[Fiction] Of Machines and Souls

[Neil Preston]

{{A cooperative fiction between Machina and Neil Preston.}}

Neil waved goodbye to Selena and stepped through the Warp. He still had some distance to cover before getting to Wardenclyffe Tower, because he didn't want to pop in too close to the eccentric inventor's territory. If working with novas had taught him anything, it was that some of them were very particular about the space they considered home.

His satchel slung over his shoulder, he began hoofing it through Brookhaven, heading north to Shoreham, and his destination ... the location of Tesla's Folly and that enegmatic inventor's successor, Machina. The Long Island landscape was pleasant this time of year. Not yet turning to autumn, but without the mugginess of high summer.

Neil kept to side roads and took his time, nearly two hours, to finally arrive at Shoreham. He approached the old laboratory - turned museum, but decided to give it a wide berth. Machina had been clear in his indication of the tower itself, not the laboratory associated with it, and he found that curious. The original tower, never completed by its inventor, was torn down by the US government back in 1917, though the sight still remained. Neil walked under what would have been it's shadow, stopped, and looked around.

"Well, I guess I should be looking for something," he muttered. His node fired and his quantum enhanced senses took over. He scanned about for living energy, detecting an odd resonance from the ground itself.

Neil knelt down and touched the earth.

"Curious," he whispered, "I should have dad come down here sometime and look around."

[Machina]

Wardenclyffe had seen better days. Overgrown with vines and brush, left to rot by the ravages of time and neglect, it was a dilapidated husk of it's former majesty, a forgotten relic even before an age of gods. It had a lot in common with the man who first commissioned its erection, an oft-forgotten Russian scientist known as Nikola Tesla.

In his time, Tesla was the most brilliant inventive genius alive, which is saying much of a man who was the contemporary of Edison. During his life, Tesla invented the radio (popular myth says it was Marconi), RADAR, MRIs, alternating current, an earthquake machine, the Tesla coil and scores of other inventions both prominent and forgotten, nearly none of which the scientist is credited with by history, save by a select few.

He was also quite horribly mad, especially during the latter years of his life.

Tesla and Machina have a lot in common.

Three stories below the surface of the city street, the nova known mostly as Machina reclined in a swiveling office chair, his boots relaxed up on the control console of an immense mainframe, with a twenty-by-twenty foot screen of liquid silicate crystal displaying a dozen or so views of camera eyes around the perimeter and interior of Wardenclyffe tower.

Six or seven other windows had novas-only porn on, but that was neither here nor there.

Dozing slightly, smeared with grease, Machina roused a bit as one of the perimeter alarms picked up on a presence outside the building gates. He yawned, stretched, and scratched his chin absently, scraping axle grease into the stubble on his chin. He swung his heels off the console and leaned forward, lurching and groping for a Lucky Strike and his zippo lighter. He threw six issues of 'Nova Blue' on the floor and crumpled up a dozen hot dog sleeves before finally locating the little metal lighter, which he used to light his cigarette with near frantic zeal, inhaling deeply and immediately, and then snorting the smoke through his nostrils.

With a tak-tak-tak, Machina called up screen 009 to full screen and saw Neil Preston, gawking around the perimeter gate, fondling the dirt at his feet.

"Hmph. Looks like Neil finally decided to show up." Clicking a knob on his headset, Machina spoke into the mic craning around near his mouth.

"Barry, let the kid in."

Outside, a strangely formidable uniformed security guard standing outside the gate approached Neil Preston with a polite but firm "Excuse, me, sir?"

[Neil Preston]

Excuse me, sir?"

Neil looks up and smiles,

"Hey, yeah. I'm Neil Preston and I have an appointment with the proprietor."

Neil has that easy care-worn smile and relaxed demeanor that makes too many people think 'Hippy', or 'stoner'. Yet, his eyes are clear and bright and his movements full of energy.

As Barry opens the gate, Neil looks him over.

"So, been working for the man long?"

-no response-

"Nice weather, eh?"

-a mildly annoyed look-

"Well, you should lay off the chips and fries. Your cholesteral is slightly elevated. Cut the right-side reps down to fifteen instead of twenty for the next two weeks. There is irritation in the tendons around the right/back shoulder tendons. I'm sure you feel it when you work out, but this isn't something you want to work through. Trust me."

-the look goes from mildly annoyed, to really annoyed, to confused. Barry stops walking and looks Neil over.

"You can see that?"

"Yessir."

