Working For The Elf

“So,” said Kaye from the middle of the group, “now we work for the elf.”

“Strictly speaking,” corrected Dennis the IT guy, “everyone in the metropolitan area works for the elf, even if they don’t.”

“Do you think he’s Jack Frost?”  That was Cheryl with the cheap nose ring.

“Could be,” Amanda struggled with the key and a stiff lock.  “The blue and the white fur make you wonder, but he said to call him the elf, or sir.”  Finally the door opened.

They all went inside, Tom the cook flicking the light switch.  The room was cavernous, clearly built as an industrial space.  It was currently divided into part-rooms, most of them looking like bedrooms.  Amanda led them towards the centre of the floor explaining, “Our job for the next three days is to clear these sets out so we can refit.  Our kit’s coming at noon, so we need space freed up by then.  The skips are out the back door,” she looked at her plan and pointed, “over there.  Tom, you’ll take charge of the kitchen area.”

“Hey!”  Gavin was holding aloft a frankly inappropriate item of either black latex or black leather.  “Can we salvage stuff?”

“Not,” Amanda said firmly, “if it could have body fluids on it.  This place got shut down for its infections, not illegality.”

Two and a half weeks later the refit was done.  It was living, training, office and garage space for twenty.  Amanda and her team were administration, maintenance and support, but for whom?

The first door knock came on the eighteenth day.  Two men were outside; one very large, blond-haired and young, the other older with black hair and a beard.  “I’m Einar Haraldsson, frost giant, and this is Calhoun the killer,” said the blond.  “I believe we’re expected.”

Working For The Elf

“So,” said Kaye from the middle of the group, “now we work for the elf.”

“Strictly speaking,” corrected Dennis the IT guy, “everyone in the metropolitan area works for the elf, even if they don’t.”

“Do you think he’s Jack Frost?”  That was Cheryl with the cheap nose ring.

“Could be,” Amanda struggled with the key and a stiff lock.  “The blue and the white fur make you wonder, but he said to call him the elf, or sir.”  Finally the door opened.

They all went inside, Tom the cook flicking the light switch.  The room was cavernous, clearly built as an industrial space.  It was currently divided into part-rooms, most of them looking like bedrooms.  Amanda led them towards the centre of the floor explaining, “Our job for the next three days is to clear these sets out so we can refit.  Our kit’s coming at noon, so we need space freed up by then.  The skips are out the back door,” she looked at her plan and pointed, “over there.  Tom, you’ll take charge of the kitchen area.”

“Hey!”  Gavin was holding aloft a frankly inappropriate item of either black latex or black leather.  “Can we salvage stuff?”

“Not,” Amanda said firmly, “if it could have body fluids on it.  This place got shut down for its infections, not illegality.”

Two and a half weeks later the refit was done.  It was living, training, office and garage space for twenty.  Amanda and her team were administration, maintenance and support, but for whom?

The first door knock came on the eighteenth day.  Two men were outside; one very large, blond-haired and young, the other older with black hair and a beard.  “I’m Einar Haraldsson, frost giant, and this is Calhoun the killer,” said the blond.  “I believe we’re expected.”

Distraction

They couldn’t start without him, so they went looking.

They didn’t take the horses inside, that would have been silly.  Instead they tied all four up under some trees and went looking for the guy with the crown and bow.  They expected to be five minutes.

Having to pay for entry annoyed all three of them because they intended to find him and leave.  Five minutes tops, for which they’d paid full fee.  “When the revolution comes, brother,” War promised under his breath.

Then they saw the convention floor.  The rows of booths, the crowds and the costumes.

“He could wander around as himself, bow and crown and all, and he’d blend right in,” Famine pointed out.

“What does he see in this sort of thing?” asked Death.

“You mean aside from the scantily-clad young women and the cool weapon mock-ups?” replied War.  “Some of those swords are completely ridiculous, but fun.”

