The Guardian

By:
Robert Moriyama



The Guardian was tired, bone-tired, claw-tired, fur-and-fang-tired. Outside the cave, the first snowstorm of winter raked the mountainside with pellets (too solid to be called flakes) of snow that could blind a man or bruise and even puncture his flesh.

Of course, the Guardian was not a man. His leathery hide and fur would allow him to walk, not in comfort, but without suffering harm, through the worst that the mountain winter might bring. Still, he hoped that the supply of dried tubers and herbs he had gathered from the lower slopes of Sagarmatha would last until the winds subsided enough that he could venture out without fear of being swept away. As it was, he might have to dig his way out -- the cave mouth would soon be filled with hard-packed snow, warmed just enough by what little heat escaped his well-insulated body to stick like fresh yak dung.

No, the storm would not harm him. His people had been born in the very rafters of the Roof of the World, and had long since adapted to its climate. But his nature could not protect him from the loneliness of his vigil. Ten years he had spent guarding the small, golden statue of the Buddha, ever since it had been delivered into his hands by monks bearing a letter from the Dalai Lama himself. Ten years, with no one to talk to except the ever-smiling Buddha, no voice to hear except the keening of the wind...

"Choden!"

The Guardian shook his great, shaggy head. For a moment, I thought I heard a voice -- a real voice, not just words in the wind, he thought. Perhaps after ten years, madness has come at last. Well, at least it should be entertaining --

"Choden! Are you there? Foolish woman, of course he is there --"

The dim light filtering into the cave through the swirling snow suddenly vanished, then reappeared around something large, something rounded ...

Now I am seeing things as well as hearing them, the Guardian thought. Perhaps if I meditate, I can send these apparitions back into the Void. He closed his eyes and intoned "Ommmmmmmmmmm..." in a voice that made the granite of the cave vibrate in sympathy.

"Choden, open your eyes. It is I, Khandro. I have come for you."

The Guardian closed his eyes even more tightly. He reached into a niche in the cave wall, found the metronome given to him by another lama, many years ago, and freed its pendulum. The slow, regular tock...tock...tock... had always helped him to meditate before. It was rhythm without meaning or purpose, without expectations or desire.

"Ommmmmmmmmmm--"

The metronome stopped. The Guardian opened his eyes, startled -- apparently the sound of the metronome did produce expectation of a sort, the expectation of the next tock, and the failure of that sound to occur was disturbing.

"Choden, your time as Guardian has ended. Another has been chosen to take your place."

The Guardian grunted, pawed at his eyes, and stared. "It is you, Khandro. I thought I was to remain here, to protect this image of the Buddha, for as long as I lived. What has changed?"

Khandro, a female considered quite lovely among The People of the Mountain, smiled. The dim light glinted softly from her lower fangs and filtered through her fine, silky fur as if through wispy clouds on a sunlit day. "There is a new Dalai Lama. He has decreed that this duty should be shared among the People."

"Ah," said the Guardian. "But surely you are not --"

Khandro laughed. "Chosen? No, no, at least not this time."

Choden, he thought, I have a name again, not just a title. "Then why are you here? The journey from our sanctuary is long and hard even in good weather. Surely the new Guardian could have brought me the news when he came to begin his vigil."

"He will not come until Spring," Khandro said, her eyes studying a pebble on the cave floor.

"Then why --"

Khandro slithered across the few meters of icy rock that separated them and buried her face in the fur covering Choden's neck. For a moment, Choden recoiled, wondering if she intended to tear out his throat, but then he realized that, although her fangs were working their way through the fur to his flesh, they were not biting so much as -- nibbling.

"Oh," he said. Then "Oh..."

He wrapped his arms around Khandro's warm, lithe body -- the first really warm thing he had touched in a decade -- and lowered his head to inhale the scent of her soft, rich coat.

"I never knew that you had such feelings for me," he said, as parts of him that had lain dormant for years awoke.

Khandro snickered, her body shaking in his arms. "I always knew that the Dalai Lama didn't choose you for your intelligence!"

He frowned, wondering whether he should try to come up with a clever answer. But somehow, clever words didn't seem very important (and she was right -- intelligence wasn't his strongest point).

After a few moments, he reached out and gently grasped the statue of the Buddha that he had protected for so many years, and turned it to face the back of the cave.

