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Sara A. Chow / Text 3 of 6 / Carter1--Chapter 2
"Carter1--Chapter 2" by Sara A. Chow
SciFi/Fantasy text 3 out of 6 by Sara A. Chow. ←Previous - Next→
| Second chapter, which could be titled something like 'In Which Shawn Finds Stuff'. But, I hate titling chapters, so it's just Chapter 2. Enjoy, and HAND! (August 2006 revision: I made it a bad length. It's too long for one chapter, and too short for two. How's the stuff I changed?) |
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Sunlight was shining into my eyes. I opened them, and quickly shut them, momentarily blinded. As I sat up, my cot tilted, and I fell again. At this rate, Carter, I thought, you’ll be so banged up you’re gonna look like you’ve been street fighting. Inwardly cursing, I glanced at my watch. 11:02. I had slept in rather late. I pulled a T-shirt on, smoothed my rumpled jeans, and walked to the canteen on a mission to satisfy my hunger.
I saw my mom and sister eating an early lunch. Neither of them saw my entrance, and I let out a sigh of relief for that. Best that we didn’t see each other. I glanced at the lunch menu overhead. Nothing special, I thought to myself as I waved my hand at the short-order chef, stunned when she turned around to take my order.
"Hi, Ariel," I said. "I didn’t know you worked here."
"It’s the only place where I can find a job that pays me a decent wage for my skill level. You know, I did win--"
"Best Food Studies Student awards for two years straight."
"Am I that conceited?" she asked, wincing slightly.
"No, but the foods prof’s daughter is." Carrie, the food studies professor’s daughter, was the ringleader in the most elite group of popular girls at Harper. She was the epitome of cliché; major flirt, totally inept at cooking, and jealous because of it. I doubt her mother had let her forget about Ariel’s natural talents, so Carrie constantly announced her own talents and denounced Ariel’s. "So, what’s for breakfast?"
Ariel shot me a disappointed glance. "It’s lunchtime now, Shawn."
"Okay, then. What’s the most breakfast-like lunch around here?" I asked her. I didn’t know Ariel overly well, but she was also qualifying for Zone-A. It was relatively recent that chefs had to qualify in that high a Zone, but the government had decided that since people began eating more and more prepared meals, morally bad chefs could easily cause a lot of harm. As it was, I normally wouldn’t have been so outgoing with Ariel, but human contact outside of the women in my family was very welcome.
Ariel heaved a sigh. "I’ll see if there’s anything around from breakfast that’s still fresh enough to not be thrown away."
"You’re the best," I smiled.
Ariel turned up the heat on one of the industrial-sized grills and pulled out various breakfast foods from a refrigerator.
"Staying here to eat, Shawn?" she asked.
"Nah, I’ve got other business."
"Heard about your dad. You gonna be at school for the next few days?"
"Yup. No point in missing classes. They’ll work you harder."
After a few minutes, Ariel placed a white plastic container and a cup of coffee on my tray, and waved me goodbye, ready to take the next order. I handed over the right amount of credit to the girl at the cash register, who wore baggy jeans and an oversized black sweater. Nice outfit, I thought to myself, totally unsarcastically. I picked up my stuff and a newspaper and bolted out of the cafeteria.
The little gift-shop across the main hall had a fairly decent supply of notepads and pens. I bought two smaller coil-bound scratch pads and a blue pen. I paid for and then tucked the three items into one of the pockets of my pants, and walked towards the main desk.
"Hello, what can I do for you?" the human clerk asked as I rather clumsily set my lunch on the counter. She smiled, giving me the once-over. Crap, I thought. Should’ve worn a sweater. She had ice-blonde hair, a tight shirt, tight blue jeans that probably cost her a week of pay, a novelty watch, three bracelets, five rings, various ear-piercings, and three necklaces. I wasn’t sure if I should sympathize towards girls for being so mindless, or if I should just be thankful for my lack of feminine companionship. I’ve been called misogynistic. I think it’s got a nice ring to it.
"I was wondering if you could book an appointment for me with a patient in Wing-Silver, possibly moved to Wings-Red or -Yellow this morning?"
"Who would this be?" asked the girl, fingers ready to strike at the appropriate letters on the keyboard.
