Tailored Realities, page 10
I’ve always been intrigued by this side of science fiction, the “it’s totally not a dystopia, we promise” genre where we look at some aspect of future life that is “normal” by their accounting, but obviously far from it by ours. It’s also one of those stories I wrote knowing there was no real place for it—it’s a quirky little story, unpretentious, of the sort that could maybe find a home in one of the magazines. But if I sell a story to a magazine (assuming they want a low-stakes story like this from me in the first place), they’re going to put my name on the cover in big letters for marketing purposes. Then people might buy the magazine expecting a “Brandon Sanderson” story and instead get a tiny exploration of the future that isn’t really trying to do many of the things I normally do. So I held it back and decided not to try to sell it anywhere, figuring this collection would someday be the best home for it. I’m glad you have a chance, now, to see it!
“Master Johnston?”
“Yes, Skip?”
“I was wondering if maybe we might review my employment situation.”
“What? Now? Lad, this isn’t the time.”
“Er, I’m sorry, sir. But I believe this is exactly the time. And I apologize, but I don’t intend to move until I’ve had my say.”
“Fine. Fine. Be on with it, then.”
“Well, Master Johnston, you know how we’re here to kill this dragon, sir?”
“Yes. That’s our job. Dragon hunters. It says so on your bloomin’ jacket, lad!”
“Well, sir, technically you and the other boys are the hunters.”
“You’re an important part, Skip. Without you, the dragon won’t never come!”
“I believe you mean ‘will never come,’ sir. And, well, this is about my part. I realize it’s important for you to have someone to draw the dragon.”
“You can’t catch nothing without bait.”
“‘Can’t catch anything,’ sir. And that is as you’ve said. However, I can’t help noticing one factor about my role in the hunt. I am, as you said, bait.”
“Yes?”
“And it seems to me that if you put bait out often enough…”
“Yes?”
“Well, sir, eventually that bait is going to end up getting eaten. Sir.”
“Ah.”
“You see my trouble.”
“You’ve been doing this for a year now, and you ain’t ever gotten ate.”
“That sentence was deplorable, sir.”
“What’s math have to do wi’ this?”
“You’re thinking ‘divisible,’ sir. Anyway, yes, I’ve survived a year. Only, I’ve started thinking.”
“A dangerous habit, that.”
“It’s chronic, I’m afraid. I’ve started thinking about the number of near misses we’ve had. I’ve started thinking that, at some point, you and the boys aren’t going to get to the dragon quickly enough. I’m thinking about how many reptilian bicuspids I’ve seen in recent months.”
“I’ve cussed more than twice myself.”
“So…”
“All right, lad. I can see where you’re going. Two percent, and nothing more.”
“A raise?”
“Sure. Two percent’s good money, son. Why, when I was your age, I’d have died to get a two-percent raise.”
“I’d rather not die because of it, sir.”
“Three percent, then.”
“You pay me in food, sir. I don’t get paid any money.”
“Ah. I forgot you was a smart one. All right. Four percent.”
“Sir, you could double it, and it would be meaningless.”
“Don’t get so uppity! Double? What, you think I’m maid of coins?”
“The word is ‘made,’ sir.”
“Huh? That’s what I said. How—”
“Never mind. Sir, this isn’t about money, you see.”
“You want more food?”
“No, er…”
“Be on with it! That dragon ain’t going to kill himself!”
“Technically, dragons—being sapient beings—likely have a suicide rate similar to other intelligent creatures. So perhaps this one will kill himself. It’s statistically possible, anyway. That’s beside the point. You see, sir, I’d rather change my participation in the hunts.”
“In what way?”
“I’d like to be a hunter, sir. You know. Hold a harpoon? Fire a crossbow? I wouldn’t mind just reloading for the other hunters until I get the hang of it.”
“Don’t be silly. You couldn’t do that while out in the center of the field, being bait!”
“I wasn’t talking about doing that while being bait. I’d rather do it instead of being bait. Sir.”
“But nobody else has yer special gift, son.”
“I don’t think it’s all that great…”
“Why, sure it is! In all my years hunting dragons, I’ve never met someone who attracts them like you do. You’ve got a gift.”
“The gift of smelling delicious to dragons? Sir, I never asked for this.”
“Just ’cause a gift is unexpected doesn’t mean it ain’t a gift.”
