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A Time Machine
part 1
by Feech
with thanks to Channing and to Jason Lehrer
It has happened again.
That it has happened before, and that there
is an "it" at all come as sorts of bland surprises
into what feels like an utterly new mind. But I
couldn't tell the difference between "old" and
"new" if I had not experienced both, one way or
another, now could I?
I am cold. Rather, it is not myself that is
cold, but the air and the surfaces around. Huge
and cold, I small and warm among the hard colds
and moving colds of some kind of street and some
kind of wind.
It has happened again. I remember this form.
Nothing else seems to have come in between, but it
was weeks ago, if I know anything about weather,
for this is cold, cold, cold. My body shivers
under its down coating. I pull up a foot into my
chest, but then all I can concentrate on is the
sting of the chill beneath the other foot, the one
supporting me.
I must find a place in which to get warm, or
I have no hope of remembering what I am doing
here. Is this what I am? For now, it is. What
it means the rest of the time, I do not know. I
am not certain whether I experience repetitive
changings spanning many shapes and species, but I
don't think I'm remembering anything but this.
And it wasn't so cold last time. So _cold_.
The air is as dim as it is menacing around
me; there are no stars and the down on my head is
whipped up away from my thin skin. I blink up at
towering poles, but only upon one is there any
kind of light shining. It doesn't do much to
illuminate the sidestreet upon which I stand,
shivering on one leg. Out in the main street I am
sure there are lamps, but they don't guide me out.
Besides, out there is as cold as here. I was
walking. I was walking, and not so cold. Perhaps
I very much needed the fresh air, and somehow was
not so fragile a moment ago as I feel now.
I glance around behind my soft body, that is
shivering harder, and see a dark pile of something
dull and something shiny. A lined jacket. No-- a
coat. A real winter coat. It has no one inside,
that I can see.
I put my foot down and patter towards the
coat, but I can't take very long strides and my
heels are scraped and chilled by the road's
surface. I dive into the coat, burrowing down
into a sleeve, but I can't control my shivering.
I try to pull more material around me as my down
fluffs out in an attempt to put some warm air
between me and the outside. My bill is chattering
like-- like teeth, though, and it's hard to do
anything but sink into the lining of the clothes
and hope fervently to warm up soon.
The night is dark, but I wouldn't know
whether I started out into it in the early
evening, the day, or even the morning. It's hard
to say, although more of my memories are coming
back to me. I must have gone walking, and this is
my coat. It must not be too long since I shifted
or I would have frozen out there. I don't recall
what kind of human I am exactly when I wear this
coat, but I know I am one. Yes, this is a
repeated experience. But I don't know what to do
now. And any other memories are being sapped out
of my awareness by the fleeing warmth my blood is
trying to build up. I can't think straight; I can
only think about growing cold, and hating growing
cold. The coat is not enough and I don't have
much energy to be doing anything else about it.
It occurs to me that I am hungry, and I know
I'm meant to eat often. How long since I ate
anything? I don't recall...
The light that does get in to my eyes through
the cracks and folds in the coat-sleeve flickers
and disappears and comes back impossibly bright,
then dims again. It doesn't seem right. I wonder
why I would have been out in the air, on the
street, so fragile, _knowing_ I was fragile,
without anyone who would come to look for me if
this happened. Something about it makes sense,
but I don't know what it is. I must be forgetting
something. I must be forgetting...
Suddenly everything goes black, as if I am
inside an eye whose lid has closed. I blink, and
force my own eyes to open as wide as they can, but
the blackness is real. The wind seeping in
through the coat and my down has stopped as
suddenly as the blackness has ascended.
It has ascended, up from something, enclosing
me and my shelter completely. I feel that I can
begin to grow warm, and eagerly my heart cycles
the warming blood; all of my extremities sting.
"You look cold," says a voice.
It must be a voice, I decide, for words are
its result, but it is like no voice I have ever
experienced. It doesn't seem a likely sound for a
vodor, and I don't know of any creatures that
sound like it. It is deep, and almost jovial, as
if there's no matter to my being cold, since it's
sure of the substance that surrounds it and its
ability to warm me.
I open my bill, but only a half-raspy "peep"
comes out of it; I don't know what else I was
expecting anyway. I move my head in the darkness,
but nothing feels different except that the space
around me is becoming comfortable with my own
radiated heat.
The voice rumbles around me again, seeming to
chuckle warmly despite its own dry, huge sound.
"Shh, no need. Just get warm and you can worry
about the rest later. Someone will get you some food."
I become acutely aware of the pain in my
tight crop and stomach and wait to see what will
come of this mysterious offer.
A space seems to open up as if the pocket I
occupy has been opened a slit, but I don't feel
any colder. A voice, a nasal, feminine, almost
human voice says, "What is it?"
