C2C- Short Stories Thread

Azurian

The Azurian
Joined
Apr 10, 2012
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Location
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All of us have different perspectives and imaginations of what happened in the past, and a perspective of what the future will be like.

In this thread share a short story about your favorite Tech, social movement, discovery, or work of art. Anything really. Maybe your stories will give someone the imagination to add new stuff in the game!

FORMAT
TITLE:
ERA:
TECH:

small sentence of what its about
Put Your story in Quotes. 2 to 3 paragraphs recommended


Short Story Guide
http://fictionwriting.about.com/od/shortstorywriting/a/shortstoryrules.htm
 
Will You Still Love Me When I'm 4096?
by MrAzure

Era: Transhuman
Tech: Personal robots

A teenage girl wonders if robots can feel love.
When dad brought the new Teenagebot home from the Sky Mall I didnt think of much, it was just a glorified appliance robot to me at the time. Even thou it has synthetic skin, behaved liked any normal teenage boy would, and could talk back, I thought it was just an electronic butler that Dad paid to much for. For the price we could have bought a new Haptics visual center or a 2076 Aerox Hovercraft.

But over the months it started to grow on me. It was really smart and I could ask it anything and it would know the answer! We became the best of friends, and one day i asked him what does it feel like to be a robot? He said he doesnt know what a robot is supposed to feel like, only that hs artificial brain is made of 4096-bit software.

Even thou the Priest at the Catherdral in Futurisma City,( that my parents make me attend his sermons thru the Simulated Reality Console ), says that we should declare war of error [robots], I wonder whats it like to live in 4096 bits?

So I found out you're made of 4096 bits, something I couldn't even comprehend. How many bits is a Human? Are the trees and buildings in the Simulated Reality Console real? But if I touch the water it feels wet and cold. When I looked at myself I felt so small, just a human. In a binary world dreams must come true!

Outside in real life all I see is people with illumated clothes and holographics everywhere. I havent seen a tree in real life!

I was afraid I would never understand what its like to be you. The priest said we are messing with God creation, whatever that is..probably an advanced computer somewhere, were not allowed to about it. All I know is that its consider barbaric according to the holo- teachers at Virtua High School, They say we invented the world. We decide our own fate and create our own creatures and paradise, both virtually and in real life.

But one day I asked you what a kiss feels like and you said you didnt understand, so we kissed and your evolutionary algorithms learned something new that day. I went to the Virtua and watched holographics of how you were made, and where you came from and all the cool things you should be doing, instead of cleaning the building we call home.

Now that I know who you are, I want to live a new life, I want to dream in binary . I want to love in binary. I thought this is all there is, but the cool kids at Virtua High School are the ones that are not human anymore, now I know you are so much more.

When I saw you for the very first time, I thought you are just a glorified appliance. Now the colors in your eyes reflect like the blue inside of reprogrammable chips, I couldn't pull my gaze away from you.

I want to upgrade from simple Human, buy some cybernetics, but I have a question, will you still love me when I'm 4096 bit?
 
The Most Basic Technology
by Koshling

Era: Galactic
Tech: Xenoarchaeology
(if we don't have it we should ;))
[Alternate tech: Gathering?]
'Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic' - Arthur C Clarke. What happens if it's black magic?

The berries were red. Really red. Even now that my vision was restricted to the paltry spectrum perceivable by biological human eyes, almost preternaturally red. I vaguely remember accessing that bright colors were nature’s signal to would-be consumers that this was a dangerous thing to eat, and most self-respecting herbivores would probably leave well alone. However, needs must, and thinking back over the past few hours, I felt pretty needy.

It had all started with what seemed a promising discovery. I’d registered anomalous density and magnetic readings buried just below the surface in some ruins, that were still somehow giving at least a vague impression of buildingness after nearly a million years of neglect. The ruins on Xanos V had been recently discovered by a team from the Institute doing routine data analysis of orbital scans.