Neil even points at the various points in the shoulder that carry the slight twinges of muscle ache.

"Ummm ... okay. Your the nova."

Barry heads up to the building again.

"So, been working for the man long?"

Barry snorts, but says nothing.

[Machina]

Opening the gate with disdain that would be aggressive were it not so passionless, Barry swings open the wrought-iron and scuttles Neil through. He cocks his head to the side somewhat and depresses a button on his earpiece, talking into nothing in particular. The odd gesture of tilting his head towards his shoulder like that is obviously an acquired habit, Neil notes, probably from having a radio mounted on his shoulder for a long time. "Neil Preston on site, sir."

"Goddamn it, you fucking jarhead!! You know full fucking well I can see the man on camera, and if I didn't, it would be because I wasn't in, and if I wasn't in, what the FUCK would you be doing letting someone onto my fucking property in the first place!?!" The voice rang out like a bell even over the radios, in all its whiskey and ciagrettes glory. The disembodied voice on the other end was that of a man who enjoyed his vices of screaming, unfiltered cigarettes and strong liquor thoroughly, but he lacked the world-weary fatigue of most men his age who were so given to such filthy habits. And his tongue was as sharp as they come, as evidenced by the ceaseless string of obscenities that issued forth from the radio as Barry shut the gate behind Neil, who had proceeded up the steps to the immense front doors.

A duo of carved oak doors set with iron hinges and fittings met Neil, buttressed by stone overgrown with ivy. The surveillance camera situated in the corner of the door frame was in plain view, and wasn't shy about following Neil's movements as he progressed up the walkway. When he got to the door, an audible click signaled the release of a magnetic lock, permitting Neil access inside.

[Neil Preston]

If the overwhelming presence of the cameras bothers him, Neil doesn't show it. He walks in and proceeds to wander about the place.

"It isn't often I get to examine such creative insanity, Machina," Neil speaks into the air. "Insanity being defined as the bold challenge of the conventional paradigm by fearless pioneers, that is. Do you see yourself as a Nova Age Tesla, Machina?"

Neil will make full use of the facilities, muttering once, or twice, "Dad should take a look at this ... I wonder what stories it would tell."

Occassionally, Neil will stop at an exhibit and stoop and stretch to get different viewpoints of the object of his attention.

Once, he will even stop and fire off an Op-mail to a doctor at John Hopkins in something Machina may recognize as a "Eureka!" moment.

[Neil Preston]

Neil smiles when he finishes the tour.

"Better to create than be remembered for creating, I bet," he muses.

He steps back on the elevator and says,

"Thanks for the time, Machina. Let's meet."

[Machina]

The elevator plummets downward for an unspecified but long amount of time. Most people who take this trip wonder exactly how far down Machina chose to place his evil underground lair. It gets noticeably warmer.

When he at last reaches bottom, Neil is greeted at the opened doors by a broad, worn-out room of corroded iron, dimly-lit by sweeping walls of laser sensors and fitted with glasslike panels across the entire length of the bottom.

The familiar voice from the radio shot out again, filling the room, but more relaxed now. "Pretty cool, huh, Neil? Hold still or you'll get yourself dead.

"I avoid all that horseshit with people circumventing the laser trackers by just erecting a wall of them. No getting around or through. What looks like glass plates beneath your feet are pressure-sensitive down to five milligrams. The sensors in the room are...about to be...are attuned to your precise weight, including your clothes, anything in your stomach, water weight. Anyone or anything deviating from the total weight of your person and the things on it will cause the plates that line the floor to give.

"You'll fall. For a very long time. At least."

A fit of hacking came over the radio.

"I've calibrated the system to your specs. You're safe to walk across. Just come through the door at the end of the hall."

[Neil Preston]

"Would this be a good time to remind you that I don't fly," joked Neil.

Neil took a tentative first step on the floor. When nothing happened, he took another, then another. As he approached the door, he asked,

"Is there anything special I should do when I open it ... like say Bond, James Bond?"

"I'm curious about how you would handle a nova with zero body-mass?"

[Machina]

The pressurized door at the end of the room opened manually, with a hiss of stale air. Machina stood behind it, his lip curled up into a pensive furtiveness. "Right now, I wouldn't. But most novas do. This system - if you can believe it - is just a fuckin' temp, modular. I slapped it together in a day. I've got a more universal security array in the works, but it's going to take time, y'know? Not on account a' me. I've got the plans, but locating all the parts is turnin' out to be a big pain in the dick."

