No Bits Per Second

Having had quite an remarkable childhood, I was of course quite surprised to discover that the people I had thought of as my parents were not in fact parents of any kind. I had had my suspicions, of course, I think any child would have, but the illusion was maintained so carefully that - well, reading back what I've just written, the fact that I believed I was like any other child, that the unusual disconnect with my parents was by no means actually unusual, that is a testament to the artistry with which I was fooled. Literature was the tool with which the oddities of my upbringing were camouflaged. My parents and teachers (who were of course, no more teachers than my parents were parents), ensured that I was well prepared to be introduced to the wonderful world of books, and my isolation ensured that, having been prepared, I was thirsty for every tome upon which I could lay my hands. Viewed from afar, I can see how spoonfed I was - all of the books which I was allowed access s...

Milk-chocolate nail varnish - tap, tap, tap, tap-tap, her fingers drum on the table-top. She is watching the man on the stage, and I am watching her. Perhaps he is looking at me, a never-ending loop. The drumbeat of her finger-tips causes a ripple on the surface of her wine, and lesser ripples in my own glass, so far from the epicentre of the quake. "He's definitely the one on the poster," she says into her phone. The screen lights up the right side of her face, splashing blue and red across her nose, green on her cheek. If the light were better, or her cheek shinier, perhaps I could see the reflection of the other caller. But I know that she is speaking to Ayesha. The nodding is the same, the arch of her shoulder, the curl in her lip, as though her friend were right next to her, and she turning in to hide some confidence from me. "Uh-huh. Uh-huh. No, the red one definitely. Yes, the red one. No, I know that," she continues. All of her fingertips click ont...

The ship, which was at the center of the town, was something of a mystery. Its surface was covered in the fossilised shells of barnacles that had grown on it, proving that at some point it had been in the sea. The barnacles extended up roughly to the level where an engineer might put the plimsoll line, so not only had it been in the sea, but it seemed as though it might have been a working trawler. Similarly, there were scratches in the weathered paintwork that implied the odd rough docking, and the sort of striated patterns of corrosion on the lower hull that the more experienced amongst the townsfolk interpreted as the work of the sea (although perhaps to describe any of the townsfolk of an agricultural town three hundred leagues from the nearest sea as experts in maritime engineering might be considered a bit of a stretch). Opinions were particularly divided about how the ship had got into the center of the town, given the aforementioned distance to the nearest point at which a ship...

Our first view of Opus Dint was from what Bannerman optimistically called the "East Vista", a dingy row of low concrete buildings - shop-fronts with a couple of levels of flats above, most of the shops sporting "CLOSING DOWN SALE" banners tattered and worn from years of abandonment. Along a lengthy canyon of grey walls and boarded-up windows we saw the freakish dark mirrored surfaces of the spires and confections that made up the outer shell of the mansion. "Look at the size of the thing," Caroline said. "What's it made out - I mean, how do they get the - is it all metal?" "It's clad, I think," Bannerman explained. "I mean, I think so. To be honest, we don't often go into that part of the house. The view out isn't as good as the view in, if you see what I mean. Plus it used to be where my father's father's mother lived, all that wing. She was a bit... uh.. formidable. Especially towards children." ...

(continued from Art Pact 36...) "Be quiet!" hissed the Myna. "Be quiet! Be quiet!" "Shush! Shut up!" "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" Not content with mimicry, the bird began to flap against the bars of the cage. Not as well-made as it looked, the cage bars had a little rattle in them, and the impact of the Myna's wings against them sounded to Gunther like some incredibly poorly-tuned bicycle travelling over cobblestones. There was no way, he thought, that the irate shopkeeper could fail to find him now. He weighed his options - carefully, according to him, but I can say with some certainty that up until the last moment he was probably simply panicking. Gunther was never a well-balanced thinker, the whole plan to steal the bird-cage to impress a girl that he had no chance with was testament to that. He tended to approach problems with an off-the-cuff manner which stemmed from a central egotistical confidence in his own intellectual super...

