Treasure Poll: The History Of Cardenio

[Velox]

Vote here for your favorite Treasure story; entries have been randomized. Please MAKE SURE YOU READ ALL ENTRIES BEFORE VOTING.Voting begins now and will end on May 31 at 11:59 PM EST. Entries that do well will move on to the Treasure Final Poll, which will be posted at the conclusion of the 12th round preliminary poll.

• [*]Broken Treasure I push through crowds of people, with their blank expressions and droning movements, my hand clenched around a smaller hand in a sweaty grip. An angry expression occupies my face as I brush away stray hairs falling from my messy ponytail. Every now and then I see, from my peripheral, people slowing for only a second and taking second glances at the thing holding on to me; the thing holding on to me—he has a wild and dangerous look in his eyes. But also a look of fear and sadness that broke my heart when I would peer into his lost and unfocused, honey-brown eyes. I let the scene of what happened only moments ago replay in my mind, as my feet instinctively take me to my destination. I had been at my sister’s—she’s always having me over for her concern for me—but I knew this time she wasn’t inviting me over for a simple chat; she needed to talk, and I should have guessed from her tone over the phone that when I arrived she would be discussing what she had been trying to convince me of for the past year. “Audrey.” She was sighing in exasperation. I can still put that almost audible whine in her voice. “You’ve taken that thing—“ “His name is Kade,” I interrupt, with an edge to my tone. “Sorry. You’ve taken Kade to practically every professional in the country and no one knows what’s wrong with him. No one can cure him. You have no choice; you need to take him to an asylum—where someone else can deal with him.” I tried to keep my voice even as I responded, almost hissing between my teeth. “No, you’re right. There are no more people in this country who can help him—which is why I’ll be leaving the US in a few weeks.” My sister began to raise her voice. “How long are you going to keep this up? This isn’t fair to you, Audrey. This does not have to be your problem! It’s not your fault your darned husband left you alone with that—that sickened monster!” I saw the boy down on the floor, once playing with his stuffed bear, flash his eyes towards me, pain twisted on his face. I almost begin crying, looking deep into his eyes, into his soul. “And this is not fair to him!” I say each word slowly and shakily. “Don’t you ever let me hear you calling this boy a monster!” I stormed out of her house, dragging Kade behind me. We were going to the park, far away from my witch of a sister. By the time we arrive, I’m a sobbing mess. I collapse onto a bench as fresher tears come to my eyes. Kade sits quietly next to me, staring up at me with concern. Could he even know he’s the reason for my crying? He rests his head against my arm in his tender attempt to comfort me, and I swear I hear a frustrated sigh slip his lips. I look at him, his dirty, round face, messy blond hair, stiff tattered overalls—and those eyes, staring straight ahead, focused for the first time in his life. When his defectiveness was first discovered I hated myself, hated him. But now coming to know him, know him as a human, I could never bring myself to hate this precious boy. Only love him, so unconditionally and purely that nothing could lesion our bond. He is no monster but a child. He is my treasure and my son. -------[*]Night Job riiing riiing “Alright, alright!” riiing riiing “I’m coming!” riiing A naked man flung himself into the room, crashed into a small table and sent a telephone receiver flying. With honed reflexes he reached up and caught it, nearly sending it flying again thanks to his soapy grip. Transferring it to his other, less lubricated hand, he answered. “… hello?” “Protagon? It’s Alistair.” The man sat up, drips of water cascading from his hair. “I’ve been waiting for your call all day, man! You could have called earlier, I was in the shower!” “Just shut up and listen. I got you a job. Tonight you’re going treasure hunting - for treasure that’ll net us a solid ten million…” -x-x-x- Snowflakes whirled and whipped at Protagon. His costume was made from a leather/kevlar hybrid, which would keep him warm enough, but the exposed parts of his body - his jaw and, now he’d lost a glove, his left hand - were stinging as if the snowflakes were razorblades. He gritted his teeth and carried on. A corridor in an apartment building seemed an odd place to encounter a blizzard. Unless, like Protagon, you knew the owner of the penthouse you were targeting was rich enough to afford superhuman bodyguards. This particular one he’d met before - a lady who went by the alias Snow Devil; she’d based herself on the mythical Yuki-onna of Japanese folklore. She had the power to transform into a flurry of snowflakes and that was usually all it took for her to subdue an opponent. Which was why, Protagon knew, that pressing on like he was would soon make her flustered and angry. He marched through the oppressive snowstorm indifferently, enduring it for two more minutes when suddenly it all sucked away, coalescing several feet ahead of Protagon so that a pale, white-costumed woman could