Neil crossed the boundary, and Machina extended his hand in welcome, pulling Neil through the door before sealing it up again with a turn of an iron wheel, like you'd see on a submarine.

The lab inside was a shambles. It was unbelievable to think that anybody could work here, but in a way, it spoke of its occupant, a specially-designed habitat meant for a lone and specific mind. Broken and half-finished projects lay around like Vulan's toys, covered in dust or dropcloths or dirty laundry. The inside chamber resembled nothing so much as an auto garage, the kind you see in old movies, where the attendant is some greasemonkey who lives on a cot in the back room. Only this place was huge, the size of a military jet hangar, and Neil could only see a fraction of it from where he stood. It was impressive, in a very simple, honest way. Machina laughed. "Sorry about the mess, Neil. I don't really get enough company to bother keeping the place tidy, and this place is so fuckin' huge that trying to pick up so as to not look like a slob to visitors would pretty much be a colossal waste of my fuckin' time."

Neil's host gestured over his shoulder with an outstretched thumb. "You want to get on with business, or d'you want the grand tour? I've got your piece all ready, so I understand if y'just want to come'n go."

[Neil Preston]

"Let's make it the Grand Tour," Neil says as he drinks in the ambience of the module. "I learned long ago, don't set foot into any place you can't trace your way out of."

Neil looks about,

"Tidy ~ smidy, besides this place looks interesting."

[Machina]

Machina shrugged indifferently. "Eh, it's home. Mostly just a storehouse for all my junk, and a place to hang a cot or take a shit. Not that I sleep much anymore, but I like to get in a few hours when the tedium sets in. I wish I could say more, but there ain't a whole lot to see. Anyway." He leads Neil into the common area, visible from the door he just left, and points to a few things, wading through a sea of beer cans, dirty laundry, newspapers and scraps or rolls of paper. He kicks the junk around like it wasn't there as his features and his walk take on a hard appearance, his back and neck straight, his posture upright, his fists half-clenched. Military, no doubt, and probably career.

With very normal timing, Machina stops near the edge of the room, which Neil can now see is a domed structure only fifteen feet or so high that opens up at the far end to a vast, hollow space. Against the wall is a massive terminal stuffed with video screens, some of them displaying places Neil knows, and many showing places he does not. The whole counter is sick with microphones and dials and switches, and a couple of the screens show verious OpNet sites, most of them showing porn. The counter in front of it is in stark contrast to the hi-tech atmosphere: plain faux-wood formyca, peeling off to reveal pressed particle board underneath, like a greasy spoon diner. Machina addresses it dismissively. "That's just the command console, where I keep track of shit. Mostly the grounds here, but I keep tabs on a few of my favorite scumbugs, too. That one", he points directly to a smaller screen showing a fat, greasy fellow buying Lotto tickets at some faceless mini-mart, "he's a favor I'm doing for your dad, though he doesn't know it, yet. Child pornographer. I'm working on getting the evidence needed to put him down. But hey, enough of that shit, I'm sure you see plenty of that sphinx garbage, huh? Over here,"

He addresses the other side of what appears to be the actual inside of a submarine, pointing to a long, rough table made of solid wood that looks like it was pulled directly out of some biker's garage, complete with scores of cigarette burns, puddles of grease, half-empty beer cans and numerous score marks in the wood. It was cluttered with bits of technology from the last two hundred years, everything from nonelectrical gear mechanisms to vacuum tube devices to canisters full of nanites. It seems as though Machina appreciates his lo-tech as much as his hi, which wasn't very surprising. Lots of things Neil recognized were apparent on the table: an artificial kidney, a mechanical spine graft for patients suffering MS, but many more were a complete mystery. Some of them were definetely weapons. "This is just my work desk", he shrugged. "Shit that I'm either trying to finish or shit that I'm trying to tweak to make better. You might know that one", he pointed at the spine graft, "I hear John Hopkins uses them a lot, now. Anyway, it's pretty fuckin' boring, man, like I said. I won't bog you down in the details of forbidden tech. It'd just burden you, anyway." Machina's face looked frustrated for a moment, as if he was recalling an unpleasant memory. He shrugged it off, pointing his cigarette to an arched door that sat perpendicular to the door he had come in, opposite the hangar. "That's just my quarters. S'just a cot, a closet and a toilet, really, but if you have to go, you're welcome to."

Machina ground his cigarette out on the work table, lit up another and waited for Neil's reply.