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They stood over the plain troks below them from the narrow grated service ledge protruding to west from under the cylindrical rails of telldron track; Kwatsura held his balance standing with spine angled back towards the tracks and clenched calves pressing against the rails.
If someone punched me now, I’d follow the force back, catch my heels on the western rail and the east one with my wrist, pull myself up and pinch the eastern rail between my bicep and elbow.
The rusted ladder controls box had rusted hinges and wouldn’t budge even after several tight fisted bashes over its top or lower lip. The Ysemilian traveler was returning now to the car to get a hinge, perhaps, leaving Kwatsura with one of the Rsolan men who had neglected his advice before the crash.
Fecking lil’ sheit, you and your other lil’ Rsolan buddy. Told you the theng was fecked. Never trost Rsolan departure gear - I need to remind myself this. You ship shit out the city, your molded lil’ trinkets of creed and your vehicles.
We do reserve more resources for our Intraurbans; Rsolan lives are after all most important by our belief, but I wouldn’t so pompously doubt the quality even of our lesser wares in comparison to your crude ware and creations in villages and cities of the vulgar continent; all Rsolan property is treated with premium care in comparison even in the least immaculate of such treatments there. What happened now was not by fault of poor bearings, as you so suggested with your feeble attempts at true analysis of the situation, and what happened could not be so easily predicted as the first sign of its occurrence was only when the accident was upon us; and no, you cannot even suggest the “bumps” you spoke of where symptoms leading up to the accident - all bumps and turbulence are normal during any long distance telldron travel between cities on the continent; this first significant bump we encountered was a faulted lip installation in need of repair - and outside limits of Rsolan infrastructure requirements of course; and the second, or the crash, let’s say was a major charge lip misalignment which sent an force outside the force tolerance for the left wheels. It’s really a simple matter of engineering, continent man.
Look, meht, naught really impressed with yer lil’ erudite speech. Just go piss yer meat on someone else. Kinda groggy an’ sheit.
Well, very well. I’m used to illogical continent folk like yourself.
Of course, Kwatsura could elaborate with more logic and detail as to why the Rsolan’s theory was entirely bogus; he spoke in his dialect and avoiding any revelation of his profession to the Rsolan’s to amuse himself with the arrogance they showed to a plain man of the continent. After the accident, Kwatsura considered the possibility of a defect with the charger lip as often happens in longer interurban lines, but then after inspecting the last pass with a set of binoculars, he noted there was nil potential of a lip defect; the seam of the charger lip weld was fresh in place and the warp between connections typical of an orruminae charger lip was well within allowed engineering tolerances. From these details; one could only conclude this was a default of the telldron car itself and not the track installation. A proper post-mortem analysis of the telldron’s carcase would reveal more, when cracking open unscathed wheels and examining the bearings which where rusted frozen to the inside. While he knew these details he didn’t bother wasting energy in describing these to the Rsolans who would only think up yet another irrational counterpoint to his reasoned and substantiated arguments, and it made little difference as the notes would be recorded and transmitted to Kforretc and surrounding libraries and heeded with greater influence than these two average Rsolan men could ever hope to procure.
Move over! Going to hit it. Only less than an hure and four decums to get the bastard off the tracks.
The Ysemilian man had arrived back and held a heavy telldron car support beam in his hand; the beam was nearly the same height as the towering man. He sent the blunt end of the pole smack down across the temple of the ladder box and the door flew off in Kwatsura’s direction, clanking against the track beam and then bouncing back in air towards the west. They watched as the door fluttered down through the turbulence of air in the high atmosphere and then disappeared from sight before falling into the earth far below. The Ysemilian pulled a lever from the box and set it midway; generally enough to support any man falling at an acceptable pace to reach the ground just under two or three decums, depending on his weight. As agreed, Kwatsura would go down first to collect the ends of rope; then the other passengers would follow behind leaving just the sullen Rsolan man and the Ysmilian to clean up the bits after the car had been dislodged and pulled from the tracks; after the car was pulled they would have one decum at most to run down the service ledge and escape on the roped ladder before the next telldron came whirring by. Kwatsura stretched his torso down clasping the telldron rail with two hands and then, dangling there, pulled the tip of the ladder towards his body when he released one hand to pivot his core using the gravity and then grab the top of the ladder. He released his right hand now from the rail and clutched the top of the ladder with both hands; his body swung now to the east and under the tracks. He hung there for a minute a human pendulum swinging east, then west, east, then west …
Ready fellow? The Ysemilian asked in gruff voice, preparing to pull the lever towards his belly.
