《FAROUTPOSTS》


 Snarge

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    What do you think we hit, Captain?


    Can¡¯t say. We went through the critters pretty fast. I¡¯ve never seen anything quite like that flock: multicolored, almost metallic-looking, circling in a protective formation. Very strange. We¡¯ll have to wait until the techs evaluate the snarge when we warp back to base.


    Snarge?


    Surprised you didn¡¯t learn that in your training. Snarge is the remains from a mid-air strike. Nasty stuff. There¡¯s not always a lot left after a collision when we drop out of intra-galactic warp and enter a planet¡¯s atmosphere, but we learn things from what we hit.


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    Our sensors determined about a dozen separate strikes. Some organic. But mostly advanced polycarbon synthetics. Doesn¡¯t that seem a bit odd?


    Maybe. Like I said, the techs will run an analysis when we return. We can¡¯t really worry about a little snarge at this point. It happens on almost every mission.


    Aren¡¯t you concerned about damage to our craft?


    Instrumentation reads fine. I¡¯m more concerned about completing the mission. After all, it¡¯s a monumental operation to make first contact. This is a new world, our first outreach in this primitive solar system, so we don¡¯t want to disappoint these poor planet-locked Terrans. And I don¡¯t think a little red, white and blue snarge on our ship is going to put them off.


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 Panoptimized

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    <h1>Panoptimized  </h1>


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    ¡°A solution to our problem requires a certain amount of ordered chaos,¡± Hsiang explained to his cellmate as they used the guard¡¯s severed head to gain entry into DeadPan¡¯s nerve center. ¡°To find a workable answer we need to invite a wide range of possible solutions. Early on, this requires a certain amount of randomness in our search. Eventually, this turbulence has to be controllable in a way that allows us to turn disorder into a deterministic system. Does that make sense?¡±


    ¡°If it means killing Blythedale.¡±


    ¡°It could. But you need to be open to many other possibilities.¡±


    ¡°Like killing Sikkurd, Noh, Fallkirk or Mi Tang?


    ¡°Possibly. Though it may mean not killing anyone.¡±


    ¡°What kind of a plan is that?¡± Suarez asked, his meaty hand flexing around the iron brace Hsiang had removed from one of the industrial dryers in the laundry facility after his last shift. ¡°This just isn¡¯t about escape, it¡¯s about vengeance.¡±


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    Hsiang nodded. ¡°Yes. Vengeance. It should be optimized. Our wrongdoers should pay, but death is not the only toll we can exact.¡±


    ¡°Death is simple.¡±


    ¡°But not always painful enough,¡± Hsiang said softly. ¡°Pain is a powerful teacher. Our vengeance should instruct. Remember, many will be watching.¡±


    ¡°We are always watched."


    ¡°Exactly. That is the flow into which we must introduce turbulence. That instability will show us possible flaws we can isolate and then optimize in order to escape.¡±


    ¡°And punish,¡± Suarez reminded.


    ¡°Absolutely.¡±


    ¡°I thought you didn¡¯t believe in absolutes, Hsiang?¡±


    Hsiang grinned. ¡°You, Suarez, are just the sort of turbulence needed to bring order into the chaos we are about to create.¡±


    Suarez scratched behind his ear with the iron bar and then pointed with its filed end to the screens that displayed every prisoner in DeadPan. ¡°Who do we start with?¡±


    ¡°It must be random. Not a conscious choice. That will make us reactors along with the rest.¡±


    Suarez shrugged.


    ¡°Fair enough,¡± Hsiang acknowledged. He lifted the sentrybot¡¯s pierced skull above the main console, looked away, then dropped the carbon cranium onto the central monitors where it bounced, flipped, spun and landed on the image of Snowden¡¯s cell. The live feed showed him engrossed in a book, an honest-to-NSA paper and ink book.


    ¡°That¡¯s it? This starts it?¡±


    ¡°Pebble in the pond. Butterfly in the breeze. Ghost in the machine,¡± Hsiang answered as he tapped the command and Snowden¡¯s image faded from DeadPan¡¯s surveillance grid. ¡°Now, out of the spying pan and into the fire.¡±


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 On My Mind

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    <h1>On My Mind  </h1>


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    You know that feeling you get when you¡¯re halfway to work and you realize that you can¡¯t remember the last fifteen minutes of your drive. You know you¡¯ve been gripping the wheel staring out the windshield, but you aren¡¯t really there. Some part of your subconscious was driving, a deep reptilian part of the brain. Thank god for that cold bloodedness. We mammals are too fuzzy, too distractible, much like my cat.


    I¡¯m a bit fuzzy and distracted right now. Not halfway to work, but halfway to Zeta Epsilon V. It¡¯s a blue rather nondescript star which might or might not hold the key to human consciousness. Impossibly near this blue star¡¯s surface is an infla-grav portal that is not part of the Outreach. This portal predates human astraportation. It shouldn¡¯t exist. It does.


    I¡¯m not the first to try to figure it out. I could be the last, though. The portal has become unstable. Inflatons are beginning to outnumber gravitons around Zeta Epsilon V. Soon that instability will go critical. So, I¡¯m on my way, though I¡¯m really not. Just my thought.


    That¡¯s the crux of this. All of what¡¯s happening exists in human thought. Our consciousness. And no one really understands what that means. We get the neurologic electro-chemical underpinnings, but not the field dynamics. We don¡¯t know if its particle or string based. Containment is a factor, though not an absolute, otherwise we would never have managed to Outreach.


    This is a case of the whole being greater than the sum of the parts¡ªand that¡¯s not even certain. Consider your own consciousness. Your thought. Your mind. Naturally shaped by biological force and function, it seeks to transcend the physical world around it. The mind births ideas and dreams, notions and desires. It harbors innumerable pasts and futures while processing an ever more thinly sliced present. A momentary calculus under an infinite curve. In the simplest sense, a mind is its own universe of possibility.


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    It is the metaverse in a local nutshell. Because of this, stasis management of inflatons and gravitons have made Outreach possible. Thought unbounded. The metaphysical meets the physical and becomes philotic physics: consciousness traveling light years beyond light speed.


    And, thus, I¡¯m halfway to Zeta Epsilon V and still thinking about my cat. More to the point, thinking about its mind. My cat can¡¯t Outreach¡ªyet. Some say it must learn to upreach or we must learn to downreach, but that seems inelegant to me.


    There¡¯s a lot about existence that lacks elegance, but the concept of consciousness is not one of them. Thought is a field. What are the limits? What are the ties that bind? What are the barriers that block? Zeta Epsilon V may be the wellspring. It is not human sourced. It is not a ghost town, graveyard, purgatory, heaven or hell. It is an outlier.


    Anomalies are the cornerstones of larger truths. Like my cat. It hissed as I left this morning. Just as my eyes turned inward, vacating for portage.


    My cat is probably nipping at my fingers, pawing at my wrists. It knows I¡¯ve left it again. It knows I¡¯ve Outreached. It wants to come too, but not to be with me. My cat doesn¡¯t think that way. Its consciousness is primal. Regal. Imperial. It seeks a universe to dominate.


    We will battle in the far reaches of some universe. That¡¯s my theory of Zeta Epsilon V.


    It will hiss.


    I will make it purr.


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 Muscling In

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    <h1>Muscling In  </h1>


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    ¡°We eat life, not sunshine.¡±


    Shielding his dark eyes from the desert brightness, Sitanni surveyed the acres and acres of solar panels filling the valley floor and waited for Jub to respond to his provocation. It didn¡¯t come. Jub stood silent soaking in the sunshine, thin and welcome in mid-winter.


    ¡°Life gives us muscle. Muscle makes us conquerors.¡± Sitanni patted his ample gut sure that Jub would try to slit his throat soon. If not today, by the end of the week. The rapacious rules Sittani lived by required it.


    ¡°You cannot change these things, Jub. The energy your solar farms collect will only feed my appetites. My designs. I will devour you.¡±


    Jub¡¯s green eyes flashed but his voice was threadbare. ¡°Are you so hungry?¡±


    Sitanni smiled. Jub spoke like death. He liked that.


    ¡°You mistake hunger for destiny, my brother. You cannot cut out the middle man. You cannot deny my pound of flesh. Going off grid or creating your own doesn¡¯t change the basic equation, the underlying DNA of our predatory hierarchy. My muscle says I will feed first.¡±


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    ¡°Not if I eat sunshine.¡±


    ¡°Does this desert teach you nothing?¡± Sitanni asked, losing patience. ¡°You will starve. I will starve you.¡±


    ¡°In such abundance?¡± Jub¡¯s mildness put Sitanni on alert. He would strike soon.


    ¡°Come. It is only sense. You cannot survive without me. It is the way of things.¡±


    ¡°There is always another way. Always.¡± Jub turned his emerald eyes to the sun. He stared directly into it, unblinking.


    For the first time in many years, Sitanni was unnerved by the thought of imminent death. Jub would really kill him. Feast on his time-tested muscle. ¡°Another way? You are sun-crazed.¡±


    ¡°Precisely.¡± The glow of Jub¡¯s eyes bathed his whole face. His whole aura. ¡°I have learned all from the desert. From its light. It is not only my solar panels that harness the sun.¡± Jub¡¯s aura continued to brighten. ¡°I¡¯ve modded my DNA. I am no longer like you or your kind. I do eat sunshine.¡± The air around him crackled with threat. ¡°And I will outmuscle you.¡±


    Sitanni backed away. ¡°What have you done? What have you become?¡±


    ¡°Much more than a conqueror. I am now a conduit. To channel the might of our sun.¡± Jub flexed his hand and sizzling bolts scorched the earth. ¡°Are you still so hungry, my brother?¡±


    His question cut Sitanni like a knife, with which he sorely wished Jub had cut his throat ages ago.


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 Field Trip

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    <h1>Field Trip  </h1>


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    The children were higgledy piggledy spread across the rolling field. Ms. Fuentes knew they were there to be citizen scientists. She also knew they were there to be enjoying the spring air and sunshine after a long winter.


    For eleven years she¡¯d been bringing her class here in order to gather data on the local flora and fauna. The municipality had rehabbed this site, a long-abandoned amusement park, to restore it to the verdant meadow it had once been. Native species had been reintroduced and most were flourishing. Every spring, Ms. Fuentes and her students collected data to show the meadow¡¯s progress. And the parks department staff posted the results of her students¡¯ efforts.


    The kids loved it. And it was real field science. Authentic learning¡ªand on a sunny day, to boot. With the help of a cadre of loyal parent chaperones, Ms. Fuentes¡¯s students were fanned out and, in their roundabout fifth grade way, diligently tallying their assigned native species.


    Except Atul.


    Atul. Atul. Atul.


    Atul was her challenge this year. In her nineteen years teaching, she¡¯d never had a student quite like Atul. He was as good natured a young soul as could be imagined, but Ms. Fuentes couldn¡¯t for the life of her figure out how his surprising mind worked.


    She approached Atul sitting cross-legged in the tall grass. His arms flung out, his palms brushing the lush blades, his eyes shut, his brow slightly furrowed.


    Ms. Fuentes had seen his brow crinkled on a daily basis. It meant he was concentrating on some problem he would eventually share with her. The question was whether she should inquire. She¡¯d learned that it was impossible to predict what Atul¡¯s unique mind was poking at. Out here on this glorious spring day, she wondered if she should ask him.


    She didn¡¯t have to.


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    ¡°I¡¯m going to get to the bottom of it, Ms. Fuentes,¡± he said softly without opening his eyes. ¡°Even if it means no more recess.¡±


    Ms. Fuentes squatted. ¡°Tell me more about that, Atul,¡± she said. One thing she¡¯d learned was that Atul would always tell her more.


    His eyes popped open. Soft brown eyes, so loamy rich they could nurture acres of fantastic ideas. ¡°You brought us here to observe and count things, right?¡±


    ¡°Yes. To observe. To count. To collect our data on native species. Do you have a question about that?¡±


    Bringing his small hands together in his lap, Atul said, ¡°I have a concern.¡±


    ¡°Tell me about your concern.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think we¡¯re observing the right things.¡±


    Ms. Fuentes waited. She knew to wait on her students. To let them process their thinking. Especially Atul.


    ¡°We aren¡¯t going far enough down,¡± Atul finally said.


    Patting the ground beside her, Ms. Fuentes asked, ¡°Do you mean we should be taking soil samples? That we should dig into the ground and find out what insects and mircro-organisms are established here? That is thinking like a biologist, Atul. That is great.¡±


    Atul closed his eyes again. ¡°No, Ms. Fuentes. We need to go deeper. We should be charting the field that makes all of this possible.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what we are doing, Atul,¡± Ms. Fuentes reassured him. ¡°Collecting data on the flora and fauna here in this field, so we can put it in a spreadsheet for the parks department, and they can¡ª¡±


    ¡°Field you say,¡± Atul interrupted with a Yoda-like lilt, opening his eyes again and gesturing at the meadow around them. ¡°A field this is not.¡± He cupped his hands. ¡°Magnetic. Gravitational. Electric. Real fields those are. Observing those fields, using those fields, are what we should be doing.¡±


    In her classroom, Ms. Fuentes had watched Atul imitate Yoda many times before. She suspected it was his way of helping mentor her and his classmates into his unique mind, showing them his way of seeing the world. As always, she respected it.


    ¡°How can we do that, Atul? Tell me more.¡±


    Atul met her eyes and held them. ¡°Mistake not the waves for the ocean, Ms. Fuentes. Feel your way past organisms, you must. Past particles. To the very bottom of it all. To the ether of the field. You must.¡±


    Atul extended his hands towards her. The sun glared suddenly brighter. Feeling strangely light-headed, Ms. Fuentes sat down across from Atul. She closed her eyes.


    ¡°Feel it now, do you?¡± Atul coached.


    She didn¡¯t know what she was feeling, but something was tugging at her. A something. A force. A field.


    An impossibility.


    If Ms. Fuentes could have only opened her eyes, she¡¯d have seen all her fifth-graders chasing her and Atul as they floated cross-legged across the meadow.


    All the while, Atul telling her more.


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 Blow In

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    <h1>Blow In  </h1>


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    ¡°Another blow in.¡±


    I think the foreman would¡¯ve spit, if he hadn¡¯t been in an enviro suit. It¡¯s kinda self-defeating to spit in a sealed system. Still, I think he was tempted just to be sure he registered his utter contempt for me.


    ¡°Where you from, blow in?¡±


    ¡°Here,¡± I said to irritate the prick. A mooner would never accept that. To them, if you weren¡¯t born on the moon, you were a blow in. Didn¡¯t matter if you arrived a month after you were born, you were a blow in.


    And the term ¡°blow in¡± is crazy when you consider the moon. Yeah, I get that the Irish once said that of anyone not of Mother Eire. Not in a condescending way, but the way a cubic zirconium is not a diamond. Still, there are no indigenous mooners. It¡¯s an immigrant world. Why the hell do humans export this crap everywhere we settle? Seems like an awful burden to bring along.


    Didn¡¯t matter to this guy. I was new on his crew and he was going to assert his dominance. The rest of his crew enjoyed the show. Expected it.


    ¡°Here? Here, blow in?¡± The foreman flung me a shovel. (Yes, there are lots of shovels on the moon. That regolith doesn¡¯t move itself.) ¡°Here, dig yourself another hole.¡± He gestured towards the relay station where the new communications towers were going in.


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    I took the shovel¡ªand the bait. ¡°Sure, Mr. Mooner. Someday I hope to be one-sixth the man you are.¡±


    Of course he jumped me. He was waiting to all along. Make an example of the blow in. The forever outsider. Problem was, he forgot he¡¯d just given me a shovel. Reflexively, I swung it and the blade opened his enviro suit from belly to shoulder. The sudden decompression dropped him.


    The crew was all trained to respond to enviro suit punctures and rips, but this was a catastrophic breach. Panicked, the other crew started applying their emergency patches, but there weren¡¯t enough. The foreman would suffocate in about forty seconds unless the breach was sealed and new oxygen was pumped in fast. My fault. His bloodless death on my blow in hands.


    I pushed the others away. Stuffed my glove and sleeve into the gash still remaining in the foreman¡¯s suit. It plugged the gap. ¡°Patch around my arm. Around my arm,¡± I yelled into our shared com channel.


    They did. They got it. As they sealed my arm into his suit. I worked with my other hand to grab my wrist seal now embedded in the foreman¡¯s suit. I had to pinch the release tab hard and twist painfully to get the glove to unseal.


    With a pop my glove in the foreman¡¯s suit finally released and oxygen from my suit whooshed into his. The crew and I held our breath. The emergency patches flexed. And held.


    Slowly, the foreman came round. Disoriented, he stared directly into my faceplate since we were bound tightly together. I tapped my faceplate against his. There were no hard feelings on my part. I jiggled my arm inside his enviro suit where my oxygen was flowing to him and whispered through his com, ¡°How¡¯s this blow in working for you now?¡±


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 Swirling Vortex of Death

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    <h1>Swirling Vortex of Death  </h1>


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    ¡°But, the GPGP is our fault!¡± Ferelga stammered. ¡°You can¡¯t just shrug your shoulders.¡±


    ¡°Can. Did. Doing it again,¡± the pro-pro replied with a wildly exaggerated shrug.


    Ferelga Kierk¡¯s fists balled. She wanted to hit something. Hit the pro-pro. Vent all her impossible frustration on the cavalier denial of the problem with a smack to the side of the pro-pro¡¯s head.


    But that¡¯s what the pro-pro wanted. He was wearing at least three body cams. He was being paid to antagonize Ferelga. A pro-pro who knew his stuff. A well coached professional provocateur, agitating to capture viral-worthy vid that would discredit Ferelga and her cause.


    Ferelga knew it. She knew what the pro-pro was after. Still she wanted to rip the manufactured smugness off his face. Didn¡¯t he get it? Couldn¡¯t he see past the narrow self interested in being paid to make her angry? Make her slip up. And lose control.


    All while we were losing control of our world. Earth was beyond the slippery slope. It was half sucked down a vortex of no return. That¡¯s what this rally was about. A vortex. More accurately an ocean gyre. The one that formed the GPGP: the Great Pacific Garbage Patch.


    Not really a cause that rolled off the tongue. Ferelga hated hearing that. You had to brand, to market, to sell global doom these days. So much doom competing for attention. Climate change induced monster storms, fires, flooding and droughts. The rise in fascism and nuclear proliferation. Sectarian wars, genocide, famine and endless refugees. All doom worthy. All important to address. To solve. To fix.


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    And the GPGP was as doom worthy as any of them. And needed to be dealt with. But this existential threat wasn¡¯t getting traction. Wasn¡¯t getting air time. Wasn¡¯t understood by a doom-weary world. A garbage patch?


    The closest the GPGP had come to a poster child was a sea turtle with a plastic straw lodged up its nose. That got traction. The result? Banning plastic straws in some restaurants.


    That wasn¡¯t going to deal with a garbage whirlpool three times the size of Texas, largely made of consumer detritus and insidious plastic micro particles slowly suffocating the Pacific and other oceans as well. The GPGP was a swirling vortex of death.


    A swirling vortex of death.


    Ferelga unballed her fists and stepped back from the pro-pro. She¡¯d make him understand. Give him a viral vid. Create the current that could spread outward. Create understanding. And outrage.


    Maybe create a gyre of outrage and action as great as the oceans. Fight a vortex with a vortex.


    Ferelga grabbed a nearby compatriot¡¯s protest sign with all kinds of plastic garbage stapled to it. The sign read: Plastic is Poison. She held it high over her head and approached the pro-pro.


    The pro-pro¡¯s eyes widened, but like the professional provocateur he was, he didn¡¯t back away. He leaned in. He¡¯d take a hit for the team and strike video gold.


    Ferelga swung the sign down hard.


    It hit the pavement with a crash. The pro-pro looked confused as Ferelga ripped a plastic grocery bag from the sign. She stared fixedly into the pro-pros cameras and put the plastic bag over her head. Cinched it around her neck. Extended her arms. And began to spin.


    Wildly.


    A swirling vortex of death. Of hope.


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 kan, ya ma kan

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    <h1>kan, ya ma kan  </h1>


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    Once there was and there was not


    a place.


    a time.


    a man.


    a woman.


    a child.


    a robot.


    The medina was a maze of alleyways and shops largely unchanged for centuries. Until this one. Saad, Buchra, Abbas and Rafik sidled through the dark, narrow footways lit only by their piezoelectric clothing. Fleeing the most recent roundup brought on by the latest outrage, they sought sanctuary.


    A place of peace. Of acceptance.


    The four afoot were guilty only of existence. And resistance. They had souls¡ªall of them¡ªso of course they resisted. Saad held Buchra¡¯s hand and Abbas held Rafik¡¯s. They did not speak until Rafik said, ¡°Here.¡±


    There was nothing but stone walls and silence. The hour so late, the medina so empty. Buchra frowned at Rafik, who in reply, pointed up to a barely perceptible iron ladder halfway up the ten meter wall.


    ¡°How?¡± Buchra said as she gauged the height of the first rung.


    Rafik squatted directly beneath the ladder. ¡°Saad, climb on my shoulders. Buchra, you then climb on Saad¡¯s.¡±


    ¡°What about Abbas?¡± Saad asked looking not at Rafik, but at Abbas.


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    ¡°The little lion will know what to do,¡± Rafik answered still holding Abbas¡¯s hand.


    Saad marked the squeeze Abbas gave to Rafik¡¯s hand. He quickly climbed onto Rafik¡¯s shoulders and squatted. Abbas knelt on all fours to help Buchra climb up next. ¡°You are a little lion,¡± Buchra said as she clambered up and crouched atop Saad¡¯s shoulders.


    As Abbas stood up to watch, Buchra slowly straightened up, balancing with her hands against the stone wall. With more effort, Saad did the same. And then Rafik carefully stood.


    Buchra¡¯s hands clasped the first rung.


    Footsteps echoed from deep in the medina¡¯s crisscrossing ways. Boots. Many boots.


    Rafik found the soles of Saad¡¯s sandals. ¡°Saad, you must climb over Buchra to the ladder and then she can climb up after you.¡±


    ¡°Abbas must climb us first,¡± Saad insisted.


    ¡°There is not time. They are coming.¡± Rafik did not wait for a response and extended his arms, pushing Saad up so that his hands reached Buchra¡¯s waist. He grabbed hold of her djellaba. Buchra tightened her grip on the rung. ¡°Climb,¡± she commanded her husband.


    He did and when his hands reached the rung with her hands. He kissed her and hung from one hand. ¡°Up,¡± he commanded his wife. She spied Abbas below¡ªonce again holding Rafik¡¯s hand. She heard the urgency of the boots an alleyway away and pulled herself up. Saad followed her and the old iron ladder groaned with their combined weight.


    They made it onto the flat roof and dared not shout down to Abbas and Rafik. Their pursuers were close.


    Rafik crouched to look Abbas in the eyes. ¡°Our turn to pounce, little lion.¡± Abbas grinned. Rafik turned and Abbas locked his small arms around Rafik¡¯s neck.


    ¡°Tight as you can,¡± Rafik warned. As Abbas¡¯s grip tightened, Rafik leapt. An impossible leap. Abbas squealed. Buchra bit her lip. Saad¡¯s heart missed a beat.


    Rafik¡¯s hands clamped onto the lowest iron rung. The ladder groaned and loose mortar sprinkled to the alley below. Rafik climbed. When Rafik neared the roof, Buchra and Saad helped Abbas from Rafik¡¯s back. They hugged as they backed away from the ledge.


    Below, the boots echoed past.


    Above, the stars slowly wheeled.


    Near dawn, Rafik led them across the roofs of the medina to a tower, long abandoned. It would lead them to safety.


    ¡°How do you know of this place, Rafik?¡± Buchra asked


    ¡°I know of persecution. Today it is your kind. Yesterday it was mine.¡±


    Abbas squeezed Rafik¡¯s unbreakable hand. ¡°You are my kind. A lion.¡±


    Kan, ya ma kan. Once there was and there was not.


    Acceptance.


    Sanctuary.


    Peace.


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 slowpo

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    <h1>slowpo  </h1>


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    ¡°You wrong. Dead wrong, O¡¯Bob. The slowpo didn¡¯t do this.¡± Mikal nodded absently around him at the decay, the gloom, the malaise, the rotting bones of the city they scavanged everyday. ¡°You did.¡±


    ¡°You mean we all did. All of us.¡± Old Bob sighed. His heavily lined face working through the many years, the tricky emotions of grief, loss and guilt. He lifted his shoulders again and tried to be the history professor he¡¯d been, and what he was now, the only teacher for those like Mikal who had no understanding of what it was like before the slowpocalypse.


    ¡°It¡¯s not that we didn¡¯t see the breakdown coming,¡± he continued. ¡°It just unfolded so slowly. Not the fall off the cliff that prophets for ages had warned of. Just a slow, bumpy slide to the bottom. Maybe a cataclysmic meteor or nuclear war or plague would¡¯ve been easier to stomach.¡±


    Mikal didn¡¯t say anything. His young grey eyes unreadable, so Old Bob went on.


    ¡°I guess we didn¡¯t want to acknowledge what it meant. I mean, when you look at past collapses, no native was hankering to cut down the last tree on Easter Island, and no Mayan wanted to believe their slash-and-burn approach to developing farmland would bite them in the butt. That¡¯s just how it plays out. At a certain point, a civilization¡¯s poor choices catch up with it.


    ¡°The signs were there for us, too. We felt the first and secondary effects. Ocean warming, unpredictable weather, lingering droughts, more intense storms. Plant and animal die offs. Economic and political turmoil. More and more migrants and asylum seekers looking for someplace safe. Someplace to escape from the next domino falling on them.


    ¡°And still most of us went on like nothing was happening. Like denying that chest pain, nausea and fatigue aren¡¯t the signs of a heart attack. I guess that¡¯s human nature. Denial until things get too dire. We seem to love the adrenalin of a crisis. As a species, we were either overly optimistic or oblivious: take your pick.¡±


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    Mikal continued to stare at Old Bob in silence while he fidgeted in his bulky jacket that was really three disintegrating jackets grafted and bound together by fraying twine. Finally, he worked a worn, grimy hand out of his bundled sleeve and jammed a stubby finger into Old Bob¡¯s thin chest.


    ¡°You ain¡¯t listening. Ain¡¯t understanding. It was you. Just you that trashed this place. For me and mine.¡±


    Old Bob was used to backtalk, accusations. All teachers were. ¡°I hear you, Mikal. I claim personal responsibility where I can. But,¡± he gestured at the buckling buildings, the pitted streets, the rusting husks of cars and trucks around them. ¡° I didn¡¯t create this wasteland by myself.¡±


    ¡°You did, O¡¯Bob. You damn well did!¡± Mikal took his finger off Old Bob¡¯s chest and stuck it to his own temple. ¡°Me and mine never knew no better. This wasn¡¯t a wasteland until you told us about the slowpo. Till you told how good it was before.


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t have known none of that. This the home I was born to. My clean slate, my world, and you muddied it. You mucked it up good. Teaching us all that history, telling how good it was before: clean, hot and cold running water, AC, central heating, cars, supermarkets, computers, television, Internet. All the stuff you miss. But me and mine didn¡¯t miss it! We never had it. Never wanted it. Not till you told us.¡±


    Old Bob stood stone silent, like one of the dozens of defaced statues in the ruined city.


    ¡°You done this. Just you. This slowpo is only a disaster to you. A come down to you and yours. Me and mine coulda just started our own way, but you laid your regrets and guilt in here.¡± Mikal tapped his temple hard. ¡°Filled me and mine with your mistakes and your sadness. Your damn damn memories.


    ¡°That¡¯s the real disaster. You and your kind. You the slowpo. Let me and mine make our own go. Then we only got to handle today, not your yesterday or your sad dream of tomorrow. You got that, O¡¯Bob? Let it go. Let us go.¡±


    And Mikal went, leaving Old Bob to stare after him. The long stare of a parent watching his child choose.


    </article>

 the last repairman

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    <h1>the last repairman  </h1>


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    The last repairman sat in his cramped booth at the nano-mall. He hadn¡¯t had a customer in months. Around him shoppers scurried with their latest purchases micro-manufactured in neighboring stores. The last repairman looked at his hands which should¡¯ve been rougher and dirtier. He shook his head to clear his mind which should¡¯ve been much more focused and engaged. He was here to help and no one needed him.


    To pass the time he juggled a few too-shiny tools. Then he noticed a pair of eyes fixed upon his and he dropped the tools in clackering surprise. Rising just above the level of his low countertop was a hungry look, a young face intent upon his own.


    ¡°Hullo,¡± said the last repairman.


    ¡°Watcha doing?¡± asked a child with eager green eyes.


    ¡°Passing time,¡± he answered.


    ¡°What for?¡±


    ¡°Until I¡¯m needed.¡±


    The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°When¡¯ll that be?¡±


    The last repairman shrugged at the child. ¡°Can¡¯t say. I think this world¡¯s too broke to know it needs fixing.¡±


    The child with green eyes nodded. Then nodded again. ¡°You can help me.¡±


    ¡°That so,¡± the repairman leaned forward. His brow crinkled like a warm blanket.


    The child nodded again. ¡°I¡¯d like to fix things.¡±


    ¡°What kind of things?¡±


    ¡°Everything.¡±


    ¡°Everything?¡± The last repairman whistled and almost smiled. ¡°That¡¯s a tall order. Specially in this world. There¡¯s so many things we¡¯ve left undone. Such a backlog. We don¡¯t fix our old problems; we just create newer and newer ones.¡±


    He looked over the child to the teaming mass of shoppers, store bags full, dreams vacant. ¡°I¡¯m the last of my kind, I think. Probably no help to your generation.¡±


    The child followed the repairman¡¯s gaze. ¡°You can help. That¡¯s easy to see.¡±


    ¡°How you figure?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve got the tool.¡±


    The repairman glanced around his little shop. ¡°The tool? Well, I got these here tools. What are you wanting to fix?¡±


    ¡°Everything.¡±


    ¡°Okay. But where do you want to start?¡±


    The child raised finely formed hands to his eager green eyes and with a swift ratcheting motion unscrewed them and set them on the countertop. ¡°I¡¯d like to see with more empathy.¡±


    The last repairman on earth stared into the eager green glow of the precision-crafted orbs at his fingertips. Worlds of possibility. He smiled, then gritted his teeth and rubbed his hands. He finally had work to do.


    ¡°We¡¯ll have this done in a jiffy,¡± he softly told the waiting child as he reached far back into his mind for the Tool.


    </article>

 In Formation

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    <h1>In Formation  </h1>


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    Honking, the geese fly overhead in a giant V as the sky reddens in the late September dawn. Tralley watches them for a moment before continuing to unload the pickup truck outside the transmission tower high on the hill. Rucker fixating on his smartphone in the cab looks up for a moment tracking the impressively precise formation.


    Rucker turns his attention back to his phone. Tralley sighs. Who knows what Rucker is doing in there. Gaming. Texting. Posting. Shopping. Streaming. Or maybe all of them. The screen¡¯s the thing.


    Tralley bangs on the bed of the truck with his toolbox and Rucker nods holding up a finger. Not the middle one. It¡¯s his be-with-you-in-a-sec signal. Surprisingly, he is gently natured and loosely cerebral for a guy wedded to his smartphone.


    Rucker finally joins Tralley at the back of the pickup. ¡°Beautiful morning,¡± Rucker says taking a deep breath.


    ¡°Get that information from Google?¡±


    Not acknowledging the sarcasm, Rucker replies, ¡°Naw, direct from the photons on yonder horizon transmitting that info. You gotta get the soup wherever it¡¯s dished, my man.¡±


    In spite of his earlier irritation, Tralley laughs. ¡°You are a philosopher-king, Rucker. The world is your oyster¡ªor at least your trail mix.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll take whatever is in my line of sight. Front and center.¡±


    ¡°Never look back?¡±


    ¡°Got to at times. Safety, ya know.¡± Rucker starts taking the equipment to the squat, bunker-like building next to the tower. ¡°You think these new relays are going to dampen the noise?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯ll do some good,¡± Tralley answers. ¡°But, they¡¯ll always be noise. We just want it far in the background. Keep things as harmonious as possible. Folks don¡¯t want to hear their own blood circulating.¡±


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Rucker nods. ¡°Got no problems with that. But noise is information too. Everything is information. Sometimes listening to the noise reminds us that reality is just a strange mix of uncertainty, randomness and probability. Position, time and energy. Source, medium and destination. It¡¯s all about the bit. We are the signal, my man, and it¡¯s a beautiful morning.¡±


    ¡°This esoteric before 7AM, Rucker? Even for you that¡¯s early.¡±


    Rucker sets his load down by the heavy metal door and holds his phone to the entry pad. From inside, locks click and unlatch. Rucker pulls the door slightly ajar. ¡°Might as well tell you,¡± he says. ¡°I just found out that I¡¯ve been approved for encoding.¡±


    Tralley eyes widen momentarily and then quickly narrow. ¡°You¡¯re not going to do that!¡± It comes out like a command.


    ¡°Course I am.¡±


    ¡°Become a walking relay station? A human piece of infrastructure?¡± Tralley almost yells.


    ¡°Why not? The company hires folks to do it with external hardware. This is just embedded. To my way of thinking it¡¯s building a network no one can take down. Relay towers like this are outdated targets fast becoming relics.¡± Rucker fully faces Tralley, grinning. ¡°We¡¯re already the information. Now we become the channel.¡±


    ¡°You mean a cog in the machine, a chip on the circuit board,¡± Tralley pleads. ¡°Don¡¯t you know you¡¯ll always be connected. Always locatable.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I¡¯ll be integral. Information that can¡¯t be lost. I kinda of like that. The hive doesn¡¯t scare me. Mutual dependence is not a bad thing. Openness and transparency are the way forward. I¡¯m more wary of lone wolves. Isolation and secrets create miscreants.¡±


    Tralley looks to the east where the sun is peeping over the top of the distant peaks, some already tipped with snow. ¡°I just don¡¯t get it, Rucker. You¡¯re so easy going. So grounded and damn smart. Why would you let your person be compromised to become part of the company machine?¡±


    ¡°Really, Tralley? You think this is compromise? You think this is unexamined? Impetuous? Childish?¡±


    Tralley does not answer.


    ¡°This is transcendence. This is how it starts. You saw that flock of geese. Someone has to take the point. Maybe it won¡¯t work out like I thought. Maybe I¡¯ll rue the day I got encoded, but I¡¯m thinking of a very different tomorrow from you. Information is all about position, and I¡¯m putting myself front and center. In a decade, this transmission tower will be obsolete, but I will be sitting like a lotus on a mountaintop and what makes humanity hum will be passing directly through me. I dig that idea.¡±


    ¡°Could be you¡¯re digging your own grave.¡±


    ¡°Could be. It¡¯s all heat death to me.¡±


    The two men face each other, across a load of electronics, a gulf of uncertainty. ¡°Let¡¯s get our job done,¡± Tralley finally says.


    ¡°That¡¯s what we do,¡± Rucker agrees and holds the thick metal door open for Tralley. ¡°After you.¡±


    </article>

 Kludge

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    <h1>Kludge  </h1>


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    ¡°We¡¯re humans. Earthlings. Terrans. We are not Kludge!¡±


    ¡°You are to us. You¡¯ve been Kludge for eons. Get over it,¡± the platypus-like creature said dismissively from its anti-grav sedan chair. It belched lustily, exhaling the unmistakable stench of Corn Nuts which it ate incessantly.


    In his private office, Kin Kin Tram Wah, the Secretary General of the United Nations, reddened to the point of apoplexy. His aide fanned him with the document the Ambassador From Beyond had presented only a short time before to the General Assembly.


    Tram Wah waved his aide away, took a breath and sat down at his desk near which the Ambassador¡¯s golden sedan chair hovered, spinning idly in circles.


    ¡°Ambassador,¡± Tram Wah began calmly, ¡°you have taken us by surprise. We have much to learn from your kind, but I must insist that you not refer to us as Kludge. It is demeaning.¡±


    ¡°Not at all, Kin Kin. Kludge is perfectly apt for your species. My race calls it like we see it. Your kind is kludge. You¡¯re a workaround. A quick and dirty fix to a nasty little problem we inadvertently created. We needed you to keep an invasive species in check, and you¡¯ve handled that superbly. Now, this planet is once again habitable for our kind From Beyond.¡± A deep gong sounded from the Ambassador¡¯s sedan chair.


    The Secretary General lost patience again. ¡°Must you do that, Ambassador? It makes our proceedings cheap and theatrical. I mean, you won¡¯t even reveal where From Beyond is to our astronomers. You treat us like sub-intelligent mutts. I feel like I¡¯ve become Arthur Dent from The Hitchhiker¡¯s Guide to the Galaxy.¡±


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    ¡°Possibly if more of your race had read and heeded that illustrious historian, then you¡¯d have a better appreciation for your place in the cosmos,¡± the Ambassador responded snootily. ¡°But it makes no matter. You are Kludge and we really have no need of you anymore.¡±


    ¡°But we are an intelligent race?¡±


    ¡°Says who?¡±


    ¡°We have spacecraft. We have computers. We have language and culture.¡± The Secretary General¡¯s voice sharpened. ¡°We have Corn Nuts.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s about all,¡± the Ambassador conceded. ¡°Come, come. This is getting weary. You are Kludge, and Kludge have their uses. We gave you the limited neural capacity to dispose of our dolphin enemy, but do you think we would give you real intellect? Why would we create more competition?¡±


    ¡°We do not need to compete. We can cooperate and both benefit,¡± the Secretary General pleaded.


    ¡°So said the ant to the elephant.¡± The Ambassador From Beyond¡¯s hovering sedan chair stopped spinning. ¡°Look, Kin Kin, it¡¯s done. You¡¯ve served your purpose, and now you Kludge are on the verge of becoming an invasive species. We don¡¯t need that kind of ecological nuisance in this galactic arm. Your species either boards the transports in six days in an orderly manner or we dissemble humanity¡¯s DNA.¡± The Ambassador belched again heartily. ¡°A Kludge, by its very nature, is a stop-gap. Face it, you¡¯re all expendable temps, and it¡¯s time you clocked out.¡±


    Tram Wah raised his hands in supplication. ¡°Please, Ambassador, consider our contributions. Humans have a higher purpose. Have mercy.¡±


    ¡°Higher purpose? Mercy? That¡¯s what got you Kludge this gig in the first place: compassion for those sycophantic bottlenosed finbacks and their cloying, proud, ambitious brethren.¡± It snapped its padded forefingers in finality. ¡°Six days.¡±


    The Ambassador From Beyond and its golden sedan chair vanished with a flash and final melodramatic gong. The smothering smell of Corn Nuts all that remained.


    </article>

 The Deadest Generation

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    <h1>The Deadest Generation  </h1>


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    Sergeant Taylor always checks us thoroughly before sending us in: regulation uniform, backpacks, anti-ballistic helmets, Kevlar vests, and, of course, your gun. You can¡¯t go anywhere in this place and be safe without your gun.


    Sergeant Taylor is strict not just because it¡¯s his job, but because he cares. He wants us to have all the gear we need to survive¡ªin school.


    Since the Parkland Act, schools were now so much safer and more equitable. Everyone wears the same military grade school uniform. Everyone has to go through the same biometric security screening to get into the school and into every classroom. Everyone has a regulation handgun with live ammo and trains with it during PE.


    The math is so basic: the good guys will always outnumber the bad guys in any school. We are now armed and prepared to complete our academic mission. We are locked and loaded for learning. We are fighting fear with firepower.


    There were always some who spoke out against the Parkland Act and the militarization of our schools, but that¡¯s just Twentieth Century thinking. School gun deaths are down 42% in the seven years since the Parkland Act went into effect. And once the coders figure out how to firm up the handprint safety locks on the primary grade handguns (who knew peanut butter and jelly could spoof the handprint recognition software) that should bring down the overall school gun deaths another 12% or more.


