|
|
|
by Floris M. Kleijne
Fantasy, 39 pages.
Originally Published in Writers of the Future, 2004
(1) Rate this Story When I spotted the Automaton, I must have been three days up in the Squeeze. The sight had cheered me up – I could do with some conversation, and I knew just the way to get it to stop and talk to me. Animal Automatons were easily shocked.
I had seen its approach from afar, since the crossroads lay in a wide, virtually treeless plain of tall, cheerless grass and sad, thorny shrubs. In fact, the only tree in my field of vision was the one to my right, from whose lowest branch the Squeeze hung by a rusty chain. It was almost as if the tree was planted there to mark the crossroads. But that was a silly thought. Of course it was the other way around: the road connecting the City to the harbor had been aimed at the lone tree, as had the thoroughfare paralleling the coastline.
The horse-like device was closing in on the crossroads. As I watched it trotting towards me, I cycled through the repertoire of half-inch shifts and muscle contractions that kept the worst pain and stiffness at bay. Thus far, my minimalist exercise regime seemed to be serving its purpose: to make sure I would not freeze up in my balled half-squat position. The Squeeze did not allow for much more than twitches and tiny movements, but we were counting on those to be enough.
Carefully, ever so carefully, I lifted my weight off my right butt cheek by pressing my shoulders into the curved bars on either side and contracting my back muscles, all the while breathing in slowly. When I felt the tiny piece of board start to lose its balance, I moved to the right just a little and settled down again. Perfect. The immediate relief of pressure and pain in that cheek was a blessing. Most of my weight was pressing down there, and I knew that without the piece of board, the narrow edge of the bar directly under my butt would have quickly caused unbearable pain. I had tried pushing forward and down with my feet to provide some relief for my butt, but had discovered that that way, cramps lay. And cramps would surely mean the end of me in this hellish device.
I moved my feet just so, allowing a different part of my soles to press into the horizontal bars. I shifted my hands on my upper arms and rolled my shoulders. Finally, I bent my neck and let my head roll from shoulder to shoulder, welcoming the pops and cracks that told me my neck was still in good working order.
Then I urinated, closing my eyes to experience fully the relief of relieving myself. I had timed it well. As the steaming flow hit the puddle three feet below me, I heard the low whine of the Automaton stopping, and the mechanical discord of its consternation.
“Oh,” it spoke, as close to stammering as an Automaton ever came, “I beg your pardon.”
“Begged and granted,” I murmured as the last drops splashed into the puddle. Opening my eyes, I took my time to admire the creature.
It would have been a gross overstatement to call it a mechanical horse. Automatons were amazing in many ways, but none of those ways involved beauty or physical grace. A mechanical donkey would come closer: a donkey constructed of tempered steel, pulleys, leather straps and wires. In this particular case, the Animator had gone to the trouble of designing a mouth, with a convincing set of rust-iron teeth. This attention to detail contrasted oddly with the almost complete lack of cover on its body; it was almost as if a metal donkey skeleton, partially muscled and bearing a complete metal head, had presented itself to me. Odd, yes, but it would have given away to me who the Animator in question had been, even if I hadn’t seen it half-finished a few weeks before. There was a very sweet irony that it was that Animator’s Automaton in particular that presented itself to me as I hung in the Squeeze, waiting for the end. Then again, it might not have been a coincidence at all.
“Thank you. What, may I ask, are you doing up there?”
“Waiting for Death,” I said, and then, trying to dismiss the subject: “I bet I can guess who Animated you, Master Donkey.”
It gave a passable imitation of a whinny, confirming the identity of its maker.
“I’ve always considered myself to be a horse, actually.” It had been given a deep and not unpleasant voice that fitted its head remarkably well, though not its body. “But you can call me Barno. Who do you suppose Animated me, then?”
“I’m pretty sure it was old Petar.”
“Right you are,” acknowledged Barno, nodding its – his – head for emphasis. “Petar was indeed my parent. Very perceptive of you, sir...?”
“It has been quite a while since I was last in a position to be called sir, but my name is Markus.”
Barno whinnied -- [End of Preview.]