"Carter, Ryan Gavin."
She typed in the name, hit the ‘Enter’ key, and frowned. "What is your purpose, sir?"
"I’ve got some issues to clear up," I growled, trying for the movie-star look.
She stared at me quizzically. "I’m sorry, but we can’t allow visitors into patient rooms in Wing-Red." He was put into Red. Well damn.
"I’m with the police." It was partially true, I was associated, although not fully. I pulled out my ID card to show her the symbol that was the police service’s preliminary seal of approval, preparing to recite Trent’s phone number in case she wanted to ask him about me. She took my ID, scanned the picture, looked at me again, and picked up her telephone receiver. She pressed 9, 0, 7, and began talking. She asked if the person on the other end could come down, and apparently, he said yes, as I was being grilled two minutes later by a middle aged gentleman. He looked fairly stereotypical, graying hair, just beginning to put weight on, and wearing a grayish suit with a blue shirt and tie, with a plastic ID clipped to the suit’s lapel. The front read ‘R.M. Steignal, W-Red Visitation Overseer, Empl#29357656’.
"What is it you want with Mr. Carter, son?" asked the Overseer.
"Well, that’s just it. I’m his son, and I’d like to talk with him." I glanced over my shoulder and realized the girl was listening intently, so I added, "The police have decided that a close friend or relative do a preliminary discussion with the victim."
"Your ‘discussion’ ain’t gonna work, he can’t hear, he’s in a coma," Steignal half-shouted with a somewhat amused laugh.
"I’d like to speak with my father," I said firmly, then adding, "Please," as an afterthought. Isn’t it funny that the biggest ego-basher gets you the farthest?
"I’m sorry, boy, I can’t let you in."
"I’m with the police, I can show you my ID, and I have a referral if it’s necessary." He sighed, took my ID, and asked to talk to Trent. I used my cell-phone to dial Trent’s number. The man took it, introduced himself, stated his purpose, and waited as he heard a response. After the conversation had ended, he handed the phone back to me, and jerked his head in the direction of a doorway, although somewhat pessimistically. Thanks, Trent. I stuffed my ID back into my pocket, picked up my lunch, and followed Mr. Steignal.
The two of us traveled down various corridors of the giant maze, soles of our shoes thunking against the floor in a nervous rhythm. We ended up facing a door that flashed ‘CAUTION: EMPLOYEES ONLY. VISITORS KEEP OUT.’ He took a passcard from his suit pocket and handed it to me, telling me to swipe it through the slot beside the door. I did as told, and the door slid open. I started in, and realized that my friend R. was following me in.
"Uhh, can I do this privately?" I asked, already sensing the answer was no.
"Nope." Thought so. I accepted the fact and walked over to my dad’s bedside, pulling up a chair to sit on. They’d cleaned him up, the blood wasn’t there anymore. Neither was his hair, they’d shaved it all to find the wounds. The amount of medicine they were pumping into him must have doubled. I took in his face, the bruises, cuts, and scratches that marred his skin, and the eyes that were closed in an eerie peacefulness. Strangers have commented on the fact that save for our differing hair colours, my father and I were mirror images. Looking at the weakness my father conveyed, I wished he still looked like me. I could tell that the wounds would create scarring that would never heal. I took a deep breath.
"Hey, dad," I began, not entirely sure what to say, "It’s me. Shawn." Nothing happened. I looked back, and Steignal was still watching me, almost smirking. Inwardly cursing him, I turned back, my mind blank.
"Hurry it up kid, you haven’t got all day," Steignal mentioned in a voice too loud given the atmosphere. I clenched my fists, my tendency to overreact under pressure beginning to surface.
Suddenly, "Dari," I whispered, hoping to get a rise out of him. I could see his eyes move briefly under the lids. Perfect. "Who is Dari?" He tried to say something, but couldn’t quite make the sound. His fingers twitched, moving only the slightest of distances, as if I was trying to gesture when speaking. I focused on his lips, trying to make out the words he was attempting to say. I hadn’t yet completed the alternate communication module in school, but I could make out what seemed to be a two syllable word that might have started with a C. I assumed he meant carving.