The galaxy is a big place, but with automated probes replicated at a rate of several per hour and seeded across near-galactic space continuously for the past 50 or so years, there was a lot of data now available. Of course, we’ve known for a long time that planets are extremely common, but it turns out that life is also almost a certainty given a few initial conditions, that are also extremely common. The big surprise (at least at the time) was that intelligent life is also pretty common (statistically it seems about one in a hundred planets with a long history of life had spawned at least one intelligent species at some point in their existence). Given that we’d never actually met anything more intelligent than a slightly-dumber-than-average cow, and never received any proven artificial signals this presented a bit of a conundrum. The resolution, of course, is now well researched – intelligent civilizations just don’t last long. There is a natural cycle it seems, whereby species develop sufficient intelligence to gain a degree of control over their environment, and things go exponential from there. At some point they inevitably develop technology, and either learn how to kill each other sufficiently efficiently to win a posthumous Darwin award, or bootstrap themselves into transcendence, leaving nothing behind but a few scattered artifacts. It is these artifacts that make Xenoarchaeology the best-funded academic pursuit in the history of mankind. The Institute probably has more money than all but a couple of the remaining nation states on Earth, so funding expeditions when something shows up in a survey is never a problem. Nine times out ten, expeditions turn up a few incomprehensible artworks (at least that’s the best theory anyone has for what most of that stuff is), and maybe some left over technology that doesn’t reveal anything we didn’t already know. One time in 10 you find something that remains from close to its creator’s transcendence event. Mostly these are incomprehensible too, but sometimes analysis reveals an underlying principal that advances the state of the art (and the Institute’s bank balance) significantly. One time in a thousand, something turns up that still works.

Anyway, Xanos V had some clear ruins (and not really that ruined, all things considered, given their age), so it’s probe reported a hit, drank in energy from a close orbit of the parent star for a few months, landed near the best looking ruins, and reconfigured itself into a wormhole terminus. Thus it was, that after a leisurely breakfast that morning, I’d collected some equipment a little too specialized to be part of my normal augmentation, and stepped through from my home to the small portal room that formed the bulk of what the probe had morphed itself into.

Ten minutes later and I was excavating the topsoil and dust from the area above the anomaly. As the glittering of dust swirling into nothingness subsided, what was revealed was distinctly unimpressive looking. A greyish disc, maybe 20 centimeters in diameter, and 3 centimeters in depth at its center. It looked like nothing so much as a discus designed by a minimalist with a fetish for anodized grey not-metal (I resisted the urge to see how far I could hurl it though). Standard procedure in cases like this, calls for shipping the artifact to a quarantined lab, in orbit around some star whose location is a rather closely guarded secret. To ensure no unfortunate interaction with the environment during shipping, the artifact is wrapped in a stasis bubble for transit. The stasis generator was one of the extra items of equipment I’d picked up on my way earlier.

In retrospect the problem with this protocol should have been obvious. Well, obvious in the way that it should be obvious to an ant that building a nest right by someone’s front door is probably a BAD IDEATM. It seems this particular artifact had about as much regard for the technology of stasis bubbles as a pest disintegrator has for the construction of ant’s nests. It definitely didn’t like though.

Several things became apparent in short order. I immediately felt the queasy sensation of my exo-cortext and datasphere links all going offline (if you’ve never experienced this, I don’t recommend it – trapped in just a biological brain you feel so terribly small). At about the same time it was obvious that the stasis generator wasn’t working – instead of a nice light-sucking black sphere of essentially walled-in-nothingness, the grey discus was still sitting there, for all intents and purposes shrugging nonchalantly at me.

I still don’t know exactly what it did, but basically it seemed to have decreed that all technology in the vicinity (meters, miles, light-years? I had no way to know) more advanced than the wheel had ceased to operate.