(continued from Art Pact 35...) How it had escaped his attention Gunther was not entirely sure - perhaps the bird had been tucked into the bottom of the cage, where the filigree around the outside was at its most dense and obscuring. Or perhaps the multicoloured background of the shop's window had acted as a sort of reverse camouflage, hiding what was in front of it in a kaleidoscope of random shapes and hues. But now, sat against the plain wooden backdrop provided by a creosoted fence, Gunther could clearly see a medium-sized brown bird, rather drab and unremarkable save for its orange bill and two orange flashes around its eyes. The bird looked back - first with one eye, then with the other. Then it released a piercing shriek, as out of proportion to the size of its body as a whale's call might be coming out of the throat of a mouse. "Shit!" Gunther said, then clapped his hand over his mouth. Now, I'm not sure that he actually did that. It sounds like an em...

A little bit about how Gunther operated can be gleaned from his name - which was not, of course, Gunther. He'd picked up the name in a previous school, and through the marvelous bush telegraph system which transmits all embarrassing information from one set of children to another it had made its way to our classroom (via someone's cousin as the definitive link, I believe). His actual name was Stephen Troy, but the martial possibilities of his name had not been explored by whichever informal committee of namers was in power at St. Martin's Secondary, from where he had transferred. Instead, he had been called Gunther Gut due to some imagined rotundity, and afterwards merely Gunther, partly to reduce criticism from teachers and parents overhearing the name and partly because the entire nickname had by that point become so well understood that the less outwardly offensive part of it stood in for the missing part and formed an equally barbed whole. I certainly never spoke his n...

The company stalked through the ruins, every eye among them searching the jagged outlines of the fallen palace. Commander Falcris, in the head of the column, felt the psychic pressure of the troops behind urging him on, wanting to run through the remains of the building and away into the unknown plains on the other side. The impetus was so strong that he let his sword slide a hand's width out of its scabbard so that he could grasp the blade directly, focusing on the unpleasant sharpness of the steel to keep his mind strong. He deliberately began to step more slowly, braking the others. He considered calling for help, but the sky-box had been pulsing red since mid-day, the sign the machine gave when it was hungry. Davin, his third in command, had all of the machine-water, and his lance were all the way at the back of the group. Falcris did not want to leave his position to Lieutenant Lemma. The troops would be sprinting out of the ruins before he'd got halfway back to the carri...

Robert had always been corralled in the area of Mrs. Kenley's brain that was reserved for harmless lunatics, but with his the current activity had finally jumped over the boundary fence and scampered off into the much larger open area in which she stored the names and details of those she considered dangerous nutters. His need to prove that his obsession was not an obsession, but merely a wise precaution taken in the face of stark reality, had become so overwhelming that he had done something unforgivable in her eyes - he had endangered a child. The child, of course, was Robert's son, for whom Mrs. Kenley had no particular love. Indeed, among children Daniel Priest had the (undoubtedly dubious) distinction of being perhaps the one whom she loved least. It was difficult, big-hearted as she was, to suggest that Mrs. Kenley might actively dislike anyone, let alone a child, but in contrast to her normal attitude of universal benevolence her lukewarm attitude towards Daniel could a...

We've got to run now, we know that. We have to go, but we keep staying because there's no incentive right now, right now this second to get up, get out of the cupboard, and get running. When we came in here we knew that it was for a short time only, that there was really no reason even for us to be here, but the fact is that the cupboard was there, the cupboard was a payoff that we got immediately at a cost that we'd only have to pay in the future. We knew at the time that the future us-es would be here sooner than we knew, but we hid in the cupboard anyway. Now the future us-es are here. They're coming at us at a rate of knots, but no matter how fast they come, they can't dislodge us until they get here. So we sit in the cupboard and we fiddle with things, putting off moving by excusing ourselves to take care of "vital" tasks. The tasks are so vital, we tell ourselves, that we literally cannot set foot outside the cupboard until they're complete. For...

