jamieproctor.ca

The micro-island nation of Blip has only one dock.  It only needs one dock, and there isn’t much space for more anyways. 

Currently the dock is a little overstuffed.  A large, bulky chickenwire box is occupying most of it.  There is a man in it, and a woman leaning back against it, dangling her feet in the sea.  A second man is fishing nearby, poorly. 

There is no other land within two hundred miles.  But if someone were passing by – or if one of the gulls were uncommonly gifted with languages – this is what they’d hear:

“Hey, Claire?”
“Yep.”
“Let me out.”
“Nope.”
“Oh come on!  I’m the president!”
“Deposed president, Tom.”
“That was illegitimate action and unjustified.”
“The gull cage.”
“Oh, this?  It was for the gulls!  For making nests, where Tim’s cat couldn’t get at them.”
“You locked Tim in it until the gulls ate him.”
“THAT was a temporary punishment for insubordination that went horribly wrong due to an honest mistake.  How was I supposed to know the gulls would eat him?”
“You smothered him in fat from Paul’s deep fryer.”
“I didn’t want him to catch chill overnight.  Just ask Ben, I’m very concerned with the health of my subjects.  Right Ben?”
“Right what?”

“Don’t listen to him.”
“I was just saying to Claire that I’m very concerned with the health of my subjects.  Remember when you felt poorly and I gave you those pills that made you throw up?”

“Yes…” 

“Everyone said that was cruel, but you felt better afterwards, didn’t you?”
“Well, that IS true.”
“You were in a coma for three days and we had to nurse you back from the brink.”
“Oh, you’re exaggerating.  He was fine!  He was perfectly fine.”
“I don’t know Claire, are you sure you’re not being too harsh on him?”
“I’ve got the knife.”
“Woah jeez.”
“Yeah Claire, don’t be aggro on Ben.  He’s just raising alternative points of view.”
“Shut up.”

“Does he have to shut up?  He’s just-”

“Yes.  Literally everything he’s ever said or done has been awful.”
“Oh come on, really?  What about the wells?”
“Oil wells.  Which you dug all over the hills, ruining our one actual, drinkable water well.”

“All we needed was one successful oil well and we could’ve had bottled water flown in daily.  It was an honest gamble and we lost.  Sometimes that happens.”
“That seems legitimate.”
“Ben?  Shut up.”
“What, I’m just saying.”
“Alright.  Into the gull cage with you.”
“What?  Why?!”
“Sedition.  You love your terrible president so much, you can be caged with him.”
“No!”
“I’ve got the knife.”
“Alright, alright.  Fine.  Fine!”

“You can have that corner, Ben.”
“Thank you.”
“You chose a good time to get locked up, you know.  Here comes lunch!”
“Oh hey Paul!”
“Hi guys.  Wait, there’s two of them now?”
“Ben was seditious.”
“I saw him bathe just this morning.”
“Whatever.  You got the fat?”
“Well, I had it ready but then I thought…y’know, most people don’t actually LIKE pure fat.  So I made some onion rings instead.”
“Paul for fuck’s sake we weren’t going to feed Tom the fat.  We were going to coat him in it so the gulls ate him.”
“Woah, woah, woah!  Why?”
“It’s what he did to Tim!  Poetic justice, Jesus H. tapdancing Christ on a cracker don’t you know ANYTHING?”
“I know onion rings are a lot tastier than fat.”

“We don’t feed onion rings to the condemned.”
“What, no last meal?”

“No!”
“I didn’t sign up for this sort of behaviour.  It’s downright unethical.”
“He fed Tim to the gulls!

“Yeah but… I never really LIKED Tim.”
“Right, that’s it.  Into the cage.”
“Really?”
“I’ve got the knife.”
“Aw c’mon.”
“In.  Now.”
“Fine.”
“Fine!”

“Welcome.  You can have that corner.”
“Eugh, it’s full.”
“Nah, it’s mostly decomposed by now.  Tim weathered fast.  Must’ve been that big storm we had last week, eh Ben?”
“Tell me about it.  Blew my roof off.”