Shortly afterwards, when I discovered that this applied to the wormhole portal too, panic set in, along with a certain amount of wailing and gnashing of teeth. It wasn’t until much later, when hunger started to set in and the sun had gone down, turning the world uncomfortably cold, that I started to think about how I might survive. I had shelter from the portal room (well, sort of anyway – I could see why an actual physical door might have been useful now), water was plentiful, and from what I remembered didn’t harbor any pathogens I should be too worried about (genetic changes apparently didn’t count as active technology, which was a relief, so I still had a boosted immune system). The problem was food. Xenos V had its share of small animals, but nothing that looked like it would feature on the menus of any restaurants you’d want to go to. That was ok, I can handle vegetarian. The big question is what plants are safe to eat, given I can’t analyze anything except by the old fashioned trial-and-error method (and nobody else was around to wear the red shirt).

Oh well.

I popped a berry into my mouth.
 
Sometimes Reality Is The Strangest Fantasy of Them All Part 1
by MrAzure

Era: Transhuman / Cyber
Tech: Simulated Society

A professor teaches in a high school in a simulated world [MMROPG]. He thinks about the old days when kids used to go to a real high school, and how the world has changed.
August 27, 2081​
Dear Diary,

I remember my teenage years.
I remember my high school years as a student.
I remember hanging out with friends during school lunch.
I remember checking out the girls in real life. Beautiful.
I remember Physical Education, I got bullied alot for being a "nerd".
I remember holding books in my hand. They gave me the best memories.


So i remember alot of things during my high school. The good old beginnings of the 21st Century. With my MP3 Player in my pocket, a flip phone in my hand, and my Gameboy SP in my other pocket. Kids these days dont know the feeling of holding things in your hand. Its all touchable holograms now! Its even stranger for them to visualize a person having multiple gadgets with them. In my age, a wearable computer was holding electronics with your hand.

These days, most people only have one gadget. Remember the App Store that Apple Computers invented back in the day? Back then, a smartphone could have multiple apps. Now, a gadget can have multiple virtual electronics! The best way i can describe it is, remember Fruity Loops and all those music creation software? Well instead of a digital synthesizer, a digital piano, a digital turntable, these days a gadget has multiple electronics as apps that can be aimed in an empty place and they appear!

Now there are virtual people walking everywhere! Back in 2012, the first holograms were of dead musicians recreated from the dead, with one of the first being Tupac Shakur, (he was an urban rapstar), was recreated for a concert in Coachella , California [ now Coachellium, Great Bear Cyberepublic].

First came the earphones. It stopped people from listing to others and isolating themselves.

Then came the smartphones and texting. People didnt have to see themselves in person to communicate.

After that was social networking. There was a website called Facebook that had over 1.4 billion people in its peak, but went bankrupt in 2034 when Panoramic Virtual Worlds became popular. Ill get back to that in a second.

After social networking, Augmented Reality sparked an information revolution, and everything has a tri-holograph barcode, and because of humans natural drive to have sex, Augmented Dating is what really commercialized Augmented Reality. Everyone with AR contacts on had a "pimple chip" between their eyebrows that stored a public profile about them, and everyone else could bring it up when they looked at someones forehead. Later ugly people could change their physical appearance, and make themselves prettier to anyone with AR on. And those darn cybergoths would always scare the crap out of me when they would walk around as monsters.

And this was just the 2040s. Sigh, now I must go to bed. I ran out of Concetrated Sleep pills and have to go to sleep the old fashioned way..8 whole hours, freaking 1/3.. yes 1/3!!! of a day instead of my usual 3 hours.

Ill write about the next 30 years when i wake. Sleeping 8 hours is so barbaric.

VOICE COMMAND:

-CLOSE DEAR DIARY-
-OPEN DOOR-
-JARVIS, IM GOING TO SLEEP, ACTIVATE HOME SECURITY SYSTEM-

[Jarvis is the House Brain of his Intelligent house]
 
Those are all really great.
Amazing authoring from you Koshling, a true surprise to see that degree of artistic talent from such a technically brilliant mind. I was deeply impressed.

