The incense smoke had dissipated. The thurible had been put away with the candlesticks and the chalice. Vicar Raymonde XTC felt a little like his best friend had just left for a long journey. There was something familiar and home-like about the Holy Week celebrations, despite what they were leading up to for His Lord. Still feeling something of the moment, Raymonde knelt at the rail before the altar to pray, clasping his silver tanibrium hands together and closing his sensors off. Unlike his human brothers and sisters, his people could almost completely isolate themselves in a bubble of sensory silence. Raymonde was grateful to God that he was not burdened with distractions like his human friends described to him.
I got a new job! I am now the official cleaner of McDonalds in New Sydney CBD! It wasn't all that hard to win the position. I think there was only a couple of others who applied and they were humans. I was surprised to see humans there. Normally that type of work is left to us. And who else would want to work in New Sydney?
The last I heard was that the lunar colonies were soaked in crime and just about out of control. Unlike the Asteroid Region, the moon had just about nothing to sell or harvest. Well, nothing of value, anyway. They make a bit on low-gravity launches for new ships, but that is about it. The bright spark who decided the Van de Graaf Crater was a good place for a colony did not last long in business. Somehow, the colony has staggered along and continues to eek out something like an existence. Enough that McDonalds saw fit to open a new health store there.
So, next week, I am off to de Graaf and a new phase of life! Diana is a bit worried. She has heard only bad things about the moon and the colonies there. A lot of it is media hype, I think. The Sol Police would have cleaned anything too bad out. Anyway, Diana said I need to be careful about people stripping me for black market parts! What the hell? I am nervous enough as it is without her adding those sorts of things to my mind.
Ra'arch was bewildered as she looked through the large viewing port on the side of her ship. Locals had gathered around her silvered vessel and appeared to be taking images of it. Some were even posing to be in the images. Kal'eshia had warned her of the primitiveness of the planet, but Ra'arch did not have a clear mental picture of just how backward Kal'esha meant.
Diana decided that my name should be “Maurice”. I was quite happy with E-CLN-047.32.9, but apparently that's a lot for a [m.......]...human to get their vocal tract around. Owen claimed that “Maurice” was even worse that my designation. When Diana told him to come up with something better, (she called him a smart arse), he told he could do no worse than “Maurice”. They argued for about twenty minutes. It's a lot for something the one person who should care about it could not give a crap about.
A human advised me to write a journal. What she meant was actually write one. With my hand. Like humans did more than five centuries ago. I thought she was nuts. We all know how meaties can be a little strange, but Diana promised that it would be good for me. Not only that, she said it would be fun. I am sceptical, but what did I have to lose?So, here I am, starting a diary. Diana never mentioned how you should start one.
I don't need to go into that introduction stuff. I know who I am even better than Diana knows who she is. I guess I shouldn't call her a meatie. She's a good friend, after all. A lot of humans won't come near us for whatever reason. A bunch of friends and I were dumb enough to sit down one night for a movie marathon of old human sci-fi movies. We got some idea why humans might be a little nervous around droids. They really didn't think much of us, even before the singularity.
Most days were good. Trent Babel rarely had bad days. He sat in his office in the basement of a cheap tenement building buried in the sewer of NeoLondon. He tallied up the takings of his night's work. Well, his workers' work, really. Marx would hate Babel, but that was ok by him. Whatever care about the opinion of others, usually on the negative side for people in his profession, he once had was long a vapour.
The wind whistled through the cracked windows and played with the flames of the candles at the altar. With wax infused with the bile of a gorgon, there was no danger of the lights going out until the appointed time. He stood there and surveyed the setting before him. A smile flickered across his haggard features just as brief as the candlelight. The plants were a nice touch, he thought.
High Archon Graham Fernandez, a distant descendent of Spanish immigrants to the New World, felt ready. He turned to look with a certain arrogant magnanimous visage upon the first arrivals. He stepped over to one of the pillars at the side of the altar and waited in its shadow. The congregants would find it hard to see him there, even with his dimly red eyes.
The last echo descended into the vacuum that the room now was. It was eerie and subtle. Reid Moran loved that time, that moment, when he was finally alone in his classroom and free of those who thought they were hear to learn. Looking out the window, he saw the last of his class run for the gate and home.
He packed up his pens and planning book, put them in his satchel and sat down at his desk. He caught a whiff of the hours-old coffee that was still sitting on his desk. Reid picked up the mug, took a sniff and, with a shrug, sipped a little of the cold liquid. It was always good, but it did nothing to stave of the hunger pains.
Reid caught a glimpse of one of the junior teachers waiting for her ride. He felt the pains a little more intensely. Downing the rest of the coffee, he walked out to chat with Faith Gilmore. She was wearing a pair of tight, black slacks with a floral print blouse. Her dark hair and bright blue eyes lit up when she turned and saw Reid approach. He had always been nice to her.
I have heard people liken continuing users of Twitter (now attempting to change its brand to the ridiculous “X”) likened to Nazi fascists. At the very least, they have been called supporters of fascism by those leaning to the left of the political spectrum. Pushing those political concerns aside and ignoring the possibility that Elon Musk is a reprehensible, elitist, greedy parasite, should writers use the old Bird Site?
I got a new job! I am now the official cleaner of McDonalds in New Sydney CBD! It wasn't all that hard to win the position. I think there was only a couple of others who applied and they were humans. I was surprised to see humans there. Normally that type of work is left to us. And who else would want to work in New Sydney?
So, here I am, starting a diary. Diana never mentioned how you should start one.
Designation: UIFA 982-3. Utility Infantry Fighting Android. It's a mouthful, so everyone calls me Gavin. I'm currently doing my second tour on Earth.
Most days were good. Trent Babel rarely had bad days. He sat in his office in the basement of a cheap tenement building buried in the sewer of NeoLondon. He tallied up the takings of his night's work. Well, his workers' work, really. Marx would hate Babel, but that was ok by him. Whatever care about the opinion of others, usually on the negative side for people in his profession, he once had was long a vapour.
The wind whistled through the cracked windows and played with the flames of the candles at the altar. With wax infused with the bile of a gorgon, there was no danger of the lights going out until the appointed time. He stood there and surveyed the setting before him. A smile flickered across his haggard features just as brief as the candlelight. The plants were a nice touch, he thought.
Reid caught a glimpse of one of the junior teachers waiting for her ride. He felt the pains a little more intensely. Downing the rest of the coffee, he walked out to chat with Faith Gilmore. She was wearing a pair of tight, black slacks with a floral print blouse. Her dark hair and bright blue eyes lit up when she turned and saw Reid approach. He had always been nice to her.
I have heard people liken continuing users of Twitter (now attempting to change its brand to the ridiculous “X”) likened to Nazi fascists. At the very least, they have been called supporters of fascism by those leaning to the left of the political spectrum. Pushing those political concerns aside and ignoring the possibility that Elon Musk is a reprehensible, elitist, greedy parasite, should writers use the old Bird Site?