“Which wouldn’t have happened if a certain someone hadn’t decreed all the trees be chopped down to build a gull cage.”

“Nobody asked you to butt in, Claire.”
“Yeah Claire!  I didn’t ask for you to butt in!”
“Good standing up for yourself, Ben.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re all hopeless.”

“Who’s hopeless?  Woah, Claire, what the fuck?”
“What?”
“Is EVERYONE in the gull cage?”
“No.  You and me are out here.”
“Hi Brianne!”
“Hi Ben.  Why are they all in the gull cage?”
“Sedition and treason.”
“Wasn’t that exactly why Tom had Tim fed to the gulls in the first place?”
“He made that shit up.  These guys are all on record.”
“I did NOT make that shit up!  Tim challenged my authority in public, and left me no other legal recourse!”
“He said drilling oil wells was stupid and you sentenced him to ‘a slow, lingering death.’”

“What else was I meant to do?”

“Anything at all!”
“Seriously Claire, why don’t you let these folks out?”
“They’re with Tom.”
“Let them out.”
“No.”
“I’ve got the knife.”
“No, I’ve got the – hey, when did you do that?”
“While you were screaming at Tom.  Into the cage.”
“Fuck you.”
“Into the cage.”
“You can have the last corner if you’d like.”
“Shut up, Ben.”

“Why does she get the corner that doesn’t have Tim all over it?”
“Because that’s the one the gulls left the rest of Tim in.”
“Tom, if you don’t stop talking I’m going to turn you into a smear that makes this corner look like a posh hotel.”

“Says who?   You don’t have the knifffffuuuuurghhacjkdhghhghurgh.”
“Woah!”
“Claire, what the hell?”
“I got hands.”
“Cllllrf.”
“Break it up!  Break it up in there!”
“Make me!”
“Hllk.”
“Ben, Paul, get her arms!”
“Ben?  I’ve got two hands.”
“Paul, get her arms!”

“No I’m good thanks.”

“Aaaaag.”
“Okay, break it up NOW or I’m coming in there to break it up myself.”
“Bllloo.”

“I WARNED you!  Drop him!  Now!  Now!  Okay, now!”
“Fine.”
“Hweeeeez.”

“Good.  Damn, you’re like toddlers fighting over the same toy.  Listen, we’re all in this together, and if you’d all been able to accept that earlier this cage never would’ve been built.”
“We’re all very in this together.” 

“Huh?”

“The door shut behind you.”

The island of Blip is currently uninhabited, but it’s got a long and full life ahead of it.  Someone will presumably come along and tidy things up. 

It was a hard sun. 

Flat like a rock table, bright like a banker’s smile, cold like a glacier. 

Charity had never seen a glacier, but she could sure use one right now.  Only a complete moron would travel under this burning torch of a sky, and lordy, lordy, lordy she had run the last six miles in a dead heat.  If it weren’t for her hat the light from above and the blaze underneath would have liquefied her skull.  As it was, her brain had merely boiled inside of it, like a softboiled egg. 

But time wasn’t on her side, so she had no choice. 

This?  This shit was what happened when you got involved with young people.  They got up too early, they had too many big plans, and then just when you thought you knew what they were thinking they did something damned foolhardy, like shooting you in the side in the town square and leaving you with an angry mob closing in fast. 

But hey!  Charity’d had a good feeling about her!  She had no style because she knew style was superfluous!  She had no manners because honesty was a blunt club that could smash through those, so why not wield it!  She had no compunctions about shooting first and not bothering with stupid questions!  She reminded her of herself at that age! 

And if that hadn’t been the big warning sign, Charity didn’t know what would be. 

Lordy, lordy, lordy, this sun, this bastard of a sun. 

She was almost there, she reckoned.  Not like she’d gotten a particularly great look at the map, but Charity had a photographic memory for money and a decent sense of the landscape and most importantly a keen understanding of how someone’s mind worked when it was drunk on cash. 