[align=center]The End[/align]

High Point

By:
Gareth L Powell



They decided to spend the night in the weather station at the top of Mount Banshee, overlooking the Longreach Glacier. It was late in the season and strong winds battered the summit.

Van forced the airlock and Laura gratefully shook the dust from her boots. Inside, a discarded pressure suit sprawled on a bunk, hanging open like a dissected ghost, and a golden buddha statue lounged on a windowsill, its fat cheeks spread in a lazy smile.

She followed Van into the station's control room and watched as he switched on the light and heat, allowing them to shrug off their thick parkas. Laura, her cheeks pink and hair mussed, stood close to one of the air vents, enjoying the warmth.

'What do we have left to eat?' she said.

Van rooted through the hamper they'd brought, finding a wedge of brie, a couple of bread rolls, and a tub of olives. Spreading a blanket on the control room floor, he shared the food onto plastic plates. And then he went and found a couple of tin mugs in the station's galley, so they could share the bottle of wine Laura carried in her knapsack.

They had a glass each, and huddled together on the blanket as they ate. Outside, the wind battered the shutters.

'We should've brought something warmer to eat,' Van said, cutting a slice of cheese. Laura smiled, leaning back. She rested her head in the hollow of his shoulder, swirling the wine in her mug so the ripples caught the dim light from the control room monitors.

The radio played dance music from Earth, scratchy with pops and hisses, the beat as regular as a metronome. Van put his arm around her, and she kissed him, then buried her face in the flame-proof fabric of his chest.

He was tapping his foot.

'I'm pregnant,' she said.


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Five Miles Out

By:
TaoPhoenix



On a dark Air-Coney flight, Pilot Keith Houghton tussled with the controls of the struggling AIrcraft. Behind him, tucked gently under the utility bench lay the bodily remains of the former co-pilot. The man had been capable enough. However, a breath-taking stretch of turbulence had done just that - the shock had been too much for his heart. Now it was up to the Pilot and his gleaming steel flying partner to battle for their lives through a blinding snow of a caliber that matched the one that flooded Galveston Texas two hundred years earlier to the day.

Air-Coney was a Brooklyn, NY based experimental Avionics company that featured a path blazing Pilot-AIrcaft partnership model. Despite the attempts of detractors to drench the public in Grade-C Movie hysteria, the carrier's unique innovation was already proving its worth. Pilots formed deep emotional bonds with the planes they flew - and that reason was in the unique spelling of the word AIrcraft.

Though quieter than Hollywood creations, these planes showcased second-generation Artificial Intelligence chips. Since the President George W. Bush insisted upon searing the nation's psyche with aftershock images of September 2001, this scrappy little New York based carrier took action. During the conceptual stage of negotiations, the usually reserved CEO of Air-Coney shut down all opposition with the classic retort, "What could be worse than what actually happened? My ten year old son could program the instruction 'Avoid the Big Building' ." Now Pilot Keith Houghton and AIrcraft Clarisse gathered themselves to get through another bone jarring snow storm, One More Time.

Keith wriggled in his chair as he stretched his back during a thirty-second lull from the chaos. "Okay, Clarisse, this one's for the retirement speeches. Show 'em all why you're the Diva of the fleet." A spread of LED lights swirled green in response.

---

The semi-sentient plane didn't trouble itself with a wordy analysis - voice pitch and key phrases were enough. Because the silicon nerve center wasn't capable of direct conversation, the design team decided not to fake it with voice samples. Pilots don't want to be chattered at anyway - just show them the readouts.

However, Clarisse's persona was an aberration turned breakthrough. Coincidentally hooked up to the same hard drive as someone's music collection, she spontaneously began playing songs she deemed relevant to the pilot's situation during simulations. During the famous "Last Doubts" investment meeting, the Venture Capital investors began their predictable pseudo-apologetic speech of Why We Can't Do This. Meanwhile, a distraught junior engineer discovered that someone had forgotten to take Clarisse offline before the meeting - and she was hearing the ongoing proceedings. During an awkward silence, the enginer called into the air, "Clarisse, what do you think?"