This doesn't harmonize with C2C very well really, and every suggestion I've had to push C2C towards a position where it could has been pretty well rejected (which is fine ;)), and it's not exactly a 'short' story, nor is it completed, but this:
Heavy Metal is a link to my latest sci-fi novel storygame in progress. Y'all are MORE than welcome to take a look and let me know what you think. The only frustrating thing about that page is that you have to find the chapters each individually to follow along. Starts with chapter 1 of course. I admit, it could use a bit of editing in some places. And its been a while since I wrote anything for it.
 
These are a blast to write BTW, for anyone thinking of dipping a toe in the water. Makes a nice change from the usual day-to-day stuff.
 
Advertsing lies that are whiter than yours
by Koshling

Era: Transhuman
Crime: Cortical Hacking
(why restrict this to techs!)
What happens when someone finds something better than subliminal advertising?
I chugged the last of the can of Bubbles Cola I was clutching with an involuntary shudder. The stuff was disgusting. As I was about to reach into the fridge for another, I became conscious of the flashing red warning on the periphery of my vision clamoring more urgently for my attention.

Warning. Cognitive dissonance detected.

I frowned and squinted at the virtual warning, bringing it into focus and opening the details.

Cortex rewrite intrusion detected.

Uh oh. That sounded bad.

Behavioral and sensory appreciation functions compromised. Intrusion probability 87%

Exo-cortex extension security is about the strongest you’ll find anywhere outside of the military intelligence community, but like old-style anti-virus security before it, it’s locked in a perpetual arms race with groups of less than pure intent, and often not insignificant means. It pays to be paranoid about your cortical security. After all, what are we but our thoughts, memories and emotions? – lose control over those and we lose our very selves. My intrusion counter measures were solidly up to date – not perhaps top of the line (who can afford that really?), but proof against the kinds of infections that go round regularly, like the meme-viruses that had everyone who didn’t take adequate precautions talking in old 90’s slang last year. That was why I was worried. Those two words should never have appeared, except perhaps in nightmares ‘functions compromised’. At least I was still thinking rationally (at least so it seems to me as I think about it – recursion sucks sometimes). I focused in on the ‘resolution Actions’ menu. Most of the options were inactive:

Remove intrusion
Bypass infected function
Switch to Secondary cortex


WTF! The secondary was compromised too. Only two options were active:

Restore personality Backup (6/10/34)
Ignore


Restore personality backup! That was 3 days ago! I’d be nuking 3 days of my existence. Who would I be? How different a person do you become in three days? Dinner with Angela. The weekend away. Damn it, I can’t just lose that. Do I even like the guy I was three days ago? Hell, maybe he doesn’t even like Bubbles Cola!

I selected ignore, calming as the warning icons receded with a new base state, and reached into the fridge for another can of Bubbles.
 
BRILLIANT writing Koshling! Just wonderful! :D (and I'm not normally the type to gush over another's writings unless they ARE really great... I'm known for more harsh feedback in this dept.)
 
Savagery at the World's End
Era: Medieval
Technology: Armor Smithing?

Freydís could scarcely believe her eyes. These proud men of the north, scions of mighty Odin in days past, soldiers of Christ in the present, scattered like frightened sheep. Had the words of Kvitekrist weakened their resolve? Had they truly lost the will to fight? The Skræling host poured from the hills, spurred on by the flight of their foes. Savage though they were, they had greater courage than all of the men of Iceland, Freydís had begun to think.

She fled with her fellow settlers, though she was soon left behind. Her heart pounded in her chest, with a rhythm no war-drum could ever match. Her ears rang with the exultant shouts of the skrælingar, with the terrified shouts of her compatriots. An arrow pierced the mist-laden air, sending with it a spray of blood. Freydís growled angrily as she felt the terrible bolt's bite against her pale skin. She fell to her knees, sinking into the muddy earth of Vinland. She had hoped to raise a proud son in this new land, but now, it seemed, her hopes would be dashed upon the rocks, like the ships of those who came before.