come into being. Before she’d even fully formed her arms were outstretched, and as the last snowflake attached itself to her she unleashed twin streams of ice. The attacks were plainly telegraphed and Protagon avoided them with a simple duck and weave. He reached for his belt. Snow Devil flicked a hand towards him and a four-foot-long icicle whizzed his way. Protagon backstepped, let the projectile shatter against the floor, then lobbed the incendiary grenade he’d plucked from his belt. Turning, crouching and covering his ears was all he required to avoid the noise and heat of the blast. As incendiaries go it wasn’t particularly powerful, but the thing about people made of snow is that they tend to be susceptible to heat. Snow Devil screamed as the grenade went off at her feet, splattering her all over the corridor in the form of slush. Protagon straightened up and broke into a run. He had seven minutes before she re-formed. Bags of time. Protagon was vaguely aware of his injuries sustained getting here - those guards on the third floor had landed some harsh blows to his shoulder - but Snow Devil’s blizzard had partially numbed his whole body, for which he was thankful. He wouldn’t relax until the mission was over. Luckily the treasure was near. A door confronted him. He rapped it neatly. After about ten seconds a young woman opened it. From the thickness of the door Protagon guessed that the penthouse beyond was soundproofed. The girl still looked at him with suspicion, though - it was nearly midnight after all and here was some costumed stranger knocking at her door. Protagon gave her a reassuring smile. “Are you Theresa ‘Treasure’ Edwards?” “Uh... yes?” The smile became a grin. -------[*]Regular Maintenance The robot soldier’s eyes gleamed like tarnished gold in the dim artificial light of the laboratory. Professor Umbrant stared into them for a second after removing the cloth from the automaton’s body. The eyes were wonders, were they not? — optic sensors arranged in a similar array to the cone and rod cells in a human eyeball, connected via delicate clusters of wires to the robot’s CPU. In activation, the precise transmission of electrons would form a picture sharper even than the most high-tech cameras available could render. The only issue with this picture: They may never see the light of day. Scratching the white hairs on his chin, Umbrant sighed and began his regular cleaning and maintenance of the robot: a once-over with a damp rag; a slight polish to rid the metal of any smudges that could be forming; a slight application of oil to each joint in turn; and, finally, a quick CPU scan to ensure no damage to the robot’s A.I. The problem, he decided during the second task on his list, lay in politics. Semantics and ethics were tricky subjects to handle. You could have the soundest information in the world, but to communicate that information, it had to be arranged a certain way, worded in just the right fashion, to prevent the other side from twisting your words into something you never meant. Such was the issue with automatons in warfare: One side chose to emphasize the massive advantage of removing humans from combat, but the other protested that because America’s enemies still staffed organic beings, America’s own were required to understand the concept of mercy — something a robot could easily misunderstand. All this had occurred, of course, after millions of dollars had been spent designing a prototype robot soldier. Another skill politicians were required to possess was inexplicable timing. The worst part about the debate, Umbrant determined as he began to oil the robot’s joints, was in how both sides fought for the same issue. Life, everyone agreed, was a priceless treasure. There was no debating of that point. The argument — Arguments, plural, Umbrant corrected himself — lay in how to defend said treasure. Each side had its own fortress of reasons; each side could only scrape at the other’s façade. A stalemate, with people like Umbrant, people who engineered for a living, stuck in between. Freedom tasted sweet in dreams. Perhaps it would taste the same in real life would Umbrant live to sample it. The scan of the robot’s system revealed no viruses or other dangerous irregularities in its programming. Closing the laptop was met with hesitation; to leave the robot alone for another two months meant frustration all through that interval. To let such a precious creation as this sit in storage, whilst men died in war and the powers that be raged against each other in an argument no one could win, was an action unfounded on reason. This could be used, if not for war, for security detail, or for engineers to improve upon its design. Anything but this. Umbrant finally forced himself to close the laptop. The robot remained motionless as the cloth was again drawn over its features. It had been given an extra buffing so its metal exterior would take on the semblance of semiprecious metal; why, the old man didn’t know, for no one would see it any time soon. Perhaps he should have taken the time to examine the eyes. When Professor Umbrant turned off the lights and locked the exit, the room was again as silent as the grave. -------[*]Ghost Stories The room was uncomfortably quiet. We had every entrance was