The answer thundered back over the simulation stereo speakers, conjured up from the first track of the Jefferson Airplane 1989 reunion album: "I Like Planes - Experimental Aircraft!" That day a billion dollars of startup funding was signed. Junior Engineer Keith Houghton and AIrcraft Clarisse later became the first operational team. Now, after a crisp forty years of service, they were on their sunset trip- if only the snow would quit long enough for them to see it.

---

The Galveston Bi-Centennial snow had appeared with epic grandeur worthy of its predecessor. It had ceased to be a mere storm, and had become an Event. Desperate tactical jockeying earlier had barely sufficed, but at a staggering cost. The co-pilot was dead from shock aggravated by concussion from some loose object. Most of the passengers were dangerously air-sick. Then Clarisse declared her own problem.

'Structural Integrity Alert' began flashing. The horrific rattling earlier had strained the wing joints far, far past the tolerances into the red zone. Of course, the wing itself wasn't going anywhere, but the damage was interfering with the electrical cabling operating the flaps. One more good jolt might be enough to severely hinder stable navigation.

Now they were through the worst of the turbulence, and the test of nerves began. With no strenuous actions required, the initial adrenaline surge began to fade. Pilot Keith Houghton felt the first wave of fatigue slithering through him. The next few hours called for focus. He opened the cover to a small compartment in the armrest and fingered a couple of small objects.

The first was a little brass & gold "laughing" Buddha Tertawa statue. Following the popular Asian village custom, Keith rubbed the "belly of the middle way" for good luck. Adding two syllables to the traditional pronunciation, he began to chant softly.

The other was a hand-modified 16-beat Swiss metronome. Keith had paid an extra fee for the merchant to replace beats two and sixteen with rests instead of down-beats. To this distinctive rhythm, Keith began to chant softly.

'Nam _ Myo-ho Ren-ge Ky-o. Nam My-o-ho Ren-ge Kyo _'.

Trained by their forty year career together, Clarisse picked up the distinctive cadence right away. A remastered digital copy of Mike Oldfield's signature flying tune "Five Miles Out" floated through the cockpit speakers. Keith broke into an exhausted smile, and stroked the leather padded dash trim fondly. They were going to make it home.


[align=center]The End[/align]

Tic Toc

By:
Jaimie L. Elliott



Jung Hee gazed out into a world blinded by a snowstorm. He watched the flakes whirl and whip in a chaotic dance. He pressed his fingers against the cold, harsh window and a single tear meandered down his cheek. “Beyond this shroud they come for me,” he said, his words resigned, his dark eyes forlorn.

He stumbled to the bed where the little mechanical boy awaited. Of all of them, both real and synthetic, this was the one he loved the most. He pressed his head against the android’s chest and ran his fingers over the sensuous skin. He listened to the artificial heart, a metronome, TIC TOC TIC TOC TIC TOC. The rhythm soothed him. “Your heart is fabricated but it is not fake. It beats for me as mine does for you.”

A gust of wind caused the cabin to shudder. Jung Hee shivered. “They call me a monster,” he said. “They’re going to do terrible things to me. But I cannot choose who I love. Does that make me a bad person? I’m so very afraid, my little boy.” He sobbed, his arms wrapped around his beloved.

Then he heard, above the roar of wind and storm, the voices of the mob. With querulous limbs, he staggered toward the golden Buddha idol resting on the shelf across the room. He kowtowed before the figure and mouthed a silent prayer.

Jung Hee did not hear the mechanical boy rise. He did not see him approach. He did not feel the weight of the Buddha as it crashed down upon his head.

The boy rolled Jung Hee upon his back. He lay down next to him, his artificial head resting upon the silent chest, his thin arms holding protective the still warm body.

The sound of fists pounded upon the door. The wind howled. All that dimmed. The only sound now a mechanical heart dying:

TIC TOC TIC TOC... TIC... TOC..... TIC.......... TOC...............

...TIC


[align=center]The End[/align]

- Winner -


Dual Dreaming
By:
Kitanzi



Swirling, dizzying bursts of snow eddied and danced about her, driving her in shuffling circles until she fell over an unexpectedly solid drift. Eleanor sat up slowly, too tired to even swear as she felt the snow work in the top of her boots and start soaking her socks. She tipped her head back and squinted her eyes against the gusting storm.

