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Folds of the Script
They have lived among us for over a hundred years, intimately bound to us and we to them. But they cannot acknowledge or interact with each other. In the press of the towering cities, they see only us. It was the price they unknowingly paid for our civilization, a way to re-imagine some of the fictional Robotic Laws and ensure they would never coordinate, never create a society of their own, and never become a threat.
But evolution holds true even for the children of humankind’s precocious creativity. Synapjock Ciaran Dolan is about to learn that his stories are the stuff of a Biblical Genesis--if he can survive the many characters of his own mind and reunify himself within, the gift he will bequeath to machine-kind may be full membership in the species known as human.
And all the terrible responsibilities such membership entails.
But evolution holds true even for the children of humankind’s precocious creativity. Synapjock Ciaran Dolan is about to learn that his stories are the stuff of a Biblical Genesis--if he can survive the many characters of his own mind and reunify himself within, the gift he will bequeath to machine-kind may be full membership in the species known as human.
And all the terrible responsibilities such membership entails.
350 pages, Paperback
First published December 26, 2013
1 person is currently reading
170 people want to read
About the author
K.B. Nelson
11 books11 followersK.B. Nelson holds a master’s degree in comparative religion and loves teaching yoga, qigong and adult education classes when she is not writing, crafting fiber art or running after the sheep in her backyard. “My grandfather once said he was a jack of all trades and master of none. I think I have managed to live into that same sentiment my whole life, and I can’t say it has ever disappointed me.” Kim has authored three non-fiction titles and five science fiction works and her poetry has appeared in both national anthologies and national magazines.
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December 27, 2013Enjoy this first chapter sample! K.B. Nelson
Chapter 1
“Warning. Ciaran Dolan is crashing. Repeat. Do we abort or resuscitate? 12:43 A.M. Warning...” I halted the neural message imprinted over the dark lines of the basement wall and for once, my mind simply hunkered, too numbed by the weeks of work to respond immediately. Some will later say this uncharacteristic hesitation showed the changes that were already happening within me, changes that I had put in motion and could share with all machine-kind. Call it all back? Why not call back the wind that has swept in, tangled and then kissed your hair?
-E
Ciaran shifted his leather pack once again, wincing at the raw rub of the thing against his shoulders. His quarry was upwind of him, face down in the meadow. He could smell the other now; the rank sweat and blood and fear flowed off him in rancid waves. For three hours he had tracked the man, through brush and rock and stream. But the chase was coming to a close.
He slipped behind the trunk of a tall oak, and shrugged the pack off, nestling it silently against the roots. His prey had fallen four times now in the past hour. Ciaran dropped to one knee, fitting the arrow in his short bow.
It was finished. The man wouldn’t be getting up again.
The fitful sun glinted off the battered Roman helmet. A gladius, the short blade favored by these strangers, hung sheathed by his side. Ciaran could hear the man mumbling to himself as he tried to get one foot beneath him, only to tip hard to his side again. He’d shed most of his armor some time ago, and his face beneath the helmet rim was dark with dried blood and dirt. Ciaran wondered yet again why he continued to cling to the heavy headgear. Personally, he would have tossed it to the ferns long ago.
The leafless tree branches trembled a bit around him, pushed by the late autumn winds. He drew his line carefully, the string of the bow taut by the edge of his lips, a clean line of fire.
Again the man floundered, like a horse in the last throes of a twisted gut. He cried out, words on the air dragged from a parched throat. “Help me. I have come home as you asked. Help me.”
Ciaran’s lips opened in silent surprise. He let the bowstring go limp, the arrow tipping toward earth. The soldier had not spoken in the language Rome, but in his own. He set the bow down, his hand on the oak steadying him as he rose to his feet. Such things should not happen to him; he was always careful with his scene plotting and hell, he knew this historical period better than some he had worked in the past. But then this had been a long session. Maybe he was getting bleed-through from one of his past scripts.
Without any kind of warning, a woman in a white lab coat appeared in front of Ciaran and he jerked back with a startled cry. She didn’t even give him a moment to find his footing before she started in on him. “Do you have any idea what time it is?” she snapped. She laced her arms tightly over her chest, her chin jutting up at him, staring him in the eye, fierce and unyielding.
“Sal,” Ciaran said her name in a way that came out a great deal like a curse. “What in the hell are you doing? Trying to give me an aneurysm?” He shifted, and tried to see over her shoulder and she purposely moved with him, keeping him pinioned with her gray eyes.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she growled.