I blathered on for a while longer, trying to ignore R.M. and his self-righteous smirking, relishing the time I could spend with my father. Finally, I was kicked out of the room, much to my discord.
I made my way into the room I had slept in last night. I sat down, and turned things over in my head. I hadn’t made any headway with my dad, although I did know he had some kind of reaction to Dari, who was a human, a fairy, or an alien. I took both the scratchpads and the pen from my pocket and wrote down random thoughts and questions as they entered my mind. They were written down on the paper, one thought for each page. After a mere thirty minutes had passed, the combined 160 pages of the notepads had been used up. My head was still crammed with unanswered queries, but I decided against going back to the gift shop. That would mean passing the girl at the main desk and perhaps finding my mom and sister. I slid from my cot onto the floor, kneeling, and laying the pages on the bed. The thoughts ranged from questions about school to questions about my future athletic ability, from thoughts of death to thoughts of my next meal, and where I would eat it. Many of them were about my father, but the majority of them had no connection to the others. There was one small stream of questions about Dari, but that eventually led nowhere.
I glanced at my watch. 3:30. I wondered about my unfinished essay. I decided to go for a run back to the house, maybe pick up some clean clothes and my Workstation with the essay. It would get me out of the hospital, and maybe some of my stress would evaporate with the sweat. I left my stuff in the room, taking only a small amount of credit to buy a ride back. Jogging out to the parking lot to ensure that my Transport hadn’t been damaged or stolen, and after ensuring my Transport’s safety, I ran off.
I arrived home soaked with sweat, and a Déjà vu attack overcame me. I headed down to my room, where Jackson was sprawled on my bed. He hadn’t been fed yet, and I apologized for this. He tilted his head, which I assumed meant I was forgiven, but never let it happen again. Vulcan was nowhere in sight, but I figured with my luck he was busy and would register my presence when I was blinded by shampoo, or something equally inconvenient. I filled Jackson's dish with food, then I ran upstairs and turned the shower on full. In the process, I knocked bottles of moisturizing shampoo (Guaranteed to give your hair TWICE as much volume!), fortifying conditioner, and chamomile-jasmine scented body-wash as if they were oversize dominoes. Girls, I thought grimly, and their millions of beauty products. I stripped down and stepped into the shower and stood under it for a long time. As the water splashed on my neck and ran down my back and chest, I turned the events as of late over in my head. My dad had been in an explosion at work, obviously near the Finder, which simply finds potential sources of geological danger such as unstable ground, because he was covered in cuts and bruises. He had been put into Wing-Red and had somehow talked through his coma with an alien fairy from who knows where. When I mentioned her name to my comatose father, he attempted to talk to me in an urgent manner. I decided to figure out where she was from, and what her relationship with my dad meant to both of them. I nodded my head and took a step forward to reach for the shampoo, slipping on a bar of soap that had fallen along with the other cleansers.
After shaking my head and wondering why a bar of soap would be needed (there was enough of that liquid stuff already), I washed and rinsed and carefully stepped out of the shower to towel off. I caught a flicker of motion out of the corner of my right eye, and turned to look. It seemed innocent enough to me, probably just my dog.
I toweled off and walked into the hall to go downstairs for clean clothes. Once I had finished dressing, I paused to look around for carving. Given my dad’s ability with wood, there were many carved objects around the house. I let my eyes roam around the walls, all steel, looking for something that didn’t fit, or something that hinted at a different race or planet. I took in the beautiful end tables that my father had created, each resting on a synthetic pad in order to not destroy the glossy finish of the floor, and the old hand-knotted rug that rested in the middle of the room. My father had always liked the rug, but recently my mother had discussed purchasing a new floor, and for some reason my father strongly disagreed, as it would mean moving or getting rid of the carpet--
Carpet, I thought suddenly. With a burst of energy, I rolled the carpet up and moved it aside, scanning the bared area for something promising. When I stood up to get a different angle at which to contemplate, a burst of noise startled me.
"Welcome home, Shawn Carter," stated Vulcan. "I see you have moved your father, Ryan Carter’s fondest possession. Why is this?"
I wondered how much Vulcan might know about Dari, if he had been told something by my father. I decided to play dumb.
