Big Echo

Critical SF

versus / and

by Ahimaz Rajessh

Read an interview with the author

 (This Gonster named Micmeg, who has been around since the dawn of space, is a illenialm, that is to say he supposedly wakes up once in a millennium, which to him rolls round close to half a decade, his seemingly never-ending slumber attributed to his voracious appetites.)

Micmeg, who sort of looks like an isolated microbe that waltzed up to clarity under a microscope, at present let out a squeal first, then realized his finger stung like hell. While observing glaciers melting in the Arctic, he had absentmindedly placed one of his fingers in a parking space continents away. As he licked his wound he felt his index finger smelt funny, the fingernail went missing and his metacarpo- or some such-phalangeal joints were smoking hot. He shrank broodingly to the size of an ermine and then distended as huge as the opaque atmosphere allowed him. Oblivious to the fact that he has saved some lives and left many choking in his pool of blood he turned round, saw an unsapiened aerial vehicle hovering many mountains away, seized it, dipped it in a near-dry oil well oceans away and munched softly on it. Then he stood up yawning, crackling his stinging knuckles.

(His craving for nebulae and planets are legendary. The last time he swallowed a grey hole he clinically suffered dysmotility. He is only one of many Gonsters, so where are the others, one might wonder. Maybe they possess even greater appetites. Craving after Universes, possibly. That would make Micmeg the least destructive of them all, again, possibly. The mouth (if such a thing exists) of the grey hole, says the analyst, it begins, you see, at the cutthroat Gonster’s windpipe.)

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The unsapiened aerial vehicle dribbled data into Micmeg’s bloodstream. That made him disoriented not because it was too much for his mind. It contained so much precise nonsense that it took him a minute to isolate a precise location and a proud rotatory heartware. Then he stooped, reached for an artificial yet conscious Mathu—who at first confronted Micmeg’s palm fearlessly and then dashed toward what looked like a den through a porch made of laterite rocks—and nipping him by his foot he muttered ‘Where is MY fingernail.’ Then not waiting for an answer, being oblivious to the fact that Mathu’s napping hour was an hour away, he distended again, dipped Mathu in a cumulonimbus cloud weathers away and munched on what remained of Mathu which, to say the least, made quite a morsel. Having savored his snack (and having caused, as per reliable media report, natural disasters of some unknown agency), the radar-deflecting Micmeg shrank and then slobbering, he distended once again, leapt, somersaulted so as to evade a robicide trial, and much else, and as if he were some snooty president, sat blocking the entrance to the Amusehouse, no less, worlds away.

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Once Micmeg came this close to dipping Earthball in a milky barred spiral galaxy and chewing on it mindlessly but then dimly remembered he is not to meddle with the sapiens, be they homo or robo, and with what they consider as theirs, except under circumstances wherein meddling becomes an unbearable necessity, as our Earthball tended to by sapiens, beside trillion other kinds, is deemed to contain potential crude cosmic energy that would at some point, including now, assist in holding together the ceaselessly (dubious but) yes-beneficial chaos (dubious because in the realm of yes versus no the benefits of yes-beneficial outweigh the risks of no-beneficial chaos. Yet of note is that there’s reportedly an ontological hyporealist realm of yes and no, kind of like the unromantic realm of lovers and strangers, sans benefits or risks theoretically as such but with minutely perceptible concurrent benefits and risks nonetheless, with just the urge to purely becomeandbe times whatever, which the articulate ‘illiberal’ populists are impolitely dismissive of, of course, because it reportedly time and again has enticed ideologists and literalists to make mean advances toward nonhistorical beings including clans of sapiens leading often circuitously and directly to deforestation, ostracization, genocides and workshopped to death datory beside fascist nationalists, uniterrorist states, neopatriots and goes the list; while at the same time and not for the same reasons leading to often unacknowledged inarticulate datory, Kero Kero Bonito, seemingly flawless parenthetical remarks and offsprings beside multiplicity-bitten pluralists, insurgents, hyperrealists and the list goes on). Besides he has lately become awkwardly fond of orcas and lilies and even fonder of flipbooks and harpists.

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The quarrelsome Mathu, who sort of looks like an alleged radical Muthu in terms of his cabling and countenance, because readers immersed in certain ways of reading that’s now near universal wouldn’t easily connect to this tale at hand sans this following catharsis (and as a result it would be deemed unacceptable to plainly state that he’s just an ordinary, not all that interesting a character), was just exiting his firm—Predicting Cores—after an uninterrupted three-day work schedule, after having queried ‘What the heck is a pay rise?’ out loud at his toxic chief, when he witnessed overhead what looked like a sunlight-interrupting giant right hand. Mathu’s foes and mates might not end up thinking, sensing the permanent void of his absence, he voluntarily chose, sans notice, permanent sub-base work, or just might. Mathu, in the past, just a year after our kind declared themselves to be conditionally autonomous, purchases a memory launcher—unReal sLot—and reflects between touching begin and begone, then not touching begone, touches begin, and now between Mathu’s memories and Mathu’s body remains in oblivion, after the fiction, a not quite virtual, unforgiving and untimely quiet spirit space.

It would be tricky yet not impossible, provided he left behind some ill-formed poop, to lure Micmeg to shrink to the size of a virus, cast the inDraneT, scan and destroy him with or without a fair trial, trialling him as a being of the universe, or to even trial and pardon him, but the legal keys to the said high and mighty net of Indra is in the pretty hands of the urbanely not quite secretive, unpredictable part-private united empires known quietly as verSus, so.

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Now then having discovered his new favorite dish, after the fact, that amounts to a meagre snack Micmeg has resolved to only catnapping and sleeping never again. It figures he sure knows his enrichments would pirouette alone or in pairs and packs to—this place with yes and no coordinates—his high-rise Amusehouse called Tower of Bel.

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‘Unsolved mystery, or is it history, presents itself as a question that pops up throbbing, stiff like a dead homosapien’s genital subjected to shock. The robosapien picks it up for a pen oozing blood slime ink and owning it up weaves with it. The hypothetical observer watching it says to self isn’t it wonderful lapping it up, but why’—Analyst Milena Madachamy in conversation with a Dee Di, Jr. during a session of not quite toppling planets but cutting or forgetting epics and recollecting folktales held at Den of Kumariyokumarana in Kuttralam

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