mystery only deepens. Dozens of small metal disks, tarnished and crusted with age, are littered about the floor. And each one bears the strange etching of a man's face. Were these men the soldiers of this army of salvation?
My stomach takes another turn as my eye catches something among the debris that I first mistake to be the bloody gore of preserved meat, sealed neatly in transparent plastic.
Closer inspection, after wiping away ages of smudged dirt, reveals it to be a uniform of some sort. Red velvet in a vacuum-sealed bag.
I tear at the plastic, which rips quite easily, and remove the strange clothes. Stiff with age, the uniform unfolds awkwardly. Red velvet trousers and coat. A matching, pointed cap. A white shirt and coal-black boots and a belt. Also a bell, no doubt a primitive alarm, of some sort… And a large, empty velvet sack. What a strange outfit these soldiers of salvation wore!
But it looks warm and I climb into it, buttoning the shirt and tightening the belt gently over my sore, distended stomach. It's loose-fitting. The boots are sturdy, made of a material unfamiliar to me. The white trim of the hat tickles the sensitive skin of my head, but it is warm, and it feels somehow appropriate to wear the full uniform of this long dead soldier.--
***
Neural Log: 23:74-87-
--The small factory room seems to be totally automated. That is to say, that other than the small conveyor belt portals (much too narrow to admit a skinny child, let alone a man of my distended, sickly girth) there appear to be no entrances to the room.
The hole in the ceiling through which I'd fallen is too high to reach, and there's nothing substantial to stand on in the room (the rumbling pot-bellied machines are far too heavy to be budged, and are secured firmly in place with large, immovable bolts).
Watching the strange devices and unfinished bits of mechanical junk fly by is fascinating. Some of it is vaguely recognizable, and some is strange and unidentifiable. There goes a water filter, and there's a keypad and a seat cushion. Watching the endless stream of odds and ends is monotonous, repetitive, transfixing-data disks, food containers, waste receptacle lids, traffic lights, tooth-scrubbers, ceiling lamps, it all flows silently by. It's hypnotizing. I lose track of time just watching…
And then something glides into the room that is so shocking that at first I don't even consciously realize what it is that I'm looking at. Without thinking, I reach out and pluck it from the belt.
Holding the thing in my hand, I stare at it and it stares back at me. The small golden orb is lighter than I would have imagined, and smaller. The red crystal areole is dark, and doesn't glow with the holy fire that that bathes the streets of Crack City. Holding it in my hand, it seems impotent, insignificant, and I feel suddenly empowered-how ever did I fall so low only to come into possession of one of the eyes of god?--
***
Neural Log: 23:75-47-
--The malleable, uncertain beginnings of an idea tickle the back of my mind. Not really aware of what I am doing or why, I begin collecting pieces from the conveyor belt and stuffing them into my sack. Odds and ends, strange electronic devices and components, circuit boards and data chips, and a handful of implants that I'm almost certain are neural nets…
When the sack is full, I sit heavily down on the floor and carefully examine my surroundings.
No doors in the room. Other than the hole I'd fallen through in the ceiling (and I have no desire to return to the Refuservoir) there don't appear to be any exits. But the conveyor belts must go somewhere, the large pipes and shafts emerging from the floor and walls and heavy machinery must lead somewhere…
I get up and begin to pry at the largest shaft in the room. It is a good three feet in diameter and extends at an upward angle from the largest rumbling pot-bellied machine (a furnace of some sort, I reason) into the seam where the ceiling and wall
My stomach takes another turn as my eye catches something among the debris that I first mistake to be the bloody gore of preserved meat, sealed neatly in transparent plastic.
Closer inspection, after wiping away ages of smudged dirt, reveals it to be a uniform of some sort. Red velvet in a vacuum-sealed bag.
I tear at the plastic, which rips quite easily, and remove the strange clothes. Stiff with age, the uniform unfolds awkwardly. Red velvet trousers and coat. A matching, pointed cap. A white shirt and coal-black boots and a belt. Also a bell, no doubt a primitive alarm, of some sort… And a large, empty velvet sack. What a strange outfit these soldiers of salvation wore!
But it looks warm and I climb into it, buttoning the shirt and tightening the belt gently over my sore, distended stomach. It's loose-fitting. The boots are sturdy, made of a material unfamiliar to me. The white trim of the hat tickles the sensitive skin of my head, but it is warm, and it feels somehow appropriate to wear the full uniform of this long dead soldier.--
***
Neural Log: 23:74-87-
--The small factory room seems to be totally automated. That is to say, that other than the small conveyor belt portals (much too narrow to admit a skinny child, let alone a man of my distended, sickly girth) there appear to be no entrances to the room.
The hole in the ceiling through which I'd fallen is too high to reach, and there's nothing substantial to stand on in the room (the rumbling pot-bellied machines are far too heavy to be budged, and are secured firmly in place with large, immovable bolts).
Watching the strange devices and unfinished bits of mechanical junk fly by is fascinating. Some of it is vaguely recognizable, and some is strange and unidentifiable. There goes a water filter, and there's a keypad and a seat cushion. Watching the endless stream of odds and ends is monotonous, repetitive, transfixing-data disks, food containers, waste receptacle lids, traffic lights, tooth-scrubbers, ceiling lamps, it all flows silently by. It's hypnotizing. I lose track of time just watching…
And then something glides into the room that is so shocking that at first I don't even consciously realize what it is that I'm looking at. Without thinking, I reach out and pluck it from the belt.
Holding the thing in my hand, I stare at it and it stares back at me. The small golden orb is lighter than I would have imagined, and smaller. The red crystal areole is dark, and doesn't glow with the holy fire that that bathes the streets of Crack City. Holding it in my hand, it seems impotent, insignificant, and I feel suddenly empowered-how ever did I fall so low only to come into possession of one of the eyes of god?--
***
Neural Log: 23:75-47-
--The malleable, uncertain beginnings of an idea tickle the back of my mind. Not really aware of what I am doing or why, I begin collecting pieces from the conveyor belt and stuffing them into my sack. Odds and ends, strange electronic devices and components, circuit boards and data chips, and a handful of implants that I'm almost certain are neural nets…
When the sack is full, I sit heavily down on the floor and carefully examine my surroundings.
No doors in the room. Other than the hole I'd fallen through in the ceiling (and I have no desire to return to the Refuservoir) there don't appear to be any exits. But the conveyor belts must go somewhere, the large pipes and shafts emerging from the floor and walls and heavy machinery must lead somewhere…
I get up and begin to pry at the largest shaft in the room. It is a good three feet in diameter and extends at an upward angle from the largest rumbling pot-bellied machine (a furnace of some sort, I reason) into the seam where the ceiling and wall
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