Ready.
Kwatsura fell down in a sharp jolt after the lever detatched itself from an outer gear supporting the ladder and then began his steady journey. He heard the humming and continuing squeak of a pulley to the south of his downward launch and observed the thin rope sliding up; at the bottom of the rope an emergency counterweight (in the event of a gear failing) was being lifted from the desert floor as he descended. The weight was a net of rocks and appeared an tiny black spec from where he fell. The fall was a small journey in itself; as he fell the sound of the squeaking pulley grew fainter and fainter and then disappeared altogether, replaced by the faint, almost invisible sound of the small wind stirring the plains below or occasionally funneling into the cave of an ear. He accelerated and now the only sound was his body falling to the earth below; he used the sound of the relative wind pressing up against his body to determine his velocity influenced both by gravity and the line of rope now stretching a half trok west of the track by dent of the westward winds pushing him; and then based on his calculation of his current velocity he prepared himself to take a jump, tumble and roll across the ground to absorb the impact of the swift landing; much like an emergency hang glider landing, but without a wind sail around his back. Kwatsura had not miscalculated his weight for the ladder control settings, but rather lied to the Ysemilian with a lower body weight in order to speed up the fall and save time for pulling the telldron down - the most urgent matter at hand. At the beginning of the fall, the earth hurling towards him was so distant as to appear motionless - its form a haze of color patches and spots of green and yellow, foliage and rock scattered across the plain but indiscernible as such. Now the once flat blur of landscape came into form, revealing it’s dimensions of low rolling dirt hills and trees casting shadows across limestone boulders towering over the earth.
Feck, coming in fast. Ready to jump.
His body came down at angle from the momentum gained by the lateral winds and so just fifteen feet above the earth he jumped off the rope into a clear spot of land and rolled up a large plume of dust hovering and then dispersing with a sheet of wind pulling it up into the atmosphere into tiny clouds fading as they traveled away. His face and clothes were now covered in an even, thin layer of fine brown earth. He picked himself up and rubbed the dirt from his brow to prevent stinging his eyes with beads of sweat rolling down from under his cap and picking up blots of dust and pollen.
Now the tedious business. Finding the end of those feckin’ ropes.
Kwatsura pulled his binoculars to his eyes and looked up and eastwards, focusing on the telldron’s corpse and the ends of rope tied across the base of it’s right hip; he following the veins of rope dancing in the wind down half a trok where they began dispersing and tried to calculate the one with the closest trajectory to the earth. It was guess work based on summing the locations of rope over time changing with the pulsation of wind. The ropes were anchored with weights to prevent them from dragging too far across the earth with the wind; nonetheless, the trek to gather them would generally be at least three treks in total, a half hure’s walk or more.
Fecking wind. Let’s see. The middle rope probably to the west and further north. Only two of the seven appear to be south, so might as well head in that direction.
Kwatsura threw down a smoke signal bomb which erupted a bright orange cloud moving to the west and then headed northwest; within seconds the ladder jolted up, reeling back now as the men above noticed the signal and released a large counterweight to pull the ladder back into a massive skein at the top; and then two decums later the the line was two troks behind him, though many troks above. Kwatsura heard the netted counterweight crash below, though didn’t look back to see the screen of dust it produced. Five decums later he had gathered the last end of rope about two troks south of the crash point. All of the passengers, excepting the Ysemilian and the Rsolan who stayed above to clear the last bits of wreckage, were now below gathered in a small cluster and looking about aimlessly or staring up above to the almost invisible line produced by the telldron tracks cutting through the dusty blue pool of sky and rays of sun cutting through the air from the east. Kwatsura shouted to catch their attention: To your south, time to pull!
The crowd deliberated for a moment, and then four women and two men walked in his direction. Kwatsura also walked north to speed up the process and meet them halfway in just two minutes.
Okay, so I’ll distribute these by color. We’ll talk north a few troks until we’re in line with the telldron and then spread out in sequence until we’re each about a quarter trok apart each before pulling. Let’s hurry now, next telldron will be coming soon.