"A duck."
Light shines on me, and wide hazel eyes with
cats' pupils look in upon me. I let out a peep
again, but the cat 'morph pays no direct
attention. I don't suppose a "peep" means much
anyway. "A little duck," she remarks, drawing
back as the blackness ascends again. "Any ID?"
"No." That was the rumbling, surrounding
voice. The whole thing seems surreal.
"Well, where are we going to get some baby
duck food? Where can we get food for a duckling
at this time of night?"
"I can get some," a muffled male voice comes
from somewhere. I blink drowsily and feel the
hunger tightening. If these people are real,
whoever they are, I hope they can get something
edible for me. I appreciate it in advance.
There is some more muffled conversation, but
I am enclosed in my black pocket of reality.
Once, I remember that I was freezing out on the
street, but this doesn't feel like some
hallucination before or during unconsciousness.
But then, how would I know? I shudder my bill
into some of my down, as if grooming, but really
it's just because I don't know what else to do.
It seems to all be out of my hands.
The blackness continues and time goes on. I
doze, fitfully. Then, the slit opens into some
other place again, where the cat 'morph is. She
holds something folded in a napkin, offered into
my space in a hand lit by what seems to be some
indoor light.
"Here, I don't know who you are, but don't
worry, we'll hope for the best. It ought to be
warmer in the morning. Eat this, if you can."
I press the folds of the napkin aside, and do
find duck feed inside. It's the formula kind,
although I don't recall having eaten it before; I
seem to be remembering things in pieces. Someone
could get to a place where ducks were fed and
gather up a little feed. I shake out my wings and
neck and eat rapidly, which appears to please the
staring cat-face that watches me raptly.
"Shh, now let it sleep."
"But what about--"
"We couldn't leave it there, now could we?
Sometimes you just gotta."
"I know."
"Sleep, whoever you are, and then in the
morning just go on from there."
It sounds like good advice, so I do.
Morning is chilly. I huddle closer into the
folds of my coat, yet the air manages to reach me.
It feels chilly in my nostrils, but nothing like
the ache of last night.
A night has passed, or it would not be
morning. Last night. Yes. Only now, the sun is
out, so my blacker-than-night pocket has opened
and left me here in the road where I first became
aware.
What was it? It seems like a dream, or a
very comforting nightmare, but I see no cat
'morphs nor, indeed, anything in the vicinity but
some of the fringe university buildings and the
side road I went down last night. I was walking.
I needed the air.
I recall, now, the other form that is myself.
She's tall, and doesn't carry ID because there's
no one who would care but her students and she had
to give up teaching when the SCABS changed her so
much. She goes out walking in spite of the
danger, because really what is the danger to a
little duck when compared to the inevitable reach
of her original being. She would just as soon be
a duckling, in some ways. It's an ironic thing,
is SCABS. And if it mattered to anyone, she might
care to understand it better.
As it is, I know I am a duckling now and was
mercifully fed by-- someone, last night, and
helped to make it to a time when I can attempt to
walk home. I recall my home, her home, the human
woman's home with the array of support systems
that has never been used because the edge is more
comforting than the solid support. _Something_
has to be interesting. There is no class and no
other pursuit anymore except the pursuit of risk.
The air holds me down in the coat. I know,
if experience is any indicator, that the next
change won't come for some time. I am reluctant
to make the journey back to my house. It feels
too long. Yet, much more of this hesitation and I
will not only be cold but also weak and hungry,
and I can't count on strangers such as may or may
not have appeared from nowhere last night. It is
briefly tempting to test their reality and
beneficence, but really I know I cannot. I want
to thank them, but the street is empty and the air
carries no sounds--
There is one sound. There. Now. It does
not remind me of any of the sensations of last
night. Perhaps that was nothing at all. But then
where is my gratitude to be expressed-- even if it
is inadequately expressed in human terms?
The approaching sound is a grating tap, the
sound of a man's hard-soled dress shoes on
blacktop.
They tap closer, steadily, I think at first,
but then I realize that there is a little shuffle
in between each set of two footsteps; the man has
a hard time keeping up with his own walk. It is a
SCAB, I think. In dress shoes, used to the uneven walk.
I blink at how right I was, as soon as the
SCAB comes into view upon the street.
He's tall, although my view of that could be
skewed by my changed size. I push my head out a
little from the smooth lining of the coat to get a
better look. I could fear him, I realize, a
stranger on an empty street, but there doesn't
seem much to fear in my case and it is morning and
he appears to desire to maintain a dignity that
does not bespeak menace.