Naturally, in response to this slight I took the perfectly reasonable position that, as the first person on board the vessel, I was by primogeniture (to stretch an analogy) the obvious inheritor of the mantle of command. Had I stepped foot upon it seconds after he, I told the drudge, I should cede the position to him, assuming the rank of second-in-command, or lieutenant, or sub-altern, or some other undistinguished post which the vagaries of fate and the keenness of his stride might have laid upon my shoulders. However, as it was the simple nature of my having been first to lay boot-leather upon the deck of the conveyance rendered me the captain and he my inferior in this way (as well as - although I did not say this at the time, wishing to spare at least some of the feelings of the poor wretch - in all the other ways in which nature and the almighty had made him my inferior). "Now see here," he spluttered, failing to remove his hand from the steering stick. ...

In the falling light of the moon, the landscape suddenly lit up with a silver sheen. Like the ghost of countryside, there were no colours, just shades of grey that shimmered and flickered as fickle wisps of cloud leapt into the lunar rays. The sky was a dark blue, like the depths of the sea, speckled with twinkling plankton. Trees were seen but not heard, masses that rustled as they steered the winds, so that the feel of the night weather was unpredictable on their muzzles. The smaller ones clustered under the legs of their elders, and they pack progressed across their territory in fits and starts, pulling each other this way and that with their short barks. The two alphas at the head of the group stayed silent, showing up only as moving blackness limned by white lines. They were the most cautious of all, moving in such a way that only one of them was exposed at any time. First the larger one, her thick coat almost hiding her shape, darting from tree-trunk to tree-trunk, then the small...

Aloysius Nektar examined his clipboard carefully and made a small note in the box at the bottom of the form. When he had finished the addendum: NO DISCERNABLE CHARISMA, he firmly clicked the top of the pen, then tapped it twice against his lips. "This is the correct room, isn't it?" Dorne asked him. "I mean, I followed the arrows. I'm going to be recompensed for my travel time, aren't I? It cost me a lot to get here. The cost of petrol these days - I blame the Russians." "Our secretary will take care of those details, Mister Dorne," said Nektar. "Now then, on your CV it says that you have extensive experience with dogs." "It does? I mean, it does! I do!" said Dorne. "I've worked with dogs for five years." He stared up at the ceiling, pursing his lips. "I love dogs, and they love me." "It's not really necessary to love dogs," said Renata, the first time she had spoken since she sat down n...

"And you think that's a good idea, do you?" "I don't know," I said. "I suppose so." "But what will the - your neighbours think?" I shrugged. "What do I care? There's no law against it." I frowned. "There's no law against it, is there?" "There's no law against it." She confirmed. "It's just... well, I suppose there's no law against it. You're going to go ahead then? You don't want to wait for her?" "What's she going to say? No, she burnt her bridges." "Fine. Fine." She peered over the blueprints again, tracing the outline of the work with her finger. When she reached the north-east edge, the most complicated part of the structure, the finger lingered, rolling around in quizzical little circles. "What about this bit? Isn't it a bit..." "A bit what?" "A bit.. baroque? Rococo? I'm not sure what I mean...

A drumroll for the performer, and then he is on stage. Not what the audience expected, of course. He shuffles on, bathed in the bright blue light of a follow spot that tracks him from ahead, causing his already pained expression to be contorted further by a squint that creases up his face into a thousand black valleys. His back is bent, his trousers tatty, his coat is poorly patched at the back, threadbare on the left elbow, open in a ragged wound on the right. After the effusive volume of the drums the theatre is hushed - all breath bated, the only noise the shuffling of the two shoes as they are dragged across the polished wood of the stage. He stops, turns. The audience can see that his right eye is swollen. Livid, unthinkably grotesque, it weeps a fluid that is only visible as a shining reflection of the harsh spotlight. He looks around, although blinded by the blue halo that marks him out, peering desperately into the dark masses in their plush chairs. As his unseeing gaze sweeps ...

