Disclaimer: this is a work of fiction. It is a draft; there are mistakes, many misspellings and sometimes long periods of no updates. copyright: ion fyr 2025
The fog and haze of his mind parted for only an instant, the drugged fugue state lifting briefly. I am a Constable of the Metropolitan Londbridge Constabulary on a Special Mission…
The ideas came to him like words said over and over in a distant, past career.
Images of clouds, floating like mountains in the sky, and airships and beautiful, intense and intensely unavailable women, like radiant goddesses. Blue hair…why do these goddess have blue hair?
The creature came closer, looking as if to read his mind. It’s nose was as far from the tank as was Pool’s.
A voice spoke, deep and metallic and very much not from the creature.
“You will be weak upon arrival and lost. The destination is Londbridge and not your era. You will be met and then receive further instructions. You must comply.”
It all sounded rather dire, but Londbridge…What did it mean by not my era?
Nila…one of the blue-haired goddesses. She would help him. Or the other Etelka of the time machine.
Pool struggled to get his dull wits about him. He could feel the narcotic haze leaving him with every breath. There might be some antidote in the breathing gas itself, he considered.
The light beyond the vat-room, coming from the portholes, was stronger and muddier, as if the undersea vessel–what a novel idea–had moved from the clear ocean into the silt-choked waters of an estuary.
As the drugs left his system, Pool became more agitated by the confinement of the tank. Memories became more prevalent and clear. This was not the first time he had been confined to a tank. Damn those enemies, he thought, trying to find a connection between the events in N’Aurelia and his current predicament.
No clue or inspiration presented itself.
The muddy light had increased both its light and muddiness. The mechanical creature had disappeared a while ago; Pool could not recall exactly when, but he had been alone with his thoughts for what seemed like hours.
Somewhere in the distance, within the undersea ship, he could tell the difference between the muffled far-off sounds of the ocean–now river–outside, and the internal workings of the vessel.
The metal grinding and footsteps of the mechanical man were heavy, and set upon metal flooring. There was the repetitive churn of what was probably a drive mechanism, like a propellor as they have on airships. There was the steady two-tone rasp of the breathing apparatus that now irritated his mouth and throat…the hunger of his stomach.
Pool had the urge to vomit, wretched he was. He did not. He also did not grind his teeth, as he also wanted to do, but he clenched his hands into fists.
That was a surprise to him. His bodily control was returning to him.
And just in time.
Ion Fyr 