Fly Tipping - 12/Sep/2012
It was a popular spot. For fly tipping, anyway. Near the road. Out of direct sight. Quite a few people had found it really convenient.
He'd been in a hurry. Yes, he'd promised to store the stuff. But, his brother always dumped tat on him. And, never collected. A load of papers, some old paint tins, weirdly marked with bio-hazard signs. It all had to go. He was moving house, and he had quite enough of his own junk.
When he dumped the stuff, he wasn't careful. If he'd have cared, he'd have sorted it all, into the right recycling bins. Or, taken it to the 'amenity site', and been watched to ensure he put the right stuff in the right skip. So, one of the paint cans was holed, when he dumped the old tiles, and the bedstead. Who cared?
The heap brewed over several weeks. The liquid oozed out of the crushed can, first dissolving the papers, then into a water-filled dip in the ground. After a few days the other cans fell into the now thick pool of liquid, and themselves dissolved, then the tiles, and, finally the bedstead.
The liquid slowly changed colour, from a murky grey, briefly to a gleaming white, with red accents, then it shifted to blend into the background. A fox came and sniffed at it, then yelped, and bolted, as the liquid roiled. There wasn't enough, barely a hundred kilos, so tendrils reached out to other piles of rubbish, moving as if sniffing at them, and selected choice pieces.
The last arrival was a 'waste disposal specialist'. Supposed they cleaned-up for one of the cheaper local veterinary surgeries, and took things off for 'hygienic disposal'. Money was tight, and incineration was getting pretty expensive. The driver was a part-trained 'hygienic operative', and didn't even know enough to pick a good dumping spot.
Even so, you'd think a non-reflective grey pool would attract some attention. But, Dave just walked straight across it, and it conveniently went solid under each of his steps. Nearly a hundred kilos of dead pets, neatly bagged, with some convenient hedge clippings kicked over them, and he was finished, and could go home early.
Good quality organics was the main thing that'd been missing. This was a lane, just off a country road, but the pool had somehow felt it wrong to use living plants, or harvest too much from the soil. The bodies were ideal, and there was enough spare to build some organic reserves. Afterwards, the pool went back to sucking as much energy as it could from out of the sunshine.
Mako staggered, slowing climbing to all four feet. System Status: Power Reserves at 10%, not critical, but close to it. She tried to boot the Krem cell, it stuttered, then started to feed a reassuring steady stream of power. She took a deep breath.
Looking around, she'd just climbed out of a dip in the ground. Her organic system were functioning, but her cybernetics felt... wrong. Absent mindedly she grazed a bit on the local vegetation. Systems were slowly coming on-line, but parts of her modular weapons were just missing, all the lethal stuff an analysis suggested. The Forge was still there, and with that she should be able to replace anything missing, given the right resources.
But... her memory was fuzzy, both the organics and cybernetic archives. She didn't remember how she got here. Battle damage? No signs of that. Ah! Her sensor systems were coming on-line. GPS, one of the older formats, put her in middle England. FM radio broadcasts, television signals, cellular phone masts. Early 21st century.
She didn't remember coming to this Earth, and normally she was briefed... She'd been warned the Krem cell wouldn't work on most of them. Panic nearly froze her in place. What was her rider's name? D... Dan? Anger? No, that wasn't right, but was as much as she could remember.
Power reserves hitting 80% so she could afford to try the 'unconventional' systems. And, there seemed to be at least one she didn't recognise as part of her standard configuration. Holo cloak seemed good, as she cycled through different coat and mane colours for a horse, and the simulated rider worked, though the clothes looked wrong, but, quite why?
Now for the acid test. No sign of combat, so she'd risk social mode. Her insides folded, shifted, and she fell back onto two legs, wobbled, then stood. Shaking out her blonde hair she looked down, from her slightly less than two metre height. Summer dress, white of course, sensible shoes, her saddle morphed into a shoulder bag. Matched the TV broadcasts, so she should be OK.
'Enemy territory infiltration' package loaded.
Time to find out where she really was.
