Peter Power Armor Archive

Peter Power Armor, Happy File Three, Do as  You are Told

Posted February 3, 2021 By John C Wright

Peter Power Armor, Happy File Three, Do as  You are Told, is now posted.

Peter Power Armor

Do you want to be free?

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A new tale from another aeon, near or far, will be posted in this space next week. 

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Peter Power Armor, Happy File Two, Jump and Run when Jump and Run Music Plays, is now posted.

Peter Power Armor

This part is about the past. It is about how we got here. They used to shoot little ones like you.

It may be scary. Do not turn off the recording. You have to understand this part before I can tell you about your mother.

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Peter Power Armor, Happy File One, Machines are Bad for You

Posted January 20, 2021 By John C Wright

Note that this tale, in a slightly revised form, first appeared in the anthology BREACH THE HULL (2007) ed. Mike McPhail.

It is reprinted in ALL MEN DREAM OF EARTHWOMEN AND OTHER AEONS, and made available here in preview, as a courtesy to my readers.

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Peter Power Armor, Happy File One, Machines are Bad for You, is now posted.

Peter Power Armor

Listen carefully. I will tell you a tale. It is a tale of the times gone by. No one else will tell you. They fear.

Open the file by pressing the colored button for Memo the Memory Elephant and Puss-in-Boots the Crypto Cat.

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Peter Power Armor

Posted December 26, 2018 By John C Wright

Merry Feast of Stephen! This is a story about a present to a child. It was first published in the anthology  Breach the Hull,  Marietta Publishing (2007). 

Peter Power Armor

by

John C Wright

Let me tell you a story about a girl named Bliss. I didn’t like her when I first met her, but all that is changed now.

I found the power-armor I used to wear as a child in the wall-space behind my parent’s attic, behind a door paneled to look like part of the wainscoting.  No dust disturbed this miniature clean-room; no looters had found it here, not in all the years.

The fact that smooth white light filled the room when the silent door opened filled me with a premonition.  I stepped inside and saw, (as I had not dared hope)  that an umbilicus connected the little suit to sockets in the wall.  The energy-box above the socket was stamped with three black triangles in a yellow circle.

Behind me, in the main attic space, I could hear the little brat named Bliss grunt a little high-pitched grunt as she picked up a crow-bar.  A moment later there was a shivering crash as she tossed it through one of the living stain-glassed dormer windows.  I remembered the day her mother had purchased those windows, grown one molecule at a time by a nano-mathematician artist. Those had been days of sunshine, and even the upper windows no one saw had been works of fine art, charged with life.

You see, Bliss was a naughty, silly girl. It is really not her fault. She was raised to be that way.

“Darling,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. “Don’t kill the windows.  They are special. They were bulletproof, once, back before their cohesion faded. They’re antiques, and cannot reproduce.  It makes them the last of their kind.”

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