She watched with disgust as the warriors of Iceland abandoned her to her fate. She looked over her shoulder to see the advancing skrælingar. She could feel her fiery heart drop into her stomach as she saw the grins of their savage faces. She laid a hand upon her stomach, so full with child as it was. The life growing inside of her reminded her of what was at stake. Surrender was not an option. She summoned the last of her strength, and fled into the forest, after the men of Iceland.

She spat out venomous words upon the fleeing warriors, even through her failing breath. "Why do run you away from such worthless creatures, stout men that ye are, when, as seems to me likely, you might slaughter them like so many cattle? Let me but have a weapon, I think I could fight better than any of you!" She called after them, but her admonition fell upon deaf ears.

Arrows filled the forest, like a swarm of bees taking vengeance upon the foolish invaders. She tried to run in odd patterns, using the trees as cover from these barbs, but this served only to slow her down. It was not long before the last of Iceland's men disappeared into the fog. Freydis felt herself fall as her feet had caught upon a root. With the last reserves of her strength failing her, she laid there for several moments, until something had caught her eye. There, laying among the mud and the leaves was Thorbrand, son of Snorri. Once, he had been a good friend to her family. Now, he was but fodder for the carrion birds.

She crawled through the muck over to his body, even as the stones and the sticks tore her disheveled clothing. Thorbrand's sword shone in the morning light, clean but for a spot of mud upon it's tip. "How can Thorbrand meet his end with his sword still clean?" Freydis had though. She wrapped her hands around the cord-bound handle. Her's were the hands of a seamstress, of a milkmaiden, of a good wife. These were not the hands of a warrior. Yet, the sword fit as naturally in her hand as had the broom and the spoon.

She caught her breath as the skrælingar approached. Then, her courage had truly found her. She arose, and turned to face her enemies. What could strike fear into the heart of a beast, but a greater beast? What could give the savage pause, but a mightier savage?

She tore off her blouse, baring her pale flesh for the eyes of all. She was a terrible sight to behold, this daughter of the north. The morning sun shone upon her, illuminating the newly-born warrior woman. She stood at a great height, towering above all the skrælingar. Her straw-colored hair blew in the breeze, unfettered by the blood which stained it. Her blue eyes carried the same determination as the mother bear.

She held up her sword and sent a horrific shriek into the morning air. The skrælingar paused at this terrible sound. The tallest among them pointed at Freydis as she brought the flat of her sword down upon her naked breast, leaving a great red welt upon it. Another keening yell, and Freydis charged at them. The skrælingar scarcely knew how to react, and in short order, they began to flee before her terrible wrath.

Though she had tried to chase after them, the native men were soon gone. Still, Freydis' blood boiled. Her fellow settlers had cost Thorbrand his life with their cowardice, and had nearly cost hers. Among them, she alone had displayed true valor. This would not go unanswered.
 
The Last Followers Of The Old Gods
Era: Medieval
Technology: Fanaticism

Snow fell hard upon the forests of Memel. It was a dark, foreboding land. Mighty trees rose to the heavens, cloaking all beneath them in thick, imprenetable shadows. Ancient Gods and spirits were still alive there, in their last refuge. The land itself seemed to breathe with the divine, who wept for their fallen brethren in the western and southern lands. The blizzard which befell Lithuania seemed to be at once a sign of the nation's mourning, and a cruel welcome to the foreigners which preached a new way.

They had come in peace, at first. They spoke of their God, their Christ, who stood above all other Gods, who bled for the sins of mankind. They tried to turn the men and women of Lithuania away from the Gods they had followed since time immemorial. These were not a people who easily abandoned their traditions for new ways. The first of the missionaries were sent upon their way.

They had come again. This time, they had the sword in one hand, and the bible in the other. Many of them had returned from their holy land, where they had fought against the saracen. Others sought their first taste of war. They were all united by their desire to see the pagans convert, or be slain.