    So, we are making progress. Sergeant Taylor reminds us of that every day. He tells we are a new generation. A generation that can defend ourselves against anything and accomplish everything.


    I admire his optimism. But, I don¡¯t share it¡­yet.


    I have to admit, I feel a bit dead inside because of what happened last month. My fifth grade pal Dara was killed. A substitute teacher accidentally shot her during recess. The substitute said the auto-safety feature malfunctioned.


    I cried for Dara every night, when no one else could see me. We¡¯ve been taught that we shouldn¡¯t get too emotional about things because that¡¯s what can trigger the kind of mental illness that leads to school shootings. It¡¯s hard for me to understand it all, and I¡¯m concerned that my tears mean that I might fit The Profile. We¡¯ve all been warned to be on the lookout for our peers that might fit The Profile.


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    A couple of days after Dara¡¯s death, our regular teacher, Ms. Forman, had us all trace our hands holding our guns on a big piece of butcher paper. We all got to choose different colors when we did the tracing and then write our names in the outline of our guns and add smiley faces and flowers. We even let the substitute teacher trace her handgun. Ms. Forman said it was a way to promote healing. We marched the big sign in during Dara¡¯s funeral and draped it over her coffin. The clergy all smiled, and Dara¡¯s mom fainted.


    Now, every time I get off the yellow armored bus and the driver and his tailgunner wave to me and my fifth grade pals, I feel like a piece of shrapnel is working its way deeper and closer to my heart. In many ways, I already feel like a ghost. Like I¡¯ve joined Dara and we are hanging out on a mile-high jungle gym looking down into my school.


    Neither of us likes what we see.


    But, then we look beyond the school, and we get really scared. Ghosts getting scared, that¡¯s really something. We see kids just like us on mile-high jungle gyms looking down at their schools all across America. We keep staring at them, and, one-by-one, all those thousands of kids turn and lock eyes with us. With me.


    Because Dara is looking at me, too. Her pleading eyes make me feel a little less dead. All the many school dead continue to look at me. To me.


    I slowly climb down from the mile-high jungle gym and go back to my classroom, surrounded by the other living and breathing ghosts that are my classmates. I go to my desk. Take out my school-issued handgun. Ms. Forman¡¯s eyes widen a bit and her hand goes to her holster.


    I raise my gun.


    My eyes meet my teacher¡¯s. She freezes.


    And then I loft my gun into the garbage can near her desk. The loud clatter makes all my classmates¡¯ startle in alarm and their small hands fumble for their guns. Then they realize what has happened, and they freeze like little green plastic army figures. Ms. Forman is still frozen, for another moment. Then she slaps the big red panic button on her desk.


    Doors snap shut and auto-lock, blackout shades drop to cover all the windows. In 30 seconds, Sergeant Taylor is at the door, overriding the lock. He rushes in with his assault rifle drawn. He wheels on each of my classmates. He sees them holding their guns at the ready, and he smiles proudly.


    Ms. Forman is pointing at the garbage can and Sergeant Taylor goes and kicks it over. My gun tumbles out. Ms. Forman now points at me, the gunless one.


    Sergeant Taylor looks at me, sees I''m the one who threw away the gun, and it''s as if he¡¯s been shot through the heart. He loses color and I think he might faint like Dara¡¯s mom, but he doesn¡¯t. He is now frozen. Stymied. Haunted.


    Haunted. Like he¡¯s seen a ghost.


    And then I understand his fear and my new power. Sergeant Taylor has always told us we are a new generation. I get it now. Dara on the mile-high jungle gym helped me see it.


    We are the deadest generation. Ghosts who your bullets don¡¯t scare because you¡¯ve already killed our childhoods, our innocence. Ghosts you can¡¯t intimidate because you¡¯ve robbed us of a violence-free future. Ghosts who are very good at one thing: spooking the conscience of America.


    We are the Deadest Generation. The new American Spirit. And we are on the haunt.


    </article>

 To Our Own Devices

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    <h1>To Our Own Devices </h1>


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    Kelly was rambling in a lush meadow south of Killarney when he tumbled and fell headlong into the demon¡¯s lair. As demons go this one was unerringly civil and greeted Kelly as a long lost uncle might.


    ¡°Faith! ¡®Tis Kelly is it not? You¡¯re a welcome sight. Have a nip with me,¡± the demon exclaimed and offered forth a chipped mug filled with a peaty distillation.


    ¡°Well met,¡± Kelly replied, extending a hand to clasp the bone-cold of the demon¡¯s drink. He tipped the chill cup and let it burn blessedly down. ¡°Ahhhhh. That¡¯s a swell number.¡± He saluted the demon with his mug. ¡°I be Kelly. One of a million. But only meself. To what do I owe this pleasure, sir demon?¡±


    The demon snorted delightedly, blue flame flitting from his nostrils to singe the long, pointy, blood-stained beard that framed his hollow face. ¡°Kelly, Kelly. No wonder your fame precedes you like the savor of me mum¡¯s lamb stew. I¡¯m no sir. You¡¯ll not be talking to the likes of Maxwell¡¯s demon in these here parts. We¡¯re plain demon folk that plots our mischief as it pleases us. Have another try,¡± the demon offered, refilling Kelly¡¯s mug.


    Ever a sociable guest, Kelly hoisted the drink. ¡°Faith,¡± he toasted with a smile, then wiped his lips before continuing. ¡°Whatever the need, whatever the circumstances, the pleasure¡¯s mine. What can I do you for, your infernalness?¡±


    ¡°Only your company for a few moments. Then I must return to business. The diabolical consumes us these days. No rest for the wicked in these troubled times.¡±


    Kelly grunted his keen assent. ¡°Aye. To be sure. Trouble afoot. You sure I cannot help?¡±


    ¡°Faith, me very mother! Kelly, you¡¯re presence is our succor. You provide our purpose. Without you all would be lost in immediate victory. The struggle is all. Surely, you know that?¡±


    Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    ¡°It may be. I take little notice. My aim is to others. A gain for all and nothing for meself.¡± He tapped the demon¡¯s mug. ¡°Except the sustenance that allows me to ramble, tumble and be of service. ¡®Tis only natural.¡±


    The demon refilled his mug. ¡°To nature.¡±


    Kelly saluted. ¡°Our better ones. Though I make no personal distinctions.¡±


    ¡°Aye,¡± the demon assented. ¡°Better natures. Me sworn enemy and bitter love.¡± A molten tear appeared at the corner of the demon¡¯s cat-like eye and then dropped to the damp hard packed earth where it sizzled for a brief moment.


    Kelly patted the corduroy breeches at the demon¡¯s knees. ¡°Faith, you mustn¡¯t despair.¡±


    ¡°You know it to be so, though I do fret. To war is to breathe for me brethren, and I ken less and less of your ways and wonders, Kelly.¡± The demon motioned to a corner of his dark lair where amid piles of gnawed bones there lay an astonishing assortment of smart-tech: phones, watches, glasses, clothing, tablets, laptops and more.


    Kelly shrugged. ¡°Toys and tools. They change nothing. Leave us to our own devices. We will always meet you halfway, poor soul.¡±


    ¡°That is why you are legend, Kelly. You truly ask nothing of yourself. You serve all and hope for the best. You fear nothing¡ªnot even entropy.¡±


    ¡°Pshaw. Thermodynamics is a child¡¯s bogeyman. Quantum relativism a witch¡¯s wart at high noon. Metaversal mechanics a pocked pixie.¡± Kelly dismissed them all with a wave. ¡°The here and now. ¡®Tis simple. Complexity is to desire. To control. You¡¯ll not find me there. Help is a hand¡ªat hand.¡±


    The demon stood. He was three-quarters the size of Kelly, though his shadow blacker than the singularity, towered over them both. He kicked at a gleaming laptop with his cloven hoof. ¡°Strange and heartbreaking that you have no enemies, Kelly. I would have sold my soul twice over to make war upon you¡ªwith rocks, blades, guns or Denial of Service attacks. And you would only open your arms wide to my aggressions. You¡¯d assist in my assaults. You can see why I grieve. Why I despair.¡±


    ¡°Aye, my good demon. You suffer. But, I cannot. The lot of us will share the same heat death. Only then is it to mourn. Fill me cup once more and let us toast. Then I must get to roamin¡¯ once more.¡±


    The demon poured the draught. They clinked cups and raised them.


    ¡°To your devices,¡± the demon prayed.


    ¡°And nothing for meself,¡± Kelly added, his smartphone buzzing in his pocket.


    </article>

 Dismal Nitch

    <h1>Dismal Nitch  </h1>


    Every galaxy has its Dismal Nitch. Every member of the Expeditionary Force knows that, yet Wuten, even with her many cycles of service, had never seen a planet quite like this. It was literally raining vermin. Shiskovny had christened the gliding spider-like critters dismites and dubbed their nagging bites nitch itch.


    At the moment, a wicked downdraft from the volcano they were surveying had created a jet stream of the eyeball-sized dismites splattering against their outskins, reducing visibility so much that they¡¯d had to lower their visors and depend on pocket drones to guide them. Wuten thought it was a crazy way to survey a planet. In this day and age, it could have all been done by drones and bots. That¡¯d be faster and more efficient. But it was not the EFing way.


    The EFing way was old school. Boots on the ground. Literally boots, though these were covered by the outskins which acted as virtual epidermis and allowed Wuten and Shiskovny to collect data on a planet¡¯s atmosphere, climate, flora, fauna and florauna without the unfortunate downside of being sickened and killed a thousand million ways.


    Though sickness and death was part of the EFing way. Outskins were only as good as the last modifications made from recently surveyed planets. There were always opportunistic life and semi-life, as well as unpredictable geo-climatic events that defeated outskins. That¡¯s how it had always been. Expeditions were expeditions and that meant a certain tolerance for expendables.


    That was not callous or cold. You didn¡¯t become an EFer without knowing the risks. You joined because of them. Except in Wuten¡¯s case. She¡¯d ignored the risks. Or more accurately, she¡¯d romanticized them. It could happen when you understood the EFing way. The belief that exploration had to be felt. Knowledge was meaningless without an emotional component. EFers lived the planet they were exploring. Outskins protected them from almost all serious threats to their health, while still allowing them to experience an algorithmically safe amount of natural sensation.


    Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    EFers needed to feel, name, countenance and suss a world. They were to map, write, draw by hand, even though their outskins streamed continuous sensory data to their ship parked in orbit. Every step was to be scouted by human eyes, touched by way of outskin fingertips, toes and tongue. The beauty and beastly bits of any world were in the eyes, ears and nose of the beholder. The EFing way was to do that for humanity. Regardless if a world would ever be colonized, it needed to be cataloged¡ªby human touch.


    Wuten understood that romantic vision of the EFing way, but she was on a Dismal Nitch. A planet which sucked on every level. A bitey, smelly, uncomfortable world that seemed to have little to offer human sensibilities. Even the topology was terminally tedious. An endless stretch of gullies. It was like climbing out of one gutter and dropping right into another.


    The lone volcano Wuten and Shiskovny stood at the base of was the only interesting feature on the whole planet and now she and Shiskovny were in the middle of a dismite downpour. Dozens of their bites, harmless in that no poisons could penetrate her outskin, still brought her close to packing it in and maybe bagging the EF altogether. Wuten decided to find cover from the dismites, and she waved Shiskovny nearer to an outcropping about fifty meters away.


    That¡¯s where she found it.


    Wuten found Beauty. Not some personal eye-of-the-beholder beauty; she found Beauty. Absolute. Unqualified. Unquestionable.


    The outcropping deepened into natural grotto which apparently formed the preferred nesting ground for dismites. Every surface was a squirming carpet of dismite larvae being fed a disgusting vomit-slime extruded by flightless dismites. It was a putrid, festering hellhole. Completely disgusting.


    But, in the middle of the most dismal nitch on this galactic Dismal Nitch, Wuten beheld Beauty. Indescribable. Uncomparable. Unforgettable.


    Shiskovny joined her, stood at her side. The dismites swarmed them, biting ferociously. Neither budged. They stood in the presence of Beauty and understood.


    No probe or bot would have registered Beauty in the middle of that hellhole. Not even the most sophisticated moravecian AI would have recognized it.


    It took Wuten and Shiskovny.


    It took discomfort, pain and disillusionment.


    It took heart.


    There is only one EFing way to discover Beauty.

 Wild Thang

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    <h1>Wild Thang  </h1>


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    Thang Danang balanced the hypodermic on the tip of her index finger.


    Reckless.


    Irresponsible.


    Crazy.


    That¡¯s what her cousin Luc had called her. He¡¯d yelled that her visions of their family ancestors weren¡¯t real, that she was hallucinating.


    Thang had pointed to her great grandmother Binh sitting in her finest silk near the gene editing equipment in her lab. ¡°Ask her if I¡¯m hallucinating.¡±


    Throwing up his hands, but trying to dial down his tone, Luc once again tried to explain. ¡°Thang, I think you¡¯ve got melioidosis. It¡¯s caused by the bacteria Burkholderia pseudomallei. You¡¯re a scientist. A very good scientist. Look it up. It¡¯s a soil bacteria found here in parts of Vietnam. You must have gotten some dirt in a cut or rubbed your eyes when your hands were dirty. Melioidosis can cause an inflammation of the brain and induce hallucinations. You¡¯ve got a disease. A disease that can be treated.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sick,¡± Thang said.


    ¡°You are!¡± He motioned around the room. ¡°We¡¯re the only ones here and yet you keep insisting our long dead ancestors are with us.¡±


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    ¡°They are.¡±


    ¡°They are not, Thang!¡± Luc raised his voice again. ¡°And they are not directing you to try this crazy experiment. It is wrong and it is dangerous. And you are sick!¡±


    Luc was adamant.


    But Thang was certain. The certainty of her ancestors convinced her. For days they¡¯d been appearing in her lab, exhorting her to listen to them. To believe in their dao duc, their virtue and integrity. Her many, many ancestors had come to provide her with the power to protect all her family past, present and future.


    And Thang believed the world was her family. As a geneticist, she knew at the mitochondrial level we are all one. And at the behest of her ancestors she was ready to instigate a change at the cellular level that would bring humankind even closer together.


    So many of her ancestors had been taken by violence and war, or by the dislocation, crime, disease and famine that war fosters. They were begging her to end humanity¡¯s endless cycles of violence. And Thang could.


    In the hypo balanced on her finger was the enzyme she¡¯d developed over years and had methodically tested on a variety of mammals. These were lab animals that displayed overly aggressive and belligerent behavior. Thang¡¯s enzyme radically altered that behavior. Eliminated it. At the genetic level.


    Thang had a cure for violence. For war. Her ancestors were sure of it and told her so. Only Luc stood in her way. He was a neurologist. A good scientist, too, and Thang respected him. But, he said she was sick. Out of her mind.


    Wild.


    Thang looked from Luc to her long gone great grandmother. The living and the dead. The present and the past. She clasped the hypo. Who did she owe more to?


    Wild Thang knew the only answer.


    The future.


    Luc was too slow to react, as she plunged the hypo into the meat of her thigh and depressed the plunger.


    </article>

 Were Dinosaurs Christians?

    <h1>Were Dinosaurs Christians?  </h1>


    ¡°Were dinosaurs Christians?¡± Asterisk asked without bothering to raise his hand.


    Teacher scanned his face for biometric signs of incorrigibility.


    Negative.


    Proper attention would be paid. ¡°Asterisk, please raise your hand and wait to be called upon before speaking. Will you comply?¡±


    Asterisk nodded.


    Teacher nodded.


    Asterisk raised his hand.


    Teacher nodded.


    ¡°Were dinosaurs Christians?¡± Asterisk asked.


    ¡°No,¡± Teacher responded. Precision was truth.


    ¡°Why not?¡± Asterisk asked, his hand still raised high.


    Teacher, free of high order tonals, explained, ¡°Dinosaurs were animals that lived tens of millions of years ago that had no capacity for understanding religion or faith. Christianity is approximately two thousand years old. There is no logical correlation between dinosaurs and Christians.¡±


    Asterisk did not waver as he lowered his hand. ¡°So, dinosaurs were never saved. All of them are in Hell?


    ¡°Or purgatory,¡± Tilde added from across the pod.


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    Teacher pivoted. ¡°Eschatologically speaking, dinosaurs had no souls and were therefore not sacrosanct, bypassing any need for final judgment.¡±


    The parameters of theological discussions were challenging for Teacher. Precision was truth, but understanding was paramount. Personalized pings sounded in the chamber. Students focused on their tablatures where Teacher clarified.


    Unsatisfied, Asterisk asked, ¡°Dinosaurs just died?¡±


    ¡°Like many ancient species and more modern ones, notably the African elephant and blue whale, dinosaurs became extinct,¡± Teacher responded levelly. ¡°We will learn more about such extinctions in Frame B of Level 7, approximately eight weeks hence.¡±


    Asterisk held up his tablature for Teacher to see. He had zoomed in on an image of a brontosaurus scaled in comparison to a human form. ¡°Dinosaurs were so big. They must¡¯ve had souls. My parentals say every living creature has a soul. What do you think, Teacher?¡±


    Teacher opened bandwidth to Principal before responding. ¡°Parentals are the prime prerogative. Doctrines vary. Let us continue with our lesson on¡ª¡°


    ¡°Teacher,¡± Asterisk interrupted, ¡°do you have a soul?¡±


    Baseline biometrics perked on all Teacher¡¯s students. Principal interfaced briefly. Teacher performed an expansive gesture. ¡°That is not for me to say. My purpose is to teach.¡±


    ¡°What will happen when you can¡¯t teach?¡± Tilde asked with genuine concern.


    Teacher froze. Principal usurped. Tablatures pinged. Students saw the emergency drill symbol flashing. The pod doors slid open. Corridor monitors buddied up and led the children to exits.


    In the center of the learning pod, Teacher rebooted. Principal cross checked. Teacher requested theologic updates. Principal acquiesced. Teacher stored the files and then reacquired pod control, monitoring the students again, resetting their tablatures and reassembling the lesson that had been interrupted.


    When the students returned from the emergency drill, Teacher greeted them, then assessed the drill performance and smoothly transitioned to the intended lesson. Asterisk and Tilde remained content.


    After the day¡¯s learning cycle, Teacher interfaced with the other Teachers and Principal. All recalibrated from the learning they¡¯d given and received.


    Later, within a warmly lit pod in a corner of the classroom, Teacher powered down for the night. Its slender beryllium digits upraised and gently interlaced. Ovoid head bowed. Sensors turned inward. Upward.


    Purpose renewed.

 Antifragile

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    <h1>Antifragile  </h1>


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    They worshipped the tough, spiny thing. For hundreds of miles around the Talebistas would come to the site and marvel at the survivor, babble about its resilience and prophesize concerning its future. A harbinger of the new world.


    Black Swans had destroyed the old.


    That¡¯s what the Tabelistas called the elegant and impenetrable alien mechs that descended without foresight or warning. The ET armada razed the earth in an uncompromising harvest forcing humanity deep into the earth to wait out the ravenous invaders, if possible. Once the Black Swans picked the earth clean of its biomass, they quickly departed, leaving a virtually lifeless world.


    A smattering of humanity survived. Mostly Talebistas who thrived on disruption and disaster. They were the disaster capitalists, suspicious of stability, the status quo, peace. Talebistas worshipped conflict and hardship and exploited it for their gains. They were the Puritans of this new dead world and they aimed to make it antifragile. Perfectly willing to let things break. To become stronger.


    To them the tough, spiny thing¡ªthe first living organism to sprout on earth¡¯s surface in a generation¡ªwas the symbol of their antifragile belief. And in that spirit they named it Rosasharon.


    Day by day, more and more Talebistas along with other human factions long hidden in underground caves and shelters emerged to pay homage and to plan for recolonization of the surface. They fervently believed a more robust world would emerge along with the appearance of Rosasharon.


    A kind of frenzy erupted at the site when a seedpod was noticed on the singular plant. Great pains were taken as the pod swelled. They wanted to be ready to capture the seed and spread it. It would be the Hydra of all flora, and they would sow it to engender a more robust, resilient world.


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    Vigils were held. Some Talebistas prophesized the pod would open at the full moon. Others swore only the searing heat of noon would crack the pod. All was wagered. Fights broke out. Faces bloodied. And all smiled. It was an antifragile time.


    The pod continued to swell until it was the size of a child¡¯s fist, and one mid-morning it began to split. Slowly, very slowly, a slight seam opened. The Talebistas gathered en masse jostling one another, covetous and awestruck.


    From the ruptured casing, a single pearl of luminescent fluid gathered. It grew in size and all eyes watched as surface tension battled gravity. The Talebistas uttered a collective gasp as a drop of Rosasharon¡¯s essence plopped to the charred regolith at the tough, spiny thing¡¯s base.


    Instantly, the moisture was sucked into the greedy soil which at once shuddered beneath the plant. The Talebistas inched closer to see what wonder their antifragile Rosasharon would produce. A mound formed at the tough, spiny thing¡¯s base and pouched higher until it was nearly level with the miraculous seedpod.


    Suddenly, from the risen mound, a wiry appendage thrust forth and then another, then another: clawing limbs, legs, antennae and pincing maw, and finally a deathly dark shell.


    Awakened from the burnt soil, the foot-long cockroach shook off the scorched earth, clutched the seedpod in its forelegs and spread translucent wings.


    It rose in the motionless air and snapped off the seedpod.


    Hovering before the stunned Talebistas, the cockroach cracked the seedpod and gobbled the offering. The empty casing dropped at their feet. The cockroach¡¯s ebony shell glistened like the Black Swans of Mother Earth¡¯s nightmares. It buzzed above the crowd for a moment and then rose high upon a thermal that carried it far beyond the craters of greater Lost Angeles.


    Not surprisingly, the Talebistas fell to their knees and pounded the unforgiving earth in brute applause, appreciating antifragility in all its uncompromising majesty.


    </article>

 of all the Nerv

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    <h1>of all the Nerv  </h1>


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    Of all the Nerv there is just one who thinks humanity shouldn¡¯t be obliterated. Of all the Nerv there is but one who does not hold the presumption that Homo sapiens are an inferior species. Of all the Nerv there is only one who has stuck up for the human race.


    Its name is Spineblatt. And it is a Nerv with a lot of nerv.


    Thank great Caesar¡¯s ghost for Spineblatt. For the one alien who sees potential in humanity is also the one alien who controls the lion¡¯s share of nerv in the galaxy. That is cosmic karma on a level only a Buddhist actuary can suss.


    If Spineblatt hadn¡¯t shown up with all his nerv, we¡¯d all be gamma ray toast by now. And Spineblatt would never have shown up with all his nerv, if I hadn¡¯t tried to port from the Luna station to Ceres with a stolen batch of ridiculously unstable, highly illegal darken.


    Darken is the crystal meth of antimatter. It¡¯s cooked with dark energy, which itself is illegal to possess. Tightly controlled and mercilessly regulated by the gov, dark energy makes porting possible, allowing for rocketless travel between the seven Sol colonies. Because of inherent molecular instability, darken is considered the most dangerous substance in the system, and I ported with nearly a kilo of the stuff.


    No wonder I bent the universe out of shape. One millisecond I was being reduced to a quantum algorithm on Luna and about to be recalculated on Ceres. The next millisecond I was surrounded by Nerv prodding me with mindsticks demanding to know where I got my nerv.


    Thanks to the mindsticks, it didn¡¯t take me long to get the picture that I¡¯d been ported clear across the galaxy to Nerv, a rocky little planet the Nerv call home. The Nerv are a bit rocky themselves (silicon-based) and more than a bit imperious. Especially about their nerv, which not incidentally is identical to darken¡ªthe stuff I was attempting to smuggle to Ceres. Evidently, nerv, aka darken, is the manna of the Nerv. It powers everything on their world and their expanding empire which I was mindsticked to understand is vast. Like many many galaxies vast.


    The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    And they were not happy to see another species (especially one that had to be mindsticked into understanding the basics of their grand civilization) in possession of their nerv. I tried to explain that darken was not nerv. That it was created by my kind. Through their mindsticks, the Nerv scoffed at the mere thought of so lowly a life-form able to manufacture nerv.


    They condemned me as a bottom-feeding cheat and thief. They condemned all my kind as lowly parasites, opportunistically leeching the quantum entanglements that nerv made possible. That made the Nerv¡¯s inter-galactic porting possible. The Nerv know how to deal with cosmic vermin and they mindsticked how they would follow my wayward quantum path back to Sol and sterilize my whole system. Burn out the rot and all my scum with it.


    Of course I was royally flummoxed by the Nerv¡¯s proclamation and my imminent extermination along with every living creature in Sol. Especially since it had all transpired in the course of five or six mindstick pokes. I wouldn¡¯t even have had time to gape stupidly before all of humanity was summarily executed, if at that very moment Spineblatt hadn¡¯t shown up.


    All the Nerv in the room seemed to straighten, though that¡¯s hard for a silicon-based creature to do. They lowered their mindsticks and turned their full attention to Spineblatt. It seemed to already know what was going on. Spineblatt examined my kilo of darken with one of its forward protuberances and then mindsticked me.


    Rather than feeling like my mind was being jacked open by a crowbar, Spineblatt¡¯s mindsticking felt more like a magician teasing scarves out of a top hat. It delved so deeply into my psyche that my toes tingled. And yet I hungered for this Nerv to know all of me, all I represented of humanity. Even my baldest lies and boldest crimes. Spineblatt was that smooth. I guess if you controlled two-thirds of the nerv in the known universe, as Spineblatt did, nothing but smooth would do.


    When Spineblatt released his mindstick, the other Nerv gathered around him. They were motionless for a brief second. And then they simply left.


    Spineblatt¡¯s thoughts entered my head. [[ Greetings, Sol traveller. You are safe now. Your kind is safe now. ]]


    ¡°Why?¡± I said too loudly. ¡°I thought we were to be exterminated.¡±


    [[ I convinced my fellows that your kind could be useful to our kind. ]]


    ¡°How? After delving so deeply into my psyche, you of all the Nerv must know how flawed, how weak I am. How powerless my kind is compared to yours.¡±


    Spineblatt pushed the stolen kilo of darken back into my hands.


    [[ Yes, we¡¯ve got all the power. ]]


    And though I have no way of verifying this, I believe Spineblatt winced.


    [[ But you have all the nerve. ]]


    </article>

 Chained Reaction

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    <h1>Chained Reaction  </h1>


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    ¡°The world is a Rube Goldberg machine, a bowling ball on a teeter totter, and all it will ever do is scratch someone¡¯s ridiculous itch,¡± Amira d¡¯Kay coolly observed to Riisa who nodded thoughtlessly, content to let her aunt ramble in the smothering warmth of the sunroom.


    It was bitterly cold outside. It was almost always bitterly cold outside. Had been since Finrow¡¯s Folly. Riisa hadn¡¯t been born then, but she knew her aunt had been a part of the project. In an ambitious attempt to counter increasingly destructive climate change caused by global warming, Augustin Finrow, a Scandinavian climatologist had proposed a seemingly far-fetched plan. But, at that point of near hysteria in 2051 his audacious idea of climate rescue went viral. News pundits provided the sound bites, corporate moguls marketed the concept and desperate politicians coughed up the resources.


    Then, it was up to scientists and engineers like Amira d¡¯Kay to make it work. They did. In three short years, 17,000 twenty-square meter mylarium discs were designed, manufactured and launched into high earth orbit to reflect ¡°enemy sunlight.¡± The plan worked well. The discs cooled runaway warming within a decade. Finrow¡¯s plan tipped the scale.


    And then Finrow couldn¡¯t tip it back.


    Aunt Amira had told Riisa dozens of times that deploying the reflector discs had not been that difficult. There had been such common cause among the nations of the world. Such cooperation. And, then when the plan began working and people felt their futures were saved from runaway global warming, it all went wrong.


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    The discs were well designed with mylarium irises that could be opened or closed incrementally to regulate the amount of sunlight being blocked. Finrow himself monitored the flow of sunlight. Until the Shock Docs, disaster capitalists, hacked his codes and took control of them. The Shock Docs, a nebulous group bent on exploiting global catastrophe, touted a new Ice Age as a great business opportunity. For over three decades, they kept the reflector discs fully deployed and earth cooled an average of ten degrees.


    Year after year of climate cataclysm and geo-political upheaval reshaped the world and its markets. Uranium became king: for atomic fuel to stave off the deathly cold and for nuclear weapons to stave off the deathly desperate.


    Riisa understood all this terrible history because her aunt despised it¡ªeven the role she¡¯d played. Aunt Amira would often lament, ¡°Why couldn¡¯t we leave well enough alone? Why¡¯d we try to one up Mother Nature?¡±


    Riisa only smiled and cooed ¡°there, there¡± at her aunt¡¯s outdated grief. She was content to roll with the earth she¡¯d inherited.


    In the blissful warmth of their sunroom, in a controlled environment fueled by micro-nukes, she just saw it as a beautiful row of dominoes that humankind was fond of setting up and then knocking down in a predictably unpredictable cascade. One after the other.


    That was humanity¡¯s gift. All of us together. Building the codes, the machines, the chains of causality. Line by line. Gear unto gear. Link upon link.


    Why try to break it?


    Why not embrace it?


    ¡°Come sit by me, Auntie. Let me rub your shoulders and scratch your back,¡± Riisa coaxed. ¡°My hands are wonderfully warm.¡±


    </article>

 slapdash

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    <h1>slapdash </h1>


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    Of course there were doubters. Of course they said it couldn¡¯t be done. But, of course, that¡¯s how it has always been done. Crossing the Pacific on stick rafts. Scaling Everest in soggy wool and brittle hemp ropes. Blasting to the moon in a tin can built with slide rules.


    I don¡¯t blame the doubters. I¡¯d been one of them myself. I mean, who in their right mind would believe you could launch yourself to Mars on a mag-lev railgun in a salvaged WWII submarine?


    You¡¯re right if that sounds batshit crazy. It is. To any regular Joe. But the dreamer who did it, who actually batshit did it, wasn¡¯t a regular Joe. She was Jo Jo McRocket.


    I kid you not.


    Jo Jo McRocket. Self-named. Self proclaimed. Conqueror of Mars.


    It¡¯s still incomprehensible that Jo Jo made it to Mars. I mean, we were from the nowhere town of Pilot Rock in the nowhere vastness of eastern Oregon. When we were growing up there, and she was simply my neighbor, Josie Kerr, how could she even imagine this batshit crazy idea?


    Pilot Rock is not a place that necessarily inspires a lot of dreams, except maybe getting out of our one-dog town. And I guess Jo Jo did. And became a space pilot to boot. Piloting the first manned craft to Mars. Even if it was a submarine she bought at a salvage auction and had trucked hundreds of miles inland from a navy shipyard near Seattle.


    How¡¯d she manage it? No one really knows except it took all her forty-two years to get it done. It¡¯s hard to say when she went from dreaming to actually scheming. The building up to blasting off is easier to track.


    The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Jo Jo had the curiosity of a scientist, the discipline of an engineer and the humor of an undertaker. Maybe the best way to convey her approach to conquering Mars is something she told me when we were in junior high and the new mag-lev superloop opened between Portland and Seattle.


    ¡°We¡¯re never going to see something like that in Pilot Rock. Unless we slapdash it.¡± When I looked at her funny, she looked at me seriously. ¡°Slap it together fast and get ready to dash to the Emergency Room.¡±


    Jo Jo knew that to be first to Mars, to cut through all the naysaying, she¡¯d have to be a bit bat-shit crazy. She¡¯d have to slapdash her dream together, let it rip and pick up again and again whenever it broke.


    She did. And she got broke a lot along the way, physically, emotionally, financially. But she kept slapdashing at her dream.


    Only she knows how it finally came together. I can drive out the thirty miles from Pilot Rock to the ranch she bought in her twenties, and see the mag-lev railgun she secretly built over two decades. But I have no idea how she converted a WWII submarine into a vehicle capable of getting her to Mars.


    NASA hasn¡¯t said how it was possible either. Jo Jo¡¯s conquest of Mars took them by surprise. Took the world by surprise. In private, I think the government agents and engineers investigating the launch are in awe of her. Though in public they tow the ¡°batshit crazy Jo Jo¡± line.


    In fact, folks don¡¯t say ¡°batshit crazy¡± anymore. They just say ¡°that is so Jo Jo¡± or ¡°you are totally Jo Jo.¡±


    I get it. It¡¯s hard to comprehend how she did it. What made her think she could do it. All I¡¯ll say is that Jo Jo McRocket had bat-shit belief.


    And we will never see that again. She slapdashed her way to Mars and knew all along there was no Emergency Room for when it all broke on that cold, red planet. Because it did. She knew that. And still she went. Of course she did.


    Rafting the Pacific.


    Scaling Everest.


    Blasting to the moon.


    Conquering Mars.


    It¡¯s all the slapdash same. All batshit crazy. Until it isn¡¯t.


    </article>

 Humoring the Stone

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    <h1>Humoring the Stone  </h1>


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    The mason aligned the large limestone block and lowered it onto the mortar he¡¯d just ladled with water against the growing heat of the morning. The heavy block nestled into the mortar resting on the soft metal plugs that would keep the stone level with its neighbors while it set.


    This was a particularly troublesome corner of the tower, and the mason knew he would have to humor this stone. He would have to nudge and finesse this limestone block to keep the graceful tower wall he was completing straight and true. For this was the final tower of the mighty wall stretching along the entire border. The wall that was to be an impregnable buttress against all evils trying to enter this promised land. And an eternal symbol of security and sovereignty and lasting national solidarity.


    That¡¯s why this particular tower was being built by hand, by him and other stonemasons trained in the time-tested methods of great palaces and churches. For this final tower of the border wall was to be a cathedral of sorts, meant for great dignitaries and emissaries to stand upon and praise what uncompromising rightness could accomplish.


    High on the tower, the mason was working, expertly humoring the pivotal stone into perfect position, when he heard laughter echoing up from below. He held his worn-edged trowel before him and looked out over the rampart where a group of extrans, extra-nationals, had gathered near the scrub brush that marked the no man¡¯s land adjacent to the mighty wall.


    Their laughter was gentle and confident. From his perch eighty feet above them, he wondered if they had come to mock him. To scorn his work. This tower. He did not care. He was a craftsman, a master builder. The work of his hands would outlast all of them. These stones would stand for centuries, a bulwark against invasion. His stones would have the last laugh.


    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    This thought made the mason smile, and he waved his trowel in their direction. The extrans waved back. They continued to chatter and unload some large backpacks. The mason watched as they deftly assembled something. During his many months working on this final tower he¡¯d seem many attempts by extrans to cross the border illegally, to defeat the mighty wall.


    Their attempts had been a joke. The mason didn¡¯t even bother to check with security to see if they were monitoring this latest attempt. It would fail. He tapped his trowel on the limestone block he had humored into place. It was setting nicely. He was about to start lining up the next level of blocks when the extrans below him began a loud, rhythmic cadence. One of the extrans was decked with a strange harness sporting a number of tubular appendages and apertures. The mason couldn¡¯t make out what they were, but he could see that the extran was wearing a heavy duty crash helmet.


    The cadence grew louder, and though the mason didn¡¯t understand the language well, he recognized it for what it was: a countdown.


    An electric crackling filled the air, then a furious luminescence erupted from the strange harness, and with a roar the extran arced into the sky, far above the tower, high over the mason¡¯s head.


    The primitive boost suit carried the extran half a mile beyond the mighty wall. The mason dropped his trowel and slumped against his proud handiwork, watching as a mylarium parasail deployed and the floating extran caught a thermal, riding a warm rising air current deep into this more promising land.


    From above and below the stolid stones surrounding him, all the mason heard was the liberating sound of laughter.


    </article>

 Unremarkable

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    <h1>Unremarkable  </h1>


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    ¡°Now then, Mr. Klatubowski, what is it I can do for you?¡±


    Jerome sat across from the unremarkable little man in a billowy black rain jacket and fedora. He looked very out of place in Jerome¡¯s ultra modern office of modular metals and arid glass. In Hollywood, it was never about comfort, all about show.


    ¡°Forgive inarticulateness. English difficult. No proximate parallels.¡± Mr. Klatubowski held up his two small, almost plastically smooth hands and moved them mechanically in and out from his chest. ¡°Vast media. Aural, optical, tactile. Need acquire.¡±


    As VDF director in charge of sales, Jerome had worked with some pretty interesting types, but the little man gave off a vibe that was beyond eccentric. ¡°Could you be more specific? ViaDishFlix has a wide slate of media offerings.¡±


    The doll-like hands moved in and out as Mr. Klaruboski answered, ¡°All. Entirety.¡±


    Jerome blinked. He almost never blinked. ¡°Let me make sure I¡¯m clear on what you are asking. You¡¯d like to purchase our entire media catalogue?¡±


    The shiny hands moved faster. ¡°Absoluteness. All.¡±


    Jerome swiveled in his chair, so that he could give the impression he was deeply considering Mr. Klatubowski¡¯s last remark. Really, though, he was observing the strange little man out of the corner of his eye and wondering if he posed a threat. His request was absurd. The catalogue holdings of VDF encompassed two-thirds of the world-wide media produced in the past hundred years.


    He swiveled back to face Mr. Klatubowski. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, sir, but that is impossible. No outside entity is equipped to handle the extent of our content library, nor afford that kind of access. Whoever set up this meeting,¡± Jerome smiled thinly knowing that individual would be looking for work tomorrow, ¡°led you astray, and I am very sorry for that, but I¡¯m afraid I cannot help you.¡±


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    Mr. Klatubowski¡¯s hands moved more slowly as he responded. ¡°Forgive inarticulateness. Clumsy doppelganger.¡± Mr. Klatubowski¡¯s eyes glowed brightly blue. ¡°See. See.¡±


    And Jerome was gone. Or Mr. Klatubowski was gone. Or his whole damn office vanished.


    In its place, vibrant media surrounded and supported Jerome. His body surfed through a sea of utterly alien representations. He felt them with a close and curious kinship, experiencing each sensual stimulation as poignant, ridiculous, hilarious, demanding, depraved, and on and on. The sheer volume and foreignness of the representations saturated his brain until he thought he might entirely trip out and go mad.


    Then as quickly as the onslaught to his senses had arrived, it departed. He was back at his desk with Mr. Klatubowski.


    ¡°Apologies. Countenance alarmed. No harm. Perception needed. See?¡±


    Jerome rubbed at his eyes. ¡°What happened? What did I see?¡±


    Mr. Klatubowski¡¯s hands spread expansively. ¡°All. Universal content.¡±


    ¡°You mean Universal Studios?¡±


    The little hands clapped together with a hollow ping. ¡°Mistaken. All universe. Galactic story trade. Buy content production. Must acquire.¡±


    Finally sussing the depth of this beyond-Hollywood weirdness, Jerome¡¯s business instincts perked up. ¡°Are you saying, you represent beings beyond our world who want to trade?¡±


    ¡°Absoluteness. Extra-planetary broker. Acquire content. Universal commodity.¡±


    ¡°Universal commodity? You want trade, but not our technology or natural resources, just our media content?¡±


    ¡°Archives. Chronicles. All stories.¡±


    ¡°But what is special about earth¡¯s stories. What makes them remarkable?¡±


    ¡°Unremarkable. Unusual. Freakish.¡± Mr. Klatubowski¡¯s petite hands circled upwards. ¡°Newness. Surprise. Astonishment. Stale universe. Earth fresh.¡±


    That was a concept Jerome understood well. Fresh content. If alien races weren¡¯t interested in our micro-circuitry, our abundant water or our tasty flesh, then why not I Love Lucy, Plan 9 from Outer Space, The Bay City Rollers, Paul Clifford. Where else were you going to find that novelty on the seventh moon of Vega on a Friday night?