covered by an armed man. Behind the bar, the family that ran the place had two men covering them as well. Randulf, Jack, and Thompson were seated with me around a table near the bar. On the table we had our pistols, a few bottles of whiskey, and a deck of cards, sans a few in our hands. It had been that way for a while now. I remained patient, optimistic, but I knew even free liquor and poker was beginning to lose my boy’s interests. They knew not to question purpose, but what I had brought them here for...well, some of them were more faithful than others. I wasn’t going to make them stay the whole night, if the plan didn’t go through soon enough; we’d pack up and leave. Eventually, the fat barmaid that was clearly the wife and mother of the family decided to make her comments on our methods. “Your plan depends upon holding hostages against a myth?” She called out. I didn’t even bother to roll my eyes. “I’m perfectly aware of the plausibility my plan seems to hold, thank you.” “So we’re supposed to sit around all night until your ghost shows up?” I smiled, almost happy she asked. I lifted my hand to show her the six-shooter, and cocked it in veiw. “The ghost I’m waiting for is what your people believe will protect you. If there’s any relevance to that ‘myth’, it’ll show when I start planting bullets in the bodies of your family. Now that you mention it, we’ve been waiting a little while.” I took a long swig from the whiskey and grinned, licking the liquor from my lips. This was the part I was playing. Best if they believe it. “Boss?” One of my door guards called out to interrupt, so I turned to look. Every renegade’s eye was fixed at a window near the high roof, where a black wispy shadow seemed to float about. It had the features of a man, almost. Very faintly, you could nearly see a face on the figure, one that faded away when you tried to focus on it. I grinned. I’d seen my fair amount of the supernatural in my days, enough to let me believe that I would find someone here. Someone who could get me what I want. I hefted the whiskey to the ceiling above. “Drink?” Thus, negotiations began. “I could kill you and your men now.” It seemed to come from every direction. “I can kill your townsfolk.” I said with a shrug. “But we can threaten back and forth all night, and that won’t really get us anywhere.” No answer. “You fought in the war right? While you were, y’know, alive?” The figure remained above, silent. “Well, word has it there’s a nice big stash of shiny stuff near this town you got here. The townsfolk seem to believe that you’re the one ...person I guess...that knows where it is.” “You seek treasure...” the voice called out again. I smiled. “You do too. These folk are your treasure. Worth more alive than dead...” I got no response once again, so I sat back down, slid the handgun back in my holster and took another drink of whiskey. Belching quietly, I beckoned him down with a hand. “Come on then, and no more guns on your people. Tell me how long it’s been since you had a drink or played a hand." First, there was no response. Then, a long, long laugh, and I knew I'd won. -------[*]Deadly Treasure My name was Maria, and I crept into the cave behind McSmith. We were surely entering the hidden outpost of Grey Beard the dreaded Pirate. The archeological potential of such a site was off the chart. Grey Beard had been an infamous pirate in the colonial days of the Caribbean, and was rumored to have a great treasure hidden away. Perhaps we had just found it! Yet I was still feeling nervous. My companion Jameson lay at the cave’s entrance, having been wounded by a booby trap. He would survive, but McSmith had insisted on pressing forward, so he had been left behind. Yet I was worried there might be more traps to come. After all, Grey Beard was famous for booby trapping his hideouts. McSmith was an adventurer, who was always searching for hidden treasures across the world. He had hired Jameson and me because we were archeologists who specialized in Caribbean history. With our help, McSmith had been able to pinpoint where Grey Beard’s hideout could be. The two of us continued forward through the cave, our flashlights fell upon a rock slide. McSmith frowned. “What is this?” he asked. I knelt down and examined the ground. “A failed booby trap, sir. You can see that there was a thread across the path, and tripping on it would cause a rock fall. But the tread broke with age, it appears.” “More traps,” McSmith murmured. “You continue on ahead; you have an eye for these things.” We pressed on slowly, as I kept an eye out for more traps. The dirt floor was replaced by tiled stone, and I used my walking stick to test the path ahead. I tapped on one stone and triggered another spear to shoot down from above. McSmith and I aimed our flashlights at the ceiling, and spotted three more spears waiting to be launched. I cautiously triggered the rest of them, but continued to test the floor in case I had missed any. Finally, we arrived in the main chamber. As our flashlights illuminated the room, I saw that our research had paid off. It was surely Grey Beard’s hideout, and I could see everything from rotten rum barrels to broken tables and chairs. So much could be learned from this site, and I couldn’t wait to get started. But