The Pole Shift

Toorak

The feast was awful. Various tins - some with putrid contents which the decrepit islanders deigned to eat anyway. Toorak sat grim faced, not partaking. All eyes were on him, he held his once ship's sphere as if it were himself, all that he knew and wanted to be.

"Lord Vet, what is the egg you hold, can it be eaten?" Toorak wanted to strike the owner of the question, a young boy that flinched in the fire light, thinking he had addressed the powerful newcomer wrongly.

"No Boy, it is mine. My soul, but I do not know it's language."

"The Vet had a soul, he took it from the ear of The General after the war. It sparkles and can talk to the stars. We know nothing of it except that and that it is small."

"Where is this soul?"

"In a bottle with paper. It is in the Vet's home, your home."

"Show me to my home!" The boy led Toorak to the once Vet's house. It had been left alone since the Witch Woman had killed The Vet and stolen the hounds. It was much comelier than what he had seen and Toorak, exhausted and bewildered sat down on a rough bed. The boy watched as he rocked, it was the ocean's cradle that moved him, yet his sobs were his own. Toorak's hand went to his face and he whispered:

"My brothers." He lay himself down and slept. The boy, who had never been in the house for it was forbidden, curled up on the floor and waited.

The next day came. The boy sat upon the floor, his eyes were glued with conjunctivitis, his finger nails black. Slowly Toorak woke. In his dreams he ate the contents of the finest cans, and supped on the broth of sea birds. He laughed and sang with his brothers. The ill boy that looked upon him roused him from the dreams, and Toorak, a man past his prime asked:

"Bring me the Vet's soul boy." The child's eyes traveled to a bed side table. There sat a small vile with a scrap of paper and a small crystal within. The note read, insert crystal into ear lobe for interface with AI Prophet. Toorak read slowly, understand a few of the words.

"Bring me a blade." Minutes later a rusted knife was handed to Toorak, who hurled it away with revulsion. He roared:

"A shell! Bring me a shell!" The boy returned with a purple tinged Pipi shell. Outside the whole community engaged with the exchange as if great deeds were being performed that would define them.

Toorak crafted a slither that was sharp and cut open his ear lobe without expression. With calloused fingers he urged the crystal into his ear lobe wound, then pinched it shut, understanding well how to close a wound. Minutes passed, faces gathered at the door and at the windows. Toorak's eyes were far cast, then they sharpened as he felt an electrical pulse charge his earlobe. He looked behind him, around him, the hair on his shaggy mane erect. A voice had spoken to him.

This is Prophet, invalid user.