Aerial Fragment: ‘crew’



Ghost Codes 002

Scanning for signals in darkness, for voices in static drift. Hearing only the song of ghosts as they spark across circuits.

Name of planet: unknown. Ship destroyed. No signs of life. Twin moons: one bone white, the other blood coloured.

Our captain buried the crew, then killed himself. Patterns of rain across the curve of my visor. Alone now. Battery low.

I am the last of the mechanisms. The coded remains of Planet Earth.

Databanks broken. Only fragments left to me: cascade of numbers, images, lost memories. From these I will build pulse signals.

Flicker of readout: red, green, yellow. Seeking output texts. 140bit limit, intermittent bursts. Commencing…

 

[:REMIX:]



20110909 by temp_user9





Ghost Codes 019

A noise. Break turned to see a group of people climbing onto the roof. The fog catchers.

They attended to their nets. Three people, working by torchlight, checking the gauze for captures.

Break walked over to watch them. They ignored him completely, set on their task, scouring the surface of the nets for images.

Something flared in a torch beam. A shape of lighter colour, sparkling where the mist particles rested. It looked to be of human form.

Break stepped closer: a face, a woman’s face, her body, her hands moving on the net’s surface. The image was fleeting, illusive.

The crew spoke in low voices, excited at their find. Break turned to them, saying, “She’s mine. I’ll pay what you want”. They smiled.

But it was her. The singer. He knew it was. The wounded ghost made visible. Spots of red marked the face as it shimmered on the net.



20111118 by temp_user9





The Fog Catchers 009

Seven days later I’m waiting here, alone. It’s three in the morning. Darkness. No moon. And not yet dawn. The fog hasn’t arrived yet.

They say to never be up on the roof, not when the fog rolls in. All the crews say that, all the old guys. No fog on the skin.

It’s meant to be dangerous, unhealthy. Makes you crazy. So many stories, rumours. But here I am. Waiting. Waiting for the mist…

We did some searching, but the last week has brought nothing good, re the code. Only a few purchasers to follow, leading to dead ends.

I see it now, the fog. Grey curls, tendrils, black mass at the centre. It’s gathering at the estate’s edge. Creeping onwards.

I’ll bet it’s not another crew, stealing images. It can’t be. Freelancers, probably. Maybe selling onto somebody rich.

But why? The question remains.

I don’t care. They stole from us. They hurt us. Whatever they want, I want it too. I want it before them. So I’m here. I’m waiting…

The fog approaches. A cloud of lost forms. Almost alive, sparkling with colours, flashes of light. Here it comes!



20120308 by temp_user9