Bronislavas knew well why they had come. These sons of the Teutons, these followers of the White Christ, these sword-bearing knights. His own father had fallen in the first of the fighting, though he was scarcely prepared for such a thing. The aged Lithuanian had hardly the time to even fetch his spear before the knights had slaughtered him in his home. His mother avoided a similiar fate by providing them with all of food-stores, all of her beer, and all of her horses. She would soon die as well, with no neighbors to give her charity. The winters of Lithuania had no mercy upon the unprepared.

Hatred burned in the heart of Bronislavas. He cared not for his own fate, so long as he took as many of the Teutons down with him as he possibly could. He wrapped his cloak tightly around him and let out a cold, misty breath into the winter night's air. He held his torch above him as he stalked the same hunting paths he had been treading since his youth. In day's past, he would never have considered tempting the wrath of the spirits by entering these woods at night, but he knew he could appease the spirits with the blood of Christians. Several haggard looking hunters walked behind him, cloaked in the skins of wolves and rabbits. Each bore all the tools of war that they could find. All of them had bows, many carried swords, and one tall warrior carried a mighty axe. They had all determined that each of these implements would draw the blood of a Christian ere the night had ended.

Bronislavas paused as he saw the campfire burning in the distance. There, in a clearing, camped several of the knights. Their horses looked about nervously, their heads constantly swivelling to face the howling of wolves in the distance. The fire burned, untended, as the knights slept in their tents. Only one stood guard, a great spear held in his hands. An immaculate white cape adorned the warrior's shoulders, resting over his tunic. Emblazoned upon this was the black cross that the knight fought under.

The hunters crouched down, and extinguished their flames in the hard-packed snow beneath them. They walked forward quietly, using techniques they had learned upon the deer of Lithuania to make their approach. The lone knight stood oblivious as Bronislavas took up his bow, and nocked an arrow to the string. Though the darkness impeded him, the pagan's aim was true. The arrow sailed through the night air, and into the awaiting head of the guard. Red mist sprayed into the air as the Teuton fell to the ground, dead within moments.

The hunters fanned out to surround the camp, to cut off the escape of their hated foes. The horses whinnied loudly at the guard's death, awakening the slumbering knights. They stumbled from their tents, swords in hand, ready to battle for Christ's message.

One pale-haired German took his hand-and-a-half sword into both of his well trained hands, and met the charge of the first hunter. The sword skillfully blocked the blow of a woodsman's axe. The Teuton twisted the axe aside, throwing it from the hunter's hands, where it landed in the snow, eerily quietly. He lunged forward, sending his blade through the pagan's hides, and into his heart. With a twist, the sword was pulled free. The brown-haired Lithuanian fell into the snow, ready to meet with Žemyna.

The German had scarcely the time to exult over his victory, when the sword of Bronislavas was forced into his back. Blood poured from the Christian's mouth as his life ebbed, and he fell too, to meet his God. Bronislavas turned to look upon the situation. Four Teutons had fallen to one pagan, and one Christian was attempting to flee into the night.

Before he even realized what he was doing, Bronislavas charged after the fleeing knight. Like the wolf chasing after it's prey, pure instinct fueled his actions. Hatred and thirst for Christian blood coursed through him. He could feel himself practically salivate as he chased the knight through the forest.

This would be the welcome given to all outsiders.
 
The Calm Oasis
by T C

Era: Ancient
Tech: Trade?

The boy sat on a large rock on top of an incline. The rock was still hot but he was used to the heat. The sun was starting to fade, in an hour or two it would be dark and cold, and he would have to gather with his family around the fire for warmth. The rock gave him an excellent view of his home. He could see the tents and huts stretched out. To an outsider they would have appeared irregular, but he saw in them an order that could only have come from years of studying the same scene. He turned his gazed towards the orchards; date and coconut palms, pomegranate bushes, lemon and orange trees stared back at him. He saw men and women working in those orchards but they were oblivious to him. The scene was quiet, ordered, tranquil. That is this place, he thought, there is no chance of adventure here. No chance to travel to far off lands, fight in wars, to win glory, honour and perhaps great riches too. If I ever want anything more than these orchards, this oasis, I will have to leave.

