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 Posted: Mon Feb 15, 2010 12:55 pm
“Well, me lassie, anither day without ye. I canna say much ‘as changed. Nobbut the sky, the clouds. I think they been gettin’ brighter. Aye… The auld shanty still stands. And a’ day, every day, more people be comin’ to the town, baith Brits and nae. It’s cauld; February…“ He looked down at the weeds growing by his wife’s grave with a smile. To mourn her still would be disrespectful to her memory. Alive or dead, he loved her the same. Therefore, what purpose would there be in crying for her? He’d seen men and women destroyed by the loss of their families, but he’d never allowed himself to break. That would be unproductive. Images of Magdalene filled his quarters, filling him only with cheer and never with grief or regret. “Right. I’d best be back to me work. The breads dinna bake themselves.”
The general stood and brushed dirt and dead grass from his trousers, taking one last look at her. She had been buried as custom dictated, in an electrolyzed capsule set in the earth, its surface sitting flush with the ground. It had been filled with a liquid preservative, a toxic but beautifully pale pink substance, like the lightest of rose water. Inside the clear walls of the capsule was her body, eternally young, lying just under the surface of the preservative poison. Her hair was golden blonde and though her blue eyes were closed, he remembered their hue quite well. A small, sleepy smile graced her bloodless lips, and Ezekiel smiled back at her. But as he’d told her unknowing body, bread did not bake itself. He pulled a black cloth over the exposed top of the capsule, waiting for the atoms to rearrange themselves into a more stable solid. There were audible sounds of static as the excited electrons settled into tight metallic structure, locking into place over the tomb of his wife. Metasilk truly was one of the most useful inventions of the century.
Ezekiel pushed open the back door of his bakery, entering to the heavy smell of baking bread. It appeared that his assistants had done his job for him. He knew that he ought not be irritated. It was, after all, their job to bake the bread. However, a part of him still felt uncomfortable with having help. He was unused to having spare time, and so descended to the basement level of the bakery. Under the earth, it was insulated naturally by the soil around its walls. It was hidden from outside view and attracted no attention during the day. At night, however, the stuffy bunker was transformed into a gambling racket of shocking proportions. It was illegal, in all respects, and running it filled him with a nearly consuming guilt. This violated everything that the Motherland stood for. Simply keeping his wealth from the war was equally wrong. Sometimes he wondered why did it. Then he saw his workers struggling and remembered why. They needed money. They needed the general. Replacing his machines with human workers had been economically disastrous, risky beyond belief. In order to maintain his business, the cash flow could not stop. He took the weight of the world on his shoulders. At least, the weight of Saltaire and its poor.
He settled into a chair by one of the small round tables. His racket was nowhere near the caliber of the government run casinos that the Motherland used to rebuild their treasury. They used all of the newest technology, from holographic cards to heat sensing, cheat resistant dice. Ezekiel did not possess such luxuries. It was not a matter of money but a matter of discretion. Were a decorated former general to suddenly begin purchasing gambling technology would raise far too much attention. The cards he used were ancient and obsolete; round little disks that had to be infused daily with electricity in order to maintain the visibility of the laser lit markings that denoted card value. Night having just fallen, the racket had not yet filled. Ezekiel sat alone in his basement, calibrating the computerized dice and dusting their circuits.
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Posted: Mon Feb 15, 2010 2:25 pm
Dimitrov had debated taking the bus, but felt all the worse having the time to stand around thinking, as he did so often on public transit- however fast the express was. Even a moment's respite was too much and it was hard for the scientist not to have work or family on his mind. At the very least, with the former, the blonde man was allowed some good cheer. Business had worked well for him and many of his latest cultures were going terrifically. His wife on the other hand was still the same mopey figure that Dimitrov had begun to feel the slightest tinge of resent for. Hurt as he was for their son, gone these past three years and four in the coming fall, Dimitrov had at least grown to where he fed off the memory of Sigmund as the driving force behind his work rather then the chains that fastened him to the ground.
The microbiologist stomped across the paving. It seemed like nearly everything nowadays was made of something fake. The cobbles weren't quite natural stone, and the buildings were so electronic that the walls did, indeed, have eyes. Even the lampposts to illuminate the streets to perfection. Not that he wasn't used to it, thus was life in the 32nd century. All electrified and technological and the micrologist soaked it in like it was the essence of a silver lining. Such a contrast to what was left of trees and earth in Poland.
Today was the worst of any day to be dwelling. It was the only day Dimitrov had off after what was a long, long week. The thirty year old couldn't remember exactly where he'd heard of this place, but it was new and something different to try. As he scuffed along the cobbles Dimitrov couldn't help but notice how early in the day it was. Had he really that little to do that was not work related? Dimitrov sighed and stopped a moment, leaning to adjust one of the new boots he donned. The things were so nice, he'd had them for weeks and they'd yet to be scuffed at all. The bottoms were strong and chemically granite-like, but gripped exceptionally in Saltaire weather. Dimitrov knocked the boot against the curb as he stepped up to the front of the bakery. It was only as he opened the front door that it struck him- he hadn't the slightest clue how to drop any sort of hint that he was interested in the racket. The scientist was out of his element, and he wasn't even sure he ought to have taken the front door. Tossing aside these unavoidable roadblocks, he cooled his doubts and proceeded into the front of the bakery, walking up coolly to the display cases and staring down at the fluffy pastries that were lined along behind the faux glass. The hand baked sweets looked tantalizing and not too much unlike the breads that went along with the dinners his wife used to put all her heart into preparing.
"Evening,"
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Posted: Thu Feb 18, 2010 5:45 pm
There were footsteps creaking in the shop above him. He waited, hesitated… One of the assistants ought to deal with the customer. Ezekiel heard no voices and grew irritated. Damned shopkeepers never did their jobs, but for when he didn’t want them to. No, what he needed was family, workers who cared for him. Surely family would loyally help him. As it were, he had no family left. He took a moment to lament the fact that he’d had no children with Magdalene. What help a fine, strapping son could’ve been! The time was past though; he was childless.
Then again… He’d heard tales of Maximilian’s boys. Whether they were mutated humans or mutated frogs, Ezekiel was unsure. Regardless, a child was a child. A child, a son, would love him. Therefore, that son would gladly help the man who’d raised him. Wouldn’t he? All it would take was money, and money he had. The process of acquiring one was mysterious and supposedly difficult. But it was possible.
The thought of purchasing a child tugged at his conscience, though it was becoming necessity. Half of his workers were good, the other half were lazy. If he fired them though, who would help him? It seemed to Ezekiel a vicious cycle. Perhaps somewhere in the recesses of his mind, his true desire was simply to have a child. He had always loved child. He would not let himself think that way, however. Those thoughts and desires were foolish, feminine, and unpractical. The gruff general shook his head, rising to his feet.
His footsteps were heavy on the old stairs, surely alerting the guest to his presence. Upon facing him, he looked him over carefully and hesitantly, never one to trust too easily. Slowly, he extended a hand. “Hello. General Ezekiel Sweeting, at yer service. I’m owner n’ proprietor o’ this fine joint. Welcome to me shop. What can I do fer ye, hm?” The stranger was interested in one of two things: baked goods or gambling. It was late in the day which usually indicated customers as gamblers. Ezekiel shook his head, taking another close look at the guest. Finally, he decided that the man had a kind face and could be trusted. He spoke again, his tone softer and more friendly. “What’ll it be this e’en? The dice o’ the Danishes?” A glimmer of humor shone briefly in his stony eyes.
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