The group of seven then walked at a fast pace towards the north passing some of the passengers who were sitting down on the earth now or pulling goods out of their rucksacks and scattering blankets, lamps, food and other ware to last them the two duns they’d likely have to wait until the repair and rescue men from the south who had received Kwatsura’s transmissions would arrive. In a decum, Kwatsura and the others carrying an end of rope arrived in line with the wrecked corpse above.
Okay, I’ll move to the south. You. Follow me and stay a quarter trok behind. And you behind him and the same - keep a quarter trok from him. And you behind him, same. You, middle. Other three, opposite directions from us to the north and keep the same distance from each other until you last man is a quarter trok behind the other. I’ll shout when we’ve completed the span.
Most were familiar with the drill, making impatient nods as Kwatsura spoke and pointedLet’s move!They dispersed now with Kwatsura taking the lead to the south and in just less than a decum he stopped and shouted. Halt!
He waited for each person top stop, looking down the line.
On my count, we turn to the west and run, don’t drop your line! And pull with all your might when it gets taut! Three! Two! One!
They began running for nearly half a decum, a few troks to the west now; all of the lines became taught; they grunted as they heaved their end of the rope, trying to pry the telldron from the tracks. The men above noticed the increasing tautness and gave the car a shove from it’s left side. Then, within two minutes the car’s belly was dislodged from the tracks and tipped fully over to the west, hurling towards the earth. The air roared as it fell and the earth shook violently as it plummeted down with an explosion of dirt and branches from a small tree that collapsed from the fall.
Kwatsura looked up to the tracks with his binoculars to observe the two men now clearing the remaining pieces: a few wheels cracked into chunks and a support beam that had been dislodged from the impact. He looked to the north and zoomed in several treks to see the hull of an approaching telldron, then south back to the two men anove; one man was stooped down and holding the rail, checking for vibrations; he leaped up waving his arms and apparently shouting at the other (though Kwatsura of course couldn’t hear them from so far to be sure). They ran south along the narrow service ledge, pulled themselves down on the rope ladder one after the other and released the lever. Kwatsura followed them down with his eyes for a few seconds and then moved the lenses back up to see the car fly by in a blur of light.
Light was barely awakening over the horizon as the telldron slid down over the plains through the dull of the night’s ending. Kwatsura leaned against the car’s dorsal rail gazing towards a small white grain of light being crushed under the dark sky and the exhausts and dust smoldering the lower atmosphere of the continent.
Beginning interim transmissions. Only a few hures ago there was Rsola, a massive shell swallowing my existence and now only a grain of sand melting out of view. The telldron build out took three decums. Naught Behd, neh. Islrinea saw me at the depature on South Edge. Me arms a legs are exhausted from the ladder pulley system, South Edge was yet another massive high tower, particularly apt for the long telldron ride. Didn’t take any notes from there, third time seeing that departure … nothing had happened. She’ll be applying for the egress visa; and if all goes smoothly I’ll be meeting her in the next cities and negotiating with some grundas her access to Fgord library transmissions as well. Didn’t see Gsorn again. Nor the chiefs. Spent the last few days eating, talking. No rote. Nothing noteworthy of transmission, neh. Ride is a bit peculiar, failing sparking orruminae installments passing down over the first south west hip, then again with the third hip after. Car seemed to be leaning more to the east than normal, perhaps some bearings were in need of replacement. Damned egresss lines can have sheit part… Fecki-
«cszhhhhhhhhhhh-cszhhhhhhhhhh-shhhhh»
The jolt of the car bouncing over a orruminae charger lip knocked Kwatsura crashing onto his back towards the car’s anterior hull; the transmission was interrupted as the ring flew off his finger from the abrupt force. He scrambled to his knees and retrieved the instrument which was glowing dim now under a sleeping passenger’s bench. Fecking sheit. Two Rsolan men stood against the back wall with countenances revealing only a slight hint of concern from the bounce. Kwatsura addressed them in a loud voice emphasizing the direness he considered of the situation and to counter their arrogance:
Turo-hu. Bsalin-alins cul-fsoran. Something’s up with the bearings.