“A knife to the back can be unexpected. That doesn’t make it a gift either. Sir.”
“Look, son. You’re special. The scent of you … it drives them mad with hunger. It’d be a shame to waste that. Do what you were created to do. Reach for the stars.”
“Stars are giant balls of gas, burning far away.”
“They are?”
“Yes. Reaching for them, even if it were possible, would likely burn my hand. Sir.”
“Ain’t that something.”
“Isn’t that something.”
“That’s what I said. Either way, son, you need to explore your talents.”
“My talent is getting eaten by dragons, sir. It seems that’s less something to explore, and more something to experience. Once. In a grisly, painful, and abruptly ending sort of way.”
“…”
“Well?”
“I see that yer a smart one, son.”
“Thank you.”
“Five percent.”
“I—”
“It’s here! It’s circlin’! Lad, we’ll have to talk about this later.”
“Okay. You know what, fine. Once more. But that’s it.”
“Good lad. Out there you go. You remember the script?”
“Of course I remember it. Ahem. I’m so very tired! Also, I hate sunlight. So I’m not going to look upward. I’m just going to stroll along across this … er … rocky place of rocks and find a place to lie down and take a nap.
“Gosh! I’m sad that I tripped and got dust in my eyes, so I couldn’t see anything for a few moments when that breeze passed me by. Just a breeze, and not the beating of nearby dragon wings. Not at all. Perhaps I will take my nap in this little dip in the ground. I hope no wild beasts are around to savage me.”
“PSSST. Skip. Bite! The script says ‘bite me’!”
“I’m extrapolating!”
“What’s the dragon’s skin have to do with this?”
“That’s exfoliate, Master Johnston. Look, he’s coming back around. Hush. Ahem. Yes, I’ll just be nodding off to sleep now!”
“…”
“What’s the beast doing?”
“He landed up there. I think he’s suspicious. He’s craning his neck down and—”
“YOU’RE A TERRIBLE ACTOR.”
“Er. Really? I actually thought I was getting better. I’ve been practicing in front of the mirror, you see.”
“TERRIBLE. I’VE SEEN PIECES OF SOAP THAT WERE BETTER ACTORS THAN YOU. YOU HAVE AN ENTIRE FLEET OF DRAGON HUNTERS WAITING, I ASSUME.”
“Um. No?”
“NO YOU DON’T HAVE THEM? OR NO I DON’T ASSUME IT? BECAUSE I REALLY DON’T THINK YOU’RE CAPABLE OF JUDGING WHAT I DO AND DON’T ASSUME. BY THE WAY, WHO WROTE THAT SCRIPT FOR YOU?”
“Master Johnston.”
“HE NEEDS AN EDITOR.”
“I’ve tried to explain that! Do you know how difficult it is to work with such awful lines?”
“THAT DOESN’T EXCUSE YOUR BAD ACTING.”
“It gives some context at least, doesn’t it?”
“NO.”
“So, um, if you saw through the ploy … why are you still here? Shouldn’t you have fled?”
“I … THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT YOU, SMALL HUMAN. YES. SOMETHING … INTOXICATING. WHY DON’T YOU CLIMB UP HERE TO ME?”
“Excuse me?”
“CLIMB ON UP HERE.”
“You’ll eat me.”
“THAT’S THE IDEA.”
“Then I think I’ll decline.”
“OH, COME NOW. IT WON’T BE SO BAD AS YOU THINK. THEY’RE WILL BE HARDLY ANY PAIN AT ALL.”
“I don’t care if there’s pain or not. I’ll still be dead. And you used the wrong version of ‘they’re.’ You wanted ‘there’ instead.”
“I DID? HOW CAN YOU TELL? THEY’RES NO DIFFERENCE IN THE SOUNDS THEY MAKE.”
“Actually, I can hear apostrophes.”
“WHAT, REALLY?”
“Yes. I can hear spelling too, actually.”
“THAT’S … INTERESTING, CHILD. VERY INTERESTING. WELL, TIME TO GET THIS OVER WITH. NO USE IN DELAYING. COME ON UP AND BE EATEN.”
“You don’t make a very compelling argument.”
“I’M A BUSY DRAGON.”
“Funny. I have lots of time. I could sit here all day, so long as it involves not being eaten.”
“OH, COME NOW. DON’T BE DIFFICULT. THIS IS WHAT YOU WERE CREATED TO DO.”