“We’ll have to split up,” declared Death, “I’ll take the middle section, Famine you’ve got the right, War you’re on the left.  We’ll meet at the far end.”

It took longer than expected to cross the room.  War and Death kept getting stopped for photos.  War’d snagged half a dozen vendor’s pamphlets and had two sensible conversations with people who’d asked about his armour.  Famine had gone via the cafeteria and was eating something on a roll.  “I like their pricing,” he told the others, “I suppose it’s the captive audience.”

They went outside again to think.  He was standing with the horses, talking to an angel.

“Where were you?” accused the angel, “The moment’s passed, again.”

“We were looking for him,” Death pointed at their fourth.

“I got given a ticket,” the one in a crown pointed upwards, “and told to use it.  What would you’ve done?”

Distraction

They couldn’t start without him, so they went looking.

They didn’t take the horses inside, that would have been silly.  Instead they tied all four up under some trees and went looking for the guy with the crown and bow.  They expected to be five minutes.

Having to pay for entry annoyed all three of them because they intended to find him and leave.  Five minutes tops, for which they’d paid full fee.  “When the revolution comes, brother,” War promised under his breath.

Then they saw the convention floor.  The rows of booths, the crowds and the costumes.

“He could wander around as himself, bow and crown and all, and he’d blend right in,” Famine pointed out.

“What does he see in this sort of thing?” asked Death.

“You mean aside from the scantily-clad young women and the cool weapon mock-ups?” replied War.  “Some of those swords are completely ridiculous, but fun.”

“We’ll have to split up,” declared Death, “I’ll take the middle section, Famine you’ve got the right, War you’re on the left.  We’ll meet at the far end.”

It took longer than expected to cross the room.  War and Death kept getting stopped for photos.  War’d snagged half a dozen vendor’s pamphlets and had two sensible conversations with people who’d asked about his armour.  Famine had gone via the cafeteria and was eating something on a roll.  “I like their pricing,” he told the others, “I suppose it’s the captive audience.”

They went outside again to think.  He was standing with the horses, talking to an angel.

“Where were you?” accused the angel, “The moment’s passed, again.”

“We were looking for him,” Death pointed at their fourth.

“I got given a ticket,” the one in a crown pointed upwards, “and told to use it.  What would you’ve done?”

Have We Defined The Problem?

“So why are all the stars turning blue?”

“That’s a generalisation, sir.”  Like every technical representative from NASA, the European Space Agency and the rest, the corrector looked nearly ill from fatigue.  “Almost all the night sky stars have turned blue.  Allowing for the difficulties in observing stars in the same portion of the sky as the sun, those seem to have turned red.”

“What’s that mean?”

“The blue ones are getting closer to us and the red ones are moving away.”  The astronomer sighed.  “As the chances of the universe moving around us are infinitesimal, it appears we’ve started moving differently.”  There were too many uncomprehending faces around the table, so some basics first.  “The earth orbits the sun, all the solar system does and it’s still doing that.  That’s very important.  Despite what some press elements have said, we’re not leaving the sun behind.”

His colleagues around the table nodded.

“What’s less appreciated,” he went on, “is that the solar system orbits the centre of the galaxy.  That’s the movement that’s changed and we don’t know why.”

“To complicate matters,” continued a Russian astronomer, “we are not moving alone.  A number of local stars have new paths that appear to be converging with ours: the Alpha-Proxima Centauri complex; Altair; Vega, and Fomalhaut.”

The politicians began to rhubarb anxiously among themselves until the Chinese delegation’s astronomer cut in, “Our observation-based calculations indicate converging but not colliding trajectories.  We believe these systems will travel in parallel.  Our naval comrades will wish to speak to the inconstancy of the navigational stars.”

“So,” said a politician low in the international pecking order, “It sounds like someone turned an engine on and we started moving.  Where’s the engine, who turned it on, where are we going and who’s steering?”

“We don’t know, yet.”

Have We Defined The Problem?

“So why are all the stars turning blue?”