Ksaalll. Rsola-tu, Rsola-tu. Haha, they’re are Rsolan-made pal.
Ksal, Kslau, wu-trols dsin-dsin consolr-hu. Yes, no worries my little continent friend.
Wu-dsan dsan, cul-fsoran-hu! cul-Telldron rislora trel-trel. Fsonasl dsin sentril-hu. Don’t be foolish. Telldron’s been riding rough. Stand in the center!
Dsellll …
Kwatsura almost gave up trying to convince them and stood alone now in the center of the car looking forward across advancing tracks. Oh sheit, fecking massive lip is approaching fast. Feck! Before Kwatsura even thought to grab a brake lever, the lip was upon them and jolting the car with even more ferocity than the one just before. A shower of white sparks covered the view of the open doors and plated windows.
Garsorllllll!
One of the Rsolan men shouted curses, trying to brace his balance as his torso fell forward to the east; the platform of the car sank below their feet as the left wheels busted out from under them sending the belly of the hull scraping across the metal tracks.
Feck! Woken up nows! Fecking things boosted, everyone on the fecking west side of the car or sheits gonna fecking fall off. To death! Feck! Someone! brakes!
Kwatsura spouted out random directives in a maddened fluster, pulled some passengers asleep and even threw some drunk men like sandbags to the west side of the telldron where they crashed into a painful awakening. The Rsolan pair had engaged the brakes and the car came grinding to a halt three thousand feet or so above the Plains and still five longs from the terminal station. The careful application of brakes and shifting of the car’s weight to the west had spared the lot from hurling to their deaths into the soft dirt so many troks below them.
Feck, feck. Neht panicking. Transmitting events to the terminal now.
Kwatsura stood at the ledge atop the mid section of East Edge looking eastward toward a white sand plain baking in the late afternoon sun. Islrinea followed him shortly behind, repelling on the common rope against the slick walls gripping the peak. She jumped down the final four feet alighting on the ledge directly left of her grunda and then spoke with a voice oscillating in volume between deep cycles of breathing:
We’ll repel a tenth of a trok down onto that buttress. Not meant for pedestrians, so we’ll just have to take care in crossing to the connecting high tower. Let’s skip climbing again up that one. Peak has only been surfaced, nothing notable there.
That’s fine by me.
Well, should we continue the trek then?
Not waiting for an answer, Isrlinea lowered her body again with feet pressed against the wall and repelled down onto the edge of the buttress. Kwatsura followed immediately after her.
The overpass only provided only enough room for two feet side by side with knees clasped together. Kwatsura looked down at the bustling metropolis, those below still flecks of dust and the Rsolans higher on the ambulatory hills now tiny white worms needling their way up and down the walkways, in and out mouths pouring into apartments, telldron stations, dinner dins and drinking spots; Kwatsura saw most of the forms moving down towards the east, likely a migration of laborers making their way to the two chronologists current destination. Construction was to be in full swing there in just two duns.
A factory in the north had begun operation since early afternoon and yellow wisps of vapor now floated by, makeshift clouds of emission veiling the city of shell through random intervals.
Kwatsura imagined himself of lesser balance and plummeting off the edge of the long buttress; to fly through a yellow cloud of soap vapor and then gutted through the invisible web of support cables strewn between the towers. He almost felt himself suspended in a melancholy purgatory lasting a half eternity along the narrow stretch of the thin passage floating over the city. Thirty more troks of the ninety. Soon. Neh. Dammit. Don’t think the the dun will land us at the western periphery as I’d hoped.
The visiting chronologist marveled over Isrlinea’s balancing skill and rapid, meticulously executed steps and she prodded forward, often taking the lead by nearly half a trok before Kwatsura would have to prod his tip-toeing pace to gain speed and gradually catch up with her form shrinking in the distance along the straight line of the buttress’s top, glowing now like a slick line of floss in the sun.
In just less than four hures they arrived at the end of the buttress and took a late supper there at the lift point which received its end.
Isrlinea spoke after washing the last bits of a supper of dried fruit with glass of licorice water:
Well, visitor. We have two choices at this point. We can head on in the twilight darkness and try to make it to the western terminal or just lodge here for the night. You decide. If we decide to go on, I can’t imagine not taking a telldron for at least half the way. Which means we’ll have to carry sufficient rocks to that point.