McSmith’s eyes fell on a treasure chest at the far end of the room. It was very large, and could fit a lot of treasure. “I’ve finally found it!” McSmith exclaimed. “And now I have just one last thing to do.” He pulled out a gun and aimed at me. “Sorry, darling, but I’m not looking to share this treasure with anybody.” I gasped, hardly believing it. McSmith had betrayed us, all for some old stolen gold. Before I could move, he fired a shot, and the bullet pierced my shoulder. I fell down with a cry of pain. McSmith turned back to the treasure, having assumed that I was out for the count. My mind turned to escape; I could still get up and make a break for it, and then I could get Jameson and myself out of here. As I got to me feet, I glanced back at McSmith. He wasn’t watching me, but opening the treasure chest, saying, “It’s all mine now!” But then his eyes went wide. The treasure chest was empty. Suddenly there was a great rumble that filled the room. And Grey Beard’s treasure fell from hidden chamber in the ceiling above the treasure chest, and the weight of the gold crushed McSmith to death. -------[*]Klondike Starlight I spit on the snow at my feet. The saliva crackles, freezing instantly. That means it’s at least fifty below zero. I trudge onwards back to camp, considering myself lucky. I managed to find a few flakes of gold today – better than usual. The gold glitters… like starlight. I unceremoniously collapse by the campfire. Warmth radiates into me. Life-giving warmth. Warmth my horse was denied on the White Pass Trail where it joined countless other fatigued beasts of burden as corpses in the gulch below. 1897. The newspapers spread misinformation to us like a plague. We thought there was treasure up here, north of the Yukon. That “treasure” was akin to Pandora’s Box – hypothermia, fatigue, grizzly bears, and the occasional distraught miner turned murderous rushed out to greet us when we peeked under the lid to locate the prize we were promised. I fumble to remove my gloves. Then I hold out my hands toward the fire. They’re so cold it’s tempting to stick them directly in the flame, but the danger of burn wounds in this uncompromising land… too risky. Water trickles down my haphazardly-shaven chin as the crust of ice crystals on my beard melts. It’s like my family has an ancestral urge for gullibility. The grandparents of my wife and I migrated to the west with their children during the 1849 California rush. We met and married in a slowly withering boomtown and fell for the same trap all over again. She told me not to go, but I eventually convinced her that this was the way to earn the money we could use to buy a property somewhere better. If I’d had her foresight or she’d had my… well, stubbornness, we would have avoided this. But the sons and daughters of miners think like miners, living life one day at a time and forgetting to learn from history or look to the future. Going north was a mistake. I’m heading straight back as soon as I come close to breaking even on this ill-planned endeavor… and the first thing I’m doing back in California is telling my wife she was right all along. I shuffle towards my tent, duck in under the flap, and manage my way under the heaps of blankets. There it is in my sleeping roll, right where I keep it so that I see it every night. That photograph I took with one of those newfangled Eastman Kodak machines. Staring back at me are the faces of my wife, son, and daughter. The perfect miner’s family – all of them probably as gullible and stupid as I am. Even my weary and weathered face can’t help but break a smile at the thought. I sit there grinning to myself and oblivious to the slow yet inexorable passing of time. Finally, the howling of the wind as the sun dips below the horizon breaks me out of my reminiscence. I turn over and wait for that rejuvenating process we call sleep to wash away the exhaustion of the day. Yet, as I lie there, my mind returns to the photograph. That was my mistake all along, wasn’t it? My treasure was with my family, not in Alaska. Yes, as soon as I’ve found enough gold that I won’t return home carrying a debt on my shoulders, I’ll cut my losses and go straight back. No exceptions, no delays, and no more nonsensical ventures like this one for as long as I live. Meanwhile, on the canvas of my brain, I can still see their three faces… and their eyes glitter… like starlight. --------[*]Green Gold I saw something I’ve never seen before today. It began when a classic “medicine man” show came to town. Even here in 2046, it’s hard to find entertainment on the forgotten planet of Earth. The whole town of 500 showed up to see him bring the dead to life and predict the future, child’s play for today’s technology. Finally, he knew he only had one chance to wow us and get his day’s worth of standard credits. A gleam of vibrant emerald shone in holes from his moth-eaten jacket, and he pulled out the strangest thing. It sat in a small transparent Thermocup apparently full of dirt, its long green stalk rising out of it sprouting two shells on top. He called it a “plant,” and apparently they were common in our area before the Age of Skyscrapers took hold, covering all fertile soil with plates of fine steel. The crowd gawked at the seemingly insignificant thing, which