If SHE were a crazy-ass rapscallion of an officer who didn’t mind burying some surplus mint-fine-metal somewhere, then shooting his co-commander in the spine for it, then sneaking out to make a withdrawal every few months for boozing money, where would she have gone?

Somewhere easily accessible, because she wanted to get her booze on sooner rather than later.  So, through the valley, not through the hills. 

Somewhere easily visible, because when the thirst’s on who has the time to count out paces and remember unmarked stones.  So, at the big ol’ cactus patch. 

Somewhere not QUITE at the easily visible landmark, to make her feel like she was cunning and clever and not terribly, awfully predictable.  So in the big hollow behind it. 

“Hey,” said June. 

***

She still looked tall even at the bottom of the hollow, and there was barely any sweat on her.  Pretty good trick for someone who’d just finished prying a trunk of ingots out of the dirt.  One boot tapped thoughtfully on its lid, the other remained firmly rooted and carefully planted, which meant the gun pointed directly at Charity’s bad eye was rock-steady. 

She really wished she hadn’t told her about her bad eye. 

“Hey,” said Charity, because if you’re going to die and there’s only one person around to hear your last words they don’t matter all that much. 

“Should’ve figured you’d make it.  Metal plate under the shirt?”
“Yep.”
“Classic.”
The gun was still pointed at her bad eye, but it hadn’t killed her yet.  This seemed odd. 

“So.  Got a solution to this situation?”
What situation?
Oh.  Charity’s gun was out and pointed at June.  When the hell had she done that?  Forget her own head next. 

“Well, way I see it, there’s three ways this works out.”
“Go on.  I got time.”
Damned young people.  “One: we both try and shoot each other.  Probably both die, maybe one of us makes it out.”
“Seems likely.”
“Two: we agree to split it fair and square, we go our separate ways.  Half the cash, but that was the plan before you got all persnickety on me.”
“Seems unlikely.”
“Three: we agree to split it fair and square and only one of us tries to shoot the other.  They get everything and a good story.”
“Hmm.”

“Hmm.”

The sun really was awful. 

“June?”

“Yeah.”
“I can’t help but notice you’ve kept your gun and gaze aimed pretty square at my bad eye the whole time we’ve been stuck like this.”
“I know about it.  And it doesn’t have a metal plate on it.”
“Fair.  But it means you aren’t watching my good eye.”
June’s eyes weren’t good or bad.  June’s eyes weren’t anything.  Little chips of something much older than her or Charity or anything that had warm blood and a heart that beat more than twice per minute. 

But they narrowed just a little at that. 

“Speak up.”

“My good eye.  If you’ve got a bad eye, you’ve got a good eye.  It’s just how it is, right?  Everyone knows that.”

“You never mentioned it before.”
“I shouldn’t have mentioned my bad eye either.”
“Yep.”  The smile was big.  Was she getting happier?  Young people were crazy.  It was a million degrees outside and she was a finger-twitch and a sneeze from death or murder or both.

“Well, my good eye is on you, and it’s noticing something it likes that you won’t.”
“I like ‘em younger, sorry.”
“Smartass.  But not smart enough.”  Charity’s own smile was a lot smaller, but there was no strain in it.  Her whole face relaxed.  “I’m sorry, y’know.”

June’s little chips opened wide in the blazing sunlight, her muscles shifted, and she settled her foot just a little on the trunk, which sent it crashing right through the lid. 

It had been twenty years since Charity had aimed with her good eye, but she put out all six at once and trusted in volume. 

She knew what was in the trunk.  But she looked anyways.  Both eyes. 

Nothing but dust and June’s trapped boot. 

“Twenty years,” she said aloud.  Twenty years with a terrible thirst, a powerful paranoia, and a cloud of guilt all wrestling over the man’s soul.  The trunk had probably been empty for more than half a decade. 

Ah well.  Plenty more time to strike it big.  She wasn’t young; she was in no rush. 

The walk back was still godawful though. 

