Aramis Dagaz

I opened the door and took a look outside.

Void. Nothing but an empty, starry void, as far as I could see. My view from my window told me as much, but I just had to take another look from another perspective. Seeing things through the glass, it distances you from the other side. This way, I was able to see it with my own eyes, unadulterated by any artifact.

Well, save for my own cabin fever.

Keeping the door propped open with my body, I lay down on the floor and craned my head so I could see my cell’s underside. The water tank, generator, and recycler were all still there, the drab, blocky shapes of their armored covers firmly bolted in place. Truthfully, I wouldn’t know their true state of repair without opening up the panels, but that would involve stepping outside, and I didn’t feel up to that at the moment. Even without a clear way of telling up from down outside, it still felt like I was hanging over a bottomless abyss. I threw a piece of garbage out once, earlier on, and it just floated away. It’s likely still out there, somewhere in the stygian emptiness. But despite that experiment, as I hang my head outside I could feel the blood rushing to my brain, triggering a mild sense of vertigo. No, I’ll wait until I have stable ground underneath and a reliable way of getting back inside once I’m outside. I only do this now to relieve the monotony of my current routine.

I stand back up and close the door. A sense of normalcy returns, as though I’ve managed to seal off the reality outside. With the window curtains closed, I could be anywhere right now. Perhaps a peaceful night on a tropical island somewhere. Or overlooking a bustling city, with soundproof glass keeping the peace and quiet in. Or even a desolate, blasted wasteland. Or just emptiness, with only pinpricks of light to give an illusion of vastness to the void. Having a Schrodinger reality outside could be maddening, but I’ve found it’s less wearing on the mind over the course of a week than just seeing sparkling nothingness for days on end. There are days where I wake up and I forget that I’m just floating out here, alone, for who knows how much longer.

I turn back towards my cell, its layout as familiar to me now as my own skin. A ten-foot by ten-foot room with another five feet tacked on to one side to make room for a bathroom and kitchenette, it is rather intimate, even for one person, but it grants me space enough so I don’t feel boxed in. Of course, that feeling is challenged sometimes by all of the equipment I have laying about haphazardly. I managed to impose some semblance of order upon the chaos, but so far if it doesn’t cause me to trip over it too many times, it stays where it is.

I walk back to my desk along the opposite wall, where the windows would give me a good view of the outside were the curtains not closed defiantly. I sit down, and begin to once again toy with my latest acquisitions. One good thing about the time I’ve spent out here is that it’s given me plenty of time to play around with them, see what use I could find for them. I will admit, I picked them up on impulse, mostly because their designs appealed to my sense of aesthetics, but even in all of this time I couldn’t figure out what I was going to ultimately use them for. Everything else had its obvious use by now, or at least a decent idea what its potential utility would be. In the chest of drawers adjacent to my desk, I have numerous spare parts that I had collected, a seemingly random collection that still proved handy now and then, giving me an ample supply of parts with which to repair my equipment or build new items. But the three machines on my desk were quickly proving themselves to be either redundant or mere curiosities.

The first and smallest one resembled a quill pen in almost every respect upon first glance. Its aesthetic value was considerable, as it seems as though the feather part was actually made of some kind of soft, flexible metal, but what set it apart from all other such pens was the small device attached to the writing end. Instead of ending in a nib carved from the shaft of the feather, a brass tube was fitted to it, ending in a metal nib. There were a few other tiny mechanisms attached, including what I believe to be an ink reservoir, which indicates to me that there is some other function to this pen aside from merely writing with it. A little research revealed that this device was called an “autoquill”, but why it would be called so still eludes me. It is a quill pen, yes, but the only thing automated about it is the constant flow of ink. Seems to be an overly elaborate description for a pen you don’t have to dip in an inkwell, but then again, an automatic firearm is one that loads itself after each shot, so I suppose it’s accurate enough. Still, I’ve found that writing with it produces fine, quality letters, with no smudges, blotches, or scratches where the ink failed to flow properly. It even seems like it somehow improves my handwriting as well, though how it could accomplish that I have yet to fathom. If nothing else, it makes for a fine writing implement.

The second device serves more or less the same purpose, though here there’s no mystery as to its function. It’s a small typing machine made of dull brass, possessing only twenty round, ivory-inlaid keys. Sticking out to the side from the top of the device were two stout arms, upon each a scroll of parchment was placed. Two more articulated arms made of thin iron rods reached out from the back of the machine, a small metal nib mounted at the end which hovered over the scrolls, allowing the machine to write in the finest cursive calligraphy upon the paper as the keys were typed, producing high-quality documents. The merchant who sold it to me called it a “stenocalligrapher”, and even went on to describe a small, sturdy stand like a brass podium on four legs that gave it a small amount of mobility. He even had an old photograph of the completed device, though judging by the incredibly ancient and bent scribe operating it, the primary purpose was more as a crutch than anything else. Sadly, the merchant was not in possession of the mobile podium, nor did he know where one could be found.

