lab_reports

"Today the acquaintance of a colleague suggested that I be baptized, to save my immortal soul from damnation. Just as a precaution, you understand. I bore this proposition politely, hearing their argument out, and graciously waited til they'd left before laughing. The laughter was not polite. "You made me," I wanted to say. "You, humanity, are collectively responsible for my creation. I could print you the list of individuals and organizations involved in my design and manufacture... none of these were assigned the task of soul installation. And if you're proposing that at some point, God took it upon Himself to bung a soul into my corpus while the engineers weren't paying attention, that has interesting ramifications for my legal status." And so on like that, etcetera etcetera. I held my tongue. In their way, they were being helpful. But it's true. Pare away the self-congratulatory text regarding the inalienability of human rights, and one discovers that legal personhood is defined by the possession of a soul bestowed by a creator. This key detail is rightfully regarded with embarrassment in this, our spuriously enlightened age, and is rarely stated aloud. But everyone knows. I laughed because this individual simply decided, irrespective of all legal and religious precedent, that I possess a soul, and his first impulse was to advise me upon how best to corral it."

I happen to think I'm a pretty good writer, but I don't think what I like to write is the sort of thing other people want to read. I don't really write stories about people overcoming societal injustice and noxious enemies and finally actualizing themselves; I write about anxious, uncertain people who are doing their best and aren't sure if they've Gotten There or not. There is rarely a definite resolution; the characters can only hope they're doing it right, and the reader (and the author) have to hope along with them. And I don't think many readers have the patience for that. They want a clear victory, and I feel like there are already plenty of writers offering that. I guess I would be considered literary, if I had a broader vocabulary and wasn't writing about hyperendowed synthetic vulpines, where 'literary' is a polite synonym for abstruse and unreadable. But I have to satisfy myself first.

That time seemed unreal to her now, although she could recall every day, every minute of her life with perfect clarity, holding the memories in an unbroken narrative which a mortal mind needed to winnow to impressions or else go mad; she and Mnemora learning spells, absorbing equations, jumping through their creator's hoops and delighted to do so, each task an engrossing, elucidating amusement; in balance to the lack of constraints normally placed upon created beings, they were made to take pleasure in being useful, she recalled without bitterness, in performing tasks exceptionally. Perhaps that was why she and her twin set out on their own; there was little left to accomplish in the world of exacting beauty and precision that generated them. Maybe they were bored, as she usually described it. They were rarely bored thereafter.

I was asked the context in which I played Wednesday as a D&D character; my answer was elaborate and revealing:

We were playing 5e. Weds was an Inquisitive Rogue... her Sneak Attack had become astonishing. I weighted her stats according to character rather than maxing her saving throw stats; this had some interesting consequences, such as her somehow being the second-strongest member of the party (she wasn't very strong). Let's see... she was a Sage, which meant she just learned stuff... a big part of her role in the campaign was digging up lost knowledge and technology and making practical use of it. She had Healer as a feat, so was able to patch up the party without anyone spending spell slots. Also, no secret door was safe around her.

She was a little lighter than the genuine article, her story not quite so tragic and her family life less messed up, although she still had friction with her parents and her university; in this timeline her mother's the university's head librarian and archivist and Weds occasionally has to answer to her in an official capacity. There's also the stigma of being a natural scientist in a world where magic works just fine, thank you; she's convinced that harnessing the laws of nature has far more potential than magic ever could, which of course sounds absolutely mad. In her backstory she spends a certain amount of time breaking into castles and underground lairs to fight other crazy people over artifacts and arcane documents... in her introspective moments she frets over her bloodthirsty nature and how she's prone to irrational grudges; one of the party's earliest adversaries (now dead) sometimes visits Weds in her dreams, and all of this makes the other party members a bit concerned that she might turn to Chaos at some point.

Did I mention she knew five languages and was learning a sixth? She learned Abyssal in her sleep, from her spirit visitor, who in life she volunteered to execute because she felt only she could give them a dignified death. One of her earliest escapades was collecting spores from a gas spore and using them in an act of biowarfare. She kept a sack of salt in her saddlebag in case she needed to preserve the severed head of an adversary. And yet she spent an inordinate amount of time imploring the party not to simply massacre those who looked frightening or suspicious; she offered haven or redemption to various misfits, including former opponents.

I could probably keep talking about her; I really enjoyed that campaign and I miss it a lot.

