Sinterglass Road

[C Michael MacAlister]

First part of Chapter 1.

Comments/criticism/feedback welcome!

Thanks in advance, and thanks to all of you who have already made me feel so welcome.

Callum

SINTERGLASS ROAD
By
C. Michael MacAlister

In the darkness between the steam pipes and cables strung along the crawlspace beneath the Deck, cocooned in the distant rumble-roar of people and lifters and larger machines, Bomb dreamed.

Its dreams were not complex fantasies, merely shadings of light and dark, stranger senses tugging at Bomb’s awareness with the ebb and flow of traffic above and below, all the while monitoring a small, detached part of itself keeping careful watch for approaching maintenance servitors, but Bomb enjoyed these thoughts, inasmuch as it could enjoy anything; they passed the time.

Bomb remembered others like it, in a warm bath of nutrient, all basking in the unfettered joy of the feast, and a warm light that it thought of as being orange bathing them all. Then the light had changed, and it got cold, a numbing, robbing chill that slowed and finally stopped the normal cellular processes, and Bomb fell into a deep sleep.

But in that sleep came images, sluggish thoughts bubbling through the miniscule midbrain into the cerebellum that formed over ninety percent of Bomb’s organic mass, bringing with them a strange, certain understanding. This all meant something; it was all leading… somewhere. Quite where was another matter, and one that Bomb felt uncomfortable examining, but for now, the certainty was its own reward.

The femtoclockwork appendages sunk into Bomb’s two-ounce organic brain clicked and whirred minutely, electrons sluicing from gears so small that stray proteins had to be magnetically repulsed, lest they snare the mechanism’s teeth. Dimly, Bomb was aware that time was growing short; circumstances were changing around it, and a sense close to anticipation was building in the three-inch housing that distinguished Bomb from a simple machine.

A filament two atoms across and nearly eight feet in length, spun like an invisible web almost as soon as Bomb was planted where it now lay, snapped with a tiny cascade of bubbles, releasing a ratchet on a mainspring the size of a bacterial flagellum. A little set of gears unwound, bringing together two previously separate masses of tissue, which instantly began to form connections, neurons greeting one another with tiny bursts of chemicals. They reported that the filament had been broken by… something, approaching rapidly from the northern perimeter, and even now the tic-tic-tic of metal on metal reverberated through Bomb’s housing, a sound not heard but felt, sampled, tasted and analyzed by a handful of routines and senses far beyond those available to the porcine ancestor of its specialized brain.

Cleaner Servitor.

If Bomb had been dumb, an inert, lifeless set of components, the servitor would have found easy pickings, a little meal to satiate its ever-yearning hunger. Indeed, unaware of Bomb’s true nature, the servitor was already accelerating towards the stubby cylinder, little brass mandibles clicking together, as if in anticipation of the coming meal. Being an almost entirely visual creature, the servitor picked Bomb out easily against the hot backdrop of pipes and wires, and moved in, breaking through more of the almost unfelt filaments as it did so. Each dutifully informed Bomb of its demise, and Bomb readied itself.

Lacking legs, Bomb would have been incapable of fleeing, and besides, once placed it was Bomb’s nature to remain until its duty was discharged; thus thoughts of escape did not appear in Bomb’s cloudy little mind. Instead, it flexed several of its dozen-or-so slim steel claws, wrapped, for now, around a thick sheaf of pipes on the crawlspace’s ceiling. The servitor crept closer, its yellow brass legs scritch-click on the thin aluminum of the crawlspace floor.

It was perhaps a foot long, one of the older models equipped with less than half an ounce of brain and thus unable to make any decisions beyond “eat and move”. Bomb felt an almost exalting sense of pleasure as the broken filaments outlined the servitor’s size, speed and capabilities, matching it to parameters laid down in thousands of slim disks arranged in long stacks like columns within the clockwork that served as Bomb’s backup memory. Like a blind warrior, Bomb readied itself, its million fine fingers touching, probing, tasting the servitor’s approach, while its strong claws swung into a defensive position.

Like a bronze pillbug scurrying from beneath a log, the servitor exploded from the darkness, its longer front mandibles already reaching towards Bomb’s housing, the wide jaw-like doors to its miniscule smelting plant within opening. Bomb felt its lunge, the filaments around the servitor snapping with greater speed, setting off yet more cascades, bringing a soothing rush of endorphins along with the information it needed to perform.

Time slowed, and Bomb felt the servitor push close as if moving through thick liquid, like the nutrient bath that had given Bomb life. The analogy – Bomb’s first – brought a tinge of pride. It would have to remember that one. Bomb’s claws felt vast, glacially slow, swinging through the few inches of space between Bomb and the carapace of the servitor, seeking, adjusting as they did so, until they connected with the cleaner’s own brain-case, the razor-sharp edges – designed to secure Bomb to whatever surface it was placed upon – slicing easily through the bronze sheet, and into the soft parts within.