Outside the bus, neon smears of blue and red glided past, bumped into wiggly waveforms by the terrible state of the road. I let my head rest against the window, which leapt away from it every few seconds so that it could jump back and slam into my forehead. After a few minutes the constant banging started to give me a headache, so I turned to look around the inside of the cab. Directly ahead of me, spilling out over the edge of his chair, was a middle-aged man in a grey cagoule who had taken up the traditional posture of the tall bus-bound man, knees splayed so that he could fit in without having to stand up or snap his legs in half. He scratched behind his right ear, then his left, then again behind his right. To my left, in the seat beside me, the middle-aged woman made her way laboriously down the page of her book. By my calculation she had re-read the same paragraph five times, which must have been a terrible burden on Ignatius J. Reilly, since it was the fifth time that he fa...

I was sitting in the conservatory, staring out at the foggy patches of grey-blue through the plastic roof, when my father rang. "I'm still having trouble with the Dyson." "Hello Dad." I said for the benefit of the cameras. "It keeps pushing out this kind of sludge," he continued. "I've got the notes you left here last time, and before you ask I've read the manual again." He hadn't read the manual again, I knew this. Particularly because he kept calling it the Dyson. They didn't have a Dyson, that was the food generator in my old flat. They had a Philips KT20, which was the model with the simplest user interface that I could find. "Hello Phil," I said archly, "I hope you're well, I was sorry to hear about you and Sarah." "Yes yes," he said testily. "You've made your point." "Fine, just - would it kill you to start off with some small-talk? Ease into things before you ask me t...

In our defence, we had been at the festival for seven hours, marshalling the dervishes and E-heads non-stop as the ring parade orbited the town centre. We were dead on our feet, flicking up our legs with every five or six steps in obeisance to some muscle spasm or cramp, all dreaming of soft fabric sofas and beds, but too hungry to sleep. So we sat back and let Alun do all the cooking, which meant that we got South Mars cuisine whether we liked it or not. I sat in the kitchen, slumped on the chair in the bay with my head pillowed in my arms while Victory lay across the two chairs on the open side of the breakfast bar, her long red hair spilling onto the floor at one end, a worn flip-flop dangling precariously from a single painted toe at the other. Alun bustled around us, using the table as a staging point for his various pots and pans so that every few minutes I would feel a clunk of something heavy hitting the surface I was resting on, and I would wearily raise my head to see what ha...

They'd been cycling downhill for about three or four hours, occasionally braking onto the slow lane in order to rest their hands. The old steel bikes worked without modification with the ship's mag-field generator, but the stiff flat handlebars wreaked havoc with their arms, and every half an hour it was necessary to release one hand or the other and shake out the numbness. The slow lane was also slightly warmer, and Karen took the opportunity to heat up her fingers by tucking each hand in turn between her pressed together knees as she freewheeled. When they pulled into the slow lane after the forward generator spires, she braked a little and swerved to let Joe slot in beside her. "How much further?" "Not sure," he said, "not much further, but... well, we're over half-way I suppose." He crouched down to try to reach into the under-saddle pack, but the reach was too awkward and he wobbled right, causing Karen to veer away from him, briefly clipp...

We moved into the corridor. Further away, safer, although I wanted to rush back to the kitchen door, throw the bolt. I glanced into the living room, then up the stair. Clear. Should we go up, or was there a risk we'd get trapped up there? It's only the first floor. I told myself, you'd be able to jump . "So anyway," Marsha continued, "I've been going to this club for - I don't know, six or seven months? I suppose they know me there, or well most people do, all the other regulars. You know, it's strange, because you never get introduced to anyone, but you sort of overhear names at a tangent, odd isn't it? So if no-one else knows the name of someone you never hear it either, and when you've met someone three or four times and had conversations with them suddenly it becomes very awkward to admit that, 'hello, yes, we know each other but I was just wondering what exactly is your name?'" I decided on the living room - more connect...