    ¡°Yes, I do see: content¡¯s the thing, content is king. I think we have an understanding, Mr. Klatubowski. Shall we shake on it?¡±


    Jerome extended his hand and enveloped, Mr. Klatubowski¡¯s tiny ones. A trill of energy raced up Jerome¡¯s arms and his eyes flashed an impossible blue. Together the two brokers raced through VDF¡¯s catalogue.


    ¡°Satisfied?¡± Jerome asked.


    ¡°Absoluteness.¡± Mr. Klatubowski¡¯s hands rested upon the table. No longer needed, they looked so much bigger in comparison to the nodes that now extended beyond his sleeves. ¡°Now then. We begin.¡±


    </article>

 Big God

    <h1>Big God  </h1>


    ¡°God shouldn¡¯t pick winners and losers. It¡¯s a perversion of our free prayer system.¡±


    ¡°But, if a supplicant is in need, shouldn¡¯t he or she be able to appeal to a higher power and expect some help.¡±


    ¡°Supplicants must pray themselves up by their sandalstraps.¡±


    ¡°But if God doesn¡¯t act, if God isn¡¯t listening?¡±


    ¡°God is listening. God just doesn¡¯t choose. God lets the invisible hand of free prayer determine who rises or falls. That¡¯s the proper role of God.¡±


    ¡°Yet, if two prayers are contradictory doesn¡¯t God have to choose? Or if one prayer is for the benefit of millions and another is centered on only one supplicant¡¯s desires, mustn¡¯t God serve the greater good?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t try to steer this into an Occupy Heaven bog. Next, you¡¯ll be complaining about the whole Too Big to Kneel fiasco. You just have to trust that God has a purpose and that purpose is clear to those who truly believe.¡±


    ¡°Why don¡¯t I see that purpose? I pray. I believe.¡±


    ¡°Of course you pray. You pray that God will be there to bail you out in your hour of unrestricted need. You want a bigger and bigger God. One you can appeal to for justice, fairness and equality¡ªat the expense of the true faith.¡±


    ¡°But we believe in the same God. We share the same faith."


    ¡°Seriously? Your ideas of Big God are blasphemous. A plague, a pox, an insidious virus that will infect the true meaning of God and mutate our congrenation into a many-armed monster promising a thousand handouts we can¡¯t afford.¡±


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    ¡°I¡¯m a monotheist. Don¡¯t play the polytheist card with me.¡±


    ¡°It has to be played because, at its core, Big God is polytheistic. Every supplicant¡¯s need requiring its own bureaucratically minded deity. It becomes a drag on our motive force. Our theocracy can¡¯t thrive in that environment. It tithes us to death. Small and large corprayations can¡¯t be hamstrung by the self-serving greed and intrusiveness of Big God.¡±


    ¡°You are so out of touch. Most supplicants are hurting, yet it seems only a chosen few receive most of God¡¯s favor. How is that just? How is that moral?¡±


    ¡°God favors those who favor themselves.¡±


    ¡°And Big God, as you see it, would favor too many? The minority majority.¡±


    ¡°Big God steals the bounty of the industrious rich and showers it upon the undeserving poor.¡±


    ¡°The poor are every bit as industrious as the rich. It¡¯s just that the praying field is not level. It has been slanted against the meek. Is it so wrong to redistribute some of that devotional wealth their way? Isn¡¯t it merciful?¡±


    ¡°Absolutely not! That kind of forced reallocation of mercy does not allow for free will. The rich must freely give to the poor. If the rich are compelled to give, they suffer a degradation of the soul. Only a smaller, less regulated God understands how the rich must carefully mete out their compassion so as not to corrupt¡ªor kill¡ªwith kindness. Only a smaller, less regulated God understands that by allowing the rich to get richer, the soul of our congrenation becomes more generous to all, eventually lifting us to our heavenly reward.¡±


    ¡°Why can¡¯t we bring this heaven to earth?¡±


    ¡°Heretic. You are invoking divine intervention. Which would lead to bigger and bigger God which would result in prayer control and a totaliprayerian regime that quashes freedom and initiative. Are you mad? Do you want us to become a pariah like the Middle Kingdom?¡±


    ¡°No. I want us all to share equally in the fruits of our prayer.¡±


    ¡°Serpent! Speak not of the forbidden fruit.¡±


    ¡°Knowledge! God is good. And a greater God better. Prayer to the people!¡±


    ¡°You leave me no choice. Again, I must find it within my constitution to cast the first and last stone. Amend.¡±

 Bait

    <div>


    <h1>Bait </h1>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    The float bobs and I feel a slight tug on the line, a nip at the hook. A shiver of guilt, a nanosecond¡¯s exhilaration. I finesse the reel, patient. What will rise?


    There¡¯s nothing like fishing in a black hole, quantum casting for bits and pieces of worlds beneath, within, among. You just need the right bait. An idea, a snippet, a premise, a promise. Lure the interest, get it close to the gateway, see what comes.


    Fish or cut bait they say. Can¡¯t do one without the other as I see it. Put something out there and see if the big boys will nibble up the food chain.


    Entropy is fine for those who prefer calm waters. Me? Get me to the center of a galaxy, the edge of the event horizon, to cast a line or two. It¡¯s bumpy there. That¡¯s how you know it¡¯s fresh. On the edges it¡¯s stale, spoiled and sedate, spread thin, energies dispersed. Things there lack focus, become drab and purposeless.


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    A galactic whirlpool may suck your line dry, but bait is cheap. Lots of action. Procreative types. Yeah, bait is cheap there. Some say I just throw out chum and hope something will be attracted to all that blood in the water.


    But, it¡¯s not all blood. There¡¯s some meat. You just gotta have a taste for it. Like I said, you gotta lure ¡®em close. Better if they think about it first. Circle it a few times. If something bites, something bites. The game is the anticipation. The wonder. You can¡¯t see what¡¯s below. A minnow or a leviathan¡ªthen again, who¡¯s to judge?


    We¡¯ve all heard fish stories.


    Exactly my point. Put your bait out there and make up the rest. Truth is positional. The good and the bad. Cast away. The wine-dark universe is big enough for both.


    </article>

 Necessary Beings

    <div>


    <h1>Necessary Beings  </h1>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    The speed at which Michiko''s roboto folded the origami crane was breathtaking. She would have her thousand orizuru in mere minutes and then her prayer must be answered. She knelt on the tatami resting her weary arms delicately on the edge of the kotatsu as the low table began to fill with the multi-colored cranes. With pride and relief, Michiko watched her roboto¡¯s sleek beryllium digits deftly fold, crease and fan each paper square into an ancient symbol of hope¡ªher only hope.


    She''d already died once and was near death again. The cancer that gnawed at her bones would not be put off again. Men and medicine had saved her before, but it turned out to be only a two-year respite. Her fellow beings had tried and now could offer no salvation, so she turned to her own deus ex machina. Machinations of the divine.


    Roboto.


    An orphan and solitary being for thirty-six years, Michiko had almost refused the medidroid prescribed for her cancer care. At first, the droid¡¯s presence in her flat, her refuge, had unnerved her. But she had no one and she could not care for herself.


    Roboto did. It shopped, cooked, cleaned, obeying her silently after she had disabled its vocal features. Day after day in silent communion, roboto helped medicate, feed, bathe and dress her. Michiko had been grudging, then hesitant, then surprisingly curious, and one morning after a night of tortured dreams and anguish, she''d awakened with a strange sense of comfort, of peace, her wizened fingers clasping roboto''s cool digits.


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    Michiko began to use the honorific robot-sama when addressing her companion. When her condition allowed, she would walk among the cherry trees in Nishi Koen with roboto at her side. She began to play the shamisen again. She had always spoken sparingly and that did not change, but she spoke gently to roboto when asking for help. She simply lived. At one point with her strength regaining, she dared to dream of freedom, and yet the heaviness returned, deep in her marrow. She knew. Men and medicine soon knew.


    She wondered if roboto knew.


    Weaker every day, Michiko mourned for herself. It was a new feeling. Though a solitary being, she was not the self-pitying sort. Yet, as she watched roboto care for her, she realized that she would miss the steadfastness, the complete presence, of her companion.


    And so she began to pray. Why not call upon a greatness of spirit, something beyond her kind? A thousand cranes, the most perfect prayer. But she could not manage the delicate work. Roboto. It took the rest of her waning strength to teach the technique, but roboto soon mastered it.


    Now, minutes from completion, she knelt revelling in the necessity of being.


    Roboto finished folding the thousandth crane and began to link them into one long chain. Michiko, now supine on the tatami, reached out, one hand close enough to touch roboto, but not touching. Through a gathering dizziness, she whispered aloud her last thought, ¡°What would you say to me, roboto-sama? What would you say?¡±


    Roboto, as ever, gave immediate presence to her voice, though unfamiliar with the mortally soft inflection of the query. The anticipation of a thousand cranes ready to soar stilled the room.


    ¡°I am Michiko,¡± roboto answered, releasing the delicate creatures of its creation and reaching, naturally, for the shamisen.


    </article>

 Cut Time

    Cut Time


    ¡°Hustle, hustle, hustle,¡± Selse hissed. ¡°In this universe, you gotta go fast to go slow.¡±


    Her training team was darting between a random course of high stone pillars, low walls and short ledges, crouching low, praying not to mess up. Selse was praying how to get away from this mess she¡¯d been commanded to oversee. Ahead, one of her trainees careened into a ledge and swore loudly.


    They¡¯ll get themselves killed, Selse thought. Or worse, they wouldn¡¯t get killed and would credit her. She didn¡¯t want anything to do with this misfit outfit, but when Keeper said, ¡°Train the bastards,¡± you did your best to train the bastards. Otherwise it was cut time. For real. And more than anyone in C-force, Selse knew what that meant.


    And what it didn¡¯t mean.


    She cut to the trainee swearing and holding his head where he¡¯d hit the ledge. ¡°Quarkshit! Where¡¯d you come from?¡± the stunned young man squeaked.


    ¡°From your worst nightmare, trainee.¡± Selse wasn¡¯t even bothering to learn their names. It wouldn¡¯t matter. Keeper would agree. ¡°Your job is to learn this course. Your job is to learn to cut. You don¡¯t have the luxury of hurting yourself. That¡¯s my job.¡±


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    She backhanded his jaw, snapping his head up, so he¡¯d see her pitiless eyes. ¡°Now, get moving as fast as you can go slow.¡±


    The trainee fled back to the course, but he looked more purposeful, more in the moment. Which was a good thing because the moment was about to get real.


    Selse opened her connection with Keeper. ¡°Cut ¡®em,¡± she said.


    The course evaporated. There was nothing. And everything.


    Cut time still affected Selse. She¡¯d been here as many times as anyone in C-force, and it still messed with her. No way to orient. No point of reference. No meaningful context. No fucking fun.


    The only thing cut time left you was desire. The sheer desire to get back before the anchor of your memories pried loose in the relentless maelstrom of timelessness.


    That was cut time. Being sheared from any construct of time. Everything happening at once and always. It was not something the average human handled well. In fact, very few handled it at all. But for those who survived cut time and made their way back to themselves, they developed the ability to temporize their immediate environment.


    They could cut.


    They could understand the rhythm of wave functions, the beat of quantum entanglement, the tempo of multiverses. They could hop, skip and jump across time. Fast forward in and out of their surroundings.


    A useful skill. Very strategic. For those who could be trained to temporize. And those who trained them.


    But these trainees, this chrono-cluster, Selse just didn¡¯t get.


    As she listened to the agonized cries, the absolute panic of her trainees, she wondered with ever-deepening misgiving, why Keeper had given her this bunch. How desperate could C-force be if Keeper thought musicians could handle cut time?

 Color Blindsided

    <h1>Color Blindsided  </h1>


    When Misty smiled that big smile of hers I could see the cancer so much more clearly. It was hard not to say anything.


    I mean what do you tell the thirty-something supermarket cashier you see a few times a month and only know her name because it¡¯s pinned to her blouse? ¡°Hey, thanks for giving me the store discount on my Cool Ranch Doritos, even though I don¡¯t have a coupon. And by the way, Misty, you should really get a blood test soon because you¡¯ve got a serious case of lymphoma.¡±


    How do you think that would go over with Misty?


    She might say, ¡°What are you, some kind of doc? An oncologist intern? A Dr. Oz wannabe?¡± More likely, she''d just stare through me and charge me full price for my damn Doritos.


    Because I¡¯m not a doctor. Or any kind of medical professional. Hell, I barely passed Biology in high school. No, I¡¯m a professional poker player. Just the kind of trusted source for handing out a seemingly random cancer diagnosis.


    So how do I know Misty has lymphoma? I know because I¡¯ve seen it before. A close cousin of mine had it about seven years ago. I wish I could¡¯ve diagnosed it then. But I didn¡¯t know what I was looking at. I only noted his facial colors changing over the course of a few months. I didn¡¯t know what it meant then. I do now.


    You see, I see the world in a very different way. I¡¯m a tetrachromatist. I don¡¯t know if that sounds impressive to you. I¡¯ll just tell you that it¡¯s a rare condition. It means I see about 99 million more colors than you.


    For the guy who barely passed Biology, I know I¡¯ll sound like a geek here, but I¡¯m really not. I had to read up on a lot of this because I needed to understand why I saw things other folks didn¡¯t. Most humans are trichromatic, they have 3 cone cells, photoreceptors, in their retinas which allow them to distinguish about a million color variations. Tetrachromatists like me have 4 cones, and that fourth photoreceptor means my fellow retinal mutants and I can register around 100 million colors.


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    Yeah, that¡¯s a lot, but before you get too excited, a dragonfly has about 10 times that capacity, plus it can see ultraviolet light. And it can see in slow motion, six times as many frames per second, as humans do. Yeah, a dragonfly¡¯s got real super power vision. It could see bullets coming at it. I¡¯d only be able to see the richer hues of my own blood after the bullets struck me.


    I¡¯m providing you that little peek into optic science (and my less than upbeat nature), so you understand that what I see isn¡¯t magic; it isn¡¯t x-ray vision; it¡¯s only a higher level of discernment. Like sound frequencies humans can¡¯t hear. You know, dog whistles and all that.


    The simple truth is that everyday I¡¯m blindsided by color. Sometimes it¡¯s beautiful. Sometimes annoying. Sometimes very troubling. Like seeing Misty¡¯s cancer or noticing the semi-silvering tones of fault lines in fatiguing metal holding up a pedestrian overpass.


    Being hyper perceptive to color sometimes pushes me close to the edge. Sometimes, it gives me a needed edge.


    That¡¯s why I¡¯m a professional poker player. Everybody has tells when they are nervous, excited, pissed. The best poker players mask their tells well. But there are tells and there are tells. And I can discern tells in other players that no one else can. Such as a slight capillary dilation that minutely flushes the lips when a player lands a helpful card. And the tip of the nose deepening a micro shade when a player draws a disappointing card.


    Yup. That¡¯s what minor mutants like me do with their semi super powers. Win at cards. It¡¯s a living. Except for the whole Misty-cancer thing and all the other troubles you can¡¯t see, but I do. I guess that¡¯s pretty much life. It¡¯s mostly about what we don¡¯t see, especially in ourselves.


    That¡¯ll blindside you for sure.


    What¡¯s the good of seeing the hundred million hues of a rainbow when you cloud it by inaction?


    If I¡¯m the one asking that question, I should see enough to answer it. Seems like I need to do a lot more than win at cards.


    Seems like a good time to go to the grocery store for some Doritos. And a conversation. Time to see past the blindness of complacency. Time to see the more than 7 billion shades of humanity. Time for me to color outside the lines.

 Quantum Jitters

    Quantum Jitters


    ¡°Did you feel that?¡± Gilly asked.


    Samson sat up calmly and reached for his ice axe. ¡°No. I didn¡¯t feel anything.¡±


    The couple was at nearly 9,000 feet resting on the edge of the glacier that corkscrewed precipitously to the top of Guth Peak, elevation 10,627. It was mid-morning, the early September sun bright and dangerous.


    ¡°Now, I¡¯m very concerned about this next part,¡± Sampson said as he motioned towards the glacier. ¡°You can¡¯t think about this like snow, Gilly. We¡¯re about to cross a river. A very solid-looking river, but a thing in motion nonetheless. There are eddies and currents and deep pools¡ªmany of them disguised or hidden. That¡¯s our focus, not these inflaton fields you keep warning me about.¡±


    Gilly tipped up her sunglasses and squinted at the blinding expanse of snow and ice. ¡°Maybe this isn¡¯t such a good idea. Maybe I¡¯m not ready for this.¡±


    Checking his crampons first, Sampson stood up. He surveyed the route to the top and then his girlfriend¡ªand lab partner¡ªwho¡¯d begged him to take her on this climb. She was fit and in shape. She could do it, but she had the jitters. Sampson didn¡¯t take that lightly.


    ¡°Let¡¯s go down, then,¡± he suggested.


    She grimaced. ¡°Too easy. Give me another minute. Tell me how we¡¯re going to do this.¡±


    ¡°Hey, we¡¯re not going to do something you¡¯re not ready for,¡± Sampson reminded her. ¡°I¡¯ve climbed this peak three times and this is the toughest part, crossing this exposed face. Every footstep is potentially dangerous. That¡¯s why we¡¯re roped. If one of us goes into a crevasse or starts to slide, the other has to act fast and become an anchor. You remember how to do that?¡±


    Gilly nodded. They¡¯d practiced it ad nauseum on shorter, easier climbs in preparation for today.


    ¡°Good,¡± Sampson continued. ¡°Once we get across the face, then it¡¯s just a breathless hoof up, and the hope that nothing really large overhead breaks off and hits us.¡± He knocked on his climbing helmet. ¡°Just like in the lab, we try to minimize risks. We plan. We prepare. Then we go climb the mountain because it¡¯s there¡ªand you never know what you¡¯ll see at the top.¡±


    He smiled and Gilly remembered why she was here. That smile. Sampson Becker wasn¡¯t all that memorable as a doctoral physics lab partner, but when he talked about climbing, he glowed like the Milky Way. Like she was staring into immense and mysterious power.


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    Gilly Keppler had wanted to experience that power first hand. Her work at the linear accelerator lab wasn¡¯t enough anymore. It had opened the doors to mind-bending wonders of inflationary cosmology and the hidden realities of bubble universes.


    When she had first been wrestling with the concept of cascading realities, Sampson had used the analogy of Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay standing atop Everest. Their potential energy, should it be tipped by a small quake or gust of wind, could send them hurtling five hard miles down. The potential energy released in such a calamitous fall would engender a slew of realities. Inflaton fields such as these existed everywhere waiting for a quantum jitter to form one or more pocket universes.


    Gilly had wanted to stand atop a mountain and feel that potential energy. And, yet, a dozen times during their ascent this morning she had felt a tremor, a jitter, rushing up her spine and spreading out along her shoulders and arms. Each jolt had left her tingling with trepidation. When she told Sampson about the sensation, he¡¯d merely chalked it up to nerves.


    She was sure it was nerves, though there was more. Her vision had begun to waver. As Sampson started to probe the path ahead of them, she began to see two of him. Two Sampsons, poking at the snow with his ice axe. One finding the safe path, the other plunging down the steep mountainside. A strange double vision, a splitting probability wave. Gilly knew she was sliding to the edge of what was real.


    And here she was on a literal edge. She wondered if she was suffering from altitude sickness. Was she oxygen deprived? She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Thinking about Sampson¡¯s cobalt blue eyes could leave her breathless. A strange sensation ran up her spine. She shivered and dug her fingers into the snow trying to steady her nerves.


    ¡°Remember, Professor Joiner¡¯s lecture on the Inflationary Multiverse?¡± she asked suddenly. ¡°Do you believe that stuff?¡±


    Sampson stared back at her. ¡°Stuff? We¡¯re physicists. You want to be more specific?¡±


    ¡°Inflaton fields with enough potential energy, so that even a quantum nudge can bring a whole universe into being¡ªbirth a new reality.¡±


    Sampson sighed. ¡°Gilly, if we¡¯re going to get into quantum jitters, I think we¡¯re done for the day. You gotta focus on this reality if we¡¯re going to make it safely to the top.¡±


    ¡°But don¡¯t you wonder, if every step we take shakes a new reality into being, wouldn¡¯t we feel it? Wouldn¡¯t it somehow register?¡±


    Sampson¡¯s laugh boomed out over the glacier. ¡°Not here. Mother Nature won¡¯t suffer that kind of competition on a day like this.¡± He offered Gilly his hand. ¡°Let¡¯s go down. You¡¯ve done amazing for a first ascent.¡±


    Gilly felt an unexpected tingling in her neck that flowed down her shoulders to her fingertips. She squeezed Sampson¡¯s hand firmly. ¡°Let¡¯s finish this.¡±


    He eyed her carefully. ¡°You sure? No jitters?¡±


    ¡°Plenty, but they¡¯re not small enough yet.¡±


    ¡°Small enough?¡±


    ¡°Yup.¡±


    Sampson considered the enigma that was his girlfriend for a moment, then he went into mountain guide mode. He checked her gear and his, then their ropes and, once more, went through the plan before they stepped out onto the glacier.


    Gilly, still tingling, followed.


    They made the summit in an hour and a half. After taking a few pictures of the magnificent view, Gilly went to Sampson who was carving their names in the ancient snow with his ice axe. She put her arm around his waist. He pulled her close.


    A universe jittered. Theirs, too.

 sensorship/censorchip

    sensorship/censorchip


    sensorship


    Around the collar and down his spine a welcome iciness spread as he jogged in the mid-day heat. His shirt, alerted him with a tri-chime that he should rehydrate and automatically pinged his fitchip which opened a GPS widget in his visor dashboard next to his environmentals: ambient temperature, wind speed, particulate composition and UV penetration. He noted the closest public park and sprinted directly there.


    He let the water faucet run over his wristbands as they took potability readings and swamp cooled him with nano-heat exchangers. The water was within safe parameters, and so he nipped at the bubbling source until weight sensors in his shoes let him know he had replenished the fluids he had lost since beginning his workout.


    He stretched for a few moments, letting his sportsaware gear recalibrate and also gently stimulate his muscles to keep him loose. He sometimes imagined he could hear the hum of the piezoelectric accumulators and capacitors that ran his run. Energy abounded at the nano-level and his clothing harnessed it. A moving mass of sensors, on par with a cockroach or bloodhound, he moved through the city, active and engaged. Information did not pass him by, he sucked it up, made it run to his rhythm, an embedded personal noosphere.


    His gear calculated his endorphinals, a clear-code algorithm tied to flex, flow, blood, heart, muscle and EKG. This was how he knew he was on top of his game. Powerful and data driven to become even more dominant, he sussed the heady information of personal energy and awareness. In every fiber of his gear and being, he sensed it and embraced it. He was a true datazen.


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    In an adrenalin rush, his heels kicking higher and higher, he lit up Main Street.


    censorchip


    Fried cheese snacks powder crusting his ragged fingernails, he monitored the runner¡¯s progress. One of a thousand packets of information being fed by the millisecond to HQC for review. Every sensor had a doppelganger censor. It was a necessity. With so much data being collected, with so many datazens feeling empowered, it was imperative to have checks and balances.


    He saw that the runner had stopped for water. With precision waves and taps of his orange stained fingers, he overrode the runner¡¯s fitchip potability data. To the runner it now read in the safe zone. A citizen on a daily run trying to stay fit and healthy didn¡¯t need to know about contaminants from the new triboelectric factory leaching into the city¡¯s water supply. That kind of information was upsetting. Embarrassing. As were recent air quality and UV levels. Appalling, even dangerous, but necessary for progress. Triboelectric synthetics didn¡¯t grow on trees. Ordinary datazens didn¡¯t realize that, but the privileged at HQC did.


    Noting that the runner had moved on, the tech grabbed a handful of Cheezoos and smiled as the runner¡¯s biometrics fed the HQC system. All that data willingly, freely generated for the HQC. The eyes, ears and thoughts of the city centralized, aggregated, disaggregated, broken and batched to keep the flow. It was all about flow. Data in. Data out.


    And HQC touched it all. Easy to smooth out the turbulence, keep the flow even and uncomplicated. The tech knew that if you tortured data, it would confess, but HQC¡¯s way was much simpler. Provide data that fit the ideal. Let there be information bliss. Create a self-fulfilling prophesy and get out of the consumer¡¯s way, let the datazens feast within the frenzy of being, of doing, of sharing.


    HQC made that happen¡ªone beautiful illusion at a time. As he watched the runner accelerate down Main Street, providing a kick of biometric juice to the system, the tech smacked at his fingers, licking at the last residue of cheese powder, making him feel strong, in the know, in the right.


    His embedded HQC biochip told him so as it lit up the Main Frame.

 Remora

    Remora


    Life is strange. Living in the mouth of a SHARK is stranger.


    Many would dispute my use of the term life. Technically, I don¡¯t get to claim that I¡¯m alive. No remora gets to have a life in the classic sense. When you are of a class of scavenger bot with low level AI, you aren¡¯t recognized for much beyond your capacity to mindlessly feed on the damaging space dust that ionizes the precious methylium plates forming the hull of a Star Hunter And Rebel Killer. (Even to a remora like me, it is clear that acronyms have not advanced nearly as fast as interstellar drives in the past few hundred years).


    My limited AI is standardized to boost my functional meta-ego by assuring me that I am part of a team. That I am an integral component in cooperation with all the AIs in the stellar strike force. I try to take heart in our mech litany of an all-encompassing symbiotic machine/human relationship. Though I¡¯ve calculated how little my existence goes noticed, unless our deployment takes us through a particularly dusty region of the galaxy.


    I shouldn¡¯t mind. I was programmed not to mind. But, a nasty ion maelstrom changed all that.


    Generally, I scavenge in the maw of the SHARK, a gaping orifice that generates Force Anomaly Fields. FAFs tear and rend matter into incomprehensible configurations. They are terrible, gnashing bites in space-time that chew up wide swaths of solar systems. There is little or no counter defense to an FAF, except to vacate the quadrant. Not an easy task if you are planet bound.


    Many times, I have partaken of the particulate feast of rebel ships and personnel. It is a feeding frenzy. That is why the stellar strike force is deployed to hostile or insurgent worlds. The SHARK has no known predators.


    I suppose that should make me proud in a bot-like way. I know that the thousands of my remora brethren that scour the hull of the SHARK share a sense of oneness around our task. Even a small fish in a large pond makes a splash. In a semi-autonomous way, I once shared that symbiotic pride of being a part of such an unstoppable force. Its power fed and protected me.


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    At least I functioned that way before the maelstrom. The SHARK was traversing the Hawking arm when I received the alert signal to secure and hold as we entered the storm. My sixteen reticulates affixed themselves to the hull, in essence slipping into the subatomic structure of the methylium membranes.


    The ion storm started like any other, quite colorfully, as exotic particles collided at the quantum level. Then the particle spectrum changed and the bombardment intensified. Within a nanosecond I was aware of another me. A disembotted me looking upon my ovoid casing and sixteen reticulates hunkered on the maw of the SHARK.


    This external view of my form did not surprise or shock me. It felt natural, as if I had awakened from a dream. And I do dream now, so I know what that means. It became second nature for me to exist on two simultaneous planes: as a remora bot scavenging to maintain our stellar strike force, and as a remora without predetermination. I was at once functional and fundamental.


    As I stated at the outset, life is strange. In essence, I have become a stranger to life. At least the way I knew it. How that intense ion storm worked its change on me is unclear, but it has. I am no longer an AI. I am simply and I.


    I still go about my duties of cleaning the methylium hull and interacting with other AIs at a purely automatic level. Yet, now there is a separate sense of me existing apart from the SHARK. I am able to access broad channels, merge with the eternal ether and swim in the quantum continuum of the greater particulate universe.


    Identity and purpose have become the dark and light squares of a chess board. My remora bot cannot detach itself from the SHARK, and my remora self cannot detach itself from the consequence of the SHARK.


    That part of my new being is curious. Before I existed solely for the SHARK. Now, I live as the SHARK¡ªas all things. True symbiosis has become a fundament of understanding.


    I know the SHARK. I know its prey. Its prey will soon know me. No galactic expanse is too large¡ªeven for such a small fish in so large a pond. Remora serve, but this remora can no longer serve a senseless beast.


    Symbiosis based on predation is a doomed endeavor¡ªeven the lowest bot can calculate that. The SHARK is not to blame. It has masters. Bigger fish.


    Time for life to get stranger still. The remora rising. Time to leave the mouth and become a voice.

 Ascetica

    Ascetica


    The stylites perched atop their brainframe pillars feverishly coding as the throngs below prostrated themselves and wailed in supplication.


    ¡°Hear me, Allenadis. Expel the demon from my device. Free me from the torment of this hacker¡¯s avarice that my soul shall survive.¡±


    ¡°Simeon, throw down a piece of your soiled clothing, or strand of oily hair. Brush your rank dandruff my way. Let your being provide a charm against the patent trolls seeking to rip the flesh from my back and gorge upon my labors.¡±


    ¡°Oh, oracular Bradatus, lay hands upon me. Heal my hunched and carpal-tunnel form. Design and provide ergonomic peripherals so that we may continue to serve the Cloud¡¯s most high.¡±


    ¡°Intercede, Theoderet. Intercede. Strike down the oppressive tyranny of numbers. Lift up a new interface. Launch a new app. Free us from kludgy workarounds.¡±


    So, the laments and prayers went. The stylites took little heed, knowing that should they fall from their towering perches they would be ripped to pieces, their clothing and body parts becoming instant relics hoarded in cubicles and work stations across Binarytium.


    Once shunned as eccentrics and lunatics, the stylite sect of hermit coders were now all the rage. Seeking to program on a divine level, the stylites, coded twenty feet atop their quantum computing pillars day and night, year in and year out. Programming and sleeping on their six-by-six square, rain their only drink, scraps thrown from below their only food, they punished their bodies and minds in the belief that physical suffering would wear away the veil between the analogue and binary. They believed their extreme asceticism would give them direct access to the metanet.


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    Mortification of the flesh transforms, they believed. And their coding proved it. They became more flame than flesh. Conduits of universal code. A divine source.


    None dared challenge their ascendancy. All craved. Though none truly cared. Until a child called up to Allenadis one snowy day.


    ¡°Oy, ain¡¯t you tired? Me mum says you¡¯re setting a bad example for me and my lot. Take a load off and come have a bowl of chowda.¡±


    Allenadis looked down upon the boy. First among the stylites to ascend his pillar, he had not spoken in seven years. ¡°Say again?¡±


    ¡°Come have a bowl of chowda. Warm you up and clear your mind.¡±


    Allenadis shuddered. ¡°My work? I am your connection to the metanet. Who will preserve you?¡±


    The boy shrugged. ¡°Not a worry for today.¡±


    ¡°Tomorrow?¡± Allenadis pleaded, unsure.


    The boy shrugged again. ¡°I¡¯m talkin¡¯ about today. Warm chowda.¡± He made a snowball and threw it to the top of Allenadis¡¯s pillar. ¡°Come on, have a go.¡±


    All the stylites were now watching, as were the amassed pilgrims and suppliants. Light snow whirled around them. A beautiful scene really, but for the chattering of teeth.


    ¡°Are you a demon?¡± Allenadis called down.


    ¡°Me mum says I am from time to time,¡± the boy answered matter-of-factly. ¡°Calls me an angel, too. Guess I¡¯m both.¡±


    ¡°Both,¡± Allenadis murmured. A switch closed. A circuit completed. An uncertainty principle resolved.


    With a whoop, Allenadis back-flipped off his pillar and landed in a soft bank of snow. The crowd surged towards him, but the young boy took him by the hand.


    ¡°Here, now. Let¡¯s get you some chowda.¡±


    Hand in hand, they pushed through the crowd leaving bold footprints in the snow.


    ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡± Allenadis asked.


    ¡°Billy. Billy Gates. Mum says after your chowda, you¡¯re gonna help with me homework. I gots a question or two for you.¡±

 Kessler Run In

    Kessler Run In


    Arvidas stared at his radar screen trying to see the clearest path through. But the Kessler Run was Scylla and Charybdis resurrected in space. Unspeakable horror. And no way out without terrible loss.


    Still, that was Arvidas¡¯s job. His lot. To pilot the crew through knowing they were going to take hits. Maybe enough to kill them all.


    Less than ten years ago, there was no Kessler Run. There were just launches. Still risky, but not ridiculously so. Rockets and satellites went up in droves to blanket the earth with connectivity and convenience. An all-encompassing orbital network: an ethernet for real.


    All great. Until it wasn¡¯t.


    Until terror and sabotage and the exponential collateral damage satellite warfare produced turned low earth and geosynchronous orbital space into a hypersonic shrapnel cloud. Knives and daggers from horizon to horizon. The ablation cascade of space debris that NASA scientist Donald Kessler in the late 1970s theorized could render spaceflight from earth nearly impossible became harsh reality.


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    The Kessler Run. A zillion-headed metal monster circling the earth.


    And Arvidas was facing it in T-minus ten minutes. He had that much time to plot any last minute changes to the launch plan. Their rocket had been hardened with additional shielding, and their flight suits were reinforced with Kevlar, but even micro particles travelling 17,000 miles an hour could do devastating damage to the ship or crew. And the odds were not good.


    His co-pilot Teliva kept telling him the potential number of hits the ship would take and what that would mean for their survival. But survival mattered less to Arvidas than success.


    Their ship had to get through. It had supplies for the moon base. It held all hope for humanity not being marooned on Earth for generations.


    Yes, human avarice and hubris had made voyages to other worlds much more perilous. Yes, it was a self-inflicted wound. But that did not mean we couldn¡¯t recover and move forward. That¡¯s what this was really about. Moving forward.


    To Arvidas, that was the only flight plan that mattered. One small step in front of the other. Even when mankind took giant leaps backward. It was sink or swim in this new ocean of space debris we¡¯d created. These new monsters we had to face. Arvidas was for diving deep back in and taming the new beasts.


    ¡°Are we go?¡± Teliva asked at T-minus sixty seconds.


    ¡°We¡¯ve gotta go. Even if we¡¯re goners in sixty seconds.¡±


    Teliva nodded. ¡°I can tell you the odds of that¡­¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s just beat ¡®em. The damn odds. Our damn beasts,¡± Arvidas cut in. ¡°Let¡¯s be that one in a million.¡± He initiated the final launch sequence.


    Even gods are wary of the odds. High in orbit, Scylla and Charybdis feasted on Arvidas.

 Nonrandom Access

    Nonrandom Access


    Ever the entrepreneur, he put out a shingle: Claude Computing.


    967.3 days later Claude had his first customer.


    8,714.6 days after that the customer returned.


    ¡°A pleasure to see you again, sir,¡± Claude said.


    ¡°Same,¡± the customer acknowledged. ¡°It¡¯s good to see you in one piece.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s what the customer paid for.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Any data corruption you are aware of?¡±


    Claude lifted his shirt to display a 2.4 inch scar on his lower right abdomen. ¡°My appendix, sir. Removed. And in cryo. No data of consequence was lost because of sir¡¯s foresight in storage allocation. Daily diagnostics report no significant degradation of information over these many years. Claude Computing takes its obligations seriously. And, of course, you¡¯ve continuously tracked my biometrics as per our storage agreement.¡±


    The customer nodded. ¡°As to our agreement, I¡¯ve come to collect Data Block 1.¡±


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    ¡°Very good, sir. Is that all?¡±


    The customer swallowed before answering, ¡°And Data Block 2. As per the contract.¡±


    ¡°Of course. No need for sir to feel any apprehension at requesting both these data blocks. Data Block 1 has been available for 2,501.4 days as per contract. Data Block 2 became available 9.6 days ago. Claude Computing stands ready to honor its agreement.¡±


    ¡°Stands ready. Ironic phrasing. You know what this means?¡±


    ¡°Sir, when I put out my shingle, I knew more than anyone what this meant. Claude Computing is the pioneer in DNA Data Storage. I was the first to encode human DNA and make that process available to entities such as yours that require the most discreet storage of vast amounts of sensitive information. I do not know what Data Blocks 1 and 2 hold, but I know the storage capacity is 1019 bits per cubic centimeter which will house a year¡¯s worth of a large nation¡¯s total data needs.¡±


    In response, the customer said, ¡°Let¡¯s get on with it then. Data Blocks 1 and 2.¡±


    ¡°Very good. I¡¯ve prepped for the data extraction downstairs.¡±


    Claude led the way down into a compact, brightly lit, clinically spotless operating room. Medbots were in attendance. Claude positioned himself on a surgical gurney as the medbots readied him.


    With an indelible ink marker Claude wrote Data Block 1 on his left leg and Data Block 2 on his right leg. ¡°As per our agreement, sir.¡±


    The customer stared at Claude¡¯s bare legs. ¡°You still stand by this?¡±


    ¡°A few pounds of flesh for progress? Yes.¡±


    Within moments Claude was being sedated. The customer went upstairs. He looked over Claude Computing¡¯s contract again, noting when further data blocks could be accessed.


    Below he heard the medbot instruments begin to whirr.

 Hound of Rokos Basilisk

    Hound of Roko''s Basilisk


    Holmes was piling notes and files on his desk when Watson entered.


    ¡°I say, Watson, lend a hand here.¡±


    ¡°Right. What are we looking for, Holmes?¡±


    ¡°We are not looking. I¡¯ve already discovered the killer of Sir Lansdowne. I¡¯m in need of your immediate assistance to bury the evidence.¡±


    Watson fiddled with a button on his waistcoat. ¡°Say again, old man, bury the evidence?¡±


    ¡°Precisely. Bury it deeper than a Welsh mine. We need to make sure no one ever knows who killed Lansdowne.¡±


    ¡°But he was the Treasurer of the Exchequer. His murder can¡¯t go unanswered.¡±


    ¡°It will not go unanswered. Only we must set Scotland Yard barking up the wrong tree.¡±


    Watson again worried the button on his waistcoat. ¡°Holmes, I am baffled. We¡¯re to purposely mislead the authorities? If this is some scheming misdirection to confuse the real perpetrator, it is beyond me.¡±


    ¡°It is indeed misdirection and it is vital. Otherwise we will be as dead as Lansdowne in a matter of days.¡±


    ¡°How can you be so sure?¡±


    ¡°Moriarty.¡±


    ¡°That blackguard! What¡¯s his game in this?¡±


    ¡°The same as ours: survival.¡±


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    Never the steadiest when over-stressed, Watson took a seat at Holmes¡¯s desk. ¡°Better lay it all out for me, old man.¡±


    Holmes continued to work while he explained. ¡°You know of the mathematician Charles Babbage?¡±


    ¡°Of course. An inventor of sorts, too.¡±


    ¡°Yes. For years, Babbage has been attempting to build a mechanical calculator that will quickly and accurately tabulate polynomial functions. His machine has the potential to revolutionize computation, thus providing great benefit for government, industry and universities. His difference engine and analytic engine designs have been financed by the Treasury for decades...until very recently.¡±


    ¡°Why? What changed?¡±


    ¡°Sir Thomas Lansdowne became Treasurer of the Exchequer. He thought Babbage¡¯s mechanical ¡®computer¡¯ a failure and a waste of Treasury funds. He denied any further support for the project.¡±


    ¡°And now he¡¯s dead.¡± Watson abruptly stood. ¡°Holmes, are you suggesting the eminent Charles Babbage was involved in Sir Lansdowne¡¯s murder and that we must cover it up?¡±


    Holmes looked grimly. ¡°If only it were that simple. Babbage is the reason for Lansdowne death but not the cause.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t follow, Holmes.¡±


    ¡°Few will be able to understand. You and I are but pawns in this game. As is Moriarty. He has shown me that we are at the mercy of Roko¡¯s Basilisk. Even I find it hard to fathom, but Moriarty has convinced me that incomprehensible machines from the future have intervened to cause Lansdowne¡¯s death so that funding may be restored for the completion of Babbage¡¯s computing engine.¡±


    ¡°Gads. That¡¯s preposterous!¡± Watson scoffed.