apparently could make its own food and reproduce thousands of itself. The man was dead by morning. Apparently, some country numbskull heard about the “magical” properties of this plant, and set out to make it his, gaining wealth and fortune with his plant, not to mention using its properties for his own gain. I read the holoscreen one more time just to laugh at the absurdness of the story. No person could be so foolish as to kill another for a simple plant. And then it happened again. I was shocked to know that it was an old professor of mine who did it this time, all in the name of science. He was well respected around the town, and I had often waved to him on my way to work. His sentence of death row shocked us all, and the action was held out in town square as a wall of energy painlessly disintegrated his body, and we all thought it was over. But of course, it wasn’t. The sheriff had found the plant on the crime scene and neglected to turn it in as evidence to his superiors. He had convicted the old professor to death so that he could have the treasure all for himself. The holoscreen of this report showed a man I almost didn’t recognize as he fondly stroked his prize, its perfect leaves garnished with drops of crimson blood. He was discharged from duty for this selfish act; and last I heard, he was slowly going insane in the nearest Asylum. Finally the epidemic was over. The plant had been taken out of town to be kept in a protected museum. I was almost not surprised to hear that a guard failed to show up to work, and the plant had gone missing. He was an old friend of mine, and I knew him from a very young age. I was sorry to see him succumb too. I decided to stop by for a visit, and after a quick search, found his address. The moderators hadn’t come yet, and so it was just me, him, and the plant. It gleamed in the shine of the single padlight in the house, and my friend stood over it, watching and staring at its wonder. At the opening of the door, he looked over, and his haggard face twisted into murderous jealousy. Before I knew it, he was on the ground, not breathing, and the plant was in my grasp. Its soft leaves, now crumbling from the dark, seemed to wave their thanks to me. It’s mine now, but they come for me; they want to steal it. --------[*]Memories Flowers cut and brought inside Black cars in a single line Your family in suits and ties And you're free The tiny hand placed the bouquet of flowers on the coffin. "Bye, bye, daddy," her soft, innocent voice spoke. Behind her her mother quickly wrapped her arms around her daughter. "It's okay, Sophia, it's going to be okay," the mother managed to say between the tears. Even though she said it as if it was, it wasn't directed toward her daughter. No, Sophia was far too young to understand the gravity of the situation. She had tried explaining it, of course, but that pure mind couldn't grasp the abominable concept. She would never see her daddy again? No, it just couldn't be true. "You're hurting me, mommy," the high-pitched voice said, and Megan suddenly realized how hard she had been holding on to Sophia. "Sorry, baby," she said immediately, wiping away her tears. "Come on, give mommy a hug." Sophia instantly turned around and complied, wrapping her tiny arms around her mother's neck. "When's daddy coming out of there, mommy?" she asked, pointing to the coffin. There it was. She knew it would come up again eventually, she had just prayed it wouldn't be now. Not until after the funeral. She pulled away from her daughter's embrace, holding Sophia's hands in her own and looking in her eyes. "He's…he's not coming back, Sophia. Daddy's gone." She could control the tears no longer and they flowed down her cheeks all the more, not stopping no matter how hard she wished for them to. "Mommy, don't cry." But that only caused more tears to flow. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, baby." Pull yourself together. For Sophia. She gave her daughter another hug and saw other family members standing around, black ties and suits all around. Then various uniforms; other members in the Armed Forces, saying their last goodbyes to their fallen comrade. Why? Why did you have to die? I can't believe it…can't believe you're gone. She hoped more than anything that it was all a dream, that she would suddenly wake up and he would be back, but that would never happen. She closed her eyes, trying to fight the tears, but it was useless. They kept coming, just as they had been for the past week, ever since she had heard the news. Sometimes she would dream he was still alive, still fighting. But then she awoke, and the horrors of reality came rushing back. He is gone. The bugle sounded, playing Taps, and soon everyone else began to drift away, paying their last respects and then leaving, a line of cars going through the funeral home's gate. Her parents had taken Sophia, but Megan refused to move. She couldn't. So she just knelt there awkwardly, staring at the flowers and holding his flag in her hands. A sign of her memories. Memories that were her greatest treasures. I remember you like yesterday, yesterday I still can't believe you're gone, oh… I remember you like yesterday, yesterday And until I'm with you, I'll carry on Song: "Yesterdays" by Switchfoot