"Oh, I was just looking at the floor by itself, to see how it looks, because my mother wanted an opinion on whether I want new flooring." I tensed during an awkward, stretched silence.
"Your mother, Lilliana Carter, has at this point chosen to replace the flooring with or without approval from other family members, Ryan, Shawn, or Maryk Carter."
"Oh," I croaked. Vulcan’s requirement to identify everybody by name was a little annoying. I needed a ploy to get Vulcan away. As stupid as it sounded, I didn’t want a robot that was too intelligent for its own good watching me snoop.
"Vulcan, I was wondering if you can self-program, um, programs for, ahh, yourself," I said, my sentence losing momentum as it became redundant.
"Yes, I can."
"Oh. Good. Well, I don’t know how much you know of this, but my father is currently in hospital, and we need you to take care of the house for the time period in which we’re away."
"What duties shall I perform?" asked the robot.
I gave Vulcan a large list of jobs to do each day in order to keep him busied so I could find what I was looking for. Vulcan tottered off and I continued my search.
A scratch caught my attention. The bottom of the carpet is soft, and it’s been in this spot since the floor was installed. I dropped to my knees and found the scratch, which looked deep enough to be a crack.
With enough gentle prying, a large chunk of the flooring came out of the rest of the flooring to reveal a small, decaying wooden panel. I gingerly picked the panel away, exposing a medium-sized wooden box. It was very fancy, obviously hand-carved back during the first millennium. There was a brass plate on it, with something engraved on it. It was tarnished, so the message wasn’t totally visible, but I put the cleaning of it on my list of higher priorities. I ran my thumbs over the rest of it. There was a burgundy-coloured vine carved into the edge of the box, and the ends of the vine met at a simple, flat lock. I pulled out a little scanning device. It was my favorite gadget by far. Hold it up to a lock and it’ll scan the inside, flip it around in such a way that you can see the inside of the lock, and inform you of the best pick to use. I picked the lock in about a minute, and gently lifted the lid. Nothing important, I thought, a bunch of papers, probably birth certificates and insurance forms.
Then I wondered, but why would anyone keep that stuff under a decaying panel of wood in a simple box?
Wait... insurance forms don’t state, "The question is not whether other intelligent life exists outside our realm, but rather are we the intelligent life forms we so desire to find? After all, we are like no other creature on this planet." And birth certificates don’t include the approximate radiation of XG rays from the ex-universe. Space jargon, a little voice warned inside my head. I pulled out a notepad, quite like the ones I had bough at the hospital. It was filled with notes about universal pressure and a folded piece of paper stated the (brief) history of gravity portals. On the cardboard backing of the notepad, a crude map of an airline was drawn. Another slip of paper was a scribbled-on map of a place called Leander. Another document was a behavior contract from a hobby-school about space exploration. Under that was a star chart. Beneath that was a piece of parchment.
Ryan:
I can’t tell you how exciting it is to finally correspond with a human. I’ve applied so many times, and until now, all of my requests were ignored.
I’m Darignault. I’m about 13 handspans tall, I hope you don’t think that 13 means I’m unlucky. Humans are awkward like that.
I own a small training school up here; I train the others the majority of their fighting skills. Currently, Spartana, a neighbouring planet, is waging war against us, so as you might imagine, my services are highly appreciated.
I trust that you will hold true to our code of conduct, that you will not reveal knowledge of my existence, or any knowledge you may have of our planet and its whereabouts. Since we have withheld most information regarding our whereabouts, I will contact you in a physical method at Earth. I will be sending a letter regarding that shortly.
I can’t wait to meet you face-to-face.
Dari
Now, what was that all about?
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'Carter1--Chapter 2':
• Created by:
Sara A. Chow• Copyright: ©Sara A. Chow. All rights reserved!
• Keywords: Box, Carpet, Carter1, Carving, Dari, Discovery, Family, Visit
• Categories: Extrateresstial, Alien Life Forms, Techno, Cyber, Technological
• Views: 331
More by 'Sara A. Chow':
| Carter 1--Chapter 3 | Storyteller |
| Carter 1--Chapter 4 | Carter1--Chapter 1 |
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