The reports from the front were in. 

They were very bad.

The reports from the backlines were also in.

They were extremely bad.

The reports from the President were in but General Gleen just put those in the trash as always.  But there were more of them than usual.

That was very annoying, which was its own kind of bad. 

In light of all those new and extremely annoying developments, there was only one course of action. 

“Hold my calls,” said Gleen to her secretary.  “I’m going to visit R&D&D.”

***

There were eighteen locks on the door.  Seventeen of them were incredibly intricate and powerful and entirely for show; one of them was actually a disguised biometric scanner that would vaporize the door on both sides in a half-kilometer radius if anyone other than General Gleen opened it.  It moved around and swapped places with the others without warning, and had been one of R&D&D’s earliest accomplishments. 

Research and Development for Destruction wasn’t, strictly speaking, a department.  For one thing it only had one employee, and ‘employee’ was an iffy word to apply to someone who wasn’t being paid. 

Still, she WAS being compensated. 

“Hello, professor,” said Gleen. 

“Hello, general,” said Sadcollop.  She was seated at her window, staring at the nothing outside it.  “How’s my family?”

“Completely unharmed.”
“Well, isn’t that nice.”

“It is.  And speaking of which, I had a request.”
“Wonderful.  Fantastic.  Stupendous.”
“No need for sarcasm.  We’re losing the war.”
“Again?  What would you ever do without me?”

“Lose two years ago.  It’s the proton-shift torpedoes.  They’ve figured out how to counter them with targeted phase-”

“Oh, quit parroting jargon you read in a report.  We both know you hate it because it makes you feel stupid.”
“I don’t feel-”

“Really?  Oh dear.  My apologies.  So your big bad beatstick of a weapon isn’t working anymore and all your strategies and tactics and whatnots are falling apart.  Again.  Right?”
“Right.”
“Well, it’s your lucky day.”
“You say that every time.”
“Every day’s a lucky day when you’re talking to me.  I’ve had something ready for about a week.  You want to see the math first?”
“You’ll just make fun of me again.”
Sadcollop clucked her tongue.  “Spoilsport.  Anyway, it’s the plans for a mass accelerator.  Abuses space and time, works at a distance.  Accelerate your enemies into the nearest star.  Accelerate your troops to the border worlds.  Accelerate rocks at lightspeed into border worlds.  Whatever makes you happy.”
“Thank you, professor,” said Gleen.  And she meant it.

“Go fuck yourself,” said Sadcollop.  And she definitely meant it. 

Gleen shut the door behind herself with unnecessary softness.  She knew it pissed the professor off.

Sadcollop counted to forty, shut her eyes, thought about her family, then started to think about teradeaths. 

***

This time there was a knock. 

“Six months,” said Sadcollop.  She was at her desk, looking at a sheet.  She didn’t bother changing her view to Gleen when she entered; the general was substantially less interesting.  “That’s a new record.  Did you get sloppy with the accelerators?”
“There was a surprise raid, and-”

“You didn’t destroy them before they could be captured, therefore you got sloppy with the accelerators.  So they’re accelerating your toys into stars and now it’s not as funny as it was when you were doing it?”
“We’ve had some success in countering the transmission signals, but-”

“But they’re better at it than you are.  Because their research teams are actually competent.  So now here you are again, come back to ask for another superweapon.”

“You make it sound so evil.  We’re the underdogs here, professor.”
“Only because you finally pissed off someone bigger than you.  I don’t remember my planet voting to join up with your little stellar empire.”
“There was a vote.”
“Yes.  Which you rigged.”
“It was conducted with scrupulous fairness.”
“In your military outposts.”
“To ensure no vote tampering.”
“And I wonder what sort of outcomes that led to?”
General Gleen ran a hand through her hair.  Was it thinning?  Damnit, it was thinning.  “Professor?  Fewer politics, more weapons.”
“Weapons are tools used for war, and war is diplomacy by other yadda yadda yadda,” sang Sadcollop.  She threw the tablet at the general, who caught it both by reflex and one corner.  “There you are.  Have the blueprints for a carbon annihilator.  Instantaneously renders all carbon in a targeted area incapable of forming molecular bonds, dissolving all substances it comes into contact with.  Make it, load it into warheads, fire it everywhere, liquefy people and spaceships and planets and pat yourself on the back until your spine goes concave.”
“Thank you, professor,” said Gleen, mild as milk. 