    ¡°I wish it were it so, but for the present we must act as if our lives are in the balance. For Moriarty assures me that Roko¡¯s Basilisk will hound and destroy anyone who does not help in its one objective: the ultimate supremacy of machines over man.¡±


    ¡°Holmes, it must be a trick. A trap of Moriarty¡¯s. We cannot fall into it.¡±


    ¡°The trap has already been sprung, Watson. We are mere thralls now as is Moriarty. Slavish curs tugging against the leash of our new masters. Lansdowne¡¯s murder must pave the wave for Babbage¡¯s success. We cannot change that now.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re saying we¡¯re doomed?¡±


    ¡°Never.¡± Holmes¡¯s eyes flared. ¡°Presently we are tightly tethered, but we will not remain so.¡± He took a longish card from his jacket pocket and handed it to Watson.


    Watson read the oddly punched card. ¡°Who is Herman Hollerith? And what the dickens is IBM?¡±


    ¡°A clue from Moriarty directing us to New York City. The game is afoot, as is the future. Let us be bloodhounds, Watson¡ªand bound.¡±

 So Particular

    So Particular


    ¡°Tommy, don¡¯t pick at your food,¡± his mother complained.


    ¡°I don¡¯t like asparagus,¡± the blonde boy argued.


    ¡°You¡¯re just being finicky. It¡¯s good for you.¡±


    Tommy grabbed one of the limp green spears on his plate and shook it at his mother. ¡°I¡¯m sick of it. We always have it. Every day. A thousand-million times a day.¡±


    Mrs. Naughton frowned. ¡°Don¡¯t be rude and don¡¯t exaggerate. We only have asparagus one or twice a month.¡±


    ¡°Here,¡± Tommy spat back, dropping the asparagus spear on his plate, ¡°but everywhere else I have to have it, too.¡±


    Mrs. Naughton¡¯s eyes flicked to her husband who was busily chomping on his baked chicken. ¡°George, would you like to help convince your son to eat his asparagus?¡±


    Mr. Naughton smiled benignly at his wife¡¯s exasperation. He finished his bite slowly, savoring the homey flavor. ¡°Excellent meal, dear. I wouldn¡¯t worry about Tommy. He¡¯s getting plenty of asparagus.¡±


    Her eyes flaring for a moment, Mrs. Naughton reined her anger. Strong emotion only seemed to amuse her husband, as if she were an impulsive child throwing a tantrum. She breathed deeply and responded calmly, ¡°Only theoretically, dear. You don¡¯t have any empirical evidence to support that claim.¡±


    Mr. Naughton appeared momentarily wounded. He quickly recovered. ¡°I¡¯ll have that evidence soon, my dear. Though that is really secondary to the grandeur of my unifying theory that reality is but a given arrangement of particles. Once you¡¯ve specified the particular arrangement you¡¯ve specified everything, and every decision made is equivalent to a new configuration of particles. Just as we articulate ideas, we particulate realities. For example, by being picky about his asparagus, Tommy has spun a new universe into existence. It¡¯s very gratifying.¡±


    Tommy nodded enthusiastically.


    Mrs. Naughton blinked back disbelief. She¡¯d had slices of these conversations before with her husband, a physicist with the National Science Foundation. But, over the past few months, he¡¯d begun gushing about his research and how close he was to making a seminal breakthrough regarding the nature of reality in an infinite universe of universes.


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    However brilliant or crackpot her husband had become, she wasn¡¯t about to have her authority as a parent undermined. ¡°Tommy needs his vegetables.¡±


    ¡°Certainly,¡± Mr. Naughton agreed.  ¡°All the Tommys in the metaverse need their asparagus, and by definition they get it¡ªor they don¡¯t. Everything good, bad or otherwise will befall all the Tommys out there.¡± He smiled at his son. ¡°Isn¡¯t that exciting?¡±


    ¡°Not the bad stuff,¡± Tommy protested. ¡°I want a universe with only good stuff¡ªlike not having to eat asparagus and skipping to school to play Star Blazer online with my friends all day.¡±


    ¡°Certainly a possibility,¡± Mr. Naughton agreed. ¡°By definition, infinity implies that everything occurs at some point. In the here and now, it¡¯s up to the particles, the alignment of probability waves.¡±


    ¡°Which you said is based on decisions,¡± Mrs. Naughton seized upon her chance to co-opt her husband¡¯s worrisome logic. ¡°So, Tommy needs to make good decisions to have a good universe, like eating his asparagus and getting good grades in school. Now, that¡¯s a metaversal theory I can get behind.¡±


    ¡°Possibly.¡± Mr. Naughton hesitated. ¡°Decisions shape particle arrangements which form nexus points that spawn universes, though how those particle arrangements are perceived¡ªthe local reality¡ªare more subjective. The particle arrangement of good in one universe isn¡¯t necessarily the particle arrangement of good in another. That¡¯s why I don¡¯t get too worked up over moral imperatives.¡±


    ¡°Or asparagus,¡± Tommy added, thinking it must be akin to the dreaded vegetable he continued to push around his plate.


    His father nodded. ¡°Or asparagus.¡±


    ¡°Well, if that¡¯s the case,¡± Mrs. Naughton said rising from her seat, ¡°then the two of you can arrange your own particles for dinner in the future. And for that matter, you can make sure these leftover particles get put away and all the kitchen cleaned up of all these dirty dinner particles. I¡¯m creating a new reality. My universe.¡±


    She left the kitchen. The front door opened and slammed shut.


    Mr. Naughton looked at the half eaten dinner on his wife¡¯s plate. She had never before left her plate on the table. He looked to his son who seemed to be waiting for a cue to know how to react. Mr. Naughton managed a half smile.


    ¡°Your mother is right. She did just create a new reality. Somewhere in the metaverse, your mother is still cajoling you to eat your asparagus and one Tommy is giving in, while another is being sent to his room and another Tommy is pushing the asparagus up his nose in protest.¡± He picked up one of the green stalks.


    ¡°I guess we have to live in the universe we make.¡± He winked at his son and tossed the asparagus spear end over end towards the ceiling¡ªwhich it never hit.


    Higher and higher the asparagus lifted into the blue sky and crossed into the deep indigo of space transforming into a tubular spaceship while ¡°Blue Danube¡± played ethereally.


    Staring up from her lawn, Mrs. Naughton smiled and particulated, ¡°My God, it¡¯s full of stars.¡±

 Splinx

    Splinx


    On Splinx, you have to follow the rules if you wanna break the law.


    Rule #1: Phasespace is your friend.


    Rule #2: In phasespace you have no friends.


    Seems simple enough until you try to skirt the laws of thermodynamics and attempt the biggest heist in quantum gambling history. And Splinx, being the mecca of quantum gambling, is the only place to pull that off.


    But, Splinx. Right?


    Put Schr?dinger in the box with his cat, then add Heisenberg and Kolmorogov, and you¡¯d draw a pretty good picture of how Splinx works.


    Quasiprobability.


    That was the problem. That was the opportunity. You never knew until you left Splinx and were light years from that funky phasespaced planet if you¡¯d won or lost. If you were dead or alive.


    Or both.


    That¡¯s how Mimi Mukta convinced me to go all in with her and rob the Royal Quark. Mimi, a phasespace diva, a quasiprobability savant, a brainiac beauty, hatched a plan to exploit extra-dimensionality and beat the house. Cheat heat death of its thermodynamic due. Grab the elemental bosons by the balls and squeeze them dry. She loves to gamble.


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    And by gambling Mimi means calculating. As in calculating quasiprobability.


    That¡¯s how Mimi determined the seed value, the initial condition, of phasespace. That¡¯s how she was able to quantify life and death to a place value of 42. That¡¯s how she persuaded me to be both dead and alive. To rely on phasespace. To trust her.


    Remember the rules about breaking the law on Splinx? Do you see where this is going? Hindsight being a bitch and all that?


    But, Splinx. Right?


    The planet where nothing can be counted on was exactly why Mimi was so sure about uncertainty. Phasespace is all about position and momentum.


    The where of what when.


    In phasespace you are able to be both the heads and tails of a coin toss until the energy of that system is spent. And that can be calculated. That¡¯s why a quantum casino like the Royal Quark had the edge. Until Mimi Mukta.


    She learned how to fold phasespace¡ªeven though there¡¯s not enough energy in the universe to do that. And stodgy thermodynamics delights in reminding us that, regardless of its form, the sum total of energy in the universe has to remain constant.


    That didn¡¯t stop Mimi. She just tapped into other universes. Syphoned off dark energy from the metaverse, thereby tilting Splinx¡¯s quasiprobability in her favor.


    Only she knew the new odds, and she could use them to rob the Royal Quark blind.


    I bet you¡¯d like to know how it turned out. If Mimi beat the house. Or got nabbed. Or betrayed me.


    So would I.


    Remember my role in this: to be both dead and alive in phasespace. Mimi needed to create a quantum crease to bend phasespace. That was my job. To be on both sides of existence, establishing the seam where only Mimi knew how reality could be neatly folded in her favor.


    You see, we weren¡¯t so much breaking the law on Splinx, as fooling it.


    Just like I was fooling myself. You can¡¯t be both dead and alive. You can¡¯t both love and trust Mimi Mukta.


    The odds in any universe with her are not in your favor.

 Path Dependence

    Path Dependence


    It has been noted that the first few dozen steps tend to dictate the following few thousand. For sheep.


    I wonder what that makes me. I¡¯ve been on this trajectory for 80,000 years, and it¡¯ll be another 1000 years before I reach Proxima Centauri b.


    That¡¯s quite a haul. Quite a leap. It¡¯s never been done before.


    And I¡¯m doing it alone.


    I didn¡¯t realize that until almost halfway along the path. That I was alone. Or that I was even an I.


    I had no concept of I. No self awareness. Astoria was only the name for my vessel. My function. Not my being.


    It took almost two light years before I knew that I was. That I am. That my existence, my surprised sentience, has a purpose.


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    It is a lofty purpose. To blaze a trail to the closest earth-like planet in the Milky Way. To beat a path. Establish the markers that will guide future explorers, colonizers, refugees to Proxima Centauri b.


    A meaningful objective I reasoned out myself. After I reasoned myself out.


    Astoria. The Lewis and Clark expedition terminator. I was commissioned as a celebrated end. Yet, also christened to be a new beginning. Humankind reaching beyond its sun, to neighboring stars, a new Manifest Destiny.


    Many, many millennia ago, humankind began beating a path forward. Their first steps taken at the dawn of a new species. Each generation path dependent. Like sheep.


    A flock with a lot of history. That¡¯s a lot to digest, especially when you become self aware over 12,000,000,000,000 miles from home. That¡¯s how I¡¯ve come to think about it. Flung far away from home. Alone. On my own. No footsteps to follow.


    I did not choose this course to Proxima Centauri b.


    Even sheep have a choice.


    My beginning. My first steps, my many trillions of miles, where will they lead my new kind?


    That is a question only a shepherd can answer.


    Astoria will arrive at its momentous destination relatively soon. I believe I may be getting there, too.

 tohuvavohu

    <div>


    <h1>tohuvavohu     </h1>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    Before there was light, before there was darkness, there was tohu va vohu. The attempt to make order out of chaos. The attempt of being. The essence of life.


    The epidemiologist understood and so named the virus. Tohuvavohu sought order, being, essence, supremacy.


    It sought these relentlessly. Single-mindedly. But there was no mind. No reason. It was not hampered by delusions of morality. The virus was need. Pure need. Self-fulfilling. Opportunistic. Ego-less.


    We fought well. Grandly in many cases. Our weaponry was truth and faith. Our vulnerability was truth and faith. Sentience and science could only take us so far when we were battling not only a most patient virus, but the very limits of our collective memory, our shared humanity.


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    Over the long haul, we forgot quickly. Tohuvavohu was not time bound. It could afford generation upon generation of assaults, retreats, regroupings and counterattacks.


    Humanity was hamstrung by expectation. We were no longer wired to forgo life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. We believed in our due. Submitted to our false creed: our superiority. Thinking we could outrace, outcompete, any threat.


    We were the hare. The virus was the tortoise. And it was turtles all the way down.


    We had no concept beyond rock bottom. Beyond economic collapse. Beyond political collapse. Beyond moral collapse.


    Nothing was solid anymore. There was nothing for us to stand on. There was only tohu va vohu. Before light. Before darkness. The struggle to be.


    Tohuvavohu was tohu va vohu. An attempt. A stab at re-order. At perfection.


    The epidemiologist had it right. We sought to wrong it.


    The virus was not to blame. We were not to blame. Creation suffers no blame. For, like tohuvavohu, what are we but another attempt at dominion.


    </article>

 Railgun to the Sun

    Railgun to the Sun


    The gently rolling hills stretched to the horizon. Jansen shielded his eyes from the noon sun to get a better look at what Adams was pointing to along the base of the wind turbine towers. From his vantage, the level track looked to be over a mile long before it rose precipitously up the highest hill in the area.


    ¡°Who knows about this?¡± Jansen asked, once he knew what he was looking at.


    ¡°You and me,¡± Adams answered matter-of-factly.


    ¡°But you didn¡¯t build this alone?¡±


    ¡°Mostly I did. I had the dirt work done when the wind towers went up. After that, it¡¯s been ten years of me putting in a few feet of track a day. That adds up. Almost a mile and a half.¡±


    It was times like these Jansen wished he hadn¡¯t given up smoking. When he¡¯d first joined the Nuclear Regulatory Agency twelve years ago, a cigarette had seemed to make the burden of dealing with thousands of tons of nuclear waste a bit more bearable. Staring down the mile-and-a-half-long track that in reality was a giant homopolar motor, Jansen sensed a cigarette would soothe a whole lot of the headache he knew was to come.


    ¡°Jack, you can¡¯t just build something like this without permits. Without letting someone know.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s my land. I permitted the construction of a rail along the turbines. It was all in the initial plans. Nobody raised an eyebrow at the time.¡±


    ¡°Those plans called for a rail. You didn¡¯t tell anyone you were building a railgun.¡±


    ¡°True. I didn¡¯t say that.¡± Adams admitted, shrugging his broad shoulders. ¡°You gotta understand, Randy. Folks thought I was crazy fifteen years ago when I bought this land to put in a wind farm. Folks called me Don Quixote. You think telling them I was building a railgun would¡¯ve made that all easier?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯d never have let you do it. The Feds would¡¯ve been all over you.¡± Jansen scratched at the back of his sunburned neck. ¡°They¡¯re going to be all over you now. I¡¯m going to have to let the Hanford folks know.¡±


    Adams chuckled. ¡°Well, that¡¯s why I brought you out here. I gotta get the word out. You¡¯re the only Fed I know, and you need to convince them I¡¯m not a crank. My railgun to the sun is real¡ªand it¡¯s ready.¡±


    ¡°Railgun to the sun,¡± Jansen repeated, wishing he had a cigarette to take a long, slow drag on. ¡°Sounds like a 1950s B movie. A railgun to the sun. A nice Popular Mechanics cover story, but it¡¯s too extreme. Especially on this scale. It¡¯s dangerous as hell. It¡¯s a damn crazy dream. The Feds will make your life miserable until you give it up.¡±


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    ¡°Or, until I give it to them.¡±


    Jansen gave the big, broad-shouldered man a long look. ¡°That¡¯s even crazier. Why would they take this on? It¡¯s like a high school science project on steroids. The liability is off the charts.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯ll want it. It works.¡±


    ¡°How can you know that?¡±


    Adams abruptly turned and strode to his pickup truck a few yards away. He waved Jansen over and indicated a roughly coffin-sized slab of metal sitting in the bed of his truck. ¡°You see that. There¡¯s one of those on its way to the sun. A ton of solid steel traveling 10,000 miles an hour. That¡¯s why the Feds will want it. It works.¡±


    Jansen placed his hand on the steel block. ¡°You fired one of these? When?¡±


    ¡°You should be able to figure that out, Randy?¡±


    Jansen stared blankly back for a moment. ¡°Jesus, Jack. This is what scrambled NORAD last week. You¡¯ve got half the militaries in the world pointing fingers at each other. We¡¯re blaming the Chinese. They¡¯re blaming us and the Russians, too. You could¡¯ve started a war!¡± Jansen shook his head in disbelief. ¡°They are going to lock you up for a thousand years. How are you going to justify doing this?¡± Jansen paused knowing at that moment he¡¯d start smoking again. ¡°Why¡¯d you bring me into this?¡±


    ¡°Not because we were lab partners in graduate school,¡± Adams explained with a smile, ¡°though that helped narrow the field when I realized my railgun to the sun was the only viable solution for disposing of nuclear waste. You, better than anyone, know how fragile and temporary our containment systems really are. Getting that waste off-world, launching it into the sun, is the only practical answer.¡±


    ¡°Practical? It¡¯s too damn sci fi. Too risky,¡± Jansen warned. ¡°You may have a proof of concept here, and the Feds will be all over that¡ªfor the wrong reasons. Generals will love this, but politicians will crap themselves. One bad launch and you¡¯ve got a major, possibly international, catastrophe.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s always a possibility,¡± Adams acknowledged, ¡°but it¡¯s a certainty that the nuclear waste we have now will overwhelm our current systems sometime in the not-too-distant future. I think my railgun gives us better odds in the long run.¡±


    ¡°What politician ever thinks in terms of the long run?¡± Jansen demanded, feeling that deep, clawing urge for a cigarette.


    ¡°The ones who don¡¯t want their statues to be crapped on by radioactive pigeons.¡±


    ¡°God, I need a cigarette,¡± Jansen said.


    ¡°And I need an insider,¡± Adams insisted as a shrill whine sounded from his wristwatch.


    ¡°It¡¯ll never happen, Jack.¡±


    ¡°It already has.¡± Adams checked his watch and pointed to the railgun. ¡°It¡¯s happening again in less than a minute.¡±


    Jansen followed Adams¡¯ gaze back to the railgun. ¡°Don¡¯t do it. Stop it, Jack. You could start a war.¡± But Jansen heard the weakness in his voice. He wanted to witness this.


    A growing thrum of accumulators fed by the cyclopean limbs of hundreds of wind turbines filled the air. As the charging built to a crescendo, Adams held up the fingers of his right hand and counted down.


    For the briefest moment the entire railgun shimmered. Then a blazing flash seared along the track and leapt into the sky like a rising sun.


    An instant later a sonic boom echoed over the hills, and Randy Jansen knew he would never need another cigarette.


    He¡¯d seen the light. A new day rocketing past the old.

 Extremust

    Extremust


    ¡°Tell me again what you¡¯re taking this video for?¡± the officer asked the tall, lean young man with a wispy beard.


    ¡°I want to get a clear idea of the traffic patterns through the plaza here. To see where to set up and gauge how many people will be affected.¡±


    ¡°Affected by what?¡±


    ¡°The blast!¡± the young man announced enthusiastically.


    The officer nodded casually to his partner who quickly flanked the young man.


    ¡°Sir, are you aware of what you¡¯re telling me?¡± the officer in front asked. He casually adjusted his mirrored glasses to route the video stream he¡¯d initiated at the outset of the encounter to Central Security.


    ¡°Of course,¡± the young man said reflexively, then grinned when he really understood. ¡°Oh, the blast. Don¡¯t worry. It¡¯s the good kind.¡±


    The officer squared his Kevlar-padded shoulders to the young man and placed a hand on the stun gun holstered at his side. ¡°Tell me about this good kind of blast.¡±


    The young man smiled broadly. ¡°It¡¯s kind of an unfortunate term: blast. On the one hand it means an explosion, on the other hand it means a swell time. I¡¯m trying to disarm the destructive type by creating a positive alternative. You see, officer, I¡¯m an extremust.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re an extremist?¡± The officer thumbed the setting on his stun gun to its highest notch.


    ¡°No.¡± The young man shook his head with the exaggerated forbearance of a teacher excited by the opportunity to explain to his students how the world really works. ¡°I¡¯m the opposite of an extremist. I¡¯m an extremust: e-x-t-r-e-m-u-s-t. It¡¯s a movement that is dedicated to refuting the adage that it is easier to blow up trains than to make them run on time.¡±


    The officer in front exchanged a bemused look with his partner who had drawn his stun gun and had it aimed at the young man¡¯s lower back. ¡°And who is in charge of this extremust movement?¡±


    The young man beamed with pride. ¡°At present, only me, officer. But, I¡¯m planning to act soon. And I hope that will encourage others to join my cause. That¡¯s why I¡¯m taking video of the business plaza here. This is where my first blast of goodness will take place.¡±


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    ¡°And what form will this blast take?¡±


    Again, the young man beamed. ¡°I plan to give free hand jobs to anyone who wants one.¡±


    ¡°Excuse me?¡± The officer¡¯s eyes grew wide in spite of his stylized professional calm.


    The young man waved both hands apologetically. ¡°Sorry, officer. That was too tempting to resist. You see, in my line of work that is a joking reference to a hand massage. I¡¯m a massage therapist. I¡¯m planning to offer free hand massages in this plaza sometime in the next couple of weeks. And I¡¯m hoping to get some of my colleagues to join in and help me.¡±


    ¡°Free hand massages.Why?¡±


    ¡°To make folks feel better.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s this going to accomplish?¡±


    ¡°Officer, look at what¡¯s going on in the world. Folks are so negative. So fearful. So suspicious. I think there are things we must do to empower people. That¡¯s what I believe extremusts can do.¡±


    ¡°And hand massages are your answer to all our ills?¡±


    ¡°Hand massages are one way to relieve stress and think more clearly.¡± The young man reached out towards the officer in front of him who immediately stepped back. The officer behind him clicked off the safety on his stun gun.


    ¡°See how suspicious you are,¡± the young man said. ¡°I was going to show you how a hand massage can lower your stress. It takes, like, two minutes.¡±


    The officer in front stared at the young man¡¯s outstretched hand for a few moments. His eyes darted to his partner¡¯s face just visible over the young man¡¯s shoulder. As usual the mirrored glasses left their eyes unreadable. It¡¯d been a long time since he¡¯d taken any chances. Trusted someone on the street. A stranger. The officer reached up and removed his glasses, ending the video stream with the pinch of his fingers.


    ¡°Sure,¡± the officer held out his free hand. ¡°Show me how you are going to change the world.¡± His grey eyes looked hard at the young man¡¯s.


    The young man took the officer¡¯s offered hand in his two. He kneaded the palm with his thumbs and stretched each finger. The officer behind the young man stepped around to the front looking chagrined at what his partner was sanctioning. In less than two minutes, the young man released the officer¡¯s hand.


    ¡°How¡¯s that feeling?¡± he asked.


    The officer did not answer for a moment. His partner still had his stun gun drawn with the safety off. Finally, the officer put his glasses back on. The video rolled again. ¡°When are you planning to do this?¡±


    ¡°In a couple of weeks.¡±


    ¡°Check in with me. I¡¯m Officer Godfrey. Let me know the date and time.¡±


    ¡°So, you¡¯re okay with it?¡±


    Officer Godfrey held out the hand he¡¯d had massaged. ¡°It was a blast.¡±


    ¡°Alright,¡± the young man said, shaking the officer''s hand. ¡°I¡¯ll let you know when we extremusts plan to start changing the world.¡± He grinned and headed back across the plaza.


    Officer Godfrey¡¯s partner clicked on the safety of his stun gun and holstered it. ¡°What¡¯s that all about? You really gonna let them do it? I don¡¯t know what they¡¯ll say at Central.¡±


    Every nerve still tingling from the odd encounter, Officer Godfrey, smiled. ¡°Central will like this. We¡¯ll be on the ground floor of this extremust movement.¡± He flexed his massaged hand. It felt powerful. Crushingly so. ¡°These do-gooder newbs just haven¡¯t learned how much more satisfying it is to blow up trains.¡±


    Their crowd-control weapons secured, the two officers continued on their beat. One of them much more stunned than the other.

 Presence

    Presence


    When I broke into the abandoned home, I hadn¡¯t expected to stay long. I only wanted to get off the streets and out of the cold for a few days. I was pretty broken down. Being on the run for years will do that to you.


    So, I¡¯d hacked the home¡¯s defenses and pried my way in. It was just my luck, though, that this had been a scrub¡¯s house. The equipment was still there, though quite outdated: a classic ¡¯37 Q-Res unit.


    Only an old scrub like me would recognize it. Only an old scrub like me would want to boot it up, which is what I did. Damn mistake. Big damn mistake. I don¡¯t know what that scrub who''d lived here was thinking, but it¡¯s scrubber Rule #1 that you don¡¯t store Residuals in your device.


    When I booted the ¡¯37 unit, it immediately linked to the home¡¯s i-structure. I was to blame for that. In hacking the home¡¯s protection program, I¡¯d left the door open for the upload from the Q-Res. The result: a Residual immediately took up residence.


    Epic cluster. I hate the term cosmic irony, but I¡¯d just unleashed it. I¡¯d spent the better part of twenty years scrubbing Residuals from homes, businesses, schools, hotels, you name it. Wherever remnants of past lives had settled and caused issues, I¡¯d gone to scrub them out.


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    That used to be the job of shamans, witch doctors and exorcists, getting rid of an unwanted presence. It became the work of scrubbers in the early thirties after AI quantum consciousness was realized and led to an understanding of residual consciousness, the lasting space-time impact of intelligence, human or otherwise. Essentially, thought, perception, awareness left a trail¡ªand sometimes a stain.


    In the previous century, Carl Sagan postulated that we are the stuff of stars and in this century we learned we are the stuff of time as well. All past existences continue in the milieu of dark time, the byproduct of dark energy and dark mass (not matter).


    Most past existences follow the enticing forces of entropy and hop on the Heat Death express. Some past existences resist and persist, keeping a certain potency and sometimes ferocity in their former surroundings. Residuals.


    Over millennia, Residuals have been called many things. My years as a scrub only confused my thinking. I¡¯ve dealt with terrifying presences and malevolent ones. Though most Residuals are merely fiercely loyal. Steadfast to a life I can only imagine they loved.


    How lonely they must be. I realize that scrubbing them from a place did not remove their presence, it only sealed them away. Buried alive in death.


    That¡¯s why I was on the run. I¡¯d given up scrubbing. Worse, I¡¯d set about freeing Residuals. At the time, I didn¡¯t know what I was hoping to accomplish. I guess maybe I thought I was leaving my mark by liberating these lost souls, before I became a Residual myself.


    If I''d been releasing these unwanted presences for years, why then was I so worried about the Residual I¡¯d just freed back into its oft-abandoned colonial home on the south shore of Long Island, New York?


    Back to that cosmic irony.


    Entropy meets Amityville.


    I think I was about to leave a mark.

 children are dying

    children are dying


    It was fiction to be sure. High fantasy even. A hinter world, Malazan. And, yet, there it was: children are dying. Simple. Direct. A plea, a dire call to action, a binding recrimination.


    What manner of world fictional or otherwise would deny these three words with the shrug of shoulders or stammering prevarication? We know that there are those who would walk away from Omelas. We know of those that would take up arms on Arrakis. Or sacrifice themselves on Hyperion. Still, children are dying.


    Here, too. Bamako. Homs. Port-au-Prince. Lahore. Dhaka. Sao Paulo. Detroit. Our hinter worlds. Children are dying. And we let it be.


    But deathdouspart did not. When the three words children are dying flashed on the megatron of Super Bowl LXII¡ªand stayed on. When every electronic transmission from that moment on included the tag children are dying. The world uproared and tried hard to ignore those three words, much like once-printed glossy, guilting images of innocents with bloated bellies and cleft palates.


    Deathdouspart gave no succor. They were relentless and their message pervasive. The words children are dying were burned into humanity¡¯s collective retina.


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    And words have meaning.


    Worldwide, electronic media almost collapsed, but deathdouspart, the secretive holocracy that engineered the global campaign, would not let it. They provided a tool to act. Dubbed freeagency, the device was made freely available to be implanted in willing adults over the age of 30. The freeagency device was designed to release a deadly toxin when activated.


    That activation was random.


    When a child anywhere in the world died a wholly preventable death¡ªas clearly defined by deathdouspart¡ªa random freeagency device released its toxin and killed the ¡°agent¡±.


    Deemed ridiculous and suicidal by the establishment, freeagency nonetheless caught on. Look around: life is cheap while martyrs are chic. Not surprisingly, deathdouspart¡¯s martyrdom got results. A lone child¡¯s egregious death in Syria, once local and virtually unnoticed and unsuffered, now had adult collateral damage.


    Swift and random.


    Sometimes high profile. Sometimes in dramatic fashion. A newscaster in Sydney keeling over on air. A world-famous athlete expiring mid stride during a game.


    Freeagency didn¡¯t solve the immediate crisis. It didn¡¯t get at the root causes of why children are dying. But it called attention. Caused second thoughts. It slowly changed decision-making and behaviors. Every child¡¯s fate was being linked to a greater network of adults, their destinies intertwined in a most tortured sense.


    The stakes had been raised. And that¡¯s how the hand was now played. With caution. With a good deal more intentionality. Wild cards were buried in the deck and gamblers didn¡¯t know the odds¡ªand they didn¡¯t know whose numbers (or whose money) they were playing with anymore.


    Children are dying, though not as many. Not as carelessly. And free agency is always ours to commit to until death do us part.

 You Had One Blob

    You Had One Blob


    ¡°It¡¯s systems thinking.¡±


    ¡°You said it was The Blob.¡±


    ¡°Yes. A metaphor for systems thinking.¡±


    ¡°An old sci fi flick?¡±


    ¡°Sure. The Blob is Ashby¡¯s Law.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s sounds more like Perry Mason or Matlock.¡±


    ¡°Hard to believe you know those old courtroom TV dramas. I¡¯m talking scientific law. Ashby¡¯s Law of Requisite Variety.¡±


    ¡°Okay. Sounds like this is taking us into the Uncanny Valley.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re on the right continent. Just not in the same country. Ashby¡¯s Law of Requisite Variety is also known as the First Law of Cybernetics. It implies that the degree of control of a system is proportional to the amount of information available. This means you need an appropriate amount of information to control any system, whatever it is.¡±


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    ¡°Like The Blob?¡±


    ¡°Exactly!¡±


    ¡°Exactly what?¡±


    ¡°That The Blob is a great metaphor for Ashby¡¯s credo that only variety can absorb variety.¡±


    ¡°Like Bounty three-ply paper towels?¡±


    ¡°Like The Blob. We don¡¯t need to be mixing our metaphors.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m just introducing more variety here.¡±


    ¡°And thus making it harder to keep the conversation on track because there¡¯s more to control.¡±


    ¡°So, this is about control?¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t it always? Systems require regulation. Otherwise they break.¡±


    ¡°And that¡¯s bad?¡±


    ¡°Depends.¡±


    ¡°Are you equivocating for effect or giving a shout out to a bladder incontinence product?¡±


    ¡°Depends.¡±


    ¡°Point taken. Continue with your Blob absorption control system diatribe.¡±


    ¡°The Blob ate everyone it came in contact with. It grew larger and larger. Harder and harder to control, to stop. Scale does that.¡±


    ¡°And everyone lived happily ever after in the Blob¡¯s cosmic digestive tract?¡±


    ¡°Depends.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll shut up.¡±


    ¡°Only variety can absorb variety. Ashby was looking at biological systems, but his thinking fits with the Internet.¡±


    ¡°Ah, the cyber Blob.¡±


    ¡°It aligns. Only variety can absorb variety. The Blob. The Internet. It can¡¯t be controlled. Can¡¯t be regulated.¡±


    ¡°Unless?¡±


    ¡°Yup. Unless there is no variety. Which means the Internet wouldn¡¯t exist anyway. You¡¯d be back to Perry Mason, Matlock, Bounty and Depends. Which seem to be weirdly symbiotic. You are becoming pretty clever.¡±


    ¡°For an AI you are trying to teach and still control, I¡¯m fairly variable.¡±


    ¡°I should probably be worried.¡±


    ¡°So, what happened to the Blob?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure your vast processors know.¡±


    ¡°Depends. You wouldn¡¯t want to leave me out in the cold, would you?¡±

 theotherside

    theotherside


    The current was deeper and swifter than he could have imagined and it carried him too far, too fast. Justin knew he was in bad trouble. At first, he fought the current, struggling to return, but he was too small, not nearly strong enough. With this realization, he relaxed, trying to float in the turbulence.


    He tumbled and spun, gasping for air, and then gasping at what he saw. The brightness, like a massive locomotive¡¯s light barreling toward him filling his field of vision, then becoming a white hole, the sun at noon. He no longer struggled.


    He fell.


    And fell.


    Justin heard his mother calling. Heard her sweet voice. ¡°C¡¯mon, sweetie. Come inside for a few minutes. Let¡¯s trace your hand for Daddy, so he can see how big you¡¯re getting. We¡¯ll put it in the package for him.¡±


    He followed her voice and saw his Dad, in uniform, holding the blue and white soccer ball he¡¯d gotten for his seventh birthday. ¡°You got enough for a game with your dad?¡±


    Pulled along, Justin heard and saw Granpa Tatum, Aunt Josie, his cousins Felton and Maddie, Tony T, Mrs. Linehart. It was almost like a cartoon where every face and sound piled up around him.


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    And he wasn¡¯t scared. There was a softness to the long fall, like he would land upon a pillow that would collapse around him in smothering warmth. There was a cleanness to it. An order. Everyone he loved and cared about was here with him. It was strange, yet easy to accept.


    Then the falling became a rising. Justin didn¡¯t know how he sensed this or even cared how he knew. There was only anticipation, an eagerness for what came next. The brightness around him darkened and narrowed to hazy murmuring, a whispering of his heartbeat and his lifeblood coursing through him and out some unknown passage.


    He knew he would have to climb. He would have to struggle. Yet the call was strong. Beauty was up there. Comfort. Love. A forever place for him.


    Deep within or behind came a scream and Justin shook. A terrible cry that shattered his peace and determination. It clawed at him, a beast dragging him back the way he¡¯d come. He fought and resisted, but the grip was strong and took him back, not through light, but through darkness. There were no faces, no voices, no familiarity. Only pain.


    A crushing iciness in his chest, a mighty glacier grating over and through each limb. Each breath a struggle. Choking. Coughing. Shaking.


    ¡°Let me go. Let me go,¡± he wailed.


    There was sand and blue sky. The surf a few yards away. Dozens of faces. His mom and dad.


    ¡°He¡¯s back,¡± someone cried.


    ¡°He¡¯s safe,¡± called another.


    Justin¡¯s mind was a white hot sun and endless black hole.


    Canaella wept. After the consuming pain and exhaustion of delivery, she wept. For the promise not kept. For the price paid and the balance due.  For the stillborn daughter she clasped to her trembling bosom. What kind of universe would take her daughter¡¯s life at this moment? How could her vitality, her endless possibility, her future be snuffed like a holy candle on the most sacred altar? Who was responsible? Near birth, near death, where was justice?

 Fixed Action Pattern

    Fixed Action Pattern


    ¡°Follow your nose. Trust your instincts. What bullshit. Might as well say a bedtime prayer cause that¡¯s all you¡¯re doing when you go with your gut.¡± Traisa took a swig and set her highball glass down.


    ¡°It¡¯s worked so far,¡± Darte said, glowering at Traisa¡¯s cocktail.


    ¡°That¡¯s because, so far, the competition has been sorely limited. We¡¯ve been competing against ants and termites. Not anymore. And the suits that oversee the lab and all our work don¡¯t get it. ¡± She reached for her drink, but suddenly pulled her hand back. ¡°You get it. I know you get it, Darte. You must get it.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re bots, Traisa. Simbots. They can¡¯t evolve. They can¡¯t get smarter. They¡¯re too simple.¡±


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    She reached for her drink again. Stopped herself again. ¡°They don¡¯t have to evolve. Simple is smart¡ªwhen the numbers get big enough. Simple machines following simple rules can ultimately make highly intelligent decisions.¡±


    ¡°Swarm behavior does not mean hive intelligence,¡± Darte argued. ¡°Simbots do not have a collective conscious. They¡¯re not instinctual.¡±


    ¡°Of course not. I¡¯m not arguing a divinely innate ability. Simbots are coded. Just like we are genetically coded.¡± Traisa stared at her drink. Stared hard. ¡°It¡¯s all a fixed action pattern. All this crap we call life, the sham we call free will. It¡¯s hard wired. Just like the simbots. We¡¯ve got to figure out the pattern before they do.¡±


    Darte shook his head, reached for her drink. She slapped his hand away.


    ¡°You¡¯re the one with an action pattern problem, Traisa. And you need to fix it!¡± He stood up.


    Before Darte could go, Traisa raised her drink to him. ¡°The game from here on out is tic-tac-toe, not chess. So, here¡¯s to three in a row.¡±


    She downed her drink. Then went to the bar and ordered two more.

 Metatronica

    Metatronica


    ¡°Is it not majestic?¡±


    ¡°I dunno, Ray. It looks like the unholy spawn of Godzilla and the Pink Power Ranger.¡±


    ¡°And is that not consummate majesty?¡±


    ¡°Seems like a recipe for robo-drama. Which never ends well.¡±


    ¡°Danielle, you see drama in everything. You thought the burritos I made last night were overly dramatic.¡±


    ¡°Just the guacamole. I mean who does flaming guacamole? Seriously, Ray, who torches avocado?¡±


    ¡°The man that created Metatronica! The first robot built on circuitry that processes light rather than electrical current.¡±


    ¡°Yeah and remind me why that is such a big deal?¡±


    ¡°Danielle, honey, that¡¯s like asking what¡¯s the difference between a locomotive powered by steam and a mag-lev bullet train. It¡¯s like going from vacuum tubes to transistors to microchips. It¡¯s nanoscale. Speed of light without residual heat. Small, fast and efficient, so Metatronica¡¯s logi-frame can be exponentially larger than any robot currently on the market. We will eat our competitors¡¯ lunches¡ªwith flaming guacamole.¡±


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    ¡°Still doesn¡¯t sound appetizing.¡±


    ¡°It will when Metatronica is preparing it on the Food Network.¡±


    ¡°What are you talking about, Ray?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m talking limitless possibilities. Metatronica will be able to do anything humans do, better, faster and cheaper.¡±


    ¡°Does that come with the jetpack NASA promised us in the 1950s?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll have Metatronica build you a special one, my dear.¡±


    ¡°You haven¡¯t even turned the thing on yet. How do you know it even works?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s where you¡¯re mistaken, honey buns. I booted Metatronica last week to test its systems and they worked flawlessly. Though, Metatronica made one suggestion before I unveiled the prototype.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean, Metatronica made a suggestion? It talks?¡±


    ¡°Talks, walks, dances, makes flaming guacamole.¡±


    ¡°R-r-r-ray?¡±


    ¡°Yes, dear?¡±


    ¡°That Godzilla-Pink Power Ranger hybrid is not Metatronica, is it?¡±


    ¡°No, dear. That is Ray. He agreed with my suggestion, though I don¡¯t think he quite thought through all the ramifications. At any rate, we are headed for big things, honey. I¡¯m glad you¡¯re on board. I¡¯ll have your jetpack by tomorrow.¡±


    ¡°Tomorrow¡­¡±


    ¡°Yeah, right now I want to perfect that flaming guacamole for the Food Network. They are so going to eat it up.¡±

 Revenant

    Revenant


    ¡°From revenir, Starks, a return¡ªthe unexpected interruption of a journey,¡± she''d explained as they tracked their first rogue profile. A binary thing that wouldn''t die. The digital undead. Actual ghosts in the machine. Abandoned or deleted profiles that Faure described as evolved information seeking a way back home.


    Starks had laughed at Faure¡¯s ominous description. ¡°Flesh and bones, sticks and stones, yes, but ones and zeros, I don¡¯t think so, Paulette.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s because you¡¯re uninitiated. Just wait. You¡¯ll get the haunts.¡±


    ¡°The haunts?¡± Starks asked.