--
"It is the business of the future to be dangerous" - Hawkwind
It was a popular spot. For fly tipping, anyway. Near the road. Out of direct sight. Quite a few people had found it really convenient.
He'd been in a hurry. Yes, he'd promised to store the stuff. But, his brother always dumped tat on him. And, never collected. A load of papers, some old paint tins, weirdly marked with bio-hazard signs. It all had to go. He was moving house, and he had quite enough of his own junk.
When he dumped the stuff, he wasn't careful. If he'd have cared, he'd have sorted it all, into the right recycling bins. Or, taken it to the 'amenity site', and been watched to ensure he put the right stuff in the right skip. So, one of the paint cans was holed, when he dumped the old tiles, and the bedstead. Who cared?
The heap brewed over several weeks. The liquid oozed out of the crushed can, first dissolving the papers, then into a water-filled dip in the ground. After a few days the other cans fell into the now thick pool of liquid, and themselves dissolved, then the tiles, and, finally the bedstead.
The liquid slowly changed colour, from a murky grey, briefly to a gleaming white, with red accents, then it shifted to blend into the background. A fox came and sniffed at it, then yelped, and bolted, as the liquid roiled. There wasn't enough, barely a hundred kilos, so tendrils reached out to other piles of rubbish, moving as if sniffing at them, and selected choice pieces.
The last arrival was a 'waste disposal specialist'. Supposed they cleaned-up for one of the cheaper local veterinary surgeries, and took things off for 'hygienic disposal'. Money was tight, and incineration was getting pretty expensive. The driver was a part-trained 'hygienic operative', and didn't even know enough to pick a good dumping spot.
Even so, you'd think a non-reflective grey pool would attract some attention. But, Dave just walked straight across it, and it conveniently went solid under each of his steps. Nearly a hundred kilos of dead pets, neatly bagged, with some convenient hedge clippings kicked over them, and he was finished, and could go home early.
Good quality organics was the main thing that'd been missing. This was a lane, just off a country road, but the pool had somehow felt it wrong to use living plants, or harvest too much from the soil. The bodies were ideal, and there was enough spare to build some organic reserves. Afterwards, the pool went back to sucking as much energy as it could from out of the sunshine.
Mako staggered, slowing climbing to all four feet. System Status: Power Reserves at 10%, not critical, but close to it. She tried to boot the Krem cell, it stuttered, then started to feed a reassuring steady stream of power. She took a deep breath.
Looking around, she'd just climbed out of a dip in the ground. Her organic system were functioning, but her cybernetics felt... wrong. Absent mindedly she grazed a bit on the local vegetation. Systems were slowly coming on-line, but parts of her modular weapons were just missing, all the lethal stuff an analysis suggested. The Forge was still there, and with that she should be able to replace anything missing, given the right resources.
But... her memory was fuzzy, both the organics and cybernetic archives. She didn't remember how she got here. Battle damage? No signs of that. Ah! Her sensor systems were coming on-line. GPS, one of the older formats, put her in middle England. FM radio broadcasts, television signals, cellular phone masts. Early 21st century.
She didn't remember coming to this Earth, and normally she was briefed... She'd been warned the Krem cell wouldn't work on most of them. Panic nearly froze her in place. What was her rider's name? D... Dan? Anger? No, that wasn't right, but was as much as she could remember.
Power reserves hitting 80% so she could afford to try the 'unconventional' systems. And, there seemed to be at least one she didn't recognise as part of her standard configuration. Holo cloak seemed good, as she cycled through different coat and mane colours for a horse, and the simulated rider worked, though the clothes looked wrong, but, quite why?
Now for the acid test. No sign of combat, so she'd risk social mode. Her insides folded, shifted, and she fell back onto two legs, wobbled, then stood. Shaking out her blonde hair she looked down, from her slightly less than two metre height. Summer dress, white of course, sensible shoes, her saddle morphed into a shoulder bag. Matched the TV broadcasts, so she should be OK.
'Enemy territory infiltration' package loaded.
Time to find out where she really was.
--
"It is the business of the future to be dangerous" - Hawkwind