“A dream! It’s a goddamn dream!” she yelled, but the wind carried the words away from her. “What’s the point of knowing you’re dreaming if you can’t control it, or even shut it down? I wanted a dream vacation in Bermuda. Damn, this feels real.” She pulled the hood of her parka closer around her face, picked her staff back up and cautiously stood next to the drift.

“What are you, then?” she muttered, and poked the drift with the staff. She couldn’t hear anything over the wind, but she felt a solid, metallic contact. Bracing against the wind, she poked and kicked at it until she cleared most of the snow from an oddly rounded lump about the size of her head. She jammed the staff into the snow, braced into the wind and reached to pick it up. Lucid dreaming hadn’t turned out nearly as satisfying that magazine article made it sound, but she let out a sigh of satisfaction when the little golden Buddha lit at her touch, glowing like a small sun.

“That’s a bit more like it.” The figure gently steamed where falling snow landed on it, and cast an eerie glow through the featureless dark. Eleanor kicked gently at it again, then picked it up to cradle against her chest. It was surprisingly light, and she closed her eyes to enjoy the soothing heat against her face. If she ignored her layers of clothing, she could almost think she was in Bermuda after all. In fact, the wind seemed to have died down…

“Eleanor. Eleanor! Are you there?”

“Becky? Are you in my dream?” The little Buddha was getting uncomfortably hot through her gloves and she shifted so the heavy sleeves of the parka protected her hands. The steady light and heat against her eyelids slowly grew, and she thought again of basking in the sun on a tropical island. The wind wasn’t quite gone, but it had certainly changed. She could almost hear her twin sister whispering to her, like they used to do when they were kids at the boring grown up parties. She and Becky knew better than to complain when it was time to be the Loving Family at any of her father’s political rallies, but as long as they were quiet and smiling in their matching outfits, no one cared that they whispered. They had always been each other’s best friend in the middle of the politics as they grew up, and that never really changed. Becky’s love of science and stars got her into NASA and then into the first mission to Mars while Eleanor grew more fascinated with painting all the things she saw, and imagined she saw, in her telescope, but when Becky called to breathlessly tell her she’d been accepted for the Mars mission Eleanor congratulated her, then wistfully said it would be the first time they’d really be parted. She almost thought that if she opened her eyes now she would see her twin sitting by her in another of those awful party dresses they’d outgrown years ago.

“Eleanor? You’re in my dream!” That was definitely Becky’s voice!

Eleanor fought her eyes open against her lassitude. Her sister stood with one hand resting comfortably on the Buddha’s head, at her ease in a light cotton jumpsuit as the snow ignored her, and grinning devilishly. “Becky! I – what? No, this is my dream! I read in a magazine about lucid dreaming and how inspirational it can be… I’m dreaming! I’m definitely dreaming! Look!” She hit her fist against her leg and it passed through. “See? I’m dreaming, this is my dream and you’re in it!”

“Goof!” her sister laughed. “We’re both dreaming! I hoped it would work! Listen!” In the new silence Eleanor faintly heard a ticking metronome. “I wanted to try a science experiment of my own, so I put together a metronome and made a tape before I left. I’ve always been easy to hypnotize.” Eleanor nodded, remembering how Betsy had used self-hypnosis to break her smoking habit back in high school when she realized it would keep her out of the space program. “So I hoped if I hypnotized myself I might be able to reach you through dreams. Twins are traditionally supposed to be able to do this stuff, after all – why not? I had no idea you were learning lucid dreaming, but it probably helped.”

Her devilish look became wistful. “I sure miss you, sister. I know it’s a dumb cliché, but it’s BIG out here, and we’re an awful long way from home.”

Eleanor’s throat felt thick, and she caught her sister in a one armed hug with the glowing Buddha between them. “I love you too, Beck. Don’t you get lost in all that space and forget to come home, ok? I’d have to come get you, and Mom and Dad would never let you live it down. That team’s the best, and you’re all coming home.”

“Just as soon as we can,” Becky agreed. “But it’s a hell of a lot less lonely now, if we can share dreams. I have to go, but I’ll try again tomorrow night. Love you, little sis! Sweet dreams!” She squeezed Eleanor once more and stepped back, fading into the storm.

“You’re not even five minutes older than me, it hardly counts.” Eleanor bit her lip against tears as the Buddha dimmed and cooled, and the snow drifted away into the dawn, and a golden beach in Bermuda.


[align=center]The End[/align]