Smallest Diorama

Check is out. Guy creates a diorama in a thimble.

When winter first begins to bite:

The wind so whirled a weathercock
He could not hold his tail up;
The frost so nipped a throstlecock
He could not snap a snail up.
‘My case is hard!’ the throstle cried,
And ‘All is vane’ the cock replied;
And so they set their wail up.

Bilbo Baggins

As found in J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Adventures of Tom Bombadil, Tales from the Perilous Realm

Do Avtomat’s Have Memories?

In Daniel Wilsons The Clockwork Dynasty Wilson refers to his clockwork automations (robots) as Avtomat’s. They should not be confused with the Avtomat, the AK-47 combat rifle of Russian origin.

To answer my own question. Yes, it does seem to be true that Avtomats do seem to be able to remember certain details of their past even though they have been around for more than a millennium, perhaps several millenniums?

Here are a few memories from Lu Yan (Peter):

"China 3000 BC

My body is sprawled in the frozen mud of Stalingrad, but my mind is transported to an impression of the past. Memories rush over me like a surge of river water, pulling me under. submerged, visions of my other life appear. Bits and snatches, growing into a tumbling flood of images and sounds that cascade through my mind.

I remember.

In this age I am called Lu Yan. I am holding simple leather reins in gauntleted hands, settled on the wide back of a gray stallion. The horse is strange, with primitive blue-black stripe running along its spine and parallel lines raking over its shoulders. Not a horse, I think.

Somewhere far away. I feel the bark of a blasted tree pressing hard into my spine and weight of Leizu’s sharp knee on my chest. The metal device in her hand sings and sparks as it sends memories crashing through my mind. Sights and sound fall over me, blotting out the cold reality of the war in Stalingrad.

I remember.

In a great cavern, light blazes from hundreds of lanterns hanging from a semicircle of tall stone pillars. Brightly dressed soldiers of all kinds form endless ranks across the room, perfectly still, made of painted pottery. The sculpted clay soldiers stand at arms in battle formation, grids of archers radiating into the fluttering darkness beyond the lamps. Between the soldiers, narrow rivers of quicksilver thread themselves over the expanse in patterns that copy the paths of China’s great rivers.

The cold of Stalingrad is pushed from my mind as another sliver of memory falls. I see Elena’s face painted with bright panic. She has another name here, too-but I recognize my sister’s porcelain cheek, the way it looked in Favorini’s workshop. She and I are running through a primeval forest, hand in hand, wet branches stripping our elaborate silk costumes as we fling ourselves between thick tree trunks.

I remember.

Slipping. I fall over a tree root and roll over a rocky spillway. Scraping my hands through dirt and chalky stone, I scramble back onto all fours. My sister dances more nimbly down the hillside of broken rock, her dress billowing behind. As she throws herself from boulder to boulder, her wrists spill jewelry, hoops of metal and gemstones and ribbons of weightless silk.”

The Clockwork Dynasty, Daniel H. Wilson