“What gives you that terrible idea?”
“IT’S THE CIRCLE OF LIFE, YOUNG HUMAN! THE BEAUTY OF NATURE! EACH CREATURE IN TURN IS CONSUMED BY A LARGER CREATURE, ROUND AND AROUND, UNTIL WE REACH THE APEX PREDATORS. UM … I’M ONE OF THOSE, BY THE WAY.”
“I’d noticed.”
“WELL, THE COWS EAT THE GRASS, THE WOLVES EAT THE COWS, THE MEN EAT THE WOLVES, THE DRAGONS EAT THE MEN. ALL VERY MAJESTIC IN ITS SIMPLICITY.”
“We don’t eat wolves, actually.”
“YOU DON’T?”
“No. Not unless we’re very hungry. Even then, they don’t taste very good, so I’m told. Too stringy.”
“YES, WELL, YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO. MEN NEVER DO AS THEY’RE TOLD. CASE AND POINT, THIS MOMENT, WHERE YOU HAVE THE STARTLING RUDENESS TO REFUSE BEING CONSUMED. HOW CAN I PERSUADE YOU?”
“Actually, you are persuading me.”
“REALLY? THIS IS WORKING? ER, I MEAN … OF COURSE I AM. I’M KNOWN AS A COMPELLING CONVERSATIONALIST, AMONG MY PEERS.”
“You didn’t need that comma, and you probably should have put ‘among my peers’ after ‘I’m known.’ It’s also ‘case in point,’ but that’s beside the point. You see, I said you were persuading me because the definition of the word implies the act of trying to get someone to do something, whether or not you are successful. You persuade someone, then you either fail or succeed. Most people use it incorrectly. The word you wanted was ‘convince.’ You need to convince me, not persuade me.”
“YOU’RE NOT MUCH FUN AT PARTIES, ARE YOU, SMALL HUMAN?”
“I … uh … don’t get invited to parties very often.”
“I CAN’T IMAGINE WHY. SO ARE YOU GOING TO STOP WHINING AND COME GET EATEN LIKE A MAN?”
“No.”
“YOU’RE MAKING MOTHER NATURE CRY.”
“Good. We could use more rain. Why don’t you go eat a cow?”
“WHY DON’T YOU GO EAT SOME GRASS?”
“Um … humans can’t digest grass.”
“AND DRAGONS CAN’T DIGEST COWS.”
“Really?”
“REALLY. HUMANS WERE DESIGNED AND BUILT TO BE EATEN BY DRAGONS. IT’S THE NATURE OF THINGS.”
“I find that rather unfair. Who eats you?”
“THE WORMS, ONCE WE’RE DEAD. IT’S ALL VERY METAPHYSICAL.”
“But you have to eat humans?”
“IF WE DON’T, WE DIE.”
“How are there any humans left?”
“WE DON’T NEED TO EAT VERY OFTEN, LITTLE HUMAN. ONCE EVERY FEW MONTHS. THERE’S A MORE THAN LARGE ENOUGH POPULATION OF YOU TO SUSTAIN US. YOU DON’T RUN OUT OF … WHAT IS IT YOU EAT, AGAIN?”
“Cows. Pigs. Carrots. Very few wolves.”
“YES, WELL, THIS IS MUCH LIKE YOU EATING THOSE THINGS.”
“Except for the part about me dying.”
“THINK OF THE GOOD YOU’LL BE DOING.”
“Good? By keeping a dragon alive to continue terrorizing people?”
“NO, BY SACRIFICING YOURSELF FOR ANOTHER. IF I DON’T EAT YOU, I’LL JUST END UP FINDING SOMEONE ELSE. PROBABLY A FAIR YOUNG VIRGIN. POOR CHILD. IF YOU THINK ABOUT IT, GETTING EATEN RIGHT NOW WOULD BE A VERY BRAVE THING OF YOU. NOBLE, HEROIC.”
“Well, when you put it that way…”
“THAT’S IT, COME CLOSER.”
“… maybe I’ll come right up to the base of that ledge…”
“MY … THE SCENT OF YOU … I … WHY ARE YOU STOPPING? COME CLOSER! I CAN’T … I CAN’T … RAAAAAWR!”
“Have at ’im, lads!”
“Aaah!”