“It’s not a problem at all.  And yes, it’s thinning.  Find a surgeon.  And while you’re at it, see if they can do something about that way you suck in your cheek when you’re thinking.  It makes you look like you’ve been through a lobotomy.”

Gleen left. 

Sadcollop marked her calendar and sat down to wait.  Four weeks, it should be.  Maybe a day late, maybe a day early.

***

 It was a day early. 

“Total disaster,” said Gleen accusatorily.  “They never committed a full force, they had maximum security forces orbiting their home systems, whole STARBASES moved overnight.  They knew it was coming for them, and as of last night they’ve found a way to remote-detonate the payloads in our holds.  How’d you leak it, professor, and how did you come to care so little about what happens to your family?”
“Go to hell,” said Sadcollop.  “They knew something was coming because you’re as subtle as a one-eyed heffalump in a helical heliosphere, AND because you’ve used six superweapons over the last four years.  They expect the unexpected, and they prepare for it too.  Which is precisely the sort of planning you’ve never had.  If I were on the other side and had no morals whatsoever we’d have won first week.”
“’I will protect my family at any cost’ isn’t a moral code, professor,” said Gleen. 

“No, no it isn’t,” agreed Sadcollop.  “Have you tried giving up?  You keep telling me how smart a choice that was.”
“Giving up is not an option.”
“Oh come on, what have you got to lose?”
“We’d sooner lose everything.”

“Mmm.  So you want a new new superweapon.”
“Yes.  And-”

“And it needs to be idiotproofed so you can actually get mileage out of it no matter how stupidly you deploy it.”
“That’s-”

“And it needs to not be easily countered by someone with a functioning brain when stupidly deployed.”
General Gleen said nothing. 

Professor Sadcollop said nothing. 

“So-“ began Gleen.

“So here it is,” said Sadcollop.  She stood up and handed a small data plug over.

“Can’t I-”

“No.  You cannot.  We’re done here.  Go turn this on and end the war.”
“What-”

“It’s a rounder.”
“That-”

“Look, you know how most of the universe is empty space?”
General Gleen waited. 

Professor Sadcollop waited. 

“Ye-”

“Matter is scarce.  Absence of matter isn’t scarce.  Energy is scarce.  Absence of energy isn’t scarce.  This device will round an arbitrarily large volume to the universal average density of… everything.  Which works out to almost nothing.”
“It disinteg-”

“No, disintegration implies something lost integrity.  This removes everything.  Well, nearly everything.”
General Gleen glared. 

Professor Sadcollop smiled. 

“Goodb-”

“Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out.”

For the first time, General Gleen slammed the door. 

Professor Sadcollop permitted herself the first smile of over half a decade. 

All in all, it wasn’t a bad way to go. 

***

“Well, that’s scary,” said Professor Bunrs, turning the little data plug over and over in his hands. 

“Scary or not, we can use it to win,” said General Gleen.  “Absence of evidence doesn’t give them anything to counterengineer.  And we’ll be going big with it – first use should be the last.  I want a suicide run at the homeworld with this.”
“Once we build it,” said Bunrs, opening the data port on his computer. 

General Gleen had a little less than two seconds to think of some extremely and consistently precise wording Professor Sadcollop had used when referring to the object in Bunrs’s hands. 

General Gleen had a hair under half a second to say something. 

General Gleen got out “Don’t-” before Bunrs plugged in the rounder and she was interrupted for the absolute last time ever, along with everything else within fifteen lightyears.

***

The singular atom that was all that remained of Professor Sadcollop’s entire extended family understood.  On average.