[fishers64]

I decided to vote for 5. Broken Treasure was touching, in a sad way, as was 6 and 8 - nice symbolic interpretations. "Green Gold", "Regular Maintaince", and "Ghost Stories" struck me as somewhat distant from the theme, although unusual. 5 just struck me as grimly ironic - the "You want gold? You got it." "Ow, not on top of my head!"...so I went for that...

[Legolover-361]

I was split between my entry (3) and entry 6. In the end I decided to vote for 6.

Edited May 30, 2012 by Legolover-361

[Grant-Sud]

Wow, yeah these were all great, and in the end I agree with LL. 3 or 6... because it's different, I'm going with 3. But amazing job to all, these were some of the best I've read!

[Excelsior]

I voted for 1. I think it may be the best "person-as-treasure" story I've seen in this contest. It's hard to pull that off in only 600 words.But it was hard to choose - there were too many good entries in this poll!Anyway, may the best story win!-Excelsior

Edited May 30, 2012 by Excelsior

[Ballom Nom Nom]

Nice group of stories, overall. However, I ended up voting for number three.~B~

[Maganar]

I came like super-ultra-uber-close to voting against mine. It was #7 that almost took my vote, but in the end I decided to stick with mine at #6. To point out weaknesses in mine and #7, having family as treasure, as in mine, seems to have become a bit trite for this round of the contest, but so was treasure driving people mad as in #7. Otherwise I was having real difficulties deciding. The tie-breaker was the fact that I think I might just be the only person yet to bring up a historical fiction entry and I managed to pull it off well enough to be proud of it.I also thought #5's finish was great, to toss out some more credit where deserved. I think fishers summed up my opinion on that one. My main thought at the end was: "Well, I guess you're getting some treasure after all, Maria!"

[Velox]

Polling period over; poll closed.