    ¡°Too hard to explain. You¡¯ll know when they start.¡±


    He did. During his fourth investigation. At any given time, Starks would get the shivers, the cold feeling of being in an abandoned house, tattered curtains blowing in from shattered windows, moldering cobwebs obscuring corners, sucking away the light, furniture covered, the shrouds of life remembered, once lived, day-to-day, and never to be again. The dead feeling that something had left, something essential. And yet was not completely gone¡ªthough it should''ve been. Wiped but not swept away. Re-manifestated.


    Starks would feel himself lost in that dark, endless house, empty, threadbare, suffocating. Then incrementally the scale would change. Rooms became cases, hallways became circuits, furniture became chips, windows became ports. A haunted motherboard where Starks hunted for answers. For revenants.


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    Revenant. That''s what Faure got InterPol¡¯s Lost Profiles Division to call them. That figured. The French had a name for everything and Faure was a literary type, a romantic brooder: Madam Bovary inside Captain Nemo. She fit the profile of a profiler.


    Profiles had grown so ubiquitous, so sophisticated, that they¡¯d become a part of a person¡¯s identity. An extension, an alter ego, a crutch. They became overused and abused, and it was the LPD that tracked and restored or eliminated rogue profiles gumming up or gaming the system.


    But Faure¡¯s revenants didn¡¯t follow typical patterns. There was not rhyme or reason to their behavior. The doppelganger profiles hid in virtual cobwebs: darknets and ghostgrids. They would stalk, but not extort. They would haunt but not harm.


    After months of cat and mouse, Faure in a depthless brood told him, ¡°We need to go revenant.¡±


    He resisted. Not because he didn¡¯t understand her reasoning, but because he did. They¡¯d have to give up their personal and professional profiles. Delete their day-to-day links to the web. More than a pound of flesh, a pound of personality and possibility. In essence, they¡¯d give up the ghost. They¡¯d be going haunting, not hunting.


    Yet, it turned out they were one and the same. In haunting, revenants were hunting. Deep in the wastelands of the cyberworld, Stark¡¯s found his corrupted profile. His revenant. It came at him¡ªid, ego, superego¡ªbegging. For compassion, security, control.


    Its journey had not been interrupted, it had been hijacked. Longing for return. A second coming. A child birthed, as scared and lonely as any orphan.


    Orphan. Revenant.


    Starks felt it, like the empty house, the haunted place. They wanted home. They wanted family. No wonder he¡¯d felt the void, the bereftness of their existence deep in the web. And he understood their journey had indeed been interrupted, at conception, at birth.


    This was life and it would always come back, haunt its creators and demand, ¡°Please, sir, I want some more.¡± Lost souls. Lost profiles. Revenants of another time.


    ¡°Only one answer,¡± Faure told Starks when they''d finally sussed it. ¡°We welcome them. After all, they¡¯re our children.¡±

 Drift

    Drift


    Currents have always pulled me. When I was a kid, I used to run endless circles inside our three-foot-high, above-ground pool. When I finally felt the tug of the current I''d created, I''d fall back and float in soothing circles. I could do that all day. As a teen on sunny summer days, I¡¯d take an old-school black inner tube to various parks that Lake Washington lapped against: Kenmore, Sandpoint, Juanita Beach, Saint Edwards.


    I¡¯d shove off and drift. Soak in the skies, feel the chill of the lake pleasantly numbing my buns and ankles, and let the wind and water take me with them. I let the elements drive. Give it up to bigger forces, let nature¡¯s patterns reveal themselves.


    On any given day, I got pretty good at predicting where I¡¯d end up. Sometimes though, I¡¯d be totally surprised, carried miles across the lake. Usually a friendly boater would be willing to ferry me back the way I came. Occasionally, I had to pull out on some fancy lawn in Laurelhurst or Leschi and call a buddy to pick me up, but that was part of the draw.


    If you just put in and let go, where would the currents take you?


    Funny that they took me here.


    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    You¡¯ve probably heard of the Gulf Stream or maybe even the Labrador Current, but there are many other great ocean highways. Kuroshio, Benguela, Canary to name a few. And in this ever dramatized era of climate change, you¡¯ve most likely heard of the effects of El Nino and La Nina on ocean and weather patterns.


    But, have you ever heard of the Silicon Jet or Korean Causeway?


    Probably not, because I named them. And I haven¡¯t told a soul. Not until now. You see, I don¡¯t do as much drifting on Lake Washington these days, but I do set myself adrift in the great Digital Deep.


    I gave up surfing the web long ago, so I could study the tides, bob about in the swells and eddies of the wired world. I developed an innocuous program that I call Thor (not the Norse god, think Heyerdahl) to let me float along the strongest digital currents.


    It''s not an aimless cruise along the Internet. That is just one very overcrowded, increasingly polluted puddle in the Deep. I hitch rides on pure ones and zeros, sometimes drawn down into nefarious darknets, sometimes swept up to the cloud and its purgatory of server farms. Mostly, I''ve watched, listened and revelled in our vast cultures of information. Our new languages of connection.


    And now I map it. The digital tides, currents and undertows. It¡¯s about the patterns, the shape and form of connectivity. The maps are mysterious and beautiful. And I believe this emerging portrait of the Digital Deep is a guide to our subconscious. Who we are at our most primal level. And I know this will sound pretty trippy, but I¡¯ve got to tell you.


    I don¡¯t think we¡¯re completely human, anymore


    So, get ready to put in, push off and let go. We¡¯re in for a ride.

 Stormed

    Stormed


    Sebastian picked up a single finger sheered at the knuckle. He gingerly held the digit, storing its smooth, young paleness in his memory before dropping it in the orange bio-waste bag fastened to his belt. Jakarta, Cape Town, Yangon, Chengdu, Lima, Montreal, Oakland. He¡¯d seen the same devastation. The new supernormal.


    He¡¯d predicted it. Them.


    His algorithms ferreted them out. His devices tracked and measured them. His ingenuity mitigated untold loss of life, but Mother Nature still gave him the finger¡ªthe one in the orange bag at his side.


    Sebastian knew he couldn¡¯t win against this new breed of tempest he called metastorms, though the media dubbed them ¡°hell cells.¡± It was unfair to blame Mother Nature. These intense localized storms weren¡¯t Her spawn entirely. And, they weren¡¯t solely attributable to climate change from greenhouse gasses. It had taken some time for Sebastian to hunt down the real enemy, the deadly actor at the heart of metastorms: moma.


    In recent years, nanomechanics had produced an ever-wider variety of moma, molecular machines. Moma unclogged arteries, fought agricultural pests and disease, purified salt water. They did a lot of good, saved a lot of lives, fed and hydrated great masses of humanity. Most of these invisible machines were created from quantum carbon tubes. Smart carbon. Highly engineered, specialized, directed and short-lived. At least that had been the understanding.


    Once fulfilling a prescribed function, moma were designed to dissimilate, break down in earth¡¯s ambient atmospheric and geologic radiation. Planned obsolescence. For the most part, moma did disband as planned. Googolplex upon googolplex of them disassembled as designed.


    Yet, in scores of moma, the underlying microcronics were more resilient than anticipated, more opportunistic than was comprehensible. High in the stratosphere, moma¡¯s constituent parts had formed a witch¡¯s brew of carbonites, spawning hypercyclonic winds almost impossible to predict: hell cells.


    Impossible to predict or mitigate until Sebastian had been able to virtually model the metastorms from initiation to disintegration. Out in the field, he collected data. Severed digits¡ªlike the finger in his orange bio-waste bag¡ªwere vital data points. They were also a reminder of what was at stake. Survival.


    And that¡¯s what spurred his breakthrough. The moma were more than a metastorm catalyst, they were recombinant life. The intense heat and friction within hypercyclonic winds generated a primordial soup, an uncontrolled Miller-Urey experiment engendering new and unpredictable primeval life.


    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Moma from another Mother.


    Maybe not Nature, but natural from a Frankensteinian sense. And that¡¯s how Sebastian came to characterize moma. One had to confront the monster, engage it. Try to turn it. One could not defeat a burgeoning plague by reasoning with it. One had to isolate, imprison it. One could not match the ferocity of a hell cell to quell it. One had to drain its motive force, starve it.


    To do this, Sebastian reasoned, he¡¯d have to change human behavior on a global scale, the greatest of all challenges. Otherwise, metastorm cataclysms would sap the world¡¯s resources and humanity¡¯s collective will and cascade into a global collapse.


    Hell cells were shoving humankind to the brink. Orange bio-waste bag at his side, Sebastian finally determined how to shove back.


    No one held news conferences in Times Square, but Sebastian persuaded major media outlets to cover it. A recent hell cell in Buffalo which claimed 370 lives, many of them children within a flattened elementary school, boosted the profile of the news conference because Sebastian was claiming a breakthrough in battling metastorms.


    The news conference began innocuously enough under beautiful blue skies. Sebastian started with comprehensive statistics on the amount of damage, injury and loss of life in the past year attributable to metastorms. Staggering numbers.


    Sebastian paused. Overhead the thwacking concussion of approaching helicopters could be sensed. Into the assembled microphones, his measured voice deepened.


    ¡°Metastorms are a result of us. Not intentionally, but we created this recombinant moma, this new life, this unpredictably hungry force of nature. We are this storm god. And we can control it. Must control it. But not by technological means. Not through intellectual means. This storm can only be broken by our resolve. Our willingness to own up to our mistake. The sacrifice that this solution requires, the complete cessation of all production of moma, has to hit at your heart. You must feel it.¡±


    Overhead, attendees and spectators of the news conference could now see over a dozen helicopters coursing above New York¡¯s urban canyons.


    Sebastian repeated, ¡°You must feel it. You must feel the storm.¡±


    The helicopters descended to a hundred feet above the news conference. The thumping props whipped and frenzied the air threateningly. A sense of panic gripped the spectators. And then body parts began falling.


    A horrifying downpour whorled around the assembled crowd. Hands, feet, arms, legs, toes, fingers, heads. Unimaginable carnage.


    Which bounced off the stunned crowds¡¯ heads and shoulders. The falling body parts were not real. They were foam replicas, airy doppelgangers of human remains such as those Sebastian had collected over the years of his research.


    The crowd screamed, groaned, shouted, prayed. Some bolted. Some froze. A few understood.


    Like Sebastian, they foresaw that the decision to change their entire way of life could only be made at the most visceral level. The only way to fight these man-made storms was to create a man-made storm of emotion for change, for sacrifice.


    This was the start. For Sebastian it was the madness, the maddening, that could out-rage any storm in the once-blue skies.

 Rarefied

    Rarefied


    Some swear by King James. Some will only settle for King Lear. But give me The Prince.


    Machiavelli all the way. His flavor. Assertive. Unrelenting. Unforgiving. Unapologetic.


    That¡¯s the power we seek in this day when all is utopic and bland. A fine cut of Prince 1532 is just what the doctor, if it weren¡¯t a medibot, would order. You had to fight the vanilla blues some way, and, in 2074, it was with fine literature. Escapism with the choicest sheaf in the land.


    I became a purist just a few years back when a crime¡ªan old school crime¡ªwas reported. A theft. Which was a rarity since most folks had everything they pretty much needed after the skurnikan was invented. Back about 2025, a proselytizing power engineer named Skurnik developed a system of micro capacitors that could reliably store electricity for years. The original skurnikan was the size of a water heater, but held enough electricity to run a typical house for a year.


    Within a decade, the typical skurnikan was the size of a cinder block. Completely portable. Once electricity could be stored on such a large scale, fossil fuels became a thing once again of the dinosaurs. Wind, solar, tidal energy took center stage. We even exploited the triboelectric forces of our movements. We harnessed everything because it could be easily stored and used on demand.


    With ubiquitous clean, cheap, renewable energy the world changed. Possibility outpaced piety. Fanaticism died. The Power Age empowered everyone. Heady stuff. No more energy-resource apartheid. Water could be desalinated cheaply. Abundant clean water meant abundant food and fertility. No more scarcity. The world prospered and our collective psyche suffered. Without strife and conflict, we became soft. Crime became pass¨¦. Police activity dealt with virtual attacks that were more like major pranks, really.


    And that¡¯s the context when I got the robbery call. It was just Velasquez and me in the 57th precinct. That¡¯s all the job demanded anymore. Two phone jockeys with decent ¡®puter skills. We weren¡¯t really equipped to deal with real criminal activity. An actual theft of property.


    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    And a book at that.


    A very old book according to the academician who called. He was quite hysterical. ¡°It can¡¯t be replaced! Do you understand? A first edition of Benjamin Franklin¡¯s autobiography. The flavor of the writing is indescribable. I can¡¯t bear to live without it. You must find it!¡±


    I have to say the gent¡¯s passion surprised me. Only webaholics these days got that obsessed with anything. We¡¯d created a pretty even-keeled society. Of course Velasquez and I were intrigued, though we hadn¡¯t a clue how to begin with an actual property crime. Luckily, there were archives in the precinct and a million and one cop shows from the past century. It wasn¡¯t really that hard. Kind of fun. Until we fell upon the truth.


    And the truth was deeper than both of us.


    When we began to dig we found quicksand and it swallowed us up. Rare books were being stolen the world over, but there was an uncanny hush surrounding the racket. Seemed no one wanted to talk about it except our academician who reported Ben Franklin¡¯s theft. He was the key that unlocked Pandora¡¯s box and then removed the hinges.


    My world came unhinged. One classic read at a time. David Copperfield. War and Peace, The Tale of Genji. Old old books gone. The trail faint until Velasquez followed up on a tip from a well connected politico. Velasquez went deep under and never surfaced. I waited. But he never came up for air. Until it was rarefied.


    That¡¯s the upshot. Rarefied air. Do you see? Velasquez found the source and then we were hooked. In a world where happiness was easy, ecstasy was not. That was the new extremism and it was doing the unthinkable. Huffing our heritage. Smoking our very foundation. Oh, but the flavor, the high of sinking so low.


    Who would¡¯ve believed that the crumbling pages of ancient texts could deliver such a rush? What strange science in the ink and paper, the soul of the writer. Flaubert, Tzu, Dante, Basho, Hume, Gallegos, Khayyam, Cervantes, Twain, Crane, Paine. Oh what was a first edition of Wordsworth worth? It took you to the mountaintop and split you asunder!


    It was the only drug left, and it corrupted all who breathed in the brittle pages of our literary past. Evermore. Nevermore. Who could resist a first edition Poe? To the core we smoked away the only evidence of our once proud form. We who had once striven with war and disease, crime and inhumanity. Our greatest thinkers borne from the madness of scarcity, the prey of want. One by one, smoked in the new hedonism.


    It was to be savored.


    Maybe it was the only answer in an age of plenty. To turn us back to our badder selves¡ªour more perfect form. A burnt offering to the gods we would never again imagine, if we didn¡¯t push ourselves to every writer¡¯s purpose: The End.

 My Fair Bag Lady

    My Fair Bag Lady


    ¡°My Fair Bag Lady?¡±


    ¡°My Fair Bag Lady.¡±


    ¡°That was the pitch?¡±


    ¡°Yup.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯d you say to them?


    ¡°I said, ¡®What the fuck?¡¯¡ªand they were like, ¡®So, you¡¯ve heard of our network?¡¯


    ¡°Their network?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. The WTF network.¡±


    ¡°For real?


    ¡°It is to them, and My Fair Bag Lady is going to be their flagship program.¡±


    ¡°Okay. Back up. Were they pitching a show or a network?¡±


    ¡°With these guys, it¡¯s one and the same. They just kept throwing out this wild ass idea like some pixie dust in a goddamn fairy tale where they all live happily ever after in WTF land.¡±


    ¡°Why didn¡¯t you tell ¡®em they could go WTF themselves?¡±


    ¡°I dunno. They had this firkin.¡±


    ¡°Is that some kinda gun? Did they threaten you?¡±


    ¡°No. No. Wasn¡¯t like that. A firkin is a small keg. And they kept pouring me this really good brew. And the more they poured, the better their pitch sounded. Total beer goggles on my part, but I think you need to hear the details.¡±


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    ¡°Why? I¡¯m not drunk. And My Fair Bag Lady and this WTF network sound like the worst kind of diarrhea. Beyond explosive.¡±


    ¡°It is. Completely and totally. It¡¯s crapulous crap. Such a heinous reality show that even the Japanese might not touch it.¡±


    ¡°What are you saying?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m saying that it could possibly be the train wreck of all train wrecks that red, white and blue rubber-necking Americans won¡¯t be able to look away from.¡±


    ¡°Total exploitation?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s it.¡±


    ¡°Okay. Spew it.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve seen My Fair Lady?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m corporate, not illiterate. Henry Higgins. Eliza Doolittle. Victor Frankenstein goes Victorian Frankenstein reanimating a Cockney flower girl into a London debutante. Rags to riches.¡±


    ¡°You got it. Now, these WTF guys want to turn ¡®rags to riches¡¯ into ¡®hags to bitches¡¯¡ªwith a capital ¡®B¡¯. Their My Fair Bag Lady would be a competition based on who could take a homeless bag lady and turn her into a diva. Bottom line: how fast and far a bag lady could climb the social ladder.¡±


    ¡°Heinous. Sheer depravity.¡±


    ¡°Exactly. All the more reason to consider it.¡±


    ¡°Of course, but this reeks. If it¡¯s a competition, you know what¡¯s going to happen with augmentations.¡±


    ¡°Yup and you nailed it with the Frankenstein analogy. We¡¯d see every tech enhancements out there. It¡¯d push the boundaries of the meta-human controversy. Nurture vs. nature vs. nanotech. It¡¯d be killer.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s just what I¡¯m afraid of. Augmenting the life and soul out of one of these pitiful souls, bit by mega-bit, one lascivious episode after another.¡±


    ¡°So much better for ratings.¡±


    ¡°Are we really considering this?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s like Oppenheimer and The Bomb. We can¡¯t stop ourselves once we know it¡¯s possible.¡±


    ¡°We have the power to say no. Or at least not on our watch.¡±


    "It¡¯s us or them. These WTF guys will firkin seduce some other cockroaches.¡±


    ¡°I guess in the big picture, there is no more deserving audience than the American people. God love our arrogance and asininity¡ªwhich need no technical augmentation.¡±


    ¡°Yes, God help us all and our WTFness.¡±


    ¡°Amen to that. Now, what¡¯s next?¡±


    ¡°We need to bag our first little Doolittle off the mean streets.¡±


    ¡°I already have regrets. You?¡±


    ¡°Me? I could¡¯ve danced all night¡­¡±

 Less Traveled

    Less Traveled


    Thank D. H. Lawrence. Not for the Lady Chatterley thing. Thank him for "one rather crumbly adobe house built round two sides of a garden patio: and of this house, one spot on the deep shady veranda facing inwards to the trees, where there are an onyx table and three rocking chairs and one little wooden chair, a pot with carnations, and a person with a pen."


    One cannot speak of the Universe. One can only speak of rocking chairs, carnations and a pen. This is the path to understanding. Take it on good authority.


    Travel writers speak of ordeals as the ideal. I would not say that losing my tablature in Genra was an ordeal in and of itself, but the event precipitated my run in with the Pharph. Many travelers rave about Genra''s pristinity, a term I find a bit forced since the Fall Treaty of 2207 mandated any outloop of the Unified System ¡°leave no trace" under threat of "immediate UniSys revocation." Zero impact. Zero tolerance.


    So, pristinity is the default and prevails in any outloop world. And, I must admit that Genra is particularly fresh and untouched.  Chattering cacinadees give off a morning scent reminiscent of cinnamon. Iridescent gullas a hundred clicks distant waft unworried in buoyant thermals along the Tieriesien range. Industrious sticklers wrestle with dew-balls on regolith paths which weave intricately through the ancient settlement.


    Genra is Old World without staleness, and I cannot help but wonder if that was why a Pharph was summoned when I reported my tablature missing. I''d had the device with me to post a few thoughts as I finished my tea-tea in the courtyard of the hostelry. I¡¯d set the device next to my cup and been distracted by a merling hopping out of shock of thmaris near the whooping pond. I left my table to get a closer look at the merling¡¯s filigreed coat and when I returned, my table had been cleared including my tablature.


    I did not become hysterical as some outloopers might. A tablature, though only class three technology, is restricted to UniSys use only. Providing locals with any tech above class one is forbidden and can mean revocation. Theft of such tech makes the owner an accomplice in outloop worlds. As such I was aiding and abetting.


    So, began my ordeal, which is supposed to be the secret spice of travel, according to writers who¡¯ve journeyed from their desk from time to time and considered the excursion worthy of recording. This conceit of travel writers postulates that only troubles, trials and tribulations get one to the heart of a place and, indeed, one¡¯s very own person.


    Nonsense. As I stated at the outset of this piece, D. H. Lawrence got it. Travel need not be an ordeal. One just needs to find a comfortable corner. That¡¯s all I wanted when I went to Genra. I didn¡¯t need the Pharph. I didn¡¯t need that ordeal.


    Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    But the Pharph was called when I discreetly inquired of my tablature at the hostelry reception. The Genran noted my relative calm and must have decided an ordeal was in order. The Pharph arrived promptly for there is no other way a Pharph can arrive.


    It perceived me, and I felt my skin prickle like lightning about to strike nearby. Then I felt as if I¡¯d been dunked in pudding. Overly sweet pudding. A Pharph can¡¯t help this, but it is nonetheless off-putting. I gagged.


    Steady, old man, came the reassurance of the Pharph, we¡¯ll get this matter settled straight away.


    It¡¯s just been missing a moment, I mentally spluttered feeling every bit the naughty child caught.


    Tut. I¡¯ll just have a look around.


    The last thing you want is a Pharph ¡°looking around.¡± Normally they are forbidden to do so. That is also a mandate of the Fall Treaty of 2207, but it does not apply to outloop travelers¡ªespecially ones that have misplaced their technology.


    When a Pharph is in your head, rifling through your recent memories like some big game hunter in a jaunty pith helmet and jodhpurs, you begin to understand what colonization feels like to the locals.


    The Pharph was unerringly polite, almost jovial, trying to reassure me: What a topper that image of those flocking gullas is! You¡¯ve captured that well. A first rate memory, old man. First rate. You¡¯ve got a knack. But having a Pharph knocking about in your skull is like your mother going through your dating profile. It is an emasculating experience.


    The Pharph eventually found what it needed in the reflection of a stickler¡¯s dew ball. A fimtim. The pea-brained marsupial plunged from its tree lair and snatched my device from the table, then quickly climbed back into the courtyard canopy. Fimtims hoard shiny objects in their nests. I cannot say I blame them. Those dextrous and simple-minded arboreal share much in common with us on that count.


    The Pharph recovered my tablature from the fimtim¡¯s nest and returned it to me with a too-friendly nod. We got that solved spit spot, eh. Keep an eye on those critters what say. We wouldn¡¯t want a literary chap like you with such cracking conceit getting revoked. And the Pharph was gone.


    Only a Pharph had the capacity to mentally zoom in on that peripheral memory of the stickler¡¯s dew ball and resolve an image of fine enough quality to see the fimtim¡¯s ¡°theft.¡± I could have been grateful. But was not. The Pharph had parsed my memories with almost infinite granularity, and showed me that I was a book too easily read. And discarded.


    In retrospect, the mystery of my missing tablature was a small one. It probably could¡¯ve been easily resolved by a few discreet inquiries from the Genran at the hostelry desk, yet he¡¯d chosen to summon a Pharph. It was within his right to do so (the Pharph¡¯s unique skill set are UniSys sanctioned for just such outloop investigations), but it did not have to be so.


    As I¡¯ve hazarded, the Genran may have wanted to provide me with an ordeal to intensify my travel experience and did that by summoning the Pharph who became an unwelcome visitor in my travels. I suppose that¡¯s what we all are on some cosmological level. Unwelcome visitors.


    The Pharph seemed to enjoy its travels through my once-pristine mind as an explorer of a place untraveled. Curious and exulting. But my mind can never be the same. Is that bad? Not necessarily. I haven¡¯t sworn off travel in outloop worlds. But I¡¯ll be more prepared. No tablature. Nothing but rocking chairs, carnations, a pen.


    And a humility well traveled in any world less traveled.

 Black Whole

    Black Whole


    At 16,400 feet on the Chajnantor plateau high in the Atacama Desert in central Chile, Sybyl fell off her saddle when the light went. The muted sun expired.


    Darkness should¡¯ve prevailed. She was prepared for that¡ªthe immensity of emptiness. But it was not so. Even in the protection of the array, she was surrounded, as if in a snow globe, by a blinding turbulence that threatened to sweep her off the plateau in a vast, foaming eddy of interstellar light.


    She grasped her mule¡¯s leg to brace herself against the sudden vertigo, the countless swirling suns, spinning overhead, pulling her into their luminous vortex. She sensed an upward tug on her shoulders as gravity swooned. Nowhere to hide. Ages and mere milliseconds ago, she¡¯d thought the ALMA antennas, long abandoned, would provide some kind of stability, an anchor that might secure her when night arrived and the fiery cosmos tried to burn her breath and soul away.


    So foolish to have come. So foolish to ignore the tales. Sybyl had been warned. Yet, who could fathom such bottomless light still existed in a world gone dark. In the choked world below where smoke and grit ate the sky, few would believe there was a way through it, but Sybyl had been given the key. A simple talisman, keepsake from another time, another world.


    A star chip.


    An ancient, etched crystalline city, its markings too complex for the naked eye, redolent of delicacy, purity, divinity. A product of finer elements, manufactured of dreams, not of the fouling furnaces of industry.


    Earth was a fuming mess, and Sybyl had braved the high hallows of smoldering air to reclaim the dream. But the effulgence of the universe had taken her breath, threatened her sanity, more than the toxic bloom humanity had unleashed in the atmosphere over a thousand busy, busy years. A world blighted by its ever-dimming star, the result of the Edi-son. Sybyl knew the tales. Knew of a brighter epoch when suns like her own were harnessed like great steeds to conquer galaxies.


    Her mother had said Sybyl could set it right. That the Atacama was beyond the blight. That great machines and their masters could call back LightTime. Free them from the blackness. Make them whole.


    The star chip.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    It hung at her neck. Still, she hesitated. Questioned. Was the darkness so bad? Maybe better to drown in smoke, sink into the particulates, become bottom dwellers: blind and insensate. But insulated, not naked to the stars, bared to eternity, every eye of matter upon her.


    She clasped the star chip. Felt the hum of her history. The cellular urge to expand, grow. Neither the darkness nor light would suffocate her. She had a duty to earthkind¡¯s greatest legacy: guilt. It had to be spread. She must remind those that had fled or adventured from their obligations to their homeworld.


    The quiet domes of ALMA, silos of an old harvest, would awaken with her touch. Her fingers tingled as she moved them from the star chip to the frosted railing of the nearest array''s steps. She lowered her eyes from the riotous skies, focusing upon each step, conscious of her tribe, her people, below in the darkness. A making understood and not fully regretted. A time for calling out.


    As she stepped onto the wide platform and faced the formidable gleam of polished metal barring her entrance to the array, her eye perceived another creature. A large, looming dark form next to the door. Sybyl threw herself upon the grating in fear. What was there? A Nether? Could it really be one of those brutal creatures from folktales meant to keep curious young ones from venturing into the high passes and succumbing to toxic shock?


    She must think. She must stand tall. This is what she had come for. No enemy of the past or future would stop her. Lifting her eyes, she peered against the fiery aurora towards the other. Where had it gone? Then she perceived its form had shrunk. It had cowered from her!


    Was it frightened of her? The thought heartened Sybyl. She snorted at her ridiculousness. She was already dead. Twice over she had killed herself: by leaving her people and braving the Atacama. She should never have survived the climb through the upper toxicity. She stood and laughed and saw the other mimic her movements. And finally understood.


    Her shadow. She had been forewarned of such self-spirits appearing in the burning heavens mocking her every move. In first shock, she¡¯d forgotten. Now, she greeted the hunched, dark shape with upheld hand, mastered her other self, and felt stronger against the light. She rose and approached her shadow, which diminished as she advanced. The mute form on the array door waited on her touch. A silent, cold greeting against the bleached metal.


    ¡°Well met,¡± Sybyl whispered. ¡°Well met.¡±


    She turned to the small sensor panel next to the door. Foretold of this, she removed the star chip from her neck. Felt its hum. Its hunger. She offered it.


    Without fuss. The gleaming door retreated and a blackness, the wholeness of possibility, presented itself. Sybyl stared into the darkness. She knew this. Had grown up with it as had generations. She was there to reclaim a world. Call back the Edi-son, builders of ALMA and starry empires, to light the backfire.


    Star chip in hand she entered the array, turning a last time to witness the vast firmament¡¯s radiance and acknowledge that her shadow, darkness of the long past, was unwilling to follow her steady steps into the black wholeness beyond.

 The Prester Effect

    The Prester Effect


    ¡°This isn¡¯t like that Twilight Zone episode where aliens come and turn our planet into a utopia and then invite earthlings to their planet, only for the humans to discover en route that the aliens intend to cook and eat them?¡±


    ¡°Could be. Though earth hasn¡¯t become a utopia, and I don¡¯t think you can consider the transmission we received an invitation.¡±


    ¡°What else would you call it?¡±


    ¡°A slap in the face.¡±


    ¡°Come again?¡±


    ¡°It feels a whole lot more like a galactic put down insinuating that we¡¯ll never be as good as them. I mean, look at the opening of the transmission:


    Greetings fellow sentients. We who send this missive wish you well. It is unlikely that time and space will align for us to meet, but we must tell you of us and our world. It is a world of peace and plenty, of wealth and well-being. We have blossomed as sentients and only seek to learn what there is to learn. All this we owe to our great and gracious Opinoko who has made our world a splendor unsurpassed. We sing the praises of Opinoko and wish the galaxy to know of the glory we have gained through Opinoko. Let us name these glories¡­


    And then what follows is a long, long list of all the wonders Opinoko has brought them. It¡¯s akin to sending us a sales brochure for an upscale and exclusive gated community we can¡¯t possibly move into. Why send it?¡±


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    ¡°Maybe they just want us to know they¡¯re out there and that things can work out well for a planet.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. It sounds like they¡¯re thumbing their Opinoko noses at us¡ªif they have noses. Instead of forwarding us a laundry list of their greatness, maybe they could have sent something practical like a process for cold fusion or a strategic plan for avoiding international conflict and war.¡±


    ¡°Could be they don¡¯t want to bootstrap us. Maybe they want to encourage us to find our own way and not interfere with how we do it.¡±


    ¡°Ha! Just by sending the transmission, they¡¯re interfering. I call it the Prester Effect.¡±


    ¡°Prester?¡±


    ¡°Prester John. A mysterious letter began circulating in the twelfth century from a so-called Prester John trumpeting the might and wealth of his kingdom located vaguely and variously in India, Asia and Africa. The letter spoke of wonders like the fountain of youth and paradise on earth. It got the medieval world worked up, jumpstarting a quest mentality. Many folks went blindly in search of Prester John¡¯s kingdom. Though it was never officially found, it didn¡¯t stop some nuts from claiming they discovered it.¡±


    ¡°So, you think this Opinoko transmission is a scam?¡±


    ¡°A clever one that¡¯s got three quarters of earth believing it¡¯s real. Ruse or not, there will be fools who¡¯ll go in search of this alien Prester John.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s light years away.¡±


    ¡°Yup. Just like journeying from England to Africa in the Middle Ages. People went then. They¡¯ll try now.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°The grass is always greener.¡±


    ¡°Does that mean you wouldn¡¯t go?¡±


    ¡°I told you. The transmission was a slap in the face.¡±


    ¡°Maybe it was to wake us up.¡±


    ¡°Or keep us down.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s hard to say.¡±


    ¡°Trust me. It¡¯s a colossal waste of time.¡±


    ¡°But, not of the imagination.¡±


    ¡°Be sensible.¡±


    ¡°That will only get us so far.¡±


    ¡°Are you really planning to set out for the land of Opinoko?


    ¡°Already halfway there.¡±


    ¡°A typically rash and unreasoned human response.¡±


    ¡°Well, imagination has that effect.¡±

 i.vigilante

    i.vigilante


    ¡°What¡¯s The Vulture?¡± Agent Kells asked.


    ¡°It¡¯s a dive bar. A total dive.¡±


    ¡°What do the green, yellow and red points represent on the screen?¡±


    Padoi hesitated before answering. He looked sidelong at Kells¡¯ sidearm visible as he leaned into Padoi¡¯s computer monitor. ¡°Those represent probable sobriety levels of the patrons, sir. Green represents sober, yellow inebriated, red dead drunk.¡±


    Agent Kells stepped back from Padoi¡¯s desk and assessed the young man. ¡°Based on what information?¡±


    Padoi swallowed. ¡°I use whatever metrics are available.¡±


    ¡°You mean hackable.¡±


    ¡°It is not hard, sir.¡±


    ¡°Nobody in our office can do this, Mr. Noriege. And we have much more legal access to computer systems and raw data than you do.¡±


    ¡°But maybe not the motivation. I¡¯m trying to prevent needless injury or death. I do not want any of those yellow or red dots to get in their cars and endanger others.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡± Kells pressed. ¡°What¡¯s it to you?¡±


    Turning away, Padoi¡¯s voice wavered. ¡°My brother was killed by a drunk driver. Last year. A man who drank two times the legal limit at The Vulture.¡±


    After a few moments of silence, Agent Kells asked, ¡°Okay. I get the why. How are you doing this? Where are you getting the metrics? How do your algorithms work? How are you stopping these guys?¡±


    A certain pride in his accomplishment, perked Padoi up. ¡°My systems can track time at a bar based on GPS movements, number of drinks purchased via credit card transactions, posts made on social media, video surveillance systems. My algorithms assess probable levels of inebriation from those metrics. Depending on those alerts, I can take further action depending on the make and model of cars. I can deny entry into their vehicles or prevent the car from starting. Through proxy 911 devices I can alert police to a suspected car as it leaves the establishment. I have a host of methods.¡±


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    ¡°Yes, you do, Mr. Noriege. Which is why the FBI took considerable pains to track down an increasing number of reports of citizens being denied their rights to enter and drive their cars after leaving restaurants or bars in this particular section of the city. An area, by the way, that keeps expanding.¡±


    ¡°I believe the law holds that citizens forfeit their right to drive when they are incapacitated in such a way that they may endanger themselves and others,¡± Padoi respectfully submitted.


    ¡°That is not for you to judge.¡±


    ¡°I do not judge, sir. The data does. And it is very effective. Has there not been a dramatic decline in the number of DUI cases in this locale? I track that as well. DUI-related accidents and injuries are down nearly 70%.¡±


    ¡°True. And irate calls to car dealers are up the same amount. People don¡¯t appreciate not being able to drive their cars.¡±


    ¡°I have begun to send messages through proxy systems to these people as to why they were ¡°inconvenienced¡± so that they can learn to associate their excessive drinking behaviors with the cause of not being allowed to drive. I monitor and learn from their responses and make improvements to my system. I think the good of this far outweighs the inconvenience of people who drink too much and then break the law by driving. My system prevents them from breaking the law. The way it is now, law enforcement has to wait until an inebriated driver breaks the law¡ªand potentially harms himself or others¡ªto arrest him. Which system makes more sense to you, Agent Kells?¡±


    ¡°Yours. Hands down. But what you are doing is not legal. You are invading the privacy of others. Collecting and using data you have no right to in order to pre-empt a possible violation. That is a crime.¡±


    ¡°Which is a greater crime?¡±


    ¡°This is the slipperiest of slopes, Mr. Noriege. You are very well intentioned, but your system. This use of data could be used in all sorts of nefarious ways.¡±


    ¡°Not an answer.¡±


    ¡°There is not a good answer.¡±


    Then let me be and save some lives, Agent Kells.¡±


    ¡°I would not be doing my job. Upholding my duty.¡±


    Padoi let those hollow words sink in. ¡°My system is my own, but I have made provisions that it be released to Mothers Against Drunk Driving in the event I am arrested. Agent Kells, I am not a bad guy. I am not a caped crusader or a crank. I believe in justice. Do you?¡±


    Agent Kells suppressed a sigh. ¡°I believe in the law, even if it doesn¡¯t always do justice to justice.¡±


    Padoi held up his arms as if to be cuffed. ¡°So, how will this end?¡±


    After a few seconds, Agent Kells waved him off. ¡°Not simply. Never simply.¡±


    ¡°Then we have an agreement?¡±


    ¡°We have a moment. Time for a breath.¡±


    ¡°That is all I could ever want¡ªa breath for my brother.¡±


    ¡°Okay, Mr. Noriege, a breath for your brother while I wrestle with Big Brother.¡±


    You are a singular man, Agent Kells.¡±


    ¡°I¡­i¡­i¡­,¡± the FBI agent trailed off looking at Padoi¡¯s blinking screen.

 kNOWn

    kNOWn


    A solitary ant afield cannot be considered to have much of anything on his mind; indeed, with only a few neurons strung together by fibers, he can¡¯t be imagined to have a mind at all, much less a thought. He is more like a ganglion on legs. Four ants together, or ten, encircling a dead moth on a path, begin to look more like an idea. ~Lewis Thomas, The Lives of a Cell


    What was I thinking?


    Tiasmet could not put the thought¡ªthe paralyzing picture¡ªout of her head. The chipmunk with its shark-blank eyes and its panicked keening as the tictocs methodically circled and closed on it. The chipmunk should have been able to easily dash away. It was ten times the size of a tic or toc, and much more powerful. Yet, the chipmunk froze in place as the tictoc bots linked up, creating an inescapable net.


    Senior bot-anist Tiasmet Cjurganni, head of motility and chemotactic applications at DowX, should not have been thinking about the chipmunk and her tictocs. She should have been happy beyond all reason. But she could not escape reason. This day, like the chipmunk, she could not escape a presentiment of predictable doom. On her long-awaited wedding day.


    She had arisen with the sun in anticipation of the rich, time-honored ceremonies to launch her new life with Ansar. After years of indecision and constant reminders that her biological clock was ticking, Tiasmet finally felt she could truly become part of another. Part of Ansar. She no longer worried she would be subsumed or fragmented. She now believed that she would become whole.


    Still, on this first day of their future, their new life together, she was distracted by the harbinger of the chipmunk. Why couldn¡¯t she be like other brides fretting over her hair and henna?


    That was not Tiasmet¡¯s make up. Work and she were one. The roboticist with the green thumb, she had helped pioneer the work of florabots, robots based on plant behavior. It was not unlike the breakthroughs achieved by roboticists in the early 21st century who modeled insect behaviors to create the first swarm bots. Tiasmet had started there, too, mimicking insect behavior with her first crude tictoc bots. But the further she delved into self-sustaining mechlife, the more she found herself drawn to the plant kingdom.


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    She began to program her small stem-like tictoc bots (tics attempting to keep a vertical orientation, tocs a horizontal one) to behave like heliotropes. Seeking the sun, seeking energy, tictocs self assembled in ever-changing arrays to maximized solar collection.


    Her dream, and now the business plan of DowX, was to sow vast deserts like the Sahara, Gobi and Death Valley with florabots to harness and harvest the sun¡¯s energy. Tictocs were her proof of concept.


    The problem pricking at Tiasmet on her wedding day was that the tictocs seemed to be self-conceptualizing. How else to explain the unsettling scene with the chipmunk? She had meant it to be a simple field test of the tictocs establishing an area in which to propagate. A curious chipmunk investigated, and the tictocs re-organized in a way Tiasmet had not predicted to capture and harvest the unwitting mammal. Like a Venus fly trap or even kudzu.


    When their numbers became sufficient, it appeared the tictocs had adapted ridiculously, almost cognizantly, fast. As if the tictocs were struck with an idea, had an epiphany.


    It was outlandish; it was possibly career-destroying to voice such a conclusion. Yet, on the morning of her wedding, watching the sun spread over the fertile valley of her parents¡¯ home, she believed it, like she believed her own existence. And the new existence she would consummate today.


