Thrumm picks his way through a tangle of ruins, flakes of rubble crunching under his feet. Metal filings trickle down the building’s skeleton. Bits and pieces crumble and make more streams. Sunlight glints off every surface. Thrumm’s gas mask pulses in a strange rhythm as he breathes. Thrumm knows he should’ve replaced his mask a long time ago. He knows he holds the remains of a city in his lungs. His gas mask won’t last forever, therefore neither will he.
He continues to walk. He holds a time-worn syringe in one hand, stained and scratched inside and out. The end of the syringe is a long, thick needle. It splits and grabs, pulling even the most uncooperative substances into its maw. Thrumm’s harvest is here somewhere. This cataclysm is fresh. As for what caused it . . . well, Thrumm understands it as much as anyone else does. Something appears, popping into existence, and causes ruin. It rots, it destroys, it curls its incomprehensible fist around what and whoever it chooses and it squeezes.
They call it Malum. It sounds to Thrumm like someone’s name, but no one really knows if Malum is alive. Maybe it’s a force of nature, or the wrath of some cruel god. Scientists are finding ways to use Malum as fuel, as a weapon. It scares Thrumm. He feels like an intruder, barging in on something bigger than himself. It doesn’t feel right to wrestle something so alive into a container, to harvest it for humanity’s futile obsessions.
Malum has wiped out towns, cities, countries, and even reasonable sections of continents. It isn't a consistent presence. Malum presents itself to people in many ways. Some see an all-consuming void, while others see a sea of light. Thrumm sees . . . skin. He sees flesh, thousands of eyes, shards of bone sticking out in every direction, a ball of pain and hate and trembling psyche. All of a sudden, as if on cue, there it is. Hovering and twitching forty or so feet away. Thrumm breathes in, breathes out, and breaks into a run straight toward the Malum. Its many eyes flicker and focus, analyzing Thrumm. The thing seems almost amused. Thrumm is insignificant, as all humans are in the vastness of the universe. Thrumm’s mask fogs with unspoken regrets.
The sample is still twitching, hours later, when Thrumm brings it to Nishe. She’s the only person he’s ever willing to sell to. Nishe buys Malum for more than most buyers. Thrumm can tell she appreciates the subtleties of harvesting. Thrumm will take any chance he can get to make a bit more money. He knocks on Nishe’s back-alley door. When she answers, he gives her a little grin and says, “I have a fresh harvest.”
Nishe nods and waves Thrumm inside. Her lab is cluttered, but it works. She has one of the best industrial freezers around — it’s her treasured possession. Nishe gets out a Malum jar and the appropriate transfer container.
“Where did you get this? It looks well-formed.”
“Sector Three. A couple of the factories over there were melted by this one. Took a while to find, but I’d say it was worth it. It’s no more than a day old and it’s a floater, too. How much do you think it’s worth?”
Nishe holds up one finger. Thrumm waits patiently while she transfers the Malum from the syringe into the jar, which vacuum-seals immediately. She then places it under a microscope and analyzes it for a few minutes.
“Hmm. Not bad. Not bad at all. I can give you a decent amount for this. Let’s say . . . forty-five thousand shiv.”
“I would haggle, but I’m tired. How ‘bout you give me forty-six and we’ll both be happy at the end of the day.”
“Ah . . . it’s a deal. This one is a good catch. One thousand extra shiv won’t kill me.”
“Thanks. Good doing business with you.”
“And the same to you. G’night.”
Thrumm is already stepping out the door. Time goes on. Thrumm picks his way through this tangled world day in and day out. He walks into the night and thinks of other things, anything but metal sands as far as the eye can see.
He continues to walk. He holds a time-worn syringe in one hand, stained and scratched inside and out. The end of the syringe is a long, thick needle. It splits and grabs, pulling even the most uncooperative substances into its maw. Thrumm’s harvest is here somewhere. This cataclysm is fresh. As for what caused it . . . well, Thrumm understands it as much as anyone else does. Something appears, popping into existence, and causes ruin. It rots, it destroys, it curls its incomprehensible fist around what and whoever it chooses and it squeezes.
They call it Malum. It sounds to Thrumm like someone’s name, but no one really knows if Malum is alive. Maybe it’s a force of nature, or the wrath of some cruel god. Scientists are finding ways to use Malum as fuel, as a weapon. It scares Thrumm. He feels like an intruder, barging in on something bigger than himself. It doesn’t feel right to wrestle something so alive into a container, to harvest it for humanity’s futile obsessions.
Malum has wiped out towns, cities, countries, and even reasonable sections of continents. It isn't a consistent presence. Malum presents itself to people in many ways. Some see an all-consuming void, while others see a sea of light. Thrumm sees . . . skin. He sees flesh, thousands of eyes, shards of bone sticking out in every direction, a ball of pain and hate and trembling psyche. All of a sudden, as if on cue, there it is. Hovering and twitching forty or so feet away. Thrumm breathes in, breathes out, and breaks into a run straight toward the Malum. Its many eyes flicker and focus, analyzing Thrumm. The thing seems almost amused. Thrumm is insignificant, as all humans are in the vastness of the universe. Thrumm’s mask fogs with unspoken regrets.
The sample is still twitching, hours later, when Thrumm brings it to Nishe. She’s the only person he’s ever willing to sell to. Nishe buys Malum for more than most buyers. Thrumm can tell she appreciates the subtleties of harvesting. Thrumm will take any chance he can get to make a bit more money. He knocks on Nishe’s back-alley door. When she answers, he gives her a little grin and says, “I have a fresh harvest.”
Nishe nods and waves Thrumm inside. Her lab is cluttered, but it works. She has one of the best industrial freezers around — it’s her treasured possession. Nishe gets out a Malum jar and the appropriate transfer container.
“Where did you get this? It looks well-formed.”
“Sector Three. A couple of the factories over there were melted by this one. Took a while to find, but I’d say it was worth it. It’s no more than a day old and it’s a floater, too. How much do you think it’s worth?”
Nishe holds up one finger. Thrumm waits patiently while she transfers the Malum from the syringe into the jar, which vacuum-seals immediately. She then places it under a microscope and analyzes it for a few minutes.
“Hmm. Not bad. Not bad at all. I can give you a decent amount for this. Let’s say . . . forty-five thousand shiv.”
“I would haggle, but I’m tired. How ‘bout you give me forty-six and we’ll both be happy at the end of the day.”
“Ah . . . it’s a deal. This one is a good catch. One thousand extra shiv won’t kill me.”
“Thanks. Good doing business with you.”
“And the same to you. G’night.”
Thrumm is already stepping out the door. Time goes on. Thrumm picks his way through this tangled world day in and day out. He walks into the night and thinks of other things, anything but metal sands as far as the eye can see.