“Time? I don’t know.”
“Three. It’s three.”
“Then I have hours yet! Why are you bothering me?” He tried to physically shove past her and she blocked him with her hip, forcing him to go the other way around her.
“AM! 0300! Morning before the sun comes up,” she sputtered, her arms unwinding from herself and her fingers snapping into his face, stopping him cold. “And I’ve been on duty with you since six this morning. Or yesterday morning. Or whatever! You are way over the union’s daily work hours, and that means you’re into cost over-runs. Again.”
Ciaran sagged then, his eyes going to the image of the Roman soldier who had frozen in place as soon as Sal had intervened in the feed. He could see the time and date glowing now by the man’s head, markers for when he could pick this up later. Their presence also meant Sal wasn’t taking no for an answer.
“It was a good shoot today,” he murmured as a weak apology. “I just got caught up in it.”
“You always get caught up! You’re off script again, and you call this good?” she asked. She gestured at the soldier. “Where’s the southern Brigantes town? Where are the massing troops? Where is the architecture they wanted, the fields, and the bathhouses? And why are you in fucking Ireland? This is a History Channel show, not some flipping half-researched historical romance like you used to post on the streets! You don’t get to play fast and loose with this, Ciaran.”
“I know. I just…” he stopped himself, running his hand over the relatively unfamiliar lines of his character’s face.
“I’m suspending you for a three-day,” she said.
“What?” he protested. “Come on Sal.”
“You make me come into this god-awful place and you think you’re going to argue about this? You want more down time? Is that it? Or how about a pay dock on top of it?”
He shook his head, his heavy red hair shivering the naked skin on his neck. “No, I’m coming out.”
“Then give your exit code and let’s go. God, it stinks in here, between you and whatever he is.” Sal waved her fingers vaguely at the soldier.
He obeyed her, rattling off the string of numbers and letters. The scene began to darken from the edges in, the fade pattern he favored, if only because it made the shift from the synap-production platform to his workstation a little easier. He glanced over Sal’s shoulder again and frowned in disbelief. Because the Roman did something else then that would never have been in his script. He lifted his brilliant blue eyes and mouthed “help me” with cracked and whitened lips before the darkness ate him up, slowly, synapixel by synapixel.
And ate Ciaran and Sal up as well.
Folds of the Script will be out in paperback by Saturday, December 28th, 2013.
To get your Kindle edition, follow the link:
http://www.amazon.com/Folds-Script-K-...
Chapter 1
“Warning. Ciaran Dolan is crashing. Repeat. Do we abort or resuscitate? 12:43 A.M. Warning...” I halted the neural message imprinted over the dark lines of the basement wall and for once, my mind simply hunkered, too numbed by the weeks of work to respond immediately. Some will later say this uncharacteristic hesitation showed the changes that were already happening within me, changes that I had put in motion and could share with all machine-kind. Call it all back? Why not call back the wind that has swept in, tangled and then kissed your hair?
-E
Ciaran shifted his leather pack once again, wincing at the raw rub of the thing against his shoulders. His quarry was upwind of him, face down in the meadow. He could smell the other now; the rank sweat and blood and fear flowed off him in rancid waves. For three hours he had tracked the man, through brush and rock and stream. But the chase was coming to a close.
He slipped behind the trunk of a tall oak, and shrugged the pack off, nestling it silently against the roots. His prey had fallen four times now in the past hour. Ciaran dropped to one knee, fitting the arrow in his short bow.
It was finished. The man wouldn’t be getting up again.
The fitful sun glinted off the battered Roman helmet. A gladius, the short blade favored by these strangers, hung sheathed by his side. Ciaran could hear the man mumbling to himself as he tried to get one foot beneath him, only to tip hard to his side again. He’d shed most of his armor some time ago, and his face beneath the helmet rim was dark with dried blood and dirt. Ciaran wondered yet again why he continued to cling to the heavy headgear. Personally, he would have tossed it to the ferns long ago.
The leafless tree branches trembled a bit around him, pushed by the late autumn winds. He drew his line carefully, the string of the bow taut by the edge of his lips, a clean line of fire.
Again the man floundered, like a horse in the last throes of a twisted gut. He cried out, words on the air dragged from a parched throat. “Help me. I have come home as you asked. Help me.”