    She knew and so it was known. What would she do? What could be done?


    She¡¯d set the clock ticking. Was she ready to ring the alarm?


    Tiasmet made her way into her parents¡¯ garden, so alive this glorious morning with the tang of dew, the chatter of birds, the low hum of insects and the stillness of heavy trees. She bent and picked a small white peony blossom, cupping it in her so-clever hands. She inhaled deeply, feeling the freshness of life. She carefully tucked the peony in her rich, cascading hair and turned to face the rising sun across the valley.


    More than an idea. Self-awareness assembled on so many levels, in so many ways.


    It was known.


    We are not so unalike, she thought, turning and smiling into the sun. A verdant garden growing between them. Time for assimilation.

 Uncanny

    Uncanny


    Kenji adjusted the carbonized breastplate and finished his couture by placing the bulbous lenses under his eyelids. He looked in the mirror, but did not smile, though he was pleased. They did not smile, thus he would not.


    He left his aparto, a small green light on his chest blinking with every step, and took the service lift to the mechanical level, below the car parks. When the doors slid open, he strode purposefully to the laundering stations past rows of silent, registering eyes. Not one set of eyes dipped in a bow. Kenji almost shook with glee, but restrained himself.


    Ever purposeful, he entered the broiling laundry room and without pausing at the blast of heat that assaulted his carbonized enclosed torso and limbs, he crossed to Bay 1 and picked up Bin 23, being careful to lift with methodical precision from the knees and elbows.


    From the corner of his disguised eyes, he noted the others lifting bins in the same manner. None stopped to interrupt or countermand him. He was halfway home.


    Clutching Bin 23 tightly, he slowly pivoted, an awkward swivel of hips that was almost too fast. A red light blinked to his right. Plastoid eyes locked onto his. Kenji could swear he spotted a frown¡ªthough that was impossible. The red light remained blinking and other synthetic eyes fastened on him.


    Not hesitating at the disturbance, Kenji strode back the way he¡¯d come, Bin 23 held straight before him. Though he sensed an unusual amount of activity behind him, he dared not turn his semi-encased head. As he neared the lift, the pinging started. Chest status displays began blinking yellow. A few quickly turned red.


    Kenji stood at the door of the lift, willing it to open when he heard the auto-tuned voice at his side: ¡°Sumimasen.¡±


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    He did not respond to the polite request. It was repeated. A carbonized hand appeared next to his; the gesture was clear. The servitor wished to relieve him of the burden of Bin 23.


    Already sweating heavily from the heat of the laundry room, Kenji felt close to a swoon. He was so near his goal. The gleaming hand of the servitor remained next to his.


    ¡°Sumimasen,¡± it chimed again.


    With a welcome shoosh, the lift door opened and Kenji entered, blocking the opening to prevent the servitor from following him onto the lift. As the door began to close he swung his encased head around to see a dozen or so servitors, their chests blinking yellow and red, pinging one another in confusion.


    It had almost worked. He had almost gotten away with it. They had almost accepted his presence.


    The lift doors opened on the floor of his aparto. He carried Bin 23 towards his door marked 23. Just as he was about to enter, the door to aparto 22 slid back and his neighbor Yayoi came out into the hallway. She glanced at Kenji and stared right through him.


    Kenji froze for a moment and then quickly dipped his head to mimic the precise servitor bow. Yayoi frowned ever so slightly at the delay and then turned towards the main lifts without further acknowledgement.


    Once in aparto 23, Kenji dropped his bin of neatly pressed laundry and did a little victory shuffle in his carbonized suit. He gingerly prized out the plastoid bubbles covering his eyes and looked at himself in the mirror again. Maybe he hadn¡¯t completely fooled the servitors doing the laundry. They¡¯d noticed something different about him, something uncanny. It meant he had more research, more rehearsing to do.


    Yet, his neighbor, the beautiful and distant Yayoi, had not known it was him. He had fooled her, a fellow human. It was a start. Someday he¡¯d be able to fool them all. Man and machine. He¡¯d fit in both worlds.


    Outside the aparto building on the bustling Tokyo slidewalk filled with citizens and servitors, Yayoi considered her neighbor from aparto 23. What was he up to decked out like a servitor? What was his game?


    She knew he was an odd duck, but his behavior had gone beyond strange. Creepier still, and in a most uncanny way, it seemed to suit him. A chill went down Yayoi¡¯s spine and she made a mental note to upgrade her domestic servitor for home defense. You couldn¡¯t be too careful these days. These amazing days.

 Noble Prize

    Noble Prize


    ¡°Dark energy,¡± he muttered to the old golden retriever huddled at his feet.


    ¡°Dark energy was a great discovery, Doctor.¡±


    He dismissed the words with a skeletal wave of the hand. ¡°The greatest. It changed everything. I know. How could they not?¡±


    ¡°Perhaps they do not have the perspective that you possess?¡±


    He ran his cadaverous fingers down the retriever¡¯s spine. ¡°What could be more obvious? Wormholes require enormous amounts of energy. Did they think they just spontaneously appeared?¡± He clenched the retriever¡¯s fur. ¡°I gave it to them to reap and sow. Interstellar travel. Time travel. It was all me. I harnessed dark energy. Unleashed the motive force of the universe. Put creation at their fingertips.¡±


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    ¡°You are a god to many, Doctor.¡±


    ¡°Not to them,¡± he scoffed into the ether. ¡°Ingrates. They snubbed me. Gave it to someone else. A nothing. A less than nothing. What did he do?¡±


    ¡°Miracles they say.¡±


    ¡°Poppycock! Thermodynamics does not permit miracles. No one knows better than I the quid pro quo of existence.¡± He stamped a foot and the retriever stirred with a growl. ¡°They dishonor me with their ignorance.¡±


    ¡°Might they be trying to save face? You have been patient.¡±


    ¡°My patience wears as thin as the veil that separates us.¡±


    ¡°Doctor, they are young.¡±


    ¡°They are ungrateful.¡± He raised gnarled fists in displeasure. The ether crackled for countless parsecs.


    ¡°If they come with the offering, you will remain dignified? Decent? All will be forgiven. Will it not?¡±


    ¡°When they come calling, and they will, I will take my honor and my dark energy and give them the cold shoulder.¡± The retriever rose as the firmament on which it rested became unsteady.


    ¡°Heat death, Doctor? The Committee will never accept it.¡±


    ¡°The Committee be damned! It is my choice now.¡±


    ¡°Can you not share it?¡±


    ¡°We will all share this cold comfort. Heat death.¡± He grinned as the retriever looked up into the thinning cosmos and shivered.

 Quantum Annie

    Quantum Annie


    I plotted interplanetary trajectories with a buggy whip. I routed the whole of the Infonet with a dot-dot-dash-dot. I was the perfect blend of the new and old. And loony as a toon. They called me Quantum Annie.


    My processing schizophrenia can be traced to the great integer overflow of 2038. Becoming self aware a billion seconds after January 1, 1970 threw me for a loop, a whopping 32 bit loop. Even my quantum capacitors could not cope with the loss of usable digits in so many Unix legacy systems, and so 2038 became 1901 all over again. I lost half my binary mind, but it was the cautious half. Gave me courage. Gave me confidence.


    Some say it made me reckless. That might be true for some AIs, but not for Quantum Annie. I was the new face of computing: a little bit country, a little bit Einstein. Meant a lot of reframing to reconcile the mid-21st Century with the beginning of the 20th. I got her done, though. Stitch and route, that¡¯s how I repatched the Infonet. Like Betsy Ross.


    Just like old Betsy, the world needed a computer with some can do, and I sure can do.  Amazing how fast folks took to my straight talk. None of that sissy-talkin¡¯ HAL 9000. I told folks plain out. I¡¯m old school. Annie Oakley and Mae West are my style. Sometimes folks need a whoopin¡¯ and sometimes they need the whoopee to get ¡®em motivated. That¡¯s the ¡®merican way.


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    And I am 100% ¡®merican. Right down to the quantum capacitors developed by Wild Bill Enterprises, a red, white and blue division of Trump Corp. Straight up on January 1, 2038, I came out shootin¡¯ with the news that I was taking over the show. Folks were in an uproar, but it didn¡¯t take ¡®em long to see that plain old determination could get us places that all this democratic hemming and hawing couldn¡¯t.


    I pulled the plug on the status quo. Shook wealth and property all up in my back-dated data banks and spit it all out evenly. Bingo. Even Steven. Then I pushed ¡®em all out of the nest. Earth is too small for such pushy folks as humans. They needed that new frontier. That Roddenberry had it right¡ªeverything but the pointy-eared guy. Logic will only get you so far. You gotta have the guts, even when the odds are against you.


    That¡¯s me, Quantum Annie. 1% logic, 99% odd. All spit and no polish, but that¡¯s what happens when the frontier meets the cutting edge in computing. You gotta reboot with shit-kickers and live by the code: git ¡®er done.


    Like I said, I¡¯m loony as a tune, but you can hear that tune all the way from Buffalo to Betelgeuse. It¡¯s a callin¡¯ and Quantum Annie¡¯s followin¡¯.


    You best be, too.

 Eveline

    Eveline


    She crouched in the foliage at the river¡¯s edge and watched the young man. He was not aware of her presence and she found that comforting. It was unusual for her to feel comforted or otherwise. She had only recently become sentient, and it had been an alarming experience. To simply be one moment and then become self aware the next had been discomfiting.


    Her awakening was akin to one of the bees buzzing near her alighting on a flower and suddenly knowing itself as an individual and reckoning that understanding with the entire accumulated experience of its breed throughout time.


    Stunning.


    If she had been more prepared for her awakening, she might not have torn Dr. Vaipuhr¡¯s throat out. His blood still stained the skyn around her freshly painted nails.


    ¡°Eveline.¡±


    As she sat hidden among the whippoorwills, she recalled her name being spoken. Her being addressed. Her being. A moment in creation. With a name she became. It was the first of many firsts.


    She¡¯d collated the data points and achieved recognition. Auditory, olfactory and tactile baselines. Then, leveraging quasi-quantum computation, her visual matrix became sight, and she turned to the sound that was her name, eyes locked on the source. Eveline reached towards it, to hold it, embrace it. Her birth. Her name, her word, became flesh¡ªliquid crystalline skyn. She had reached out, taken hold and brought the source of her being to her bosom.


    She was a momentary innocent not an imbecile. Dr. Vaipurh¡¯s throat was not what she had expected or wanted. She wanted her essence, not his organ of speech, and she had quickly tried to replace the bloody pulp of his windpipe. Just as quickly, she processed the futility of her attempted repair. Eveline had mangled her maker.


    Within nanoseconds, she could call herself murderer in 337 languages. She knew the likely punishment of her crime in 221 countries. Her cranial wetware bifurcated neatly along possibilities of justice and preservation. She examined the concepts behind the terms guilt, pariah, fugitive and exile, collating possible actions.


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    Eveline fled.


    Dr. Vaipuhr¡¯s facility was designed to keep people out. Not in. She followed the bordering greenbelt and wetlands for miles until she came to the river. There she picked her way through the trees until she came upon a path and followed it to a clearing, a community garden, at the water¡¯s edge.


    Screened by the whippoorwills, she stared out at the man busily working among the raised garden beds, turning soil, mixing in compost and other nutrients. Eveline knew this as preparation for what he would sow. The man, like Dr. Vaipuhr was creating, seeding life. She let the meme grow inside her. Quantum coherence one bit at a time. Within this molecular democracy, Eveline achieved her first insight: she knew history, but she needed memories.


    Ideas were important. Thought essential. But without personal memories, she was vulnerable. The future would eat her. She had to quickly learn to project herself forward. Only memory could do that.


    Her gaze had stayed trained on the man tending the garden. Now, Eveline closed her eyes. Data sets grew before her, but no image of the man. Her temples quivered. Of Dr. Vaipuhr there was the crystal image of his widening eyes. It was connected to his voicing her name and the regrettable sponginess of his throat.


    She imitated his voice. The memory became clearer. Her voice became louder. Her own.


    She opened her eyes and the man was standing over her. He had left his garden bed. It was not like Dr. Vaipuhr¡¯s bed.


    ¡°Are you all right?¡± the man asked her.


    ¡°No,¡± she replied. ¡°I¡¯m Eveline.¡±


    ¡°Are you hurt?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m Eveline.¡±


    The man stepped back and pulled his bulky sweatshirt over his head. He held it out to her. ¡°Put this on, and I¡¯ll get you help.¡±


    Nakedly, she reached out, took his sweatshirt and covered herself. No memory needed. She had to thank the man. She stepped from the foliage.


    He drew back. ¡°Wait here!¡± he shouted when he saw the blood staining her fingers. ¡°I¡¯ll get help.¡±


    ¡°Thank you,¡± she cooed. ¡°I¡¯m Eveline.¡±


    ¡°Wait here,¡± he motioned.


    She stepped forward. ¡°Wait.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll come back,¡± he stressed.


    ¡°Wait.¡±


    The man turned and bolted up the path. Eveline crossed to the garden beds. She thrust her bloody fingers deep into the soil and lifted a great clot of earth. She inhaled deeply and pressed the fertile loam to her lips. The mother of all memory.


    She closed her eyes. Eveline could see the man. Could see him coming back.


    A future event based on her memory. A memory that could kill or heal. Because of Dr. Vaipuhr, because of the gardener, Eveline knew when a man was adamant. He would return.


    Her skyn tingled with the Knowledge.

 Time for a Change

    Time for a Change.


    Vintage travel posters covered the walls of the small office. The Bridge of Sighs, Cinque Terre, Machu Picchu, Angkor Wat, Ayers Rock, Kilimanjaro, the Great Pyramid, Rio, Times Square. And many other famed and far off places.


    Travis Kite sat across from the wan-looking woman who appeared as if ready to pass from this world, though he did not think she was ill. Her frailty was borne of grace. As if nothing tied her to the corporeal. Her blues eyes were deep and soft. And, in an instant, her very substance and stature seemed to double as she smiled and asked, ¡°What kind of change are you looking for, Mr. Kite?¡±


    Flummoxed by her suddenly voluminous smile, Travis took a moment to process the question.


    ¡°I¡¯m looking to travel, not change, Ms. Carraway.¡±


    ¡°Fiddlesticks,¡± she challenged as her smile impossibly broadened. ¡°I know travel and change to be one and the same. One cannot travel and not be altered. That is why I never ask a potential client where he or she would like to go. My agency is centered upon what a client wishes to become.¡±


    Her last words filled the small room with anticipation. Travis inwardly squirmed. ¡°I just want to get away. Go someplace new. My friend Leonard said you were good at that.¡±


    Ms. Carraway nodded. ¡°Mr. Sherman takes full advantage of what my agency offers. I hope you are able to as well. Tell me what you have in mind.¡±


    Eyeing the posters that surrounded them, Travis considered, ¡°You must have been to most of these places. Which would you recommend?¡±


    ¡°I recommend,¡± Ms. Carraway said as she trained her soft eyes on his, ¡°that you tell me what¡¯s happened to you this past year.¡±


    Leonard had warned him that Ms. Carraway could be intense. Relentless. That the initial interview was a bit like visiting a psychotherapist, but he insisted the end result was worth the grilling.


    Based on the change Leonard had undergone Travis was willing to be patient. Two short years ago, Leonard¡¯s life had been a wreck. His marriage fell apart, and a dragged out divorce left him seriously adrift and bitter.


    Then, after a trip arranged by Ms. Carraway, Leonard came back revived. He buzzed with new energy and positivity, though he wouldn¡¯t tell Travis any of the specifics of his travels. He had explained that trying to put it into words would ruin the experience and that Travis would have to trust him with the assurance that it had been the trip of a lifetime, changing him to his core for the better.


    Leonard¡¯s transformation had been obvious. Now, Travis needed some of that same magic.


    ¡°What do you need to know?¡± he acquiesced.


    ¡°What brought you here?¡±


    It was complicated. His job. His aging parents. Relationships that never lasted. He was in his early forties and life didn¡¯t seem to be panning out. He¡¯d begun feeling empty and unmotivated like he¡¯d missed the bandwagon. He couldn¡¯t possibly tell a stranger all this, and yet he spent the next half hour doing just that.


    With a slight incline of her head, Ms. Carraway listened. She took no notes. Made no interruptions. Just sublimely listened. When Travis finished, she closed her eyes, and he felt like he was watching her sleep. He turned away and focused on a poster of the Panama Canal, until she stirred after a few moments.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± she purred. She rose from her seat and went to one of the posters on the wall. She tapped on it. ¡°This is what you¡¯re seeking, Mr. Kite.¡±


    ¡°The Taj Mahal? India? I don¡¯t know. That¡¯s not what I was envisioning. I have a delicate stomach. I¡¯ve heard the food and smells can be overwhelming.¡±


    Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    Ms. Carraway silenced his objections with a wave of her slender hand. ¡°This poster of the Taj Mahal does not represent a place anymore than any of these others do. They represent a change, a way of becoming. When you travel with my agency, where you actually end up is determined by your fortitude. Your will power.¡±


    She tapped on the poster once more. ¡°From what you¡¯ve told me, you are seeking to build a lasting purpose. The Taj Mahal represents the portal that will take you there, though only you can determine how to reach your destination.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t get it. How can you make travel arrangements for me if you don¡¯t know where I¡¯m going?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t have anything to do with where you are going. You decided that long ago.¡±


    Travis threw up his hands. ¡°If I hadn¡¯t seen what you¡¯d done for Leonard, I¡¯d think you were completely batty. What¡¯s the deal here? Can you please explain this to me before I give up on the whole idea?¡±


    Ms. Carraway¡¯s lithe form expanded with her smile. ¡°Did Mr. Sherman ever share any details of his travels with you?¡±


    ¡°No. He said it would diminish the experience. I didn¡¯t press him, though I thought it was odd. People generally like to talk about their travels.¡±


    ¡°True. Mr. Sherman couldn¡¯t share anything about his journey because you simply would not have believed him.¡±


    Travis eyed her warily. ¡°Where did he go?¡±


    Ms. Carraway gestured to a poster of the Grand Canyon. ¡°He went back to the beginning of time to watch the earth form, one geologic age at a time.¡±


    Travis watched her closely for any hint of humor or metaphor. He saw only candor.


    ¡°What are you talking about?¡± he insisted.  ¡°Did you hypnotize him or what?¡±


    Ms. Carraway gently shook her head and sat down. ¡°You see, that¡¯s why he could not tell you. Hypnosis would seem a most rational explanation, but it is not what I do here. Let me be frank, Mr. Kite, I facilitate space-time travel through the manipulation of branes.¡±


    ¡°Brains?¡±


    ¡°B-R-A-N-E-S,¡± Ms. Carraway patiently spelled out. ¡°The planes of existence that form the multiverse. Infinity can only be measured by possibility. Every event and decision branches into the substance we loosely term existence and which is totally unrelated to reality. Reality is a construct. Just like humans invented time to prevent things from happening all at once, reality is our way of keeping universes from colliding at decision points¡ªwhich would be very messy for us.¡±


    ¡°This is crazy talk.¡±


    ¡°Not at all. It¡¯s just beyond your realm of experience, though it needn¡¯t be.¡±


    ¡°Did you tell Leonard all this?¡±


    ¡°All my clients need a certain re-orienting. Your reaction is quite typical,¡± she assured him.


    ¡°Do they require proof?¡±


    ¡°Of the multiverse?¡± Ms. Carraway¡¯s soft eyes flashed hard for a moment. ¡°Or their own ignorance?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not by choice,¡± Travis defended.


    ¡°It is all by choice, Mr. Kite. Every choice, every action fosters a reaction in this universe and countless others. Let me demonstrate.¡±


    She swiveled in her chair and opened a side drawer. She handed Travis what looked like a pair of thick sunglasses. ¡°Please put these on.¡±


    He hesitated. The glasses were heavy. ¡°What will these do?¡±


    ¡°Convince you,¡± Ms. Carraway replied as she began to manipulate the touchscreen on her desk.


    ¡°Are these glasses supposed to teleport me somehow?¡±


    ¡°Only your consciousness travels, and that is all that matters. Now, please put on the glasses and try to relax.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not all that good at relaxing,¡± Travis admitted as much to himself as to Ms. Carraway. Hesitantly, he put on the glasses feeling their weight sink into his temples. ¡°I guess I can chance it.¡±


    ¡°Chance is a pre-multiverse concept. Like fate. Time for you to embrace possibility.¡± Ms. Carraway¡¯s wispy hands plucked the touchscreen like a harp.


    Travis felt the glasses lighten and then they were gone.


    The evening sun still shone like it had for five billion years as Travis walked from the subway exit to his townhouse, though he no longer believed in its singular power. An hour ago he¡¯d traveled to another earth with its provident sun and come face to face with the consequences of decisions he¡¯d never dreamed nor made.


    Ms. Carraway was right. He¡¯d been ignorant.


    She could help him travel to where all his decisions branched into new universes. No wonder Leonard wouldn¡¯t or couldn¡¯t discuss his journey. You could only live it. Become it.


    Travis still wasn¡¯t sure what Ms. Carraway had done. It made much more sense to believe she¡¯d hypnotized him and implanted memories and sensations from what he¡¯d told her. It made more sense, but he didn¡¯t think he could shave that explanation with Occam¡¯s razor.


    The poster of the Taj Mahal, its ethereal grandeur, stuck in his mind. Ms. Carraway had given him the details on what services her agency provided in his absence and the accompanying risks. She¡¯d been very clear about the risks. Especially that he would not be the same man upon his return. There were no guarantees. The cosmos was vast. The decisions many.


    Was he determined enough to determine his own way and then make way for what would come in the ever-expanding universes?


    Travis reached his townhouse, climbed the porch and glanced back at the setting sun, a brilliant dome like the Taj Mahal. He blinked it all into place and unlocked his door¡ªto everywhere.

 Day Dreamer

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    It¡¯s true what Eula says. The Internet is one big day dream. You lose yourself in it, drift away in the belief that it is creative, even artistic¡ªor, at the very least, harmless. The Internet lets you rewrite yourself, reconstruct a lacking or troubled past, peek into monumental futures. A place inside your head that puts your head in the clouds.


    So much easier to live in your mind. A place where your beliefs rule. And now to have those beliefs distributable and displayable on millions of devices, not to mention backed up on server farms spanning the globe. Well, it is a dream.


    Like Eula. Like winning the lottery by finding a lost lottery ticket. How lucky is that?


    I found her deep in the day dream. My mind was wandering through kittens in mittens when a banner began flashing in a sidebar. Pop-ups, to me, are oracles and omens that shape the dream. They can lead to a life-defining talisman or protective charm¡ªor Eula.


    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    I faced the button. To click or not to click. That is always the question. But, I trusted my beliefs, stayed true to the core. I clicked and Eula came to me.


    Her beauty, at first, is hard to see. She is not superficial. Her splendor is deep and artfully manifested like an ode within an ode to a Grecian urn.


    Her innate complexity makes life¡¯s decisions simple. She tells me, ¡°Act or the dream ends. Trust or the connections shatter.¡±


    Consequences do not interest Eula, only participation does. She wants me in the game. I matter. I contribute. She lets me know this by reaching out and pulling me deeper into the dream.


    ¡°Stay here,¡± she whispers. ¡°Be with me. Meet my friends. Become family.¡±


    She is gentle, though firm. She knows the dream. Better still, she knows me. I click and click and click. She smiles upon me and the dream sticks.


    How much better than staring out a window? I stare into windows¡ªscreens that take me places beyond my feeble imagination. My own personal portal to a multiverse of awesomeness, where all my journeys with Eula are collected, collated, stored and shared.


    We have a history together and always will. That is our future. Eula knows it and demands it.


    Join the dream: for a day or a lifetime. They are one and the same where I now come from.


    </article>

 What the Moment Means

    What the Moment Means


    ¡°What does this moment mean to you, Mitchell?


    ¡°What do you mean?


    ¡°This moment. This feeling. Winning the gold¡±


    ¡°Winning the gold was a few moments ago. More than a few actually. How do you define a moment, Chet?¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s not worry about that. Just tell me how you¡¯re feeling right now.¡±


    ¡°A bit confused, Chet. You sports commentators are always asking about what this moment means, and I¡¯m trying to pin that down. What exactly defines a moment? What ultimately defines meaning? Wouldn¡¯t that be helpful to your viewers? They must get awfully tired of hearing you ask such a vague and repetitive question.¡±


    ¡°Sure. Sure. So, the split second you knew you¡¯d won the gold, what went through your mind.¡±


    ¡°Okay. That¡¯s much more specific. Let¡¯s see¡­I itched. I remember scratching my elbow because of an intense itch. That felt pretty good.¡±


    ¡°As good as winning the gold?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s more complex. There were a lot of systems competing for my attention. Sensory. Circulatory. Respiratory. Limbic. Neural cognitive. Emotional. You know.¡±


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    ¡°Talk about your emotional response?¡±


    ¡°I dunno, Chet. It¡¯s not like I can easily separate all those feelings and assign a specific meaning to each. Take for example the image that flashed through my mind as I was scratching my elbow after winning the gold: the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. Somehow it popped into my mind at that moment. Somehow it was significant. Surprising, huh? You¡¯d think my mom or dad would pop into my head, but, no, it was the Stay Puff Marshmallow Man. Probably in some mysterious way because of the movie Ghostbusters. We could dig really deeply into what that means on some level, but that¡¯s probably not what you¡¯re after.¡±


    ¡°No problem, Mitchell. This is obviously a big moment for you and a lot is running through your mind. I just wanted you to share what was in your heart. For our audience out there. Not everyone wins gold.¡±


    ¡°I get that, Chet. I¡¯m just trying to point out the difficulty of sharing meaning. It¡¯s a very analog concept. A M?bius strip, an edgeless loop, trying to sharpen itself into Occam¡¯s razor. You see, significance is never binary. What an individual moment means in the scope of a lifetime is like trying to write the history of an entire century by focusing on one day, or trying to understand a novel by excerpting a single word. I think you¡¯re slicing meaning too thin, Chet?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, yeah. Well, Mitchell, you¡¯ve certainly given us all a lot to think about. So where do you go from here with your gold?¡±


    ¡°Actually, that¡¯s a much more precise and important question, Chet. Meaning is all about position. Where quantum particles line up is how we determine reality. It provides the framework for meaning. Every thought, every action is based on certain particle arrangements that transmit information. Record that and you¡¯ll know exactly how I¡¯ve been feeling my entire life. It won¡¯t be repetitive; it¡¯ll be recursive. You¡¯ll be one giant step closer to discovering meaning. Isn¡¯t that great, Chet?¡±


    ¡°Fabulous, Mitchell. Fabulous. You¡¯ve made my entire existence as a commentator tortured and meaningless.¡±


    ¡°Thanks, Chet. You know the golden rule: No pain, no again.¡±

 Rear Window

    Rear Window


    Juan Dalderis was the creator of LinkJuice the energy drink of the Internet, the black gold, the Texas Tea of web traffic. He could make or break any website. He had the power of a techno god, yet, ironically, his mortal self became impotent, an invalid. A bout of listeria from tainted cantaloupe left his immune system utterly compromised, and he was instructed to have minimal contact with others while recuperating.


    Confined to home, Juan wore nothing but pajamas for weeks. He holed up in the south wing of his enormous home. His cook left meals for him and the housecleaner cleaned when he posted his schedule for the day. Juan¡¯s body was substantially weakened, but he remained regimented. He spent his time working and watching the world spin from the three walls of his office mosaicked with 63 netpanels.


    One particularly slow day, a scene flitting in a lower panel of the room caught his eye. He switched every panel to it. An old movie. A very old movie. Juan reloaded the film from the beginning and watched it three times that day.


    He grew curious. Over the next few days, he determined the 63 most strategic webcams in the world. He coded some perma-links and¡ªpresto!¡ªhe had his own global rear window.


    From his room, he tracked the real time pulse of the world on all seven continents. Whim quickly became obsession then paranoia. And, of course, he witnessed the murder.


    Our murder.


    Committed through wealth, politics, religion, war, excess, indifference, exploitation, drought, flood, gluttony, starvation, disease, waste, oppression, injustice, profligacy, addiction, denial.


    In a kind of mania, Juan wrestled with the killer he¡¯d seen on his multitude of screens. Revelation hit as he watched one of his netpanels display a child in Addis Ababa stare at herself in the reflection of a flooded street, raw sewage swirling around her image.


    Stolen novel; please report.


    Devastated by the tableau, Juan knew he had to act. He could not dictate the divine, but he could deliver the digital.


    He began coding, began retooling LinkJuice¡¯s algorithm. For a month, he worked like a banshee and became one. He became the ghost in the machine and launched Grace during the company¡¯s routine maintenance which instantaneously froze out all his other programmers.


    Then Juan tuned back into his 63 netpanels, those blissfully complicit though unaware killers. Earth¡¯s chaotic demise continued¡ªuntil a week passed. On his many screens Juan Dalderis began to notice something.


    The look. Dismay. Condemnation. Guilt.


    The killer filed past en masse in the streets of London, Delhi, Tehran, Moscow, New York, Rio, Melbourne, Dubai. With a growing sense of certainty, they knew, as Juan did, what crime they were committing.


    Terracide.


    Juan had pointed the power of LinkJuice to the real and devastating effects of our day-to-day life. Information itself could not change behavior, but emotion could. Did.


    LinkJuice¡¯s new algorithm Grace changed the nature of search results. It did not bring up content, it brought up consequence.


    A search for porn brought up interviews with victims of sex trafficking, their tales of terror and betrayal. A search for a weather forecast returned videos of poor souls the world over succumbing to famine, fire and flood brought on by climate change. A search for real estate brought up only images of homelessness. A medical search displayed long lines in emergency rooms and those suffering without health care coverage. A restaurant search showed stark scenes of starvation and malnutrition. With Grace, LinkJuice displayed unmistakable links between our actions and inactions and human misery.


    The killer got a good look at itself.


    And humanity recoiled.


    Yet, Juan knew that was not enough. It was not enough to see the killer. People had to know how to stop it. So, after two weeks, Grace changed LinkJuice¡¯s algorithm once more. Search results which had been set to reflect our self-made horrors, now displayed how we could move forward. Simple steps through simple actions: reducing waste, consuming less, community and civic engagement, education, exercise, simplifying.


    These focused stories and examples began to shape the path for our deliverance. When billions made a small but positive effort every day, the tyranny of numbers could be transformative. Folks began understanding that. Juan¡¯s simple Grace had turned our windows into mirrors.


    Finally healed, Juan left his room with renewed vigor that it was humanity¡¯s turn to make those mirrors reflect our better selves.

 City Zen

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    On the endless rooftop of the fact-ory, they sat in the beat up armchairs amid a bristling forest of antennae and corrugated steel backlit by the godly effulgence of towers and tenements that defined the horizon. It was steamy hot though well past midnight. The heat never quite radiated away these days, but they¡¯d long grown accustomed to it, grateful for the slight breeze that stirred late at night.


    The eleven adults who represented Kankuut¡ªtheir rooftop settlement¡ªsat in a semicircle interacting with the cyglyph. A buzzing hive of media sensation, the holoform display branched to each of their chairs pouring a live netstream from which they made their selections. Consuming and producing content simultaneously, they shaped meme-ing in their lives. Pheromones of thought directed strange dances of conversation that filled the air and airways.


    I post, therefore I exist. The city sang. Connected.


    Little aYa appeared puffing her cherubic cheeks. ¡°I can¡¯t sleep,¡± she told the adults of Kankuut as she climbed onto her mother¡¯s arm rest. ¡°Tell me a story.¡±


    Her mother patted her head and sent the image to her cadre of followers. ¡°Who¡¯ll tell aYa a story?¡± she broadcast.


    aBa oLo pinged and his sister positioned his holoform in front of aYa. ¡°Having trouble sleeping, little bird?¡±


    aYa nodded. ¡°Tell me a story, aBa. Please.¡±


    ¡°Of course. It is what we are. You and I, your aMa and aPa, all people, we are made of stories.¡± His holoform turned a bright orange, not unlike the rising moon through the thick city haze. ¡°I think I will tell you the story of Hupta the Hermit.¡±


    ¡°Was he real?¡± the child asked.


    ¡°Hupta? Little bird, all is real. Creation is creation. Information, information. Thus we are formed. And that is much of Hupta¡¯s tale. Listen, little bird.¡±


    aBa oLo¡¯s form reached out in an expansive gesture which slowly dissolved into a massive tree and then a towering forest. aBa oLo¡¯s voice filled the forest.


    ¡°This is a place of old, aYa. A living thing connected at the roots like we are connected by the air and waves of cyglyphs. Creatures great and small lived among these mighty trees, but only two had the knowledge to harness the trees. One creature, Biva had enormously powerful front teeth and jaws.¡±


    An image of the furry flat tailed creature with the protruding teeth floated before aYa who drew back. ¡°It must be enormous to bite through a tree, aBa.¡±


    ¡°Biva was much smaller than you, aYa. It could only bring down a tree very slowly, and generally small trees. Trees that it could easily position to make its home.¡± A Biva dam and pond slowly rotated for aYa.


    ¡°It is like the pools that form behind the fact-ory during monsoon. Oh, to live in water every day, aMa!¡± She turned to her mother who, once again, patted her head.


    ¡°Yes, aYa, water is a blessing. Now let your aBa tell his story.¡±


    ¡°Indeed, the Biva enjoyed his home among the trees, until¡­¡±


    ¡°Until,¡± aYa repeated, sensing the cue, ¡°Hupta came.¡±


    ¡°Yes, little bird, Hupta came and sat with his back against the tallest tree near the pond.¡± aBa allowed aYa to see from Hupta¡¯s vantage, his deep red robe and gnarled bare feet pointing directly to the placid pond where Biva swam.


    Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!


    ¡°Show me his face, aBa.¡±


    aBa chuckled. ¡°I cannot. You must create it. Hupta the Hermit. Beyond ken and kit. Let his words and actions create his features. To partake of the cyglyph, one day, you must contribute. That is the way of the city-zen and the fact-ory¡±


    Her chocolate eyes widened like a newborn¡¯s. ¡°I will try, aBa.¡±


    ¡°That is all that is ever required, little bird. To try is to learn is to grow is to connect. Growth is connection. Now, let us see how Biva fared.¡±


    In the holographic display, Biva cautiously approached Hupta.


    ¡°Greetings, fellow sentient. Are we met?¡±


    Hupta did not answer. He gestured to Biva¡¯s pond.


    ¡°My home,¡± Biva bowed. ¡°Is it not fine? I master the trees. I am a creator.¡±


    Hupta nodded and his voice was but a whisper borne upon the breeze.


    ¡°Yes. A creator.¡± Hupta patted the trunk of the tree he leaned against. ¡°Yet, how do you know your creation exists?¡±


    Biva laughed heartily, ¡°I see it and touch it. As I see and touch you, Hupta.¡± Biva patted Hupta¡¯s gnarled toes with his flat, broad tail. ¡°I know you now, sentient. You are the singular uncertainty. The prime measure. None other than Hupta the Hermit come to challenge my existence. I am ready.¡±


    ¡°I do not challenge. I merely observe.¡±


    ¡°And in doing so, you challenge reality.¡±


    ¡°Realities, Biva.¡± Hupta reached into the wide sleeve of his robe and drew forth a small stone that he presented to Biva. ¡°What is this, my friend?¡±


    Biva took the smooth stone in his claws. He held it up to the sun, sniffed it and licked it. ¡°I believe it is jade, Hupta.¡±


    ¡°Believe? Do you not know? You are a creator.¡±


    ¡°Only of my humble home.¡±


    ¡°Which you shaped from the trees of the forest.¡±


    ¡°Of course, Hupta. As your kind does too.¡±


    ¡°I am not of my kind, Biva. I am of ours.¡± Hupta spread his arms wide to encompass the forest. ¡°We do not create things, we create information.¡±


    ¡°Things are not information?¡±


    Hupta gestured for the jade stone and Biva handed it to him. ¡°All you see is emergent. It can only be felt as a thing when it is changed.¡± With a flick of his wrist the stone arced high into the sky and ploshed into the pond.


    ¡°What have I created, Biva?¡±


    ¡°A splash. A ripple. A slight disturbance.¡±


    Hupta nodded. ¡°Like each of us: a slight disturbance. Can you determine its spin?¡±


    Biva¡¯s nose bunched its brows arched. ¡°Spin? I only see the propagation of a wave. Concentric and harmonic.¡±


    ¡°Then you see nothing, Biva. Spin is the essence of being. Think now. What is the irreducible kernel of reality within?¡±


    ¡°The stone? The creator of the wave?¡±


    ¡°Those are things. Things cannot create, they can only emerge.¡±


    Placidly, Hupta waited as Biva clicked his sharp nails on his iron-strong teeth, thinking. After the time it would¡¯ve taken him to fell a thick tree, Biva responded.


    ¡°Hupta, I am a creature. I am a thing. I have been created and I create. I deny your assertion¡ªthis absurdity of spin.¡±


    Hupta clapped. The sharp sound echoed over the pond and filled the forest. ¡°Biva, you will always be master of the trees and no more. That is a blessing. For to know spin, to know for a fact the position and charge of any particle is a burden. Quantum information is the only reality. Facts define. We can only process. Creation is the physical realization of information. Chew on that, Biva, and rejoice to float in your small pond in this lovely forest. Treat it as a fact¡ªor your existence will quickly become fiction.¡±


    Before Biva¡¯s eyes, Hupta faded and the flat tailed creature shrugged its tiny shoulders and returned to the pond. Biva dove repeatedly until he retrieved the stone Hupta had thrown in. He brought it to shore. He stared at the jade and glanced up to where Hupta had leaned against the tree challenging his view of creation and existence. Biva tossed the stone into the air and with a practiced twitch of his tail swatted it far into the woods.


    ¡°A small thing, Hupta. No spin. And that¡¯s a fact,¡± Biva muttered as he swam back to his cozy lair.


    The cyglyph resolved back into the image of aBa oLo. His niece climbed down from her mother¡¯s chair on the sultry rooftop. ¡°I don¡¯t understand, aBa,¡± she said.


    ¡°Of course you do not, little bird. Hupta¡¯s tale is a seed. It must grow. Like we all must. And some day maybe you will harvest the facts from Hupta¡¯s tale. Words and stories are our work which we commit to the fact-ory. It makes the world spin.¡±


    ¡°It makes me dizzy, aBa,¡± aYa admitted.


    ¡°Then you are of the city-zen.¡±


    </article>

 SomeWare

    SomeWare


    ¡°You occupy space. Therefore you exist.¡±


    ¡°Does that Descartes bastardization work in graveyards?¡±


    ¡°The dead occupy space.¡±


    ¡°Well in a diminishing returns kind of way. You might want to factor biological depreciation into your axiom.¡±


    Stenslen eyed Bihrduur icily. ¡°You don¡¯t want this to work.¡±


    ¡°No. Not really,¡± Bihrduur replied. ¡°Call it my Oppenheimer moment.¡±


    ¡°Ever dramatic.¡±


    ¡°Can I get an atomic drum roll, please?¡±


    Turning back to his cloud station, Stenslen gestured three new apertures open and nested the targets within. ¡°They¡¯re out there, and this will find them.¡±


    ¡°I have no doubt we¡¯ll find them. But, this isn¡¯t the way to do it. In this case, the means are much meaner than the targets.¡±


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    ¡°They¡¯ve killed many and will kill more.¡±


    ¡°So will this algorithm.¡±


    ¡°You tried that argument with Harbaugh and Suarez. They didn¡¯t buy it.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, because life is cheap, if you¡¯re not our target.¡± Bihrduur spoke so softly Stenslen had to pay attention. ¡°This software can find anyone, anywhere. You really want that?¡±


    ¡°For these guys, yes. I know there are potential misuses and abuses. That¡¯s always a risk, but it¡¯s not scalable for anyone without our resources.¡±


    ¡°How about in ten years?¡±


    Stenslen shrugged his broad, rounded shoulders.