He thought of his father toiling in the orchards, and felt a little guilty that he was here on his rock and not helping him. His father had seen war. He knew that much, though he never talked of it openly. He only spoke of it in a very indirect way, talking about how this place was an island of calm in a rough and dangerous world and how he wished that all men could learn to value peace. He imagined that his father's old life must have been full of adventure. Battles, maybe fighting monsters and evil men, finding great treasures and winning the hearts of beautiful ladies with feats of valour. Why his father had given all that up, to pick fruit and tend goats was the greatest mystery that he could think of.

He looked towards the main square. The square was the centre of the community, where the elders held their councils and talked for hours. It was the place where they received visiting caravans. Traders came from many lands bringing all kinds of exotic goods from strange places. They took water, rested their camels, traded a little and left. These times were always full of singing and dancing and laughter. The men of the caravan would let the boys sit around their fires while they drank sweet tea and told incredible stories of their travels. That was it, one day, when I'm old enough I will join a caravan, and see the far off lands. Perhaps I will become rich through trade and have an enormous palace in a city somewhere and everyone will say, “there he is, the richest man in the city...did you know he came from a tiny oasis out in the desert”. He was content with this thought for a moment, but then remembered that no caravans had passed through for weeks, or was it months. He gazed out over the horizon hoping that he could see one approaching, but of course there was nothing but endless sand and rocks. A sadness came over him and started to get up, ready to return to his home, he at least had to think of some way to excuse his absence. Then he saw it.

Something strange on the horizon, he stared, trying to focus on the object, but it was very far away. What was it? It couldn't be a camel, it was the wrong shape, maybe an ostrich, but it would be very strange to see one out there. He continued to look, the thing seemed to be moving closer to the oasis, it must know what this place, maybe it is intelligent. Then it hit him. It's a man! He studied the figure moving slowly across the desert, questions racing through his mind. The figure seemed to be slowing down, but he was quite close now, then suddenly he stopped and fell to the floor. Without stopping to think, the boy started to run. He ran as fast as he could, his mind still racing, Who was this man? Why was he alone in the desert? Why had the man given up when he was close? Why had no one gone to help the man? Had no one seen him? Was he still alive?

When he reached the man, the boy was out of breath and had to take a moment to compose himself. He could see that he was still alive. He noticed that the man was wearing the flowing robes which men of the desert wore, but of a kind that the boy had never seen before. The material was fine and soft to the touch. The man looked at him with his dark eyes and tried to speak, but no sound came out. The boy motioned to keep quiet and took out his water pouch, he put a little water on his fingers and dabbed the man's cracked lips with it. He continued to do this for a few minutes and then poured a few drops into the man's mouth. After some time the man spoke, he could speak the local language but had a very strange accent “Thank you my boy, I thought that I would die here before you came, you have saved me”
The boy couldn't decide what to say and so tried to ask all of his questions at once
“who are you? Why are...what are you...where did you come....” The man didn't answer, but instead tried to get up but didn't seem to have the strength, it was then that the boy noticed that a blood coloured stain on his robes “You are wounded, what happened?” he asked
“There is no time to explain, you must take me to your elders at once...there is a great danger approaching” The boys eyes lit up, this was an important man, with important news, and he would be the one to introduce him, he was the one who had saved. No one would remember that he had sneaked off from the orchards early, he thought, with no little satisfaction. He straightened up and said comforting words to man, telling him that he was safe now, that here he would find food, water and a place to rest. The man nodded and thanked him quietly. He tried to smile but could not shake the worried look from his face. He motioned to the boy, who held out his arms and the man, making what seemed like a great effort, took the boy's arm and lifted himself on to his feet. The two started to walk slowly towards the oasis.
 
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