Red Thunder
Two Thousand Club
((Trying my hand at a short story, set in a cyberpunk-ish setting. Enjoy.))
She touched the screen. Cracks and darkness inhabited the place of light and wholeness. The blank face would shine no more. Nor was that fate limited to only the digital interface before her; scattered about the room were innumerable glass and plastic screens and monitors, each one different. Each a splintered window. Each broken and useless. A shadow lay heavily upon the infinite room.
But she still searched. One of these, surely one of these screens was whole. Wires of metal and plastic, like lifelines, scraped the ground behind her, pulled forward with her gentle and irresistible stride by their many points of connection to her tiny frame. Like blazing floodlights, her eyes roved about her, settling briefly upon each monitor she passed in assessment before moving on to the next. On occasion hands of synthetic skin would caress a potential subject in hope. But a touch was all it took for her to know.
Dead. The more she saw, the farther she walked, the more convinced she was. Yes, they were all dead. Or at least, they might as well be. Connected to her as they were through lines of life and power, she could feel that energy still flowed to them. Their connection had not been cut, could not be cut. But what good was that? The system might run, but the screens could not display it. Could not share it.
One thing was left to her. At her gesture, a unit of shelves raised from the steel-lined floor. Like the room, it was infinite in length. But also like the room, it communicated import concerning every inch of its space. Upwards the unit rose, past the layers and stacks of lifeless screens, up into the shadows above. Finally it stopped. There before her, sitting upon its own shelf, as though made for it, was a window, factory-new. At her feet lay a monitor bearing a screen of the same model, and she knew beyond knowledge that this window was made for this screen. For who better to know a replacement part than the manufacturer? The monitor groaned as she worked at it, resisting her loving hands. Though broken, though dark, the screen it had was familiar. Why should it be parted? But she won out in the end, and its frame opened. Carefully she extracted the broken glass, taking time to ensure each piece was pulled. Satisfied, she took the new screen and installed it, fitting it into place easily. As if the screen was made for the monitor. Finally, hesitantly, she reached forward to activate it. At first it flickered, at odds with its new face. But after a few moments light, glorious illumination, burst forth, its glow driving back the shadow that surrounded it. But it could only drive that shadow back so far, and only in the direction it faced. So she stood and moved on to her next subject.
Time uncounted she worked upon them, methodically and patiently. Her supply unit always provided the right replacement screen for her. Some monitors were more willing than others, barely giving a struggle. Others resisted, some in time accepting her repair and some never opening for her. But she knew with little prodding whether a monitor would be, could be, repaired, and she would eventually leave those who would not accept the fix to pursue those who would. And always glorious light blazed forth from the faces of the repaired. No two were alike. As the bodies of the monitors were all different, each necessitating its own unique attention, so did each fixed screen display a different picture. Yet they were parts of all whole, part of her whole, and they displayed to they surroundings the part of her they best understood.
In time, after eons of restless labor, she stood from her final repair. It gave illumination as happily as any before it, and she knew she was done. Spreading her arms to each monitor, she smiled.
"I love you."
And each monitor, echoing her statement of their own will in accordance with their ready repair, flashed upon their screens a phrase, both to each other and back to her.
"I love you, too."
She touched the screen. Cracks and darkness inhabited the place of light and wholeness. The blank face would shine no more. Nor was that fate limited to only the digital interface before her; scattered about the room were innumerable glass and plastic screens and monitors, each one different. Each a splintered window. Each broken and useless. A shadow lay heavily upon the infinite room.
But she still searched. One of these, surely one of these screens was whole. Wires of metal and plastic, like lifelines, scraped the ground behind her, pulled forward with her gentle and irresistible stride by their many points of connection to her tiny frame. Like blazing floodlights, her eyes roved about her, settling briefly upon each monitor she passed in assessment before moving on to the next. On occasion hands of synthetic skin would caress a potential subject in hope. But a touch was all it took for her to know.
Dead. The more she saw, the farther she walked, the more convinced she was. Yes, they were all dead. Or at least, they might as well be. Connected to her as they were through lines of life and power, she could feel that energy still flowed to them. Their connection had not been cut, could not be cut. But what good was that? The system might run, but the screens could not display it. Could not share it.
One thing was left to her. At her gesture, a unit of shelves raised from the steel-lined floor. Like the room, it was infinite in length. But also like the room, it communicated import concerning every inch of its space. Upwards the unit rose, past the layers and stacks of lifeless screens, up into the shadows above. Finally it stopped. There before her, sitting upon its own shelf, as though made for it, was a window, factory-new. At her feet lay a monitor bearing a screen of the same model, and she knew beyond knowledge that this window was made for this screen. For who better to know a replacement part than the manufacturer? The monitor groaned as she worked at it, resisting her loving hands. Though broken, though dark, the screen it had was familiar. Why should it be parted? But she won out in the end, and its frame opened. Carefully she extracted the broken glass, taking time to ensure each piece was pulled. Satisfied, she took the new screen and installed it, fitting it into place easily. As if the screen was made for the monitor. Finally, hesitantly, she reached forward to activate it. At first it flickered, at odds with its new face. But after a few moments light, glorious illumination, burst forth, its glow driving back the shadow that surrounded it. But it could only drive that shadow back so far, and only in the direction it faced. So she stood and moved on to her next subject.
Time uncounted she worked upon them, methodically and patiently. Her supply unit always provided the right replacement screen for her. Some monitors were more willing than others, barely giving a struggle. Others resisted, some in time accepting her repair and some never opening for her. But she knew with little prodding whether a monitor would be, could be, repaired, and she would eventually leave those who would not accept the fix to pursue those who would. And always glorious light blazed forth from the faces of the repaired. No two were alike. As the bodies of the monitors were all different, each necessitating its own unique attention, so did each fixed screen display a different picture. Yet they were parts of all whole, part of her whole, and they displayed to they surroundings the part of her they best understood.
In time, after eons of restless labor, she stood from her final repair. It gave illumination as happily as any before it, and she knew she was done. Spreading her arms to each monitor, she smiled.
"I love you."
And each monitor, echoing her statement of their own will in accordance with their ready repair, flashed upon their screens a phrase, both to each other and back to her.
"I love you, too."