“RAWR!”
“HURK!”
“My arm!”
“Keep stabbin’!”
“FOOLISH LITTLE MEN! GAR! GR … BLURK!”
“Is he down?”
“You know what I say, lads. There’s always room for more stabbin’! Keep at it. And Skip, you did well. Even if you did ruinate the script.”
“Ruinate? Really? Did you just say that?”
“Well, you’re always using those big words and all. So I thought—”
“Never mind. I’m going to go wash off this dragon blood. Can’t believe that I put up with this…”
“He doesn’t look happy, Master Johnston.”
“Oh, don’t worry about Skip. He’ll be fine.”
“I don’t know. He looks really mad this time.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got a secret weapon.”
“Really?”
“Sure. Tonight, after we’re all fed and happy…”
“Yeah?”
“I’m going to give him a six-percent raise.”
POSTSCRIPT
This is perhaps the most bizarre story in the entire collection. I wrote it as an exercise, where I did a series of blog posts about ways to practice your writing. One type of focused practice I’ve found helpful is doing dialogue-only sessions, where you write something with multiple characters and use nothing but dialogue—not even any tags to say who is who.
The goal is to make the dialogue itself (and not the things around it) do the heavy lifting in a passage. If it’s written the right way, even with a group of people talking, the reader should be able to tell from context and diction which character is saying a given line.
I suggested this to people on my blog, then did the exercise myself and came up with this story. People enjoyed it and kept asking after it, so I eventually cleaned it up a little and added in some setting, tags, etc. It wasn’t, even then, meant to be anything more than a fun display of a writing exercise, but people continued to enjoy it—so even though it’s not very long and feels like it’s part of something longer that never got written, I’ve included it here!
It also let me use an idea that I’ve wanted to do as a magic system, but always felt was too silly for the Cosmere: someone whose talent lets them see dialogue in an almost LitRPG way, so maybe you can pretend this means I’ve dabbled in that particular subgenre.
“I’ve got him!” I yelled into the phone as I scrambled down the street. “Forty-Ninth and Broadway!” I shoved my way through an Asian family on the route home from the market. Their bags went flying, oranges spilling onto the street and bouncing in front of honking cabs.
Accented curses chased me as I lowered the phone and sprinted after my prey, a youth in a green sports jacket and cap. A bright yellow glow surrounded him, my indication of his true identity.
I wore the body of a businessman, late thirties, lean and trim. Fortunately for me, this guy hit the gym. I dashed around a corner at speed, my quarry curving and dodging between the theater district’s early-evening crowds. Buildings towered around us, blazing with the lights of fervent advertising.
Phi glanced over his shoulder at me. I thought I caught a look of surprise on his lean face. He’d know me from my glow, of course—the one visible only to others like us.
I jumped over a metal construction barrier, landing in the street, where I dashed out around the crowds. A chorus of honks and yells accompanied me as I gained, step by step, on Phi. It’s hard to lose a man in Manhattan. There aren’t alleyways to duck into, and the crowds don’t help hide us from one another.
Phi ducked right, shoving his way through a glass door and into a diner.
What the hell? I thought, chasing after, throwing my shoulder against the door and pushing into the restaurant. Was he going to try to get out another way? That—
Phi stood just inside, arm leveled toward me, a handgun pointed at my head. I pulled to a stop, gaping for a moment, before he shot me point-blank in the head.
Disorientation.
I thrashed about, losing sense of location, purpose, even self as I was ejected from the dying body. For a few primal moments, I couldn’t think. I was a rat in the darkness, desperately seeking light.
Glows all around. The warmth of souls. One rose from the body I’d left, the soul of the man to whom it had really belonged. That was brilliant yellow, and now untouchable. Unsavory, also. I needed warmth.
I charged for a body, no purpose behind my choice beyond pure instinct. I latched on, a lion on the gazelle, ripping and battering against the consciousness there, forcing it down. It didn’t want to let me in, but I needed that warmth.
I won. In this primal state, I usually do. Few souls are practiced at fighting off an invasion. Consciousness returned like water seeping underneath a door. Panic, horror—the lingering emotions of the soul who had held this body before me, like the scent of a woman’s perfume after she leaves the room.
As I gained full control, vision returned. I was sitting in one of the diner’s seats looking down at the corpse of the body I’d been wearing—the body Phi had killed.