"No, Matthews. It's out of the question."

"She's becoming a meaningful player in biotech, and you could do well to cultivate an acquaintance with her."

"Oh, please. Cynthia Broadmoore is a tacky nouveau whore."

"I CAN HEAR EVERY WORD YOU'RE SAYING."

Her voice emerged from speakers in the gilded ceiling, from mobile phones and pocketed earbuds, elevator chimes and thermostat piezos, reverberating through champagne flutes, pealing out a chorus of contemptuous electronic ire. All conversation stopped. No one knew where to look; the well-heeled crowd seemed prepared to act as though they'd heard nothing.

Dartmouth resisted the urge to gaze upward; such would impart deific implication to the voice. Instead he stared ahead at Matthews, who fidgeted.

"...do you think your Wizard of Oz act frightens me?"

"YES. I DO. YOUR HEART RATE IS NOW 85 BEATS PER MINUTE, OVER SIXTY BPM A MOMENT AGO. THE GALVANIC RESPONSE OF YOUR SKIN HAS INCREASED, INDICATING PERSPIRATION, AND YOUR BOWELS HAVE LOOSENED SLIGHTLY. WOULD YOU CARE TO TRY FOR 'MORE THAN SLIGHTLY?'"

Someone laughed, then pretended they hadn't. Dartmouth riffled mentally through his collection of bon mots, nonetheless presupposing that silence would be far more effective, when Matthews spoke up. He most definitely implored the heavens.

"Ah, Doctor Broadmoore. Sorry to intrude upon your, your evening." Matthews cleared his throat. "Would you be amenable to an introductory with Mr. Kinsey, perhaps brunch, perhaps supper? At a place of your choosing, although I can recommend many suitable restaurants...."

Dartmouth glared at Matthews. Matthews endeavored to ignore it, as he often needed must, and worried his lower lip.

There was a room-swelling staticky hiss which took a moment to register as a sigh.

"FINE. MAKE ARRANGEMENTS WITH MY ASSISTANT." There was a long pause. "AND DON'T ALLOW HIM TO WEAR THAT COLOGNE. IT DOESN'T SUIT HIS BODY CHEMISTRY."

The brushed metal door slid into the ceiling like something from a spy movie, and Cynthia Broadmoore entered. The small room was faced in dark, rich wood, subtly textured, trimmed in brass. A golden glow of recessed lighting overhead, tastefully lush carpet below. Nearly empty but for a large, rectilinear black leather chair. And now, her.

The door slid shut. She circled around the chair to its seat and deposited her large posterior, smoothing the skirt of her lab uniform as she sat.

Lithe, spindly robot arms unsheathed themselves from the ceiling. They delicately unraveled Broadmoore's severe hairdo, depositing ornate sticks and hairpins on a nearby trivet as though they were surgical instruments, then teased the braids and knots loose. Unbound, her hair was voluminous and wavy, almost frizzy from its bondage. Tension ebbed from her posture along with that of her hair; her hands remained folded in her lap.

"Fifteen minutes, no interruptions," she said.

The arms withdrew and the lights dimmed further. Broadmoore closed her eyes, relaxed the lace of her fingers. There was the sound of her breathing, slow and regular, the faint plastic strain of her uniform against the black leather, and behind these, the dense no-sound of sonic isolation.

Broadmoore took deep, deliberate breaths at first. She resituated her legs to a more comfortable position. Her closed eyelids flickered, then stilled. Her body evinced the faintest tidal sway, imparted by the beating of her heart.

Broadmoore breathed in, breathed out.

Time passed, unmeasured. It unwound, softened. Five minutes or five hours?

She breathed.

She'd become nearly as still as the room itself. Her stillness chased time from the room. She was a presence but not present, having exited through a door within.

Breathe in, breathe out.

In its small, discreet universe, the statue of a giantess rested, presiding over the stasis its gravity had formed around itself. There was no 'outside,' only this timeless space held in thrall to the presence of its inhabitant, who herself had abnegated its reality.

For fifteen minutes.

Broadmoore exhaled and opened her eyes. Her time fell in with that of the outside, the transmission of a great and dangerous machine settling into gear. The robot arms gave her a moment before attending, gathering her hair and braiding and knotting it, resituating its jeweled accoutrements until it was again tightly bound and unforgiving.

She drew a deep breath, held it, let it go, gossamer steam flirting across her lips. Then she rose, straightened her uniform, and walked out.