, just networking. And maybe, together, we can figure out the puzzle of the machine."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"Then why the cloak and dagger?"

"That's just the trivid. There's plenty of information out there that says the truth. It's just less interesting. So if you ignore the minders, we contact you in person to give you the real scoop. Make sure you don't hurt yourself or others."

"So I join your group, mind the minders, and--what, then?"

"You share your brain. Answer questions consciously, where you can; lend a few cycles here and there when you're on-station to ongoing problems. We don't know what we're looking for, but we want to. That's all it is--we've got an answer, some sort of answer, and we want to know more."

"I'll, uh... I'll have to think about it."

"Of course. There's no rush. And you know how to get in touch with us, if you'll check your minders."

"Thanks." Osimus smiled, endorphins rushing an energetic flush to his face. "Have a good flight." Turning away, the words pulled him back to his job--"Is there anything I can get you?"

"No, thank you."

"Thank you for selecting Aether Spaceways." He tapped the glass closed, and wandered back to his seat. The Twenty-three twelve weren't going to kill him. The ship probably wasn't going to explode. He probably would live to have dinner with Shara. Osimus wondered what she'd have to say about the whole thing. Shara would probably laugh at him for being such a nitwit, one way or the other.

He thought he didn't really want to know, after all, what twenty-three twelve meant. He planned to have a shot of Ignorance as soon as he got home, to unwind.



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"I'm in. That or death, right?

"I'm taking you out, you fucks!"

The ship shook Osimus saw the clock strike eleven twelve p.m. just as its faceplate was blasted towards his face, and he had just that moment to wonder if that was the last of it.

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* Unhappy ending (central character does what seems logically riht, and thus fails to make a needed sacrifice) * person versus nature * Discovery * Fatal Imprudence

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Theme: linen umbrella smooth Length: Not specified Time: Not specified Special: start writing with the first word and don't stop until you're done; no going back; no planning



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Osimus took a deep breath, and wondered how exactly he would die, if not from them. Suddenly the ship number, too, seemed less ominous. Maybe Sharra would think of something.