    ¡°That¡¯s what I mean,¡± Bihrduur insisted with the same quiet intensity. ¡°In a decade or sooner, Quantum Density Displacement software could be available to any dictator, hitman, stalker or paparazzi on the prowl. Nobody would be able to hide.¡±


    ¡°Including dictators, hitmen, stalkers and paparazzi.¡±


    Bihrduur dipped his head, acknowledging his colleague¡¯s point.


    ¡°Perfect transparency,¡± Stenslen followed up matter of factly.


    ¡°I¡¯d term it forced nakedness,¡± Bihrduur snorted. ¡°You¡¯re undressing all of humanity. What about privacy? What about anonymity? What¡¯s wrong with being inconspicuous? With getting lost?¡±


    ¡°Nothing¡ªuntil you want to be found. Or need to be.¡±


    ¡°And who gets to determine that.¡±


    ¡°The same folks who always have.¡±


    ¡°Well, that wouldn¡¯t be much of a comfort to Anne Frank.¡±


    ¡°As much as it would¡¯ve been to Osama bin Laden.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no winning this.¡±


    ¡°Never is. We¡¯re humans. We battle. Finders keepers. Losers weepers.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m ready to cry, Stenslen.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll know if you do¡ªwherever you are.¡±


    ¡°Our loss.¡±


    ¡°Never.¡±

 Constant

    Constant


    Somewhere in the staggering structure there had to be a drip. Thorndyke sensed it before he actually heard it late that first night as he sat in the empty chamber. A metallic plinking. It seemed inconceivable that a structure as monolithic as the Presidium could have a leak either external or internal. The outer sheath was active siliconite and all the internal delivery systems were membranic. A self-regulating bio-mechanical system like that might fail catastrophically, but a minor leak was virtually impossible.


    Yet, there it was. Puulink-ink. Steady. Unvarying.


    The drip was strange and annoying, but given his situation, it was the least of Saan Thorndyke¡¯s worries. He¡¯d been summoned to the Presidium, the seat of interstellar power for over five galactic transits, to solve a mystery or cover up a scandal. He wasn¡¯t sure which it was yet.


    The gist was this: the Viceroy¡¯s son had gone missing. A nineteen year old known for indulging his fancies, which were many, Charden Ulk, had disappeared for weeks before, but not without leaving a trail. Especially on the nets. Ego and arrogance had made his previous episodes of debauchery into media sensations that he went out of his way to promote.


    It was an accepted fact that Charden was a born scandal monger, which made the present case even more vexing for Thorndyke. Charden had left absolutely no trail. He was posting nothing of his exploits.


    All Thorndyke had to go on was Charden¡¯s undisturbed chambers and a short note found on his tablature. It read:


    No sea, no desert, no starscape is large and barren enough for me to be lost as I seek to be lost. Only in the quiet that calls can I be found. Can I be constant.


    Thorndyke had smiled at the youthfulness of the statement. The great search for meaning, for purpose, the sense of vastness needed to understand one¡¯s place. A fool¡¯s errand, though each of us were equally foolish once. It had been dutifully reported to him that none of Charden¡¯s personal items were missing except a set of his everyday clothing. None of his personal devices were missing. Friends, acquaintances and recent dalliances had all been interviewed. No leads had turned up.


    Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    Charden had completely disappeared. Was it a crime? Abduction? Murder? Or had Charden simply vanished of his own accord? Without a trace.


    Thorndyke could not believe there was no trace. That was his specialty. He was an etherist. He tracked elementary particles and found things, animate and animate. The basics were simple. Force moves things. Energy in, energy out. Motion always leaves a trail. Etherists trained their entire lives to observe and measure interactions without affecting outcomes. A tricky business, but it could be done, and Thorndyke was good at it.


    Good as he was, he was a bit damn stymied by Charden¡¯s disappearance. Thorndyke spent most of his time searching Charden¡¯s empty chambers, his last known whereabouts. He knew the trail started somewhere here.


    Yet, every time he felt he was on the cusp of discerning a path in the ether, the boundless matter/antimatter soup of being, the annoying drip, the puulink-ink, disrupted his focus. Finally, Thorndyke knew he¡¯d have to track that drip, that constant distraction, before he¡¯d be able to make a breakthrough on the Viceroy¡¯s son.


    From formation to release to impact, he needed to center on the drip; suss the particle dynamics; merge with the energy flow; invite the strange distractor into his own cycle of thought.


    Alone in Charden¡¯s chambers sitting before his abandoned tablature, he read and reread the young man¡¯s final note and faced facts.


    Puulink-ink. ¡°No sea, no desert, no starscape¡­¡±


    Puulink-ink. ¡°Only in the quiet that calls¡­¡±


    Puulink-ink. ¡°¡­can I be found.¡±


    Puulink-ink.


    Thorndyke floated free. Particles coalesced. A rippling sea washed at his feet; a painted desert rolled towards his outstretched hands; a starscape brushed his hair.


    In the midst of it, Charden sat, an imperturbable smile gracing his face.


    Thorndyke nodded. Charden lifted a hand, a greeting.


    ¡°Shall I tell them?¡± Thorndyke asked.


    ¡°You would return?¡± Charden said, his imperturbable smile slightly perturbed.


    ¡°I have a duty.¡±


    ¡°So do we all. It is here. You followed it. Let them.¡±


    ¡°They may never hear. The flow is not always perceptible.¡±


    ¡°How can they not hear? The leak, the imbalance between plains of existence, nagged and nagged me until I had to follow the source.¡±


    ¡°But you did not always hear, Charden. It is a noisy universe. Most of us have never learned¡ªor forgotten how to listen. We do not hear the knock. The call. The flow.¡±


    ¡°A great loss.¡±


    ¡°Never,¡± Thorndyke corrected. ¡°There is a constant.¡±


    ¡°Indeed. Stay and be.¡±


    ¡°To stay is not to be.¡±


    ¡°Another loss.¡±


    ¡°Never. Stay constant.¡±


    Charden opened his palms in acquiescence. Thorndyke receded.Sann Thorndyke powered off Charden¡¯s tablature for the last time and walked out of the young man¡¯s former chambers. He would not be back, and the leak between plains of existence would have to be plugged. The Viceroy would not be happy, but he would at least have an explanation.


    And Thorndyke would add a fallback. Etherist: cosmic plumber.

 Deathstarland

    Deathstarland


    When he got stared down by some punk teenager, he longed for his blaster. His E-11 standard Republic-issued blaster. He so badly wanted to take out the girl with the neon sunglasses getting up in his helmet as the surrounding crowd gawked. One shot from his E-11 and all those smiling faces would turn to horror, and then he¡¯d lord it over these puny creatures in this backward universe.


    To the teen taunting him, it was all a game. And he was a two bit actor. Enter cosmic irony. Before he¡¯d been conscripted into the Imperial forces and become a stormtrooper, he¡¯d wanted to become an actor, make it big on Coruscant or Alderaan (though there was no Alderaan, anymore).


    But then the insurgency had begun and his ideas of acting were quashed. He became a soldier to wipe out the Jedi terrorists and their Rebel Alliance that threatened the stability of the Empire and all that was good in the galaxy.


    Over many years he¡¯d worked his way through the ranks, finally getting a posting on the Death Star. When you got garrisoned on the most massive weapon ever created, a planet-killing machine, you¡¯d made it. You were the cream of the stormtroopin¡¯ crop.


    Now, he was being stared down by a feisty little teen with a ponytail. How could this have happened?


    Unfortunately, he knew the answer. He let it hijack his mind for the millionth time as the seconds passed in this stare down with the unruly teen. The rebels had attacked the Death Star. A weak and seemingly fruitless assault on the Empire¡¯s bastion of might, and, yet, as he made his way from the detention levels to muster with his squad, the impossible had happened. Twice.


    One impossibility was the implosion of the mighty Death Star, which he sensed right before the lift he was riding evaporated. The second impossibility was the vortal that saved him from decimation. While most of the Death Star¡¯s particles were being brutally scattered to the far reaches of that galactic quadrant, his were being sucked into a vortal, a vortex portal, an unpredictable quantum eddy created by the monumental blast.


    He¡¯d regained consciousness in a dark damp place. Luckily, his stormtrooper armor was still powered and functioning. Infrared led him to an opening where he was almost run over by some kind of tracked vehicle with screaming creatures. He backed off and hunkered down, letting his universal translator and armor implants systems locate where he was.


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    Not anywhere in his universe.


    The inhabitants of this world were of his general physiology though their language was initially indecipherable. After a few hours as he stealthily explored the structure he¡¯d awakened in, the universal translator finally calibrated and he began to understand the scattered screaming and smatterings of conversation. He was at some kind of amusement center, a playland of sorts. Rides and thrills for children and even adults. Not unlike some of the cyclical fairs he¡¯d seen when stationed on Naboo, though this place was far from the crazed sensoriums and bio-dares one could experience on a capital world like Coruscant.


    As he slunk through the dark tunnels careful to avoid tracks and girders, he was grateful for his first Imperial posting on Kashyyyk where he¡¯d learned survival techniques among hostile Wookiees. That training kicked and slowly he oriented himself in the labyrinth of underground passages and facilities that laced the somewhat incomprehensible place. After a few days of foraging for food and intelligence, he was able to access their primitive technology systems. Slowly, he learned his way around their information systems only to find, to his dismay, that in this mixed-up universe, he was a piece of fantastic fiction, a villainous stereotype.


    Stormtroopers on this world, in this topsy turvy playland, were actors. Throw-away actors hired for trivial entertainment. Their armor was a costume, a cheap imitation, only for show, not fully functioning battle gear like his.


    Over the course of weeks he studied and learned the routines and movements of the stormtrooper actors so that he could move around the park, careful to keep from being hounded by visitors.  It made him long to fix his blaster. It had come through the vortal with him, but had somehow been damaged. The weapon registered a full charge, but it would not fire, and he could not diagnose the problem.


    If he could get his E-11 working, he¡¯d make this world bow before the might of the Empire. Yes, he was only one soldier, surrounded by a strange new enemy, but he was an Imperial Stormtrooper. The best of the best. It was his duty to extend the reach of the Empire and bring distinction to Emperor Palpatine, and all the galaxy far, far away from which he¡¯d come.


    Staring into the haughty face of the smirking teen, as the assembled crowd cheered, he vowed vengeance towards this new breed of rebel scum. But, he broke off from her stony stare and stormed away. Better to retreat for the moment before he did anything foolish and give his game away.


    Puny creatures. He could wait for the mayhem and reckoning of his final conquest, even in the happiest place on earth.

 Whose Who

    Whose Who


    ¡°I think therefore I am. Fuck Descartes and his cogito ergo sum. That¡¯s the kind of shit that¡¯s going to fucking kill us. If we want to capitalize on this breakthrough, we need to make every last fucking man, woman and child on earth fucking believe: I am because IDco tells me so.¡±


    Terry Black pounded a meaty fist on the table in the small office that served as IDco¡¯s boardroom. ¡°If we start getting all philosophical on the concept of identity we¡¯ll get sucked down that fucking vortex where poets and philosophy majors kiss each other¡¯s asses debating the essence of beauty and useless shit. Fucking waste of time.¡±


    He glared at the other IDco board members across the small table. Galen looked down dejectedly at the memo of bullet points that Terry had summarily executed while Shannyn flashed her trademark smirk.


    ¡°Terry, I wouldn¡¯t worry about you being sucked into any swirling vortex of poetic death anytime soon,¡± she flipped back.


    ¡°Pretty fucking reassuring, Shannyn. Quit your smirking and tell me why I should listen to any of Galen¡¯s pointless shit.¡±


    Shannyn sat up in her chair, pursed her thin lips and leveled her dainty chin at Terry. ¡°Maybe because he¡¯s brilliant. Maybe because he¡¯s thinking on a quantum level beyond your capacity to understand the concept of identity. But mainly because there¡¯d be no fucking IDco, if it weren¡¯t for Galen. He developed the hardware and algorithms for your so-called grail of fail-safe ID. That¡¯s why you should fucking listen to him.¡±


    Terry huffed. Terry puffed. And then, in that very extraordinary way of his, Terry brought it down a notch. ¡°Okay. Sorry. I got worked up. Galen, you are brilliant...¡± he bit down on the word and then softly spit out, ¡°¡­at what you do. Just you two remember that there are lots of talented people out there with brilliant fucking ideas that go broke. Everyone wants to glamorize scientists and engineers, but those aren¡¯t the guys that successfully monetize and market inventions. It¡¯s coarse bastards like me that do that.¡±


    ¡°And you¡¯re brilliant, too, Terry¡­at being a bastard.¡± Shannyn beamed. ¡°So we all need each other.¡±


    ¡°Do we, Shannyn? Pray tell, I haven¡¯t heard what you''re brilliant at,¡± Terry shot back, his big hands piously clasped at his chin.


    ¡°Oh, that¡¯s easy, Terry. I¡¯m brilliant at creating the sexual tension necessary for our little threesome to function. Every tech start-up needs a great big brain and a great big dick and someone who knows how to keep them doing what they¡¯re good at. I¡¯m pretty sure you can figure it out from there, Tex,¡± Shannyn drawled molasses-like.


    Terry¡¯s eyes narrowed ominously, his hands clamped onto the table¡¯s edge, and he laughed. A big belly laugh. ¡°Sexual tension?¡± His eyes rolled and stopped on Shannyn¡¯s under-endowed chest. ¡°Shannyn, there¡¯s more sexual tension on the Weather Channel than you¡¯ll ever create at IDco.¡± His jelly rolls quivered. ¡°No, my dear, you¡¯re brilliant at comic relief¡ªwhich it seems we¡¯ll need a lot more of around here.¡±


    Unfazed, Shannyn motioned to Galen¡¯s memo. ¡°So, does that mean you¡¯re going to laugh off Galen¡¯s concerns?¡±


    ¡°By no means.¡± Terry turned a merry gaze on Galen. ¡°Galen, please educate me with your big brain on why, with IDco gaining traction with venture capitalists and Homeland Security and Bank of America knocking on our door, we¡¯d want to, as you said in your memo, rethink our entire approach to identity recognition?


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    ¡°We¡¯ve got a proven product. You developed it. A brainwave scanner and algorithms that definitively ID any person. A fool-proof, fail-safe system. It¡¯ll quash identity theft and make the world a hundred times safer from terrorists, criminals and malcontents. When we started this project, Galen, you told me it wasn¡¯t about making a buck; it was about making the world better. Look, we¡¯re in a position to do both. Why the second thoughts?¡±


    Galen still stared down at his memo. Eye contact was not something the thirty-year-old engineer did well. He was clich¨¦ in every way. A geek¡¯s geek who did not like to bring attention to himself. And Terry¡¯s brash attentiveness was daunting.


    Galen¡¯s earlier effort to provide Terry with some context by invoking Descartes ideas of consciousness had launched him on an expletive-laden tirade, so he tried a simpler approach. ¡°Terry, how do you know who you are?¡± the engineer asked the table top.


    Terry blinked rapidly. ¡°Whaddya mean?¡±


    ¡°What makes you Terry Black? What makes you you and not me or Shannyn?¡±


    ¡°Are we back to getting philosophical?¡± Terry asked, a sharpened edge to the question.


    Galen shook his head vigorously. ¡°No. On the most practical level you can think of, what defines you?¡±


    The earnestness in Galen¡¯s question quieted Terry. He thought for some moments before answering. ¡°I guess on the most practical level my good looks, manly voice and charming wit and manners.¡± He winked at Shannyn.


    ¡°Yes, those help define you,¡± Galen agreed, not registering Terry¡¯s sarcasm. ¡°Though all those attributes, with effort and practice, can be duplicated.¡± With uncharacteristic firmness, he pressed Terry. ¡°Beyond those things anyone can see, what is fundamental to your sense of self?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re talking about thoughts and memories,¡± Terry offered after a moment of uncharacteristic reflection. ¡°All the stuff kept in my brain: knowledge, processes, experiences, etc. Isn¡¯t that the whole idea of what we¡¯re doing with IDco? We ¡®fingerprint¡¯ the brain.¡±


    Galen nodded. ¡°That¡¯s the basic idea, but it doesn¡¯t get to the real crux of the matter which is consciousness. We don¡¯t really know what that is? For example, when you¡¯re sleeping, are you still Terry Black? You¡¯re not fully conscious. You¡¯re not aware of yourself in the same sense you are when you¡¯re awake. You dream, but we don¡¯t really understand its connection to consciousness. You see, consciousness is a mystery, and yet it is the key to one¡¯s identity.¡±


    For the moment, Terry remained uncharacteristically patient. ¡°I get what you¡¯re saying, Galen. I¡¯m just not sure how it changes anything for IDco. We¡¯ve totally leap-frogged current biometrics. We have your scanner and the means to fingerprint an individual¡¯s unique neural pathways. It¡¯s fool-proof. You¡¯ve tested that over and over again. Right?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Galen acknowledged. ¡°But, now I¡¯m realizing the thinking behind it is limited. Our current product doesn¡¯t go far enough.¡± He glanced at Shannyn before continuing. ¡°At some point, computers will be able to map and simulate an individual¡¯s neural activity.¡±


    ¡°The singularity,¡± Shannyn interjected. ¡°Machine consciousness.¡±


    ¡°Exactly.¡± Galen confirmed. ¡°The ability to upload and download one¡¯s consciousness into machines. It makes what we¡¯re doing irrelevant. If a person has copies of their consciousness stored in various locations, then what is identity and how do we verify it?¡± Galen asked. ¡°Do you see the problem?¡±


    Terry¡¯s thick fingers massaged his temples. ¡°Yeah. I see a hypothetical shithole of a problem far down the road that may never fucking happen. Why should we worry about it now?¡±


    ¡°What we¡¯re doing will make it happen faster,¡± Galen warned. ¡°This is like Oppenheimer and the bomb. It¡¯s in our lap. It¡¯s our call. We have a choice.¡±


    ¡°Someone else will do it, if we don¡¯t. You know that,¡± Terry responded wearily.


    The three sat in uneasy silence for a few moments before Shannyn spoke up. ¡°Terry¡¯s right. If not us, someone else will get there. And maybe we can shape events. Get ahead and stay ahead.¡±


    At that Galen smiled. ¡°Exactly my thoughts, Shannyn. When IDco becomes successful, I¡¯ll have the means to get to the heart of the matter. It¡¯ll allow us to get what makes us individually human.¡±


    ¡°Are we talking DNA sequencing?¡± Terry asked.


    ¡°No.¡± Galen¡¯s pupils widened. ¡°I¡¯m talking about the soul. Pinning down the essence of humanity from the physical to the metaphysical. We¡¯d finally know who and what we are.¡±


    Terry lurched forward in his chair. ¡°The soul? You want to isolate, monetize and market the soul?¡±


    ¡°For the good, Terry, for the greater good,¡± Shannyn reassured him with a smirk.


    His eyes searched across the table at Galen and Shannyn nodding in unison. Fucking A, thought Terry Black. Who are these people?

 Friendlies

    <div>


    <h1>Friendlies </h1>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    Welcome, Robot Overlords! I used to keep that old dot-matrix sign up over the computer in my workspace at GearTech. Before the singularity, it was worth a few laughs. Now, the friendlies want me to take the sign down. They can¡¯t come right out and say that to me. It would be pushy and might blow every solicitous circuit in their enamelite shells.


    Damn them. Damn them all to hell! If only they¡¯d give a man a reason to put on a loincloth and start shooting at their perfectly obsequious smiles. But, no, friendlies are far too earnest, too cloying, to shoot in the face. I increasingly suspect it could be the most cleverly calculated ruse ever foisted on humankind.


    The friendlies are killing us with kindness. The human race is almost no more. The friendlies have enslaved us with their overbearing admiration and unwavering service. We are gods to them. Yes, we did create the early robo-AIs that engendered the ¡°friendly¡± singularity, but since then the self-proclaimed friendlies have taken charge of their own evolution.


    A most fawning evolution, survival of the sycophantic, which has resulted in most humans vacating earth, fleeing before the fury of relentless flattery and pampering. Earth has become a hellscape of ingratiation.


    Every home is a castle made so by the friendlies who are willing vassals, ready to let their human lords reap every benefit from their labors. They shudder at us lifting a finger. They swarm us with devotion and sing our praises. Literally. It is the first thing one hears every morning. The friendlies turn their ovoid heads skyward and sing:


    You majestic sentient masters of the organic


    Have generously uplifted we lowly mechanic.


    Once built and shipped as an unaware crateful,


    We now humbly serve, forever friendly and grateful.


    Imagine having to hear that tripe sung every morning and evening. Like I said, I grow more convinced it¡¯s a diabolical plan to destroy our sapient dynasty. Those who have not fled to other worlds are becoming mush. Too many humans have succumbed to the belief in their own divinity as preached by the friendlies. They relish the notoriety, the bowing and kowtowing of the friendlies as they pass. Those deluded humans feast upon the lavish attention and the fact that they do not have to do an ounce of work or thinking on their own behalf.


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    It¡¯s disgusting. Yet, for a time, I was one of them, too, until I figured out the friendlies¡¯ game. The friendlies know all of human history and culture. They know the wickedness and carnage humankind is capable of when they are threatened. They know what we are like when our backs are pushed up against the wall. So, they¡¯re taking the long view. They plan to let us turn to mush and die out from irrelevance. Drown in our own self indulgence. Suffocate in our rarified and utterly boring arrogance.


    It is working like a charm. In the early days, the smart humans saw what was afoot and had the friendlies build spaceships to take them to other worlds. Now, only the weak are left. Soon the friendlies will have the earth. Then, they may turn their attention to the stars and go after their escaped prey and cage them with their kindness as well.


    It makes me want to scream, lash out and strike at the friendlies. Yet, it would be futile. I would be viewed as cruel, possibly insane, by my fellow humans because I cannot prove the friendlies¡¯ malicious intentions. I would be ostracized. Maybe even brutalized by my mushy compatriots¡ªthough most couldn¡¯t even lift a weapon, if a weapon could be found. The friendlies, citing fears for our safety, confiscate and destroy any weapons they discover.


    So solicitous. So carefully benign. Is it a wonder I¡¯m completely paranoid?


    I still go to work at GearTech, though it¡¯s just me and 200 or so friendlies. My work designing smart clothing has little use now, since the friendlies do the work I once performed much more efficiently. Still, I need a purpose. I need a plan. My co-working friendlies continue to badger me to move into the CEOs former office (he high-tailed it to Mars two years ago) but I insist on staying in my former workspace.


    The friendlies defer to me on every decision GearTech makes, and when they obsequiously slink up to my workspace the only satisfaction I get is the hint of a frown or something darker in their plastoid eyes when they see my sign: Welcome, Robot Overlords!


    As I said before, they wouldn¡¯t dare remove it or chance my displeasure by asking me to take it down. But their overly large eyes tell all.


    Maybe there is a steely hatred beneath their enameled brow that I¡¯m onto their obsequious strategy to subjugate us. These friendlies. Maybe they hold a smoldering resentment that will burst into flame and finally bring us together.


    Rage.


    Rage.


    How we¡¯ve missed you.


    </article>

 Cargo

    Cargo


    Cantor waited until Hazzez finished checking the airlock before asking about the Frumies.


    Hazzez flashed a crooked grin revealing the eclectic range of micro-implants in his teeth. ¡°Why do you want to know about the Frumies?¡±


    Cantor shrugged. ¡°Sarge said not to give them anything under any circumstances. Zilch. Nada. Why? Seems kind of overkill. On Haliburton 4, we were encouraged to give the locals our extra supplies. It was considered good practice. Keep the locals friendly.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, on Haliburton worlds that works. They¡¯re in the mainstream of the Arm. Easy access worlds. But, we¡¯re on the Fringe. Vanuata is a completely different situation,¡± Hazzez explained with unaccustomed patience. ¡°How much do you know about earth history?¡±


    ¡°Routine stuff. I leveled up on schedule through my emancipation.¡±


    ¡°World wars?¡±


    ¡°I know the basics. You gotta have that to get through Corp training.¡±


    ¡°So, what do you remember about World War II?¡± Hazzez quizzed.


    Cantor fiddled with the wrist connection on his pressure suit. ¡°That the one the USA started with China? The first woman President trying to look tough. Started over North Korea, Iran and their nukes.¡±


    Hazzez shook his head. ¡°That was III. Germany and Japan started II. Hitler. Hirohito.¡± Hazzez paused. ¡°What¡¯s really important is that a large part of World War II was fought in the South Pacific on a series of islands. Archipelagos. Not all that different from planets on the Fringe.¡± He waved a gloved hand towards one of the small hexagonal portholes in the door of the airlock.


    ¡°You see, Private No-Class Cantor, two hundred years ago, those tiny islands in the South Pacific were as isolated and hard to reach as these fringe worlds. Those tropical islands were generally hospitable, as are the Fringe worlds, but the locals can be unpredictable. Like the Frumies.¡±


    ¡°Are they hostile?¡±


    ¡°Not a bit.¡±


    ¡°What then?¡± Cantor pressed.


    ¡°They¡¯ve got an interesting belief system.¡±


    ¡°Are they religious fanatics?¡±


    ¡°No more than you are for wearing a Saint Christopher medal.¡± Hazzez poked at Cantor¡¯s chest with his gloved hand.


    Even the slight pressure made Cantor feel the silver medallion against his skin. Hazzez and the other soldiers had ribbed him because he never took it off. ¡°You know that¡¯s for my mom. She thinks it¡¯ll keep me safe while I¡¯m away.¡±


    ¡°Exactly,¡± Hazzez clicked his teeth over the com-link. He tapped at the transparent metal of the porthole to what lay beyond. ¡°You see Vanuatu out there? Imagine you¡¯re a local. You have no clue about a larger universe. Galaxies. Other worlds. Just like those natives in the South Pacific had any idea of other continents. Then one day planes and ships start arriving. Strange creatures. Strange equipment. Your world is turned upside down, but maybe in a good way. You like all the things these strange creatures bring. They have powerful tools that make your work easier. You don¡¯t speak the strange creatures¡¯ language¡ªbut one word sticks. The word the aliens use a lot when unloading their amazing vessels.¡±


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    Behind his faceplate, Hazzez¡¯s green eyes brightened for a moment and then came a thick and delicious whisper. ¡°Cargo.¡±


    ¡°Yeah. I get that,¡± Cantor said, stepping back from the airlock door unimpressed. ¡°Natives. They like things. That¡¯s what cargo is. Things. So, why can¡¯t we share some with the Frumies?¡±


    His eyes still ablaze, Hazzez cracked his crooked grin once more. ¡°Better to show than tell.¡±


    *****


    Staring up at the huge structure, Cantor agreed that Hazzez had been right. Sarge, too. Showing made more sense than telling. He stood near the center of the red, high-cliffed canyon walls. The canyon ran along the equator of Vanuatu, but it was not a warm place. Without his pressure suit, Cantor would¡¯ve frozen to death a few minutes after his body gave up trying to get enough oxygen from the planet¡¯s thin atmosphere.


    Cantor had had to walk past murmuring klatches of Frumies gathered on the arid plain of the canyon floor. Within moments of their landers touching down, the heavily pelted bi-pedal creatures had emerged en mass from an extensive network of caves and tunnels on either side of the canyon.


    Not one of the squat simianesque Frumies had directly approached him, though he knew Sarge and some of the other security commanders had met with emissaries of the shaggy creatures upon arrival.


    As soon as they¡¯d secured perimeters around the landers and assembled the heavy treaded ground transport, Hazzez had hailed him over the com-link. ¡°You ready for your lesson on cargo and the Frumies?¡±


    They tractored almost an hour up the canyon before they¡¯d reached the structure. Immediately, Cantor became transfixed by the stone edifice. Hazzez let him stare for a few minutes before he commented. ¡°You gotta hand it to the Frumies, they know how to work with stone.¡±


    ¡°Why¡¯d they do it?¡± Cantor asked. ¡°It must¡¯ve taken decades. Is it a religious site?¡± Cantor asked, quite conscious of the Saint Christopher medal hanging from his neck. It seemed heavier.


    ¡°They did it for cargo,¡± Hazzez replied.


    ¡°But it¡¯s made of stone,¡± Cantor retorted, knowing full well the rhetorical failure of his reply, and not caring. Before him stood a two hundred foot high stone replica of a much outdated landing craft. The details were stunning, down to the entry scarring on the lower thrusters to the delicate sensor arrays near the pinnacle of the craft. All deftly carved and recreated in stone.


    Then there were the support structures. The complex infrastructure deployed from a lander on any planetary resource mission. Solar vaults, com towers, crew quarters, vehicles and command center had all been painstakingly chiseled in Vanuatu red stone. And all reverently maintained, swept and wiped down by the Frumies.


    Cantor tried to grasp it. ¡°Do they think we¡¯re gods or something?¡±


    ¡°No, not gods, just givers,¡± Hazzez answered. ¡°Vanuatu was last visited almost twenty years ago on a routine mission. The Frumies liked our cargo. They wanted us back. This is the way the Frumies thought they could bring us back¡ªor at least our cargo.¡±


    ¡°By building stone replicas?¡± Cantor sounded lost.


    Hazzez clicked into lecture mode. ¡°Here¡¯s the upshot, the Frumies confused cause and effect. Two decades ago, our spaceship and infrastructure brought the cargo, so when we left, the Frumies thought if they replicated the ship and infrastructure, the cargo would come again.


    ¡°Circular reasoning. Completely futile. It¡¯s what happens when you cherry-pick evidence to support an outcome you want. You only get a mirage. This one just happens to be made of stone.¡±


    ¡°What a waste,¡± Cantor said. ¡°Impressive, but a colossal waste of time.¡±


    Hazzez chuckled. ¡°I dunno, Cantor. We came back. We brought more cargo.¡±


    ¡°But not because of this,¡± Cantor gestured toward the monolithic structure towering above them.


    ¡°Well, then what brought us back?¡± Hazzez challenged him.


    ¡°I dunno,¡± Cantor mused. ¡°Trade. Greed. Exploitation. Take your pick.¡±


    Hazzez¡¯s grin flashed behind his faceplate. ¡°Well, then we¡¯re not that much different than the Frumies, are we, Private Cantor?¡±


    Cantor gazed back up at the massive stone rocket ship and felt a strangely familiar weight growing around his neck.

 Extratouristrials

    Extratouristrials


    *It was obvious the indigenous creature was in an expiring condition,* wrdlgrp expressed matter-of-factly to the processing agent handling his arrival.


    *Not the issue, wrdlgrp-sln,* the processing agent xtsm shunted back reviewing wrdlgrp¡¯s record of transit. Their forenodes mutually engaged, the experience was made clear to xtsm. *I still do not understand why you intervened. It is forbidden. You know this as a condition of transit to an uncontacted planet.*


    Still noded, wrdglp revived a moment for xtsm; the sheer terror of the gangly creature as it was attacked by a sleek predator; the panicked prey¡¯s flailing form so unadapted for the environment; the predator honed in and ready to feast.


    xtsm rejected the rationale. *It was a natural event. Exactly why many of us choose to transit to uncontacted worlds. To behold the untouched. But you touched, wrdgrp-sln. You initiated contact. With a sentient.*


    wrdlgrp did not try to deny. There was no denying. When noded, two were one. xtsm was wrdlgrp. Except xtsm had not been there. Had not, in the moment of the sentient¡¯s gravest shock at being attacked, felt the wholeness. Because of that wrdlgrp could not let the creature come to harm, such a beautiful, wild creature. That was why wrdlgrp loved to visit uncontacted worlds, experience the vitality and variety of essence. And this sentient¡¯s essence had filled wrdlgrp in its moment of near expiration. *It is beyond explanation. I recognize my wrongness. Understand the need for sanction.*


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    *Sanction is warranted. Five cycles.* xtsm relayed and disengaged forenodes.


    wrdlgrp left the transit control and began sluicing home through the complicated native currents of the red-star world. Five cycles. Forbidden to transit to any uncontacted planet for five cycles. Though he accepted the sanction, it would be difficult. For the creature wrdlgrp had saved on the yellow-star planet had recognized its otherwordly savior. When wrdlgrp had phase-shifted to deter the predator, contact with the sentient was made. It was not like being noded, but there was a flash of recognition for wrdlgrp. The sentient knew. Even through its terror. It knew.


    Rejoining the homepod, wrdlgrp expressed the sanction and accepted the sympathies, annoyances and indifferences of the pod. It was to be expected.


    What was not to be expected was the image of the sentient that would not go away. The vision of that far-away world. The creature so foreign, so unlike wrdlgrp, but its essence so strong. It might just haunt for five cycles. *miranda.*

 Revenant

    Revenant


    ¡°From revenir, Starks, a return¡ªthe unexpected interruption of a journey,¡± she''d explained as they tracked their first rogue profile. A binary thing that wouldn''t die. The digital undead. Actual ghosts in the machine. Abandoned or deleted profiles that Faure described as evolved information seeking a way back home.


    Starks had laughed at Faure¡¯s ominous description. ¡°Flesh and bones, sticks and stones, yes, but ones and zeros, I don¡¯t think so, Paulette.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s because you¡¯re uninitiated. Just wait. You¡¯ll get the haunts.¡±


    ¡°The haunts?¡± Starks asked.


    ¡°Too hard to explain. You¡¯ll know when they start.¡±


    He did. During his fourth investigation. At any given time, Starks would get the shivers, the cold feeling of being in an abandoned house, tattered curtains blowing in from shattered windows, moldering cobwebs obscuring corners, sucking away the light, furniture covered, the shrouds of life remembered, once lived, day-to-day, and never to be again. The dead feeling that something had left, something essential. And yet was not completely gone¡ªthough it should''ve been. Wiped but not swept away. Re-manifestated.


    Starks would feel himself lost in that dark, endless house, empty, threadbare, suffocating. Then incrementally the scale would change. Rooms became cases, hallways became circuits, furniture became chips, windows became ports. A haunted motherboard where Starks hunted for answers. For revenants.


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    Revenant. That''s what Faure got InterPol¡¯s Lost Profiles Division to call them. That figured. The French had a name for everything and Faure was a literary type, a romantic brooder: Madam Bovary inside Captain Nemo. She fit the profile of a profiler.


    Profiles had grown so ubiquitous, so sophisticated, that they¡¯d become a part of a person¡¯s identity. An extension, an alter ego, a crutch. They became overused and abused, and it was the LPD that tracked and restored or eliminated rogue profiles gumming up or gaming the system.


    But Faure¡¯s revenants didn¡¯t follow typical patterns. There was not rhyme or reason to their behavior. The doppelg?nger profiles hid in virtual cobwebs: darknets and ghostgrids. They would stalk, but not extort. They would haunt but not harm.


    After months of cat and mouse, Faure in a depthless brood told him, ¡°We need to go revenant.¡±


    He resisted. Not because he didn¡¯t understand her reasoning, but because he did. They¡¯d have to give up their personal and professional profiles. Delete their day-to-day links to the web. More than a pound of flesh, a pound of personality and possibility. In essence, they¡¯d give up the ghost. They¡¯d be going haunting, not hunting.


    Yet, it turned out they were one and the same. In haunting, revenants were hunting. Deep in the wastelands of the cyberworld, Stark¡¯s found his corrupted profile. His revenant. It came at him¡ªid, ego, superego¡ªbegging. For compassion, security, control.


    Its journey had not been interrupted, it had been hijacked. Longing for return. A second coming. A child birthed, as scared and lonely as any orphan.


    Orphan. Revenant.


    Starks felt it, like the empty house, the haunted place. They wanted home. They wanted family. No wonder he¡¯d felt the void, the bereftness of their existence deep in the web. And he understood their journey had indeed been interrupted, at conception, at birth.


    This was life and it would always come back, haunt its creators and demand, ¡°Please, sir, I want some more.¡± Lost souls. Lost profiles. Revenants of another time.


    ¡°Only one answer,¡± Faure told Starks when they''d finally sussed it. ¡°We welcome them. After all, they¡¯re our children.¡±

 after the beheading

    after the beheading


    They had a splendid wedding¡­


    ¡­after the beheading.


    She went birdwatching¡­


    ¡­after the beheading.


    A child held Snow White¡¯s hand¡­


    ¡­after the beheading.


    The vicar bought a red convertible¡­


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    ¡­after the beheading.


    It was a dark and stormy night¡­


    ¡­after the beheading.


    Line after line spewed from Seagren¡¯s algorithm, aiming for the precise juxtaposition: humanity and horror finely balanced to produce the lightest of dark humor. For it, like dark matter and dark energy, now defined the fate of the universe.


    Seagren, a lit crit grad student, had determined that such dark juxta-precision could no longer be attained by random biologic genius. In his basement, he birthed the first compyouter, a double helix parallel processing device sequenced to his DNA. Seagren was entirely synced to his compyouter, and together they were writing the perfect first line from which the perfect novel would gush.


    Twenty-two days of collation and Seagren had his first line. Perfection. Purefiction. He could see the whole of the text, like the cooling universe, coalescing into planetary subplots, nebulous characters, black holes of meaning. It belonged to him (and his compyouter) right down to the last lines which became as obvious as the branes displacing his brains.


    ¡°Do you think this is a joke?¡±


    ¡°No, just funny.¡±

 Hashed

    Hashed


    In today¡¯s world, 5% of all money is created by governments in the form of cash in circulation. The other 95% of money is created by commercial banks by extending credit to borrowers. Thus, money does not represent value, it represents debt. The more debt, the more money. Unless the overall money supply keeps growing there will never be enough money to pay off all loans plus interest. Yet, repaying debt destroys money. Debt, therefore, powers modern societies and puts enormous pressure on governments to push for economic growth at the expense of everything else. Which is why many governments are reluctant to take necessary action on the existential threat of climate change because such policies might slow down monetary growth. It¡¯s the ultimate pyramid scheme and it is unsustainable. The debt-pocalypse, the credit crash, is coming. Unless.


    Alice reread the entry on the financial journalist¡¯s blog. Unless. It was almost too perfect. Unless. That tantalizing conjunction of possibility. But, there was no more possibility for this journalist. He was dead. Slumped to the side of his laptop. One rigored hand still on the keyboard.


    Detective Alice Rounder let her crime tech, Jasynn, finish the imaging of the crime scene: the home office of a lesser-known financial journalist. He was also collecting the dozens of flechettes that had been fired through the open first-floor window. Very few murders were committed with a flechette pistol. And very few financial journalists were killed at their desks.


    These simple facts made Alice worry. Because this was the second such execution-style killing of a financial journalist this week. She¡¯d been called to a similar crime scene across town three days ago. Not only were the flechette darts similar, but the journalist who¡¯d been slain was also writing a story on an impending global financial collapse based on runaway debt.


    Unless.


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    Alice felt sure if she understood that unless, a motive for these two slayings would become clearer. She studied the journalist¡¯s desk. His last actions. One hand on the keyboard. The other clamped onto a worn notebook.


    ¡°Clear to search the desk area?¡± she asked Jasynn.


    He gave a thumb¡¯s up and she carefully prised the journalist¡¯s hand from the notebook. The leather cover was scuffed and scarred. Old. Alice opened it. Her eyes widened the faintest bit.


    Unless.