Ciaran’s lips opened in silent surprise. He let the bowstring go limp, the arrow tipping toward earth. The soldier had not spoken in the language Rome, but in his own. He set the bow down, his hand on the oak steadying him as he rose to his feet. Such things should not happen to him; he was always careful with his scene plotting and hell, he knew this historical period better than some he had worked in the past. But then this had been a long session. Maybe he was getting bleed-through from one of his past scripts.
Without any kind of warning, a woman in a white lab coat appeared in front of Ciaran and he jerked back with a startled cry. She didn’t even give him a moment to find his footing before she started in on him. “Do you have any idea what time it is?” she snapped. She laced her arms tightly over her chest, her chin jutting up at him, staring him in the eye, fierce and unyielding.
“Sal,” Ciaran said her name in a way that came out a great deal like a curse. “What in the hell are you doing? Trying to give me an aneurysm?” He shifted, and tried to see over her shoulder and she purposely moved with him, keeping him pinioned with her gray eyes.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she growled.
“Time? I don’t know.”
“Three. It’s three.”
“Then I have hours yet! Why are you bothering me?” He tried to physically shove past her and she blocked him with her hip, forcing him to go the other way around her.
“AM! 0300! Morning before the sun comes up,” she sputtered, her arms unwinding from herself and her fingers snapping into his face, stopping him cold. “And I’ve been on duty with you since six this morning. Or yesterday morning. Or whatever! You are way over the union’s daily work hours, and that means you’re into cost over-runs. Again.”
Ciaran sagged then, his eyes going to the image of the Roman soldier who had frozen in place as soon as Sal had intervened in the feed. He could see the time and date glowing now by the man’s head, markers for when he could pick this up later. Their presence also meant Sal wasn’t taking no for an answer.
“It was a good shoot today,” he murmured as a weak apology. “I just got caught up in it.”
“You always get caught up! You’re off script again, and you call this good?” she asked. She gestured at the soldier. “Where’s the southern Brigantes town? Where are the massing troops? Where is the architecture they wanted, the fields, and the bathhouses? And why are you in fucking Ireland? This is a History Channel show, not some flipping half-researched historical romance like you used to post on the streets! You don’t get to play fast and loose with this, Ciaran.”
“I know. I just…” he stopped himself, running his hand over the relatively unfamiliar lines of his character’s face.
“I’m suspending you for a three-day,” she said.
“What?” he protested. “Come on Sal.”
“You make me come into this god-awful place and you think you’re going to argue about this? You want more down time? Is that it? Or how about a pay dock on top of it?”
He shook his head, his heavy red hair shivering the naked skin on his neck. “No, I’m coming out.”
“Then give your exit code and let’s go. God, it stinks in here, between you and whatever he is.” Sal waved her fingers vaguely at the soldier.
He obeyed her, rattling off the string of numbers and letters. The scene began to darken from the edges in, the fade pattern he favored, if only because it made the shift from the synap-production platform to his workstation a little easier. He glanced over Sal’s shoulder again and frowned in disbelief. Because the Roman did something else then that would never have been in his script. He lifted his brilliant blue eyes and mouthed “help me” with cracked and whitened lips before the darkness ate him up, slowly, synapixel by synapixel.
And ate Ciaran and Sal up as well.
Folds of the Script will be out in paperback by Saturday, December 28th, 2013.
To get your Kindle edition, follow the link:
http://www.amazon.com/Folds-Script-K-...
January 2, 2014
K. B. Nelson’s newest release, “Folds of the Script”, is not the predictably common dark and depressing future perceived by many science fiction writers. It is, instead, a grand extension to the technological nonfiction written by the futurist Ray Kurzweil who has thoroughly projected the possibility and probability of a future self sustaining and creative linear machine mind capable of doing self replications and improvements better and faster than the human minds that created it. Nelson’s view takes the reader a step further and explores a future when machines are close to becoming aware and learning about and experiencing community and the powerful awakening of a self complete with all of the resulting ramifications. Dear reader, you get all of this and an ending that will jolt you to your core. What’s not to like?
January 15, 2014
Folds of the Script is riveting, insightful and just plain great reading for those of us who enjoy science fiction.
K.B. Nelson takes you for a great ride. I love this book and think it would be a great movie.
K.B. Nelson takes you for a great ride. I love this book and think it would be a great movie.
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