[oom] A Pot of Tea

[dejah_thoris]

This is the part of the project she enjoys the most.  The design phase, where ideas start to take form and the project takes on a certain life of its own.  She has compiled all the research she needs.  She's relatively certain she's aware of all the issues that must be addressed in the final design.  Now it's time to synthesize these ideas and put her pens to paper.  As form follows function, and evolution has handled refining the design, all she needs to do is adapt the technology to the original biological schematics.  Layers upon layers, she builds up the image, from structure to power, sensors to servos.  She can't help but put her own aesthetic into the work, and in sketching, she decides that she'll have to fabricate several of the parts by hand.

Woola found his way back and was snoozing in front of the fire.  She'd been up since the wee hours of the morning.  The rats had brought her morning meal without her even having to ask.  Now, she sat at her drawing board, her long hair pinned back from her face, speared through with a quill.  At her elbow, a growing stack of dirty tea cups that would have to be addressed sooner or later.

But not right now.  She wanted to get the last few pieces of the external forearm onto the vellum, just as she'd imagined it.

Comments

[dejah_thoris]

"You met him. At the end."

She remembered meeting Matai Chang's bewildered gaze. How long ago and yet, it seemed like yesterday.

[2goodarms]

Curtis nods.

"That's when he told me everything."

[dejah_thoris]

She sits back again, closes the tea pot, and lays the strainer over her cup (she picked the black one). A moment later, she fills his. No sweetener. No milk. Simple.

"Can you tell me?"

[2goodarms]

It doesn't look like he will, at first. Curtis threads his fingers through the mug handle, brushing them against the hot ceramic.



"There was this guy in the tail," he says at last. "I don't know how old he was, but...pretty old. Eighties, maybe. He was sort of..."

How the hell can he describe Gilliam? It's like when she asked him to explain what Curtis meant when he said, he's Edgar.

"He should've been the leader. Not me. I always thought that."

[dejah_thoris]

Which means they made you their leader. For a reason.

The whole conversation takes on a measured, almost reverent pace. Each thought given the air and weight it deserves, each utterance spoken quietly, in respect for those who have fallen. Those who were felled.

"And why is that?"

[2goodarms]

He shakes his head, unable to explain.

(Unwilling.)

"He meant a lot to us," is all he says.

[dejah_thoris]

He lead the heart, if not the head. Dejah nods. Her hands fold around the mug and she takes a moment to study the reflections in the tea.

"And what did he mean to Wilford?"

[2goodarms]

"They were working together."

A knot forms in his throat, swelling to the point of pain. Curtis takes a swallow of tea and tries to force the lump away.

"The whole time. Wilford knew we were coming."

[dejah_thoris]

Dejah's eyes close and she turns her head, a memory washing over her. Familiar faces that melted into a spidery blue matrix of light, revealing the monsters beneath.

They were here all along. They walked among us, in the holy places. We looked to them for guidance. And they almost lead us to our own destruction.

"He sent you to your deaths."

[2goodarms]

"Not all of us." Bitterness leaches into his voice. "Seventy-four percent. That was the number. Because you've got to maintain balance in a closed fucking ecosystem."

He still can't reconcile it. Still doesn't want to believe it. Gilliam saved their goddamn lives. How the fuck could he look Curtis in the eye and plot a revolution, knowing -- not predicting, but knowing -- they'd be slaughtered?

[dejah_thoris]

Dejah clenches her eyes shut, covers them with one hand, and then rests her brow on her palm.

"Blessed Mother..." To play a god over men. "He was culling his herd?" She sets her mug down and cradles her head in both her hands. "Curtis, please tell me you killed him."

[2goodarms]

"He was two feet away from us when the bomb went off." Low. "I'd better fucking hope he's dead."

[dejah_thoris]

It's the only thing she can hold onto out of the whole desperate tale. The tyrant is dead. She doesn't look up, doesn't uncurl.

"And the train..."

[2goodarms]

He looks down into his mug.

"Pretty sure that's gone, too."

There's no fucking way the engine could've survived the blast. Not if it was already cracking at its seams.

[dejah_thoris]

She lets out a short, sharp sigh. And you're here with me now.

Dejah drags her hands through her hair, and stands, moving with a purpose. She steps to her workbench, grabs the top sheet of parchment and brings it back, coming to sit beside him.

She pushes the tea tray out of the way, weights down the curling edge with her own mug.

"First pass."

Give her a moment and the rage and sickness will pass. The odd relief and the wash of guilt.

[2goodarms]

She feels so much. God, it must be exhausting, to have that fire burning in you all the time. Even Curtis' anger and hatred rarely burned that bright; it mostly stayed as a low-level constant, banked in his chest to keep him warm.

It's nice, though. Soaking up that fire she radiates.

Curtis sets his mug aside, leaning closer to study the parchment. "That's all the actual mechanics?"

[dejah_thoris]

She points with one elegant fingertip.

"Power. Core, the uhh...." she taps the parchment a few times, "the learning part of the calculating engine. These two struts mimic the bones in your forearm, and this is the joint. Muscles. And these are the outer plates. They'll float over the muscles, and shift accordingly."

She takes a breath and swallows. "And this is the connection point. Ninth Ray isolates will connect directly with your nervous system. Attachment will hurt for a little while but hopefully, hopefully your body will adapt. Once it's attached, there should be no pain at all."

[2goodarms]

Curtis absorbs that in silence for a beat.

All right. Pain's not a big deal, especially if it disappears once the limb's attached. And if the payoff is something that'll interface with his nerves the same way his real arm did...

"Ninth Ray, that's what the blue thing was when you were taking measurements, right?"

[dejah_thoris]

"Yes and no. It's the -- energy form that powers the isolates. It's the bright blue light you saw. The isolates are -- think of them as tiny machines. They act as a matrix through which the Ninth Ray moves in response to your mind's instruction. I could explain in more depth, but I guarantee your eyes will glaze over before I even get to the good parts." She gives him a crooked smirk.

[2goodarms]

He mirrors it, no less lopsided. "Yeah, that shit's a little outside my expertise," he admits.

Like Earth was a little cold.

[dejah_thoris]

"It's outside most people's expertise. I am the only person I know of on Barsoom who has spent so long studying it."

She gives him a long blink, and looks down at the parchment again, the smile shifting towards shy.

"I want to hand fabricate most of these outer parts. It will lend a more organic feel to the limb, while still letting it look artificial."

[2goodarms]

Curtis nods as he follows her gaze. "How long do you think that'll take?"

He's not in a rush; he's just curious about the process.

[dejah_thoris]

"I'm hoping to have the first iteration done -- say two weeks?"

[2goodarms]

Wow. His eyebrows lift again, in clear surprise, as he gives the schematics another once-over.

Maybe a week's longer on Mars than it is on Earth. Who knows. But still, he was expecting to hear something like two months.

"I'd ask if you need help with anything," he says, a bit wryly, "but..."

As previously stated, this isn't his wheelhouse.

[dejah_thoris]

She smiles, her gaze carefully directed down at the schematics.

"I wouldn't mind the company. And I suspect you would enjoy a little forgework. It's hot work, but gratifying."