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 clothing was unusual but the little discomfort he felt from the fabric–it made him sweat, and then made his sweat smell unusual–was never as bad as the noxious mud of the Thames.
Pool expected them to be ill-fitting but the match to his proportions was nearly perfect. Philoctetes could set up as tailor in Londbridge in the 19th and run a respectable business.
The pants were tight-fitting; Pool found them binding, like linen that did not give. The shirt was also uncomfortably close to his skin. Wearing them he found that he felt that he was only wearing winter undergarments that revealed too much of his anatomy for polite company. He looked at the now-rumpled pile that Philoctetes had brought him, searching for some appropriate outer-clothing, but there were none.
Socks and shoes (that looked like a basic version of Nila’s militaristic boots)…and sadly no hat. No coat either..no pen to write with and nothing to write in.
“Philoctetes?” he asked, having forgotten the thing while he dressed–no different than dressing in front of a lamp–but it was different than a lamp.
“Constable Pool?” Philoctetes used his title. interesting.
“I could use something to write on…for notes….It’s something I do.”
“That fact is noted in your dossier,” Philoctetes announced without a change in tone. Modulated voice like someone speaking into a rotating fan.
“My dossier…” that they had a dossier, or a detailed description of him, should not have surprised him. “No matter…something to write on.”
Philoctetes turned abruptly the kitchenette. Pool was startled by the unannounced movement, when he had forgotten the machine was even there a moment ago. He followed with his eyes, without moving, turning his head only slightly.
From the small countertop, Philoctetes picked up something, a small black tube, maybe 15 centimeters long and one in diameter. He–was it a ‘he’–brought it over to Pool.
“This is called a scroll…” he began.
“Yes,” interrupted Pool. “Nila had one in Siberia when we were there.”
“Ah,” Philoctetes uttered. A strange thing for a matter-of-fact mechanical man.
Pool accepted it from him. It was of a hard black plastic with a single slot along the length and a tab for pulling. Unfurled, it was 25, no 30 cm (it kept going–Pool didn’t want to stress it by pulling further).
He had seen Nila use one of these. Pure magic from his primitive perspective. Libraries and maps. Magnification from lenses unseen on the front and back of the cylinder. Pool thought he could see tiny dots, perhaps they were the lenses. They could even amplify extant light in the dead of night.
“And, forgive me how do I write on this?” Pool was sure there was a way, but hadn’t seen Nila do it. He was like one of those primitives asking how the fire-magic works.
“As you are reported to be without subvocalization implants or other augmentation to that effect, I took the liberty of also acquiring this.” Philoctetes held up what looked like a hat pin. three centimeters of matte-black something…something firm when he took it from the outstretched translucent fingers of the machine. “Place it on your body. Obviously near your mouth, and it will transmit your words, even mumbled, as notes to a file.”
Pool asked how and Philoctetes showed him the way to open and close a file, as one would a notebook from a set. He tested it, his hand moving as if to write with the pin as a stylus, tracing the letters and words of his feeble experiment, and was amazed that the device recorded even the faintest expressions as visible text.
“Thank you. It is no substitute for the good old paper and pencil, but thank you just the same.”
Pool considered the tube for a moment and furled it. He wasn’t up on the language used to describe the thing’s uses, but the metaphor worked well enough in his head.
He asked about food, and sleep, and the utilities of everyday life and the pleasantly helpful mechanical man answered his questions.
After a run-through of mundanities, he came to the more important matter. “And when do we leave for the other side of the world?” Singhopolis was truly on the other side, being nearly the opposite longitude. “How shall we travel? I’ve seen the current airships, but I am sadly unfamiliar with their rate of travel, unlike our good old balloons…”
“They travel quite a bit faster than your ‘balloons’, Constable. We shall depart the day after tomorrow. It is best you rest and acclimate to this time period. We shall go out tomorrow after you rest and explore modern Londbridge.”
“When we do leave for Singhapolis, it will not be as direct as possible. Your journey is intended to be unnoticeable and to appear inconsequential. We do not want to draw attention to our maneuvers from their algorhythms, which search the…the vastness…for patterns and connections.”
While Pool was unfamiliar with the terms, especially the ‘algo-rhythms’-he imagined a drumming, some occult shammanism, but knew he was being purile, and was in fact just ignorant.
In essense, though, Pool understood the need for not drawing attention. It would be hard enough to pass as a denizen of this period. Taking the express train to the scene of the crime, so to speak, was not in his interest. He had to agree with his Philoctetes. He didn’t seem to have a choice in the matter.
I could still take off. Blend in with the crowd. and then he reconsidered. And then do what? My only hope is that the Baroness, Baba Yaga with her Hut, find me here. This thinking machine is fascinating beyond belief, but It is no substitute for my friends.
Ion Fyr 