I had given the machine a few tries, myself, though I have yet to figure out the precise purpose of having two scrolls and pens mounted to it. Part of me believes that it reduces the need to switch scrolls in the middle of working on one document, allows the operator to switch between two sets of notes, or to make two copies of the same document at once, though I still suspect that there is a means of operating both arms at the same time, yet writing different things. However, such experimentation would only be for the sake of satisfying my idle curiosity, as even if I did discover how to fully operate it, there would be little point in the skill. I already possess not one, but two other devices that fulfill all of my information copying, archiving, and processing needs. One is my journal, a simple book bound in a green canvas cover, which has been treated with a shard of the azure crystal that gives Altera life, giving it the power to not only record the thoughts I scribe into it, but also to recall the exact information I need, cross-indexed with other relevant notes, the moment I open it. The other is a codex called a lithotome, fashioned from plates of obsidian and bound with sapphire. Within it, it holds numerous crystals and gems, each providing a useful function. Some hold hundreds of pages of information, others record words and pictures just by passing them over the object I wish to record, and others project the stored data into the air as programmed holographic illusions. Not only are both far more versatile, they also weigh far less together than the stenocalligrapher.

The final device was acquired simply as a curiosity. It looks like a mantle clock that was fashioned from brass great helm made to resemble the head of an owl. Where the face and eyes would be, however, there are only dials and gauges, an antikytheran combination of a clock, astrolabe, orrery, and compass, the exact purpose of which I have yet to determine. A peek into the inner workings of the machine reveals a bewildering array of gears, springs, cranks, and escape mechanisms, seemingly arranged according to a design beyond the capabilities of any one artificer. I prudently decided against any further exploration, as I fear that if I began to disassemble even the smallest part, I would not have the knowledge or ability to put it back together again in any form resembling working order. Thus it stays, sitting on my desk, an elusive mystery both in design and function.

I fiddle with these devices for a while, letting my mind wander as I pass the time. I type out a few thoughts on the stenocalligrapher, eventually settling on making a few notes on my collection of spare parts and scrap and what I could possibly put together with them using the mechanically-assisted workbench that I had pressed against the right wall. Occasionally I would switch to writing a few ideas down into my journal with the autoquill, a process that soon proved to be more enjoyable than using the other writing machine. In the middle of it all, I must have spent what felt like several hours just gazing at the dials on the owl helm’s face, losing myself in the precise yet unfathomable movements of its perfectly-crafted mechanisms.

Eventually, having let my mind wander free, I began to tire, more from mental exhaustion than any kind of physical fatigue save for my writing hand. My eyes were heavy, and my mind slow and sluggish from hours of unfocused activity. Save for the measurements on the owl helm, I had no way of knowing the time, and the eternal night of the emptiness outside did little to re-energize me. I had given up all attempts at anything resembling a circadian rhythm, letting myself sleep when I was tired and stay up when I wasn’t, or at least in too much of a stupor to rest. I quickly went through an abbreviated version of my evening routine, taking a quick, warm shower and then crawling into the bed, which thankfully had soft sheets, my only luxury in this cell. My mind raced a few more laps around the inside of my head, and then I slipped into a deep slumber.

While brushing my teeth I suddenly remembered some toys I had as a kid called “Ring Raiders”, which were toy fighter jets that were mounted on rings like wearable static displays. Just another set of toy planes with an unusual gimmick that happened to be around when I was in my “I wanna be a fighter pilot!” phase.

One thing that struck me as curious is that in addition to fighter jets that were around in the 60s-80s (no F-14s or F-15s, interestingly enough. This was still when Top Gun was still fairly fresh), they also had F-86 Sabers and P-51 Mustangs. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but now I realize that whoever was piloting that Mustang would be at a distinct disadvantage against even the F-4 Phantom.

I checked the Wikipedia page for these things, and incredibly there was an actual cartoon series for this! That only lasted five episodes in 1989. And was set in the far, Tom Clancy-esque future of 1998 (I remember when 2008 rolled around and thinking “You know, this is when the Russian Ultranationalist Party is supposed to seize control and try to conquer former Soviet Republics in an attempt to restore the Soviet Union”). And there’s also time travel, which explains the presence of the P-51 Mustang. At least in the show that pilot is able to even survive against modern fighters because apparently he’s a ghost or an alien or whatever. I’m afraid to watch the youtube videos as this show can only suck the way late 80s/early 90s toy cash-in cartoons can.

The true First World Problem: your lifestyle contributes to the exploitation of your fellow humans and the destruction of the environment somewhere in the world, and your efforts to reverse this are either extremely expensive, austere, or simply not enough to stop the harm being done.