He does not notice me, at first, and I get a
good look at him. The man is, indeed, a SCAB, a
black and brown, hard-shelled, shimmering obvious
SCAB in a brown-striped scarf, pleated
chocolate-brown slacks, a white vest and dark
coat, and a deep blue and black tie. Where the
collar of his coat would stand up it instead is
folded under a high, rigid black-brown shell-like
structure that is, by the appearance of it, part
of him. I can tell where his neck is by the tie
he wears. Above it is a pensive face, I suppose,
although I am taking a chance on labeling the
expression. Spikes of various dark colors and
textures pattern and protrude from his face and
hands. He steps twice, briskly, then draws his
right foot quickly into line to make the next two
steps, since it has angled out at the heel. After
the next two steps, he seems to do the same with
his left foot. I stare, spellbound. What an odd
night and a strange morning. I have no idea what
form this man might have taken, except that its
literal parts and pieces are before me. What they
make altogether is beyond my guessing. He could
be some kind of spider, but the posture and thick
shell-like carapace don't seem to make that fit.
The man takes two more steps before he sees me.
Something crackles in the air around him, and
the next instant it proves to be a vodor, for
speech vibrates in my ear-openings. "Hello."
I cock my head and peer up at him. I realize
that I am shivering, but to draw back into the
coat completely might imply an unwillingness to
greet the stranger.
"Are you cold."
I nod, bringing on a new bout of shivering.
The man bends down at what seem to be his knees
and brushes the asphalt with a set of long, curved
mahogany nails. His vodor cracks a few syllables
again and then says: "Who are you. I am go-ing to
check for I-D. All right."
I hunker down into my sleeve and do not
object. Soon, the curved claws of the man are
fingering aside folds of the coat to find and
empty the pockets, but there is not much in them,
and no ID. I briefly consider trying some sort of
code to communicate, but I feel too dull. At
home, there is the pan of food and water I have
set out for myself, refreshed every day, just in
case. It is the one preparation I have made.
However, I do not really care whether or not I get
to it. I would rather see what this man intends
to do. It is interesting to be an unknown.
"You wore no I-D," observes the gentleman,
mechanically. His eyes, or what appear to be his
eyes, glitter concernedly on either side of an
extravagantly toothed mouth.
I peep, noncommittally.
"Are you a SCAB."
I almost don't nod. I wonder whether all of
my memories are false. Then I decide that it
certainly seems an odd season for a baby duck to
be out and about, if such were _not_ a SCAB, and
that this will have to do for my own evidence to
myself. I nod.
He picks me up, then. He keeps the coat
wrapped around me, gathering the other sleeve and
folds into a round nest in his sharp arms, and
looks about the sidestreet. All that is visible
is the laundry building for MacLeod University, an
unpaved path down to the motor pool, some old
streetlamp poles, the street we are on, and an
aluminum sided building that must house something
to do with the university. We can sense the next
street over, from here, the one he must have
turned off of to step down this one. A few more
blocks, not much to walk for a human, will lead
down the repair-needing sidewalk to my old little
house on the very edge of what could be considered
campus neighborhood. It used to be convenient to
my job.
"My name is Alexander," the vodor informs me.
"You will come with me to the police." This last
is paced so that it will come across as a request
rather than a demand. I hesitate, thinking it
over. The police would eventually find someone
who could identify me. I don't know whether I
would care to be unceremoniously returned home or
not. If they don't send me home, they will likely
send me to the hospital. Either way I can't
expect much change nor company.
"Something wrong with the police."
I again hesitate about replying.
"To the vet then."
That sounds good. I nod.
Alexander carries me to the sound of his
affected footsteps. We take a turn towards the
main road that assures our bypassing of what has
been my home. I yawn widely and balance easily in
the carefully held coat.
"I will get some-one to take us in a car."
I lean sleepily first to one side, then the other.
Alexander walks, and I feel hungry so I avert
the discomfort by sleeping. When I hear a car
door slam, I startle awake.
"Thank you Larry."
"No problem. Where to?"
The air is warm, stuffy, and I poke my head
up and glance around. We're in a car, all right,
and out one window is a building I have seen
before-- the Thim and Rosemary Kelly Theatre.
I've attended a show or two there. The car is
idling out front of the glass door, containing its
driver, who appears to be Normal but dressed much
like Alexander, and Alexander and myself. I wait.
"The vet please."
"Who is this?"
"Do-n't know."
The black-haired, bearded Normal, Larry,
looks concerned. "Well, I suppose the vet's the
place to take them, but..."
"Yes."
Intriguingly, Alexander's "yes" seems to have
a sort of extrasensory effect on the other man.
It is quite an unquestionable tone for a vodor to
be able to make, but he seems adept at using it.
Larry does not question the unquestionable, the
answer that didn't go anywhere, but instead puts
the car in drive and pulls away from the curb.