Kwastura continued chewing on the dried fruits and a bowl of toasted purple froslr seeds and then finished his champing with a swig of milk spirited with a mash of liquors, the distillations of pomace burning through the veins lining the inner membranes of his cheeks. He took a deep breath.
I suppose we can lodge. Guess I am a regular bookie, neh? Feck whot eh hike! Toired so much to not b’able e’en spake proper outside meh dialect, neh?
Hah, yes; charming. Good then, I’m not up for a journey through the dark anyhow. It will be better to chronicle tomorrow in broad daylight as well - we should reach the western periphery before mid afternoon, taking some sliding roofs along the way.
Good. So we going to lodge up here against the wall of the ingress or find some hrot down below.
They do have some makeshift hrots at the bottom of the mid section, but I suppose those are filling up rapidly as the laborers arrive. Might as well just sleep up here.
The two then sat for about an hure in silence, legs folded over the ledge of the lift point and looking town into the city shifting colors as the sunlight faded to darkness and orrumniae lamps began bursting into white flame thousands of feet below along the lines of supper lounges and drinking spots now opening for business. Rsola now looked like a mineral-rich rock wet from sea water and scintillating softly in the moonlight.
Kwatsura, I will just be forthright with you now. My intentions are very much now to make you a gropsa mine. Would you oblige? This will help me attain a Rsolan egress visa so I can do some chronicles in Fporta then Fgorn.
Oh sheit! Haha, course that would piss the sheit out of your grand uncle! He’ll think you some nasty slogging tamarin of the city!
I know. And that matters little too me. He has no power over the issuing of egress visas. Seriously, would you make me a tropsa? I can register the tighter grunda relation in Fgord which will allow us to exchange transmissions directly. I can even route some transmissions there to Kforretc using an opsa relation alias, neh?
Shore. Feck, ward getz out would make a small chronologist like mehself fecking legend. Eskrian man cracks open some Rsolan clam. Fecking headline on Kforretc.
The two laughed at this. They carried themselves back near the cauldron pipe ingress to rest against in the wall. The stared out through the ban of open night reveling the massive tower of East edge and the sky now revealing stars and constellations in the firmament, the primordial inkwell of the cosmos. Were it not for the tower obstructing the view, Kwatsura could have imagined them in a cave atop some distant, mountainous wilder. The spot was nearly silent, so many troks about the city’s heart.
She we consecrate it then?
Continent men never fail in such direct vulgarity. Already cut, so sure. But you have to promise to meet me in Urslan over the next few duns. I’ll know that’s you next stop and I’ll heading there before Fporta and need you help making acquaintances with another chronologist I’ll need to make grundas with for my studies.
Shore, naught a problem my lady.
Kwatsura pulled a stick and a small pouch of csoma from his coat pocket. Islrinea leaned now against him, her breasts pressed against his right side and head angled to his neck. She lifted her left hand to light the stick with a ring torch.
Thanks.
Kwatsura inhaled a puff and passed the stick to her. She drew a deep puff of blue red smoke and exhaled the fog, watching the lilliputian cloud flutter lazily to into turbulent eddies of air collecting between the floor and low flat ceiling of the lift point. He slid the アークover his left finger watching the thick lines glowing blue across the radius of his anterior forearm, under the mesh gray shirt (a visitor’s garb he had worn under his coat for the day) and up the side of his neck.
Transmitting rote? Isrlinea spoke in soft mumbles, now half asleep on Kwatsura’s shoulder.
Yes, hopefully a few bits on the East Edge climb.
They continued in silence for three decums as Kwatsura replayed the rote, drained the arc of power and then offed the device to being falling asleep in the thickening starlight. Islrenea was now in a deep slumber, arms clasped about his waist.
Feck, another long trek tomorrow.
(via heavyhearts)
The structure was supported only by translucent metal sheets, clear but warped in twirls as to make Rsola’s sections of relative yonder appear a blurring mass, details obscured by turbulent heat - one might even wrongly guess
Photo credit: seier+seier+seier
I was the last to pull my torso up onto the crown’s surface to bask in the unshaded sunlight glowing from above; now a deep yellow bud of fire.
Clipped Wing (via Helga’s Lobster Stew)
