The Technicals, Part 4: Conclusion

The Technicals were done returning all the absorbed beings to the Gathering.

“Give back. Give back.”

Their chant went on as they began to pull random components from their bodies. Gadgets and their associated odds and ends grew in two piles.

To everyone’s astonishment, one pile—consisting of plastic, glass, metal, and wood—turned to streams of mist. The streams went in several directions. One vaporous trail went no further than the edge of the meadow. While the other mist streams disappeared over the horizons, this one flowed toward a grove of trees.

At first, there was nothing to see. Gradually, the grove thickened into a small forest. Trees shot into the sky—evergreen, old growth hardwoods, even a spattering of new growth. Murmurs passed through the Gathered beings. Silence—heavy, yet buoyant—fell across the meadow.

The Technicals shrank as they shed phones, DVD players, stereos, and more.

The second pile released green and violet streams that collected into clear barrels. These were the hazardous materials used to make many of the devices work. In the barrels, the poisons swirled faster and faster until they lost their color. A layer of water pooled beneath a mist that now resembled the same mist that returned resources from the recycling pile. Water and Air confirmed the remains truly were purified elements.

Mist soon filled the area, obscuring the Technicals. The Gathering held still, much to Wisdom’s amusement. Many of the beings were not given to stillness on the most solemn of occasions.

At long last, the Technicals went as quiet as their audience. A soft breeze not of Air’s making ruffled, then separated the mist. Everyone leaned closer to see.

The mechanical monstrosities were gone. In their place stood a pair of children. Wearing simple white shifts, their bodies had skin that glowed black as a computer monitor. Zeroes and ones scrolled in vertical lines, some going up, some down. The boy child held the girl-child’s hand. His hair was a rowdy, alabaster mess. Hers, of a matching shade, was long and pulled back into a low ponytail.

The boy approached the Gathering with his little sister in tow. She hid behind him until he pulled her to his side.

“We’re sorry for what we did,” he said. His voice was warm and more natural than before, although he retained an electronic hum that was not unpleasant. “I’m Mech, and she’s Tech.”

Tech darted behind her brother again. Now that beings had begun to relax, some chuckled at Tech’s shyness.

Mouse whispered into Wisdom’s ear. The Conceptual nodded. She walked up to the children before Elephant could make a move.

“You have gone a long way toward making amends,” she said. Somewhere behind her, Elephant made a noise and was promptly hushed. “I was but a child at my first Gathering. This is true of everyone here.”

Mech smiled an infectious grin.

“Tech an’ me are gonna be good from now on!” he boasted.

“Don’t be too good,” Trickster grumbled.

The remaining tension evaporated and was followed by laughter and welcoming hugs.

Satisfied, Wisdom slipped away from the crowd. The spotlight belonged to other, more extroverted individuals.

“They’ll be fine,” Mouse said. “I remember the turmoil you Conceptuals caused, and these children were no worse.”

“Ah, but there are only two of them. You do recall our numbers, do you not?”

Mouse giggled. “Point, my friend, point.”

Something pulled on Wisdom’s robe, startling her. She looked down to find little Tech holding tight, thumb in her mouth.

“Tell me story?” she asked around her hand. “Techie like Gramma Wizzum an’ Auntie Mousie.”

“Why, I’ll be,” Mouse breathed.

Hope—the emotion, not the Conceptual—swelled in Wisdom’s chest. Few opportunities arose for Wisdom to influence anyone, let alone youth.

“I’d love to tell you a story,” she told Tech. She scooped the girl into her arms and snuggled her close. “I’ll tell you as many stories as you want.”

☼

This story may not be reproduced in any form without express written permission from MJ Twain.

He Sleeps

He sleeps, nestled against his mother’s chest, dreaming baby boy dreams. His mother kisses his blond head and inhales his sweaty-sweet aroma. Of all the futures she sees, his is closed to her

He stirs, his eyes flutter. She snugs the blanket up to his shoulders and sighs when he puts his fingers back in his mouth. She feels his muscles twitch in time with his even breathing.

To him, all is well. There are no worries beyond the nap. All is now, there is no was or will. His mother longs to experience this simplicity. Such a thing, of course, is impossible. Her guard must never waver. Vulnerability is not an option. Lack of confidence means death.

Another kiss to his fair brow. It is time.

She edges to a slit in the door. The street has appeared empty for hours, but it is the game they play. To them, it is a game. She is less than an insect in their regard. If she is destroyed, they will choose another.

Panic fights calm. For her son is to live, she must win. For him to be a free man, she must exceed all others before her.

She hesitates. Are they waiting around the corner? Maybe she lost them. She’d be dead by now if she hadn’t. Zephyr’s warning tugs at her. They’ve begun teasing the runners. Let them think they won. Take them down seconds before victory.

Still no sound from outside. No sense of nearby life, unless they’ve learned how to disguise that, too. Is that part of the tease, to let her think she retains her sole advantage?

The baby’s hand falls from his mouth, so deep is he in dreamland. She prays he lives to see a peaceful day.

She moves to the door jamb, presses her back to the wall. With what little remains of her source, she draws a misty veil around herself. As long as they don’t look directly at her, she’ll escape notice. She delivers a final kiss to her warm bundle then wraps her arms as tight as she dares. Using a slight source nudge, she opens the door just wide enough to slip through. She takes a shaky breath.

The little boy’s mother steps into the street.

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This story may not be reproduced in any form without express written permission from the author.