Alexander, I decide, is a man of some influence,
but then so is Larry or the concern would not have
been made so evident. I am rather liking this. I
haven't had so much attention since I became a SCAB.
My chest moves in and out and I can't help
breathing in the cloying car-heater air, and my
hunger comes back in force. It's embarrassing to
be thinking only of temperature, tiredness and
food so constantly even in my own private mind,
but there it is. I yawn.
The car vibrates over several miles of road
until we come to a small, wood-trim white-stucco
building with a sign out front that reads "Animal
Hospital." Simple and to the point. It's been
some time since I've been to a doctor.
Larry comes in with Alexander and myself, but
I get the feeling that it's only because he
doesn't want to sit alone in the car. He's not
certain we should be here rather than at the
police station. Alexander keeps his focus
straight ahead and pushes open the clinic door,
and announces at the receptionist's desk that he
has a found animal he needs to have looked at.
"All right, what kind of animal is it?"
"A duck," replies the imposing vodor. Larry
folds his hands behind his back and looks at the
posters of kittens on the walls.
"Oh, I can see it in there, he's so _cute_!
Okay, Doctor Adams is with a client right now, but
we'll call you into an exam room as soon as we're
ready."
Alexander moves some of the motile parts of
his head in a nod, and sits on one of the maple
benches. Larry joins him.
"Alexander, are you sure this is a good idea?
This--" he doesn't seem to know how to gesture and
speak about me in my presence without being rude,
yet he doesn't have the slightest clue as to my
identity-- "person is obviously a SCAB. If
there's nothing wrong with them besides that, what
are you going to do? Take them home? You don't
even know if they've been to a human hospital.
Have you called the police?"
"The police." Alexander seems to simply be
mentioning a new idea.
"Well, of course..."
"I do-n't know. They did not just change."
"How do you know?"
Alexander aims his voice at me. "Did you
just change."
I nod, then shake my head "no." It's hard to
explain.
"This person," Alexander informs his
companion, "does not wish to see the police. This
person has no information for the police. It
would be a waste of their time."
He caught on to me quick. I pull my body a
little closer to his chest, hard yet strangely
limbed and flexible under his vest. I wonder what
he is.
Larry has nothing more to say. He has been
left out of this situation since we arrived to ask
for a ride in his car, and he seems to decide to
just take our thanks for the ride at face value
and leave it at that.
Finally, a very angry-sounding carrying crate
emerges from the exam room, rocking in the grip of
its owner; the receptionist smiles and begins to
figure the payment for that client and the doctor
beckons us in. This time, Larry stays behind.
"I'm Doctor Adams," the veterinarian
volunteers pleasantly. He shakes hands with
Alexander, an interesting exchange to witness. I
may or may not imagine the slight shudder of the
doctor's elbow when one of the SCAB's claws
touches it in the process. It's more, if it's
there, a response to a tickle than any sort of
dread, I suppose. "Now," he goes on, "let's have
a look at you."
The vet knows almost instantly that I am not
merely a found animal; or rather, he knows that I
_am_, but that there is only one likely
explanation for my being found at all.
He turns me over in a broad, gentle hand and
feels my keel, presses my abdomen with a thumb,
and touches the end of my spine. "I'd guess... a
little Mallard hen." He glances seriously at
Alexander. "Where did you find her?"
Alexander gives the name of the next street
over from the service road we met upon. "That
area."
"This is no ordinary duckling. There aren't
any this age around that I know of, Sir. I highly
suggest that you take her to the police."
"In-quir-ies are being made in-to her
iden-ti-ty," Alexander replies smoothly, much as
this may seem awkward with the vodor's stops and
starts.
"I see. I... Well, I'd better have a look
into her health, although of course she must see a
doctor for Norms as well. I can't begin to
predict all the possible consequences of SCABS."
"I know."
"Well, little one, let's just see about your
blood work, shall we? And--" to Alexander--
"she's undernourished. I'll give you some
recommendations for feed. Be sure and follow
them."
The next half-hour passes comfortably; it
seems to be a slow day for the clinic and Doctor
Adams is especially concerned for my welfare. I
wonder whether or not he is afraid that something
may happen to what amounts to a human patient, and
he will be held responsible. He needn't worry. I
am, after all, just a SCAB.
Alexander pays a hefty amount of money, and I
begin to feel things, conflicting things. He
doesn't need to do this for me. It's wrong of me
to let him do it. But-- I like it.
Larry seems relieved to get out of the Animal
Hospital with a creature that has been deemed not
a public health nuisance, and drives whistling
back to the Theatre where Alexander met up with
him. I'm still riding in the coat. Alexander
looks down at me as we exit the automobile
carefully, and I watch as white and black teeth
show more of themselves in his crowded mouth. In
his way, he has a very nice smile.