“That’s a generalisation, sir.”  Like every technical representative from NASA, the European Space Agency and the rest, the corrector looked nearly ill from fatigue.  “Almost all the night sky stars have turned blue.  Allowing for the difficulties in observing stars in the same portion of the sky as the sun, those seem to have turned red.”

“What’s that mean?”

“The blue ones are getting closer to us and the red ones are moving away.”  The astronomer sighed.  “As the chances of the universe moving around us are infinitesimal, it appears we’ve started moving differently.”  There were too many uncomprehending faces around the table, so some basics first.  “The earth orbits the sun, all the solar system does and it’s still doing that.  That’s very important.  Despite what some press elements have said, we’re not leaving the sun behind.”

His colleagues around the table nodded.

“What’s less appreciated,” he went on, “is that the solar system orbits the centre of the galaxy.  That’s the movement that’s changed and we don’t know why.”

“To complicate matters,” continued a Russian astronomer, “we are not moving alone.  A number of local stars have new paths that appear to be converging with ours: the Alpha-Proxima Centauri complex; Altair; Vega, and Fomalhaut.”

The politicians began to rhubarb anxiously among themselves until the Chinese delegation’s astronomer cut in, “Our observation-based calculations indicate converging but not colliding trajectories.  We believe these systems will travel in parallel.  Our naval comrades will wish to speak to the inconstancy of the navigational stars.”

“So,” said a politician low in the international pecking order, “It sounds like someone turned an engine on and we started moving.  Where’s the engine, who turned it on, where are we going and who’s steering?”

“We don’t know, yet.”

A Letter From An Old Friend

To Whom It May Concern,

Being what I am, I became aware of your kind when they became aware that I might be more than a light in the sky.

You didn’t bring me into existence, I was here long before that.  I will be here still after you fade, change or leave.  That is tied to my nature as your futures are tied to the mutability of your flesh.

You were not the first to look upon me, but we do not speak now of them, we speak of you.  You gave me a plethora of names, forms, roles and genders that I would not have thought of on my own.  None of them are or were what I actually am but they were what you needed me to be.

You were the first I’ll tell you of to send objects to me.  I know what you told yourselves you were doing and I know what you found when you did it, but I regard them as offerings.  Reminders of our old relationship.  Offerings that will not corrode as those in earthbound temples do.

Then you came to me.  You left markers of yourselves in the dust, footprints that will never know wind or tide.  I was uncertain of those things you left behind as they were change and change here is both seldom and violent, driven by meteors and comets, but I am becoming used to them.  I will keep them, as long as I am allowed, preserving them for those who come after you or for your descendants, whether changed by time or returned from places neither of us can yet imagine, or both.

You might not visit me again but if you come to stay, we will need to renegotiate our relationship.

I remain,

The Moon.

A Letter From An Old Friend

To Whom It May Concern,

Being what I am, I became aware of your kind when they became aware that I might be more than a light in the sky.

You didn’t bring me into existence, I was here long before that.  I will be here still after you fade, change or leave.  That is tied to my nature as your futures are tied to the mutability of your flesh.

You were not the first to look upon me, but we do not speak now of them, we speak of you.  You gave me a plethora of names, forms, roles and genders that I would not have thought of on my own.  None of them are or were what I actually am but they were what you needed me to be.

You were the first I’ll tell you of to send objects to me.  I know what you told yourselves you were doing and I know what you found when you did it, but I regard them as offerings.  Reminders of our old relationship.  Offerings that will not corrode as those in earthbound temples do.

Then you came to me.  You left markers of yourselves in the dust, footprints that will never know wind or tide.  I was uncertain of those things you left behind as they were change and change here is both seldom and violent, driven by meteors and comets, but I am becoming used to them.  I will keep them, as long as I am allowed, preserving them for those who come after you or for your descendants, whether changed by time or returned from places neither of us can yet imagine, or both.

You might not visit me again but if you come to stay, we will need to renegotiate our relationship.

I remain,

The Moon.