There was a shriek, tinny and almost inaudible, as the pressurized housing ruptured, and the servitor twitched and thrashed, its spasm growing weak and dim, until they finally died altogether. Bomb waited, tense and ready, straining to discern the sounds of more approaching cleaners. After a time, Bomb withdrew its claw, securing it back within the metal wall, satisfied that there would be no further attack. This servitor had evidently become greedy, and decided to keep Bomb for itself. Usually, cleaners would radio others in the vicinity if a large morsel was found, but this one had not, and so Bomb relaxed. Presently, new filaments began to weave themselves from minute holes on Bomb’s casing, replacing those lost, while the wreckage of the pillbug was drawn slowly towards it; the organic mush that remained of its brain would provide nutrient, while some of the smaller metal parts would be held over as possible replacements for any damaged components. Everything would be recycled, in time.

Slowly, the chemicals ebbed, and the flow of electrons within Bomb’s brain calmed, allowing the gears to return to their original positions, further soothing the frenetic activity the cleaner’s approach and attack had generated. After a while, Bomb was able to return to sleep, and its dreams were vivid.

[Pyar]

This is very interesting and for some reason it strongly reminded me of The Matrix and the machines in it. I think you should definitely keep going. I was a little confused at first regarding what was a dream and what was actually happening. And also if you could be more clear on what this Bomb looks like physically, I understood that it has claws and a brain. I'm not so much sure more than that. Other than that continue!

[Boneman]

Just shows you that any preconceived notions can be totally wrong - because he was called Bomb I assumed he was going to explode, and having a filament two atoms across and eight feet in length set me thinking that they would collide in a whiplash and that would be the end of the story - kaboom - internal realisation for Bomb, his ultimate aim!

So, the kicker in the story was great, so it makes me ask 'where do you go from here?'

BUT, I will admit to skimming some of the technological aspects looking for action, so if the story continued this 'heavily-laden' in technospeak I might get bored. That's only me, because I cannot maintain attention if there's too much dialogue, or too convoluted a picture being built - don't even mention The Wheel of Time series...

[C Michael MacAlister]

Thanks for the feedback!

This is the opening of a novel that can best be described as far-future-clockpunk-dystopian-surrrealist-SF (tres silly!). Bomb plays a role in the story (indeed, 'his' story mirrors that of the main character's development in many ways) I admit the 'teknospeke' is a bit offputting, but it becomes clear over the first chapter as the story widens out (involving real humans!) and the shape of the world is revealed.

I admit I'm not the sort of writer who gives much detail at first; I try to give a taste of the world through the style, then give more detail as the story progresses. I often think I go too far with the "weirdness" at first, so I figured I'd get feedback on this before going much further (although the novel, to date, stands at 18K words - about a fifth of the way through).

Thanks again, and keep it coming!

[Boneman]

Okay, and this is just a personal thing, but following on from what I said, your information now would make me want to read on. And I always read the blurb on the jacket cover before opening the book, so I guess I'd already know that, wouldn't I?

And if the story shifted to a human perspective next, then I'd probably be even more intrigued as to what Bomb's purpose was. Promise me he'll blow up one day......

[nj1]

Very rarely will i read a whole piece in the Crit's section and even more rarely do i read a sci-fi crit. This not only kept me reading but sucked me in too.

Keep it up!

[chopper]

much fun: but how large is Bomb? i'm guessing the "three-inch housing" is for the brain assemblage - the cleaner servitor is a foot long, so at the moment this looks like a David/Goliath matchup.

[C Michael MacAlister]

Cheers again!

Boneman: Thanks for the feedback. Yup, this is just the opening. The rest of the story is 99% human-based

nj1: Thank you so much! I am truly honored.

chopper: Bomb's about eight inches long, including his explosives. His "thinking parts" come to about 4 inches, including the mechanism surrounding it. Don't worry - the human protagonist will meet Bomb - sorta - and Bomb will go "kablooey" in the end. Not the actual end-end, but at the end of his life, anyhoo :-D

[zachariah]

Interesting start. Reminds me of Dark Star, of course.

[C Michael MacAlister]

Originally Posted by zachariah

Interesting start. Reminds me of Dark Star, of course.

"You are not to detonate in the bomb bay!"

Thanks! Love that film, and will happily admit to a certain influence. My Bomb is not quite the same, but I'm happy for the comparison!

[The Procrastinator]

I like it. There's a certain amount of tension building. I would be interested in reading more.

[C Michael MacAlister]

Originally Posted by The Procrastinator

I like it. There's a certain amount of tension building. I would be interested in reading more.

Then I shall continue, with haste!

This weekend was a bit of a bust, writing-wise.. got about 2K words done the whole time. Spent the rest of the time breaking in our new dog (bloodhound/American Foxhound mix rescue dog - seems to have made friends with our Australian Blue Heeler nicely though) and killing a water moccasin with a samurai sword (true story).

For the record, I don't like killing things, but with three children there's really nothing else one can practically do when one of North America's most deadly and aggressive snakes takes up residence under your back porch.