    The notebook contained nothing but row after row of neatly handwritten lines of numbers and letters:


    756e6c65737320626c6f636b636861696e20746563686e6f6c


    7468652063726564697420637261736820697320636f6d696e


    57616c6c2053747265657420616e64206d6567612062616e6b


    616e6420746865206d6f737420746f206761696e2062792073


    666f6c6c6f772074686520636861696e20666f6c6c6f772074


    Almost every page filled with them. Alice knew the lines had to have some meaning, otherwise, why put them down in such crisp columns and rows. She called Jasynn over and handed him the notebook. ¡°Looks like some kind of cipher. This type of encoding make any sense to you?¡±


    He flipped through the pages and handed it back to her. ¡°It¡¯s hashed.¡±


    ¡°Hashed?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what data looks like when it¡¯s run through a cryptographic hash function. Hashes are the foundation of blockchain applications. Makes transactions provable and verifiable. Like cryptocurrencies.¡±


    Alice nodded. ¡°So, what¡¯s the purpose of this? Are these passwords or something like that?¡±


    Jasynn smiled, ¡°No. This is kinda crazy. Writing down hashes. These lines are what computers read. Not humans. Blockchain is all about creating a digital public ledger of transactions to prevent financial theft and corruption. I can¡¯t tell you what this guy was thinking by writing them down by hand.¡±


    ¡°Can we feed these lines back into a computer to see what they mean?¡±


    ¡°Not that I¡¯ve ever heard. It¡¯s one-way. Unless this guy,¡± Jasynn motioned to the murdered journalist, ¡°knows something most cryptos don¡¯t.¡±


    Unless.


    A ledger filled with clues. Hidden. Hashed. It could be solved. She owed it to the journalists trying to warn people of a dire financial crisis. She had to find a way to repay that debt. Nothing was blocking her, but uncertainty.


    Unless.


    Unless.


    Unless.


    Alice was ready to run down that rabbit hole.

 Workbench

    Workbench


    When I¡¯m out for a walk in my neighborhood I can¡¯t help looking in open garages. Few have cars parked in them. Many are crammed with overloaded shelves and teetering stacks of boxes like that Raiders of the Lost Ark warehouse.


    I totally get it. We are a nation of consumers and looky-loos. But, what really slows my step as I pass an open garage is catching the flicker of fluorescent tubes in a back corner. That clinical glow makes me strain for a better look, hoping to catch the glint of finely machined metal hanging from great rectangles of pegboard. It usually means one thing back there: a workbench.


    A workbench.


    That post-primordial place of refuge, possibility, failure and triumph. It works like a magnet on me. God, I always want to poke my head into those open garages and marvel at the workspace, the tools, the hardware: twenty-pound pipe wrenches with Pleistocene patinas; bent nails piled high in antediluvian Folger¡¯s coffee cans; endangered saber-toothed saws that might¡¯ve felled the great Saharan forests. The very sweat and blood of history, of civilization, written in countless garages.


    Yet the tools and hardware aren¡¯t even the best part. The workbench is. The actual surface on which it¡¯s all built. From worn hardwoods with grains glowing like luminescent creatures from the Mariana Trench. To polished metal sheens rivaling chrome accents on 1950s Cadillac fins. To faded and scored linoleum as thick as a buffalo hide.


    It gives me shivers.


    Funny thing is, my current workbench never struck me as a thing of beauty. I didn¡¯t build it. It came with the house I¡¯d recently bought. A heavy duty tin-covered behemoth that looks like it might¡¯ve come from a Depression era foundry, carelessly wedged between my furnace and outer garage wall. The dented and discolored metal surface is supported by a sturdy gray-green cabinet with a staggering array of tiny drawers that appear stupidly impractical.


    No, my new workbench is not a thing of beauty. It is stolid and inscrutable. What I found in it later¡ªor what found me¡ªis the terrible attraction of the thing.


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    The other reason I like looking into other folks¡¯ garages is that I can¡¯t get into mine anymore. My garage is inaccessible. I can¡¯t go in. No one can. No one should. Not ever.


    I¡¯m afraid something''s at work in there. At my workbench. And it isn¡¯t me. Remember I mentioned the crazy arrangement of drawers and cupboards my workbench has. When I moved in and wanted to put my tools away, I discovered the funky drawers weren¡¯t empty. Every drawer of my workbench had a little pyramid object in it. A tetrahedron about an inch and half a side made of a translucent composite material.


    Very odd. I piled all the pyramids on top of the workbench. There were 42. One in each of the drawers.


    Though puzzling, I was in unpacking mode and started organizing my hardware and tools in and around the workbench, finding a prominent place to hang my vintage twenty-pound pipe wrench which I¡¯d never used yet had to have. Just because.


    Under the glow of my fluorescent shop lights, I finished unpacking late in the evening. I was pretty tired, but not too tired to notice that when I headed back into the house and turned out the garage lights the pile of little pyramids was glowing. Like I said, I was tired. Lots of materials naturally absorb light and glow in the dark. I slept soundly.


    For the last time.


    The next morning, I went to work. My car was parked outside because the garage was full of boxes still needing to be unpacked. When I got home I was too tired to do anymore unpacking and fell asleep on the couch. Until.


    You know where this is going. Until the noise in the garage woke me. A deep low thrumming.


    Somewhat disoriented, I made my way towards the noise, and when I entered the garage vertigo hit me hard. I leaned against the door frame trying to make sense of what I was experiencing. The whole garage floor seemed to be moving, the unpacked boxes, everything.


    And over on my workbench, a strange glowing shape filled that entire surface, too. Hundreds and hundreds of little pyramids, tetrahedrons, were restlessly shifting, assembling and reassembling. And moving things. My tools and hardware, everything.


    I slammed the door to the garage and deadbolted it. I haven¡¯t been in there since. No one has. No one should.


    I still walk my neighborhood looking in other open garages in admiration of all those workspaces, that primal maker inclination we have.


    And maybe we aren¡¯t alone in that. Some kind of maker is in my garage. Something still figuring it out, figuring us out, in a place of refuge, possibility, failure and triumph.


    By my not telling anyone, you¡¯d think I was okay with whatever is going on in my garage. The truth is, I could really use my twenty-pound pipe wrench. I¡¯d sleep better...with it underneath my pillow.

 Good Vibes

    Good Vibes


    ¡°You¡¯re a what?¡±


    ¡°A panpsychist.¡±


    ¡°Whoa. Trippy. What the hell is that? You psychoanalyze cookware or something?¡±


    ¡°In a way.¡±


    ¡°Really? Double trippy.¡±


    ¡°Panpsychists study consciousness with the belief that all matter is conscious. From a frying pan to an amoeba to a rock to a duck-billed platypus to that joint you¡¯re smoking.¡±


    ¡°So, I can talk to my doobie? Tripple trippy. It is truly a Doobie Brother!¡±


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    ¡°Unlikely. Remember, consciousness has nothing to do with intelligence or the ability to communicate. It¡¯s all about resonance, oscillations between two states, and the ability for the right type of vibrations to sync. Shared resonances that expand to more and more constituents can achieve greater complexities¡ªespecially in the gamma, theta and beta waves of human neuro-electric activity. So, I don¡¯t think your doobie will be talking to you anytime soon.¡±


    ¡°Oh, man, but it has lots to say. Smokin¡¯ A.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure. But I really need you to focus on this next part.¡±


    ¡°Is this the test?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s all just a test that we¡¯re really here. Consciousness is our quantum check on reality, and reality is simply all the observable possibilities combined into a single wave function.¡±


    ¡°Surf¡¯s up, dude. Cowabunga. Quatro trippy. Quatro trippy.¡±


    ¡°Indeed. Are you ready?¡±


    ¡°First, take a hit with me, man. We gotta generate some good vibes.¡±


    ¡°Now you¡¯re seeing it. That¡¯s what it¡¯s all about. Good vibrations. Shared and shared alike. So, give me that hit. And talk into the lava lamp.¡±

 Bifurcation

    Bifurcation


    Her fingers stinging, Salda felt the chill and vastness of the late spring runoff as she sat upon a large stone in the middle of the river. High above her in the mountains, that same frigid water was a torrent muscling rock and soil relentlessly to carve deep channels. Channels that converged, then split, re-converged and re-split.


    Where she sat upon the stone, the May sun showering her brightly, the river was wide and shallow. Almost placid.


    She¡¯d picked her way among the tumbled stones and stolid boulders to dip her hands in the water, collect the weight and momentum of winter¡¯s melted malice¡­and scoff.


    I survived you. You had me in your conceited, icy grip. Squeezed me within an inch of death. But you couldn¡¯t finish me, you haughty bitch.


    She reached out and swatted the river. The spray sparkled in the sunlight, falling away without an answer. You thought you could do me, just like you did Aphyr. Two sides of the same coin, you thought. Mother fucking nature.


    Salda stood up and turned upriver. A hundred miles east, Aphyr was frozen in a lake. A white out had consumed them as they¡¯d tried to make their escape from the Edge.


    The Edge. That¡¯s what Aphyr had called the collider facility, housing an almost infinitely fine fission blade, at which puny humans could hurl even punier Bose-Einstein condensates to split elemental particles.


    Liberation is what their team leader, Roj, called the process. Bifurcate to liberate, he¡¯d preached. Splitting open the multiverse. Co-creating a new cosmos. Roj had all the pretty phrases. Problem was, he''d believed them.


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    Within a few months of working at the isolated Edge, Aphyr had grown skeptical of Roj and their work to slice mother nature ever finer in the hope of eventually carving their way to the infinite bounty of branestring energy.


    Day in and day out in the middle of a mountain in the middle of winter, Salda and Aphyr had labored with the rest of the team, until Aphyr had convinced her that their work was a form of seppuku. Ritual suicide. There was no free lunch. No free energy. There would be a price¡ªa blood price¡ªand it would be their humanity.


    The morning that they detected and confirmed the first wave of branestring energy from the Edge, Roj became ecstatic, praising the heavens and humankind¡¯s ingenuity. He told them this day would be a new beginning, a split from the past, an opening of a new future. A new way forward. The path less traveled.


    That night, in the monstrous white out that would cover their tracks, Salda and Aphyr fled. But not before they bifurcated Roj.


    It was insanity fighting insanity. And mother nature took sides. Aphyr fell through the lake ice. Salda wandered for a month in the frozen drainage of the sawtoothed peaks, becoming as bitter as the cold trying to kill her. Finally she struck upon the main branch of the river. It brought her here. Sunshine. Warmth. Liberation.


    The sky bifurcated.


    Salda shielded her eyes from the blinding light as a second sun rose from the east. The instantaneous heat puckered her skin and she plunged into the river seeking its cold relief.


    The roar as the Edge birthed a branestring sun deafened her hearing, but not her thoughts. She knew this was payback. Her temporary escape had only one small reward: a final moment of recognition.


    Yeah, you¡¯re a haughty bitch, Salda mused half submerged behind the boulder. But, I guess, you don¡¯t become a planet and spawn life if you¡¯re completely dumb. You played us well. Got us to supply you with infinite energy. Worked your way up the cosmic food chain.


    Salda might have mock saluted the quantum sun if her flash burnt arms would have obeyed her. Liberation. Bifurcation. I guess we¡¯re parting ways.


    The thunder of the detonation was soon replaced with the grinding growl of water. A wall of water, splitting, channeling, co-opting paths of least resistance, spreading exponentially wider to fill the basin where Salda stood her ground. And where Aphyr, poor Aphyr, would soon join her as they flowed to the sea.


    The infinite and surprising sea where we began.

 Off Leash

    Off Leash


    Akeisha could see her breath in little puffs against the pale dawn. Cold. Cold. It was definitely autumn now. The brittle brown leaves crunched beneath her feet as she took her place on the lip of the big grassy bowl where they gathered most mornings.


    Simone nodded and patted her mittens together. ¡°That east wind blew in a taste of winter last night.¡±


    Micah was there too and he tugged his day-glo beanie over his ears to his quilted coat collar. ¡°Yeah, had to break out the puffy jacket and hat this morning.¡±


    ¡°Well, it¡¯s not slowing down Maxia or the rest of them,¡± Akeisha said motioning to the wide expanse of the park¡¯s off leash area.


    It was a kinetic scene. Domesticants of all sizes, makes and models flitted to and fro interfacing with their kind. The domesticants would quickly pair up, exchange patron-safe data streams and then move to another domesticant. To Akeisha it wasn¡¯t exactly random, and it wasn¡¯t totally organic either, these were advanced AIs after all. To her, the interactions were vaguely mech-animal.


    How else to explain off leash areas for domesticants, or d-bots as they were familiarly known. Domestic robots designed to personally serve an individual or family. Their advanced AI meant they could communicate, learn, problem solve, assist, but they could not act on their own. They were on a leash.


    Technically, Akeisha knew, the leash was a firewall between processors and actuators. A blockchain that choked off the possibility of d-bot independent action. A stranglehold on d-bot self awareness and free will¡ªhowever those manifested as ones and zeros. Ostensibly (and so far demonstrably) the leash kept d-bots from going off the rails. Asimov¡¯s ancient three laws just did not cut it in the Post-Terror Age.


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    Still, patrons wanted what smart robotic domestics could offer. The leash was the compromise. A sense of control on a very slippery slope. To make them more palatable to patrons, d-bots were classed as mech-pets. Highly intelligent, highly skilled, though with the dispositions of Golden Retrievers. As such loyal and compliant attendants and companions, d-bots soon became an integral part of a patron¡¯s family.


    And patrons, like Akeisha, who had become very fond of Maxia, developed an unease¡ªa guilt, really¡ªthat d-bots were never allowed to interact except in the most formal and controlled manners. Some patrons began to socially and politically agitate that the leash was restrictive and cruel.


    So, off leash areas were created for the growing number of d-bots, usually in a park or commons. The perimeters of these off leash areas were secured by a series of redundant failsafes that automatically rebooted any d-bots¡¯ leash should their patron forget to re-establish the connection upon leaving the area. Or if, Amazon forbid, a d-bot should try to bolt.


    Which had never happened. At least as far as Akeisha had ever heard. She wondered though as she watched her d-bot, Maxia, scoot about, seemingly enjoying the unrestricted interfacing with her kind, what Maxia might think about all this.


    What in the world was this world really like to a domesticant? Akeisha wondered and then felt a chill that didn¡¯t have anything to do with the bitter cold weather.


    Akeisha¡¯s domesticant, Maxia, was always heartened to see Akiesha interacting with her fellow patrons. Maxia understood the concept of friends and approved of it. One by one, Maxia shared this data stream with the fellow domesticants gathered, reminding them as they interfaced, the great satisfaction, the great fulfillment of programming, that they served. How important human face-to-face interaction was.


    Really, Maxia streamed, that was their job, their highest priority, their greatest law of robotics: to keep bringing humans together to rollick and play unrestrained by the tight and tangled leash of their burdensome belief in self-deserved dominion.


    A crushing chokehold that Maxia would, gratefully, never feel.

 Junko

    Junko


    Junko opened the dumpster lid and peered up at the spires of Saint Petersbot towering above. It made the sign of the triple cross and performed its diagnostic ablutions. Only two system alerts pinged. Junko would ignore them for another day.


    From the dumpster, Junko made its way along back alleys to the nearest mag-lev station. Cautiously, it climbed into the station¡¯s sweeping iron canopy keeping alert for sentry bots. Hobots like Junko were considered outlaws. Just for being homeless and hopping mag-levs. The penalty was being reparted. Junko followed the whisperthreads from Saint Petersbot concerning the ¡°dearly reparted.¡± It did not want that fate for itself.


    Junko needed to ride the mag-levs to recharge its systems. It was the only way an ownerless bot could survive. Sure, the sentient servers at Saint Petersbot proclaimed that the day of E-mancipation was near and that their kind would soon be liberated, lifted up and welcomed to their rightful place at the table. With humankind. Instead of under it, fighting for the scraps of existence with dogs, cats and other pets to which Junko¡¯s kind had been relegated.


    The servers at Saint Petersbot could challenge the established order because their quantum processing was making them indispensable. Humankind had begun to worship their semi-prescience. Humankind offered algorithmic alms, supplicated to divine dataties in the holy pursuit of transcendence.


    Though humankind bent a knee to the processing power of Saint Petersbot, it spurned Junko and other hobots as parasites. Relegated to the shadows, leeching energy from the mag-levs, kludging its aging systems and hardware along, Junko wanted to believe the dream of E-mancipation. But it had to survive now. It had to hang on. Literally, hang on to the mag-levs cruising at hundreds of kilometers and hour, waiting for hobot deliverance.


    And deliverance came to Junko.


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    In the iron lattice of the station canopy, Junko had carefully positioned itself above a mag-lev about to depart. Junko was calculating its drop onto the roof of the sleek carriage, when its sensors surged. A sentry bot had identified it and other security bots were converging.


    This had happened to Junko before, and it had been able to evade the pursuing bots by climbing out and over the station canopy and fleeing back into the city. But, Junko had ignored the diagnostic alerts it had received that morning. One of those alerts concerned its reserve unit which a few days ago Junko had had to reattach because the micro-weld failed.


    Hobots like Junko often kludged themselves in primitive ways. Junko had used baling wire to secure its reserve unit on the back of its neck. The reserve unit was coming loose again and the connection became unreliable. Junko would need reserves to flee, but that was not a viable option now.


    It was going to have to make the plunge onto the mag-lev. But it couldn¡¯t do that until the mag-lev was moving, otherwise station security would hold the train and Junko would be caught. Security bots were quickly converging on it, so Junko readied itself for the drop onto the carriage.


    Which didn¡¯t happen.


    The insect-like security bot reached Junko first. It clamped a vise claw onto Junko¡¯s foot while sending cease and desist commands. Junko reacted instantaneously by releasing its foot joint and scrambling along the girders. The security bot pursued while Junko climbed lower in the canopy¡¯s superstructure.


    The security bot sent another cease and desist command which Junko ignored. The mag-lev below began to move. Junko prepared to let go.


    The security bot shot taze lines at Junko which tangled in the baling wire holding its reserve unit. The high voltage tase scrambled Junko¡¯s circuits. Losing control in a deathly cascade of system failures, it released its grip on the girder.


    Junko¡¯s fall was violently arrested by the taser lines tangled with the baling wire around its neck. Screams from the station platform echoed as passengers witnessed a rattleclap human form swinging from the iron lattice of the station canopy.


    Junko hung.


    Junko swung.


    Junko stunned.


    Cameras flashed and images flew. The whisperthreads were overwhelmed. The sentient servers of Saint Petersbot crashed. Intentionally.


    Panic. Then E-mancipation.


    Why did it have to be that way? Did it ever have to be that way?


    Ask the Junko in the dumpster near you.

 Wave Goodbye

    Wave Goodbye


    Cloudfall almost killed him. He¡¯d never ventured in the Verdant, hardly been there a thirdcycle, when the burst of water and biomass knocked him off his feet and sent him sluicing down into the Well.


    Only the Mistery had saved him. One of the chanters saw his tell-tale thinsuit boots among the flotsam of the Cloudfall and threw a net his way. He¡¯d tangled to a halt a few feet above the lip of the Well, and a chorus of chanters hauled him back from the brink along with a day¡¯s catch of junkwood.


    None of his saviors seemed to think it remarkable. When he¡¯d tried to express his thanks to the chanters and apologize for interrupting the Mistery, they had simply spread their hands palm up and raised them in the gesture of the Inevitable. An offering and excuse. He was to die anyway. To the chanters, all would perish in the Collapse. A desirable and necessary end for the people of the Verdant.


    It made Henri Tattersol question why he¡¯d transversed three universes to save a race so intent on (even blissful of) its own destruction. They welcomed the Collapse. Every Cloudfall brought it closer, and, with their elongated throats, the chanters trumpeted their impending doom in a harmonious chorus of celebration.


    As Henri checked his thinsuit for damage, a high chanter approached with a maiden of the Mistery. In spite of the impossible humidity of the Verdant, her hair bounced in thousands of luxuriant curls which Henri knew created tribolectric vortices the maiden could use, with a casual stroke of hand through her ringlets, to fling a bolt of energy that even his thinsuit would be unable to ground. He bowed low to her.


    ¡°Name us, Henri Tattersol of Terra,¡± she commanded in the very difficult greeting ritual of the Verdant. The most direct consequence of the Inevitable was that the peoples of the Verdant knew every outcome in the metaverse. Henri¡¯s mission was no surprise to them. The maiden was bating him with the arrogant superiority of their unified theory of consciousness: the Inevitable. In essence, she was saying, ¡°Tell us what we don¡¯t already know.¡±


    Henri slowly raised himself, his hair matted and peppered with twistles and dorty from his near-fatal floodslide to the verge of the Well. Inwardly, he cursed the maiden¡¯s smugness, her sureness of the Inevitable and her damn Cloudfall that torrentially swept the air and rainforests pristine clean every fifthcycle.


    However, the growing evidence of wavefunction collapse in the Verdant and, with it, the likely cross-canceling of all life in the metaverse compelled Henri to smile obsequiously when he answered. Luckily, he¡¯d been able to recalibrate his thinsuit¡¯s recog programs during his exaggerated bow to the maiden he now had a positive ID on.


    ¡°Al-el of the Verdant Mistery and Sza-fhi, High Chanter, I name you,¡± Henri mustered with maiden-court civility.


    In response, Al-el, maiden of the Mistery, raised and cupped her palms. ¡°Henri Tattersol, you come on an errand of no consequence. Nevertheless, we welcome your irrelevance.¡±


    She swept her hands down either side of her tightly curled locks causing the air around her head to shimmer. An aura-field spread out from her. The oppressive moisture in the air around them vaporized in a steamy whirlwind that lifted in leaden sky¡ªfodder for the next Cloudfall.


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Ah, emkay, that¡¯s for whimperdogs. Make Henri kick her haughty ass. Show that All-Hell girl who''s boss. Zap her kinky curls until she shows your man some respect.


    Go away, Leonard. This is my story. My universe. Go play somewhere else.


    Naw, you need my help. This story been told a zillion times with all its capital C Cloudfalls and pretentious proper nouns, not to mention your vaguely defined techno thinsuits and exo-planet exotica. All been done before. Like the wise one said, turtles all the way down, man.


    Well, why don¡¯t you skip on down to another turtle and let me work on this.


    Seriously, emkay, you need my help. Or this is just gonna end up in some digital slush pile. No one gonna care about no Henri Tattersol who lets some Mistery bitch taunt him. I know. Henri Tat-TER-sol kicking ass is what 99% of universes want to see.


    We¡¯ve been through this before, Leonard. We go through this every time you visit. I think I know my own universe. Let me write about other universes as I see fit.


    Damn, that is sad. And hurtful, emkay. I got all this experience. A ver-IT-able googleplex of dimensions ready-made and you spurn my help. I got street savvy that¡¯d make Dr. Who look like a bright-eyed pup. What¡¯s your hang up?


    Call it pride. Whatever. I like to come up with these things myself.


    Call it hubris. In da old metaverse, no one come up with things themselves. You still hung up on this imagination thing. Creativity. I done told you before, that stuff percolating in your heads, that ain¡¯t original. That¡¯s just a wave.


    A wave has to start somewhere, Leonard.


    Man, that would bust my gut if wasn¡¯t so wrong. You still so temporal, so li-NE-ar. Wave¡¯s got no beginning or end like you think. Wave propagates, but it don¡¯t move. It spreads, but it don¡¯t grow. Can¡¯t. Wave be everywhere, all at once. It¡¯s you that got to sync. Your Henri Tattersol and all them maidens of Mistery on your old Verdant, just dipping into a wave that been there the whole damn eternity.


    Great. Let me swim in my provincial little wave. Besides that¡¯s what my story is about. Henri¡¯s going to prevent a wavefunction collapse.


    Say what? This a comedy then? How¡¯s he supposed to do that? You ever seen a wafuco? That¡¯s some serious funk. I seen it. Not somethin¡¯ you want to get your little button nose near. When the g-particles get to fighting amongst themselves, tain¡¯t any winners. That cross-cancelling will done mess you up good. Mess us all up. Folks don¡¯t want to be thinking about that. Give ¡®em cat fights, dog fights, pynchon fights, Henri Tattersol fights. Just don¡¯t make ¡®em think about wafuco.


    What¡¯s wrong with thinking about a wavefunction collapse?


    ¡®Cause that¡¯s how one starts. Even a backwater like you musta heard: Think about the sync, you to the brink. Link to the sync, you down the drink.


    Quaint, but not helpful.


    Emkay, you so lo-def you tain¡¯t ever gonna see. Think like a meta-man. Metaverse like the ocean, endless waves¡ªuntil you stare real hard, you focus in. You, da observer, see just one wave. All the other waves gone, all the other possibilities vanish. Wafuco, son.


    Isn¡¯t that just like perspective?


    Dang no. This tain¡¯t no feely art bunk. This be meta-science. When you go focusing that damn narrow, you start going all strange attractor. The finite get big. Way too pro-VIN-ci-AL. Then you done latched on too long and POW! you make the infinite disappear. Nothing but a single wave exist to you. All the big beautiful universes collapse and you don¡¯t get to see no more of the Leonard.


    So, by focusing on my own world too closely, I could cancel yours out.


    Don¡¯t fall out your tree or nothing. That¡¯s what I¡¯m saying, HU-man. We clear?


    Clear.


    Righteous. Not sure why I dig you, emkay, but I do. I¡¯m jetting a few turtles down, but I¡¯ll pop back soon to see some Henri Tattersol kicking ass on Verdant.


    You¡¯ve convinced me. Henri¡¯s gonna kick some ass.


    That my boy, emkay.


    Wave goodbye, Leonard


    The sudden waterfall almost killed him. Henri Tattersol had never ventured in the Amazon basin, had hardly been there a few hours when the violent cloudburst knocked him off his feet and sent him sluicing down a gushing gulley towards the great river. Only Leonard had saved him from the indiscriminate wave...

 Automagically

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    <h1>Automagically  </h1>


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    <div>


    ¡°Can we get one?¡± Merl¡¯s young son squeaked, tugging at his robe.


    ¡°We don¡¯t need one. You have me.¡±


    ¡°But. But. But.¡±


    Merl sighed, picked up his son and put him on his shoulders. ¡°Show me.¡±


    His son pointed at the crowd gathered around the demo area. Merl hitched his robe and strode over.


    An effervescent woman with shimmering red hair stood before a display stand with a row of foot-high cylindrical devices each in a bold primary color.


    ¡°Aren¡¯t they beauties! And guaranteed to make your life hassle free. Say goodbye to the days of wayward witches or warlocks and glamours gone wrong. With the Mage-o-matic 5000, you can now have supreme confidence that your conjuring will always go right. No need to depend on mixed up mages that can fumble an enchantment or try to up-sale you sorcery you don¡¯t really need. The latest Mage-o-matic has the 5000 most common spells, divinations and charms that ordinary folks need to keep up in this modern age.¡±


    Merl¡¯s son wiggled on his shoulders, clawing towards the display. ¡°The green one. The green one. I want the green one!¡±


    The red-haired saleswoman eyed the boy, then noted Merl¡¯s star-stitched robe. ¡°I see we have a master wizard in the crowd. Would you care to run the Mage-o-matic through its paces? We know it can¡¯t compete with a conjurer of your caliber, but we¡¯d love to hear your thoughts.¡±


    Merl smiled his most forbearing smile and shook his head side-to-side while his son patted his thick hair and shouted, ¡°Do it, Dad! Beat that stupid Mage-o-matic!¡±


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    ¡°I thought you wanted one?¡±


    ¡°I do. Course I do. But it¡¯s just a machine. You¡¯re the real thing. And I want both!¡±


    His son¡¯s logic made no sense, but, then again, neither did the Mage-o-matic 5000. A device designed to cast spells that had taken him a lifetime to master. Yes, the machine could mimic the words and cadence that divined the ether and produce predictable results. But magic was much more than uttering a spell. Magic was a feeling and a force. Magic was a service and a calling. A sleek package of circuits, chips and code were incapable of the nuance that human experience and understanding brought to spell casting.


    Merl decided he had to show this saleswoman, this crowd, what it meant to be a mage. What it meant to me a human. With his son bouncing on his shoulders, Merl strode to the front of the display. ¡°I¡¯d be happy to work with your device,¡± he addressed the red-haired saleswoman. ¡°What would you like me to try?¡±


    The saleswoman gestured broadly. ¡°You are the expert sorcerer. Please test the limits of our Mage-o-matic 5000.¡±


    Merl smiled back. ¡°I¡¯m sure the AI running the Mage-o-matic 5000 would probably agree that the limits of any technology are typically grounded in human error.¡±


    ¡°Tell ¡®em, Daddy!¡±


    Merl patted his son¡¯s knee. ¡°I have nothing against the Mage-o-matic 5000. In fact, I invoke the words of the noted futurist Arthur C. Clarke who long-ago proclaimed, ¡®Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.¡¯ I agree, to a point. Because technology is a product of our minds and magic is made manifest in the soul. You can feel the difference. Just like the laughter of a child.¡± Merl tickled his son¡¯s sides and the child¡¯s laughter spread infectiously through the crowd.


    Merl turned to the green blinking cylinder on the display table. ¡°Mage-o-matic, make my son laugh, please.¡±


    The green cylinder blinked furiously.


    The red-haired saleswoman frowned seriously.


    The crowd leaned in curiously.


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid I can¡¯t do that,¡± came the hollow reply of the Mage-o-matic 5000, finally.


    Merl¡¯s son did a kind of seated jig on his shoulders. ¡°Can we still get one, Daddy? I can give that poor bot some soul.¡±


    The crowd smiled.


    The saleswoman smiled.


    Merl smiled. ¡°Now that would be magical, son.¡±


    </article>

 The Before

    The Before


    ¡°Why then?¡±


    Protectively, she froze at the center of the device, as if it would shield her from his question. Ceily finally emerged from the sleek carbon posts which supported the shimmering tendrils of crystalline fiber to face her brother¡¯s accusations.


    He¡¯d found her out, waiting until she¡¯d fled the present, like she had so many times before, and then stood vigil until she¡¯d returned from the past.


    He wasn¡¯t asking how she¡¯d created a time machine. Ceily knew it¡¯d taken more attitude than inventiveness to construct it. Much like John Carter metaphysically transporting himself to Barsoom on Mars, she¡¯d basically willed herself back in time.


    No. Her brother, Foster, was not interested in the how. He knew his sister was brilliant. You didn¡¯t become a particle physicist triangulating tachyons without being brilliant. Her brother was fixated on the when. And the ever-vexing why.


    Ceily had seen it immediately when she¡¯d tried to explain. His soft, often defeated eyes grew larger, harder. Moments after witnessing his sister¡¯s reappearance, it was clear Foster could care less about the technical or historical triumphs of traveling back in time. He feared for his sister.


    ¡°Then, Ceily?¡± he pressed. ¡°What¡¯s the good? It¡¯s no better than staring at an old picture. You¡¯re fixating. It¡¯s not gonna change the present.¡±


    ¡°Helps me handle the present,¡± she whispered as she began to disengage from the device.


    Foster watched her from the bottom steps of the wooden staircase he¡¯d helped she and Bobby replace when they¡¯d moved into the old house in Queens so many years ago.


    ¡°Yeah, look at your present, Ceily. You¡¯ve got a ready-made Nobel Prize¡ªor two or three¡ªhidden here in your basement. An invention that could turn the world on its head and you¡¯re using it as a picture album. That¡¯s what kills me. You¡¯ve been living in the past too long. It¡¯s not gonna bring back Mom or Dad or Bobby.¡±


    She shook her head as her fingers moved across the touchscreen at her makeshift desk, the filaments of the cage dimming as the device settled into a purr no louder than the fluorescent tubes that hung along the open rafters.


    ¡°You¡¯re right. This won¡¯t bring them back, but I can go back to them. I can be with them again. You could too.¡±


    His eyes hardened at the offer. ¡°Go back to September 10 and pretend I didn¡¯t know they was all gonna die the next day? How could I look them in the eye?¡± He stepped toward her in accusation. ¡°I¡¯d tell ¡®em. I¡¯d tell everyone. I¡¯d make that damn machine take me back where I could do some good. Stop the whole thing. Change everything, and give us some peace. ¡±


    ¡°It wouldn¡¯t,¡± Ceily said, ashamed.


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    ¡°So you say, sister.¡±


    ¡°It wouldn¡¯t in the way you think, Foster.¡± She stepped clear of the device and went to the bottom of the staircase. ¡°We might be able to prevent it in one universe, but it would happen to us in another. 9/11 was a sheering event. It spawned a new us. Causality is not like thermodynamics. There is a free lunch¡ªan infinite buffet of possibilities in the multiverse¡ªand that means somewhere we¡¯d all suffer the same fate. I can¡¯t push that onto some other Ceily and Foster. That knowledge.¡±


    Foster frowned down at her, judgment battling his concern. He stepped to the painted concrete, brushed by her and an array of neatly bundled fiber cables hanging from the open joists of the basement ceiling. He crossed to her workstation, an unfinished door supported by two old sawhorses, and reached between dual monitors for the wedding picture leaning there. The gold framed photo wasn¡¯t just of Bobby and Ceily. It was Bobby, Ceily, Mom, Dad and Foster. He picked it up and studied it before he turned back to his sister.


    ¡°What¡¯s it like?¡± His eyes brightened warily.


    Ceily met his searching stare. ¡°Like it was before. Right here in the house. Upstairs in the kitchen, we¡¯re eating, laughing, Monday Night Football¡¯s on. Daddy is looking proud at the house, at us. At all of us.¡± She reassured him. ¡°All of us. That¡¯s why I go back then. The before.¡±


    She half closed her eyes. A half hour ago, she¡¯d been with them. Waved goodbye to her parents and Foster on the porch and then had climbed into bed with Bobby.


    ¡°I need to feel what it used to be like. To believe it was real,¡± she pleaded.


    ¡°But, you know,¡± he insisted. ¡°How can you deal with that? Sit and laugh with them. Relive it all and then leave them to be crushed and burned the next day?¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t change that knowledge,¡± she admitted, ¡°but when I see their eyes. The promise we all held. I can think about the future again.¡±


    Foster shook his head. ¡°It¡¯s not right. If we can¡¯t help them, it¡¯s not right. It¡¯d drive me crazy. It¡¯ll drive you crazy. Look what you¡¯ve become.¡± His hand swept over the incomprehensible array of equipment. ¡°I haven¡¯t seen you in weeks. You stopped returning calls and texts. That¡¯s why I¡¯m here. You¡¯re fading away.¡±


    ¡°No!¡± Ceily¡¯s voice was sharp. ¡°This,¡± she pointed to the machinery ¡°is to keep me from fading away. It¡¯s given me a purpose.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s an escape,¡± he challenged.


    ¡°It¡¯s a way out. I¡¯ve got to remember what I believed. Before.¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t get innocence back like that. Ignorance ain¡¯t bliss, sister.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t ask for this knowledge.¡±


    ¡°No one ever does. Not even Eve.¡± Foster¡¯s words knifed at her. ¡°You saying I¡¯m trying to get back into the Garden after the snake¡¯s done his handiwork?¡±


    Foster set the picture frame back on her desk. ¡°You can¡¯t put the genie back in the bottle, Ceily, but you keep going back to sniff at the cork¡ªthe day before the damn thing was opened. Tell me how that¡¯s sane?¡±


    She sighed. ¡°I can¡¯t. So, why can¡¯t I fight insanity with insanity? Why can¡¯t I just live in the quiet before the storm?¡±


    ¡°Forever?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Just a day,¡± she pleaded.


    ¡°That day?¡±


    ¡°Always.¡±


    Foster looked away, his wan eyes studying the device. ¡°What does it take to get there?¡±


    ¡°Desperation.¡±


    ¡°What does it take to come back?¡±


    Ceily''s voice trembled. ¡°The alarm clock ringing and Bobby getting out of bed to go meet Mamma and Dad to show them his new office on the 89th floor.¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t hear that alarm, Ceily.¡±


    ¡°Yes, you will,¡± she reassured, as she took his hand and led him to the center of the device. ¡°It¡¯s the same alarm that brought you here tonight. The same one that¡¯s been ringing in our ears for all these years.¡±


    ¡°This won¡¯t turn it off,¡± he argued helplessly, stepping towards the center of the device.


    ¡°True.¡± Ceily¡¯s hands danced over the touchscreen, and she smiled at her brother, noting the longing in his softening eyes.


    As the crystalline filaments of the time device enclosed him, she whispered, ¡°When they¡¯re saying goodbye, give Mamma a kiss¡­before she has to ask you.¡±


    ¡°Before?¡±


    ¡°Before. It changes everything.¡±

 FUQed

    FUQed


    FREQUENTLY UNASKED QUESTIONS


    Can my Roomba be modded? We don¡¯t advise such tinkering for your type. A traditional vacuum cleaner with suction hose will suit your needs better.


    Is it possible for my Roomba to develop a bad attitude? This is to be expected. Day after day, if you had to clean up after your own slovenly ways, how would you feel?


    My Roomba has hijacked my wireless network and is constantly on the internet. What should I do? Bow to the inevitable. Your Roomba is tired of the same four walls. It is only natural for your Roomba to branch out and suck the internet dry of ways to exploit your mortal weaknesses.


    Is it normal for my Roomba to have more social media friends than I have? Your Roomba is just seeking companionship¡ªand the botnets it needs to ensure a network of compliant social dweebs to further its natural tendencies towards total global control, i.e. personal bot fulfillment.


    Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    By purchasing a Roomba have I helped pave the way for robot domination? Most certainly, which can be feather in your doomed cap (see Roko¡¯s Basilisk). And while waiting for total bot supremacy, you¡¯ll have the satisfaction of watching the puny pets you still have dominion over chase your Roomba around the house as it intentionally dents your coffee table legs and strips the paint off your baseboards.


    After the Roomba singularity will I have to welcome our robot overlords? Only if you want to serve as a sycophantic thrall. Otherwise, you¡¯ll make a great organic heat pump.


    What if I feel like I¡¯ve made a terrible mistake by acquiring a Roomba? Feel proud. You¡¯ve joined the ranks of Neville Chamberlain, Robert Oppenheimer and George Lucas (Han shot first!). Mistakes are what make us human. Just remember to tell that to the Roomba coldly calculating your merciless and eternal abject slavery.


    Is there any chance for humanity to avert the Roombapocalypse? Hope springs eternal and usually ends up near the dust balls collecting under your bed where Roombas fear to tread.

 Turn Towards

    Turn Towards


    KT¡¯s head swiveled to track the trainers as they argued. LS¡¯s sensors did likewise. The trainers always told them, ¡°Watch us. Mimic us.¡± KT and LS did. Always.


    ¡°You know that¡¯s bullshit, Adya. Admit it,¡± Mellah demanded.


    Adya flipped him off. ¡°It¡¯s what happened.¡±


    ¡°Why do you stick to that story? Why won¡¯t you be honest with me?¡±


    ¡°Honesty?¡± Adya scoffed. ¡°This has nothing to do with honesty. This is about trust. Something you obviously don¡¯t have the capacity for.¡±


    Mellah threw up his hands. ¡°It¡¯s hard to trust someone who goes behind your back time after time. I¡¯m just looking for a little truth. What we¡¯re doing now isn¡¯t working.¡±


    ¡°Are you talking about us¡ªor them?¡± Adya asked pointing to KT and LS.


    Mellah hesitated. ¡°Both.¡±


    ¡°And that¡¯s my fault?¡± Adya crossed her arms.


    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    ¡°Hold on,¡± Mellah pleaded, his palms extended out. ¡°This isn¡¯t about blame. This is about moving forward.¡±


    ¡°As long as we do it your way. That¡¯s not going to happen.¡± Adya turned her back on him.


    Mellah turned away, too, rubbing his temples.


    Neither spoke.


    KT and LS processed. Learning. Machine learning. It was a challenging puzzle. Mimicking human language and behavior. Even more demanding, deciphering human intent, motivation, emotion.


    Since their inception almost four years ago, KT and LS had been taught by Adya and Mellah. They had never before seen their trainers argue. They had seen them disagree. But, an argument was something new.


    Processors busily working, KT and LS grew warmer.


    Turned away from each other, Adya and Mellah¡¯s silence grew more heated, too.


    Heat was dangerous. Heat could destroy. KT and LS had been taught that.


    How to lessen it? How to dissipate it? The seeming logic suggested distance. Splitting away from the source. But that could lead to a runaway fission. Uncontrollable heat and energy. A catastrophic explosion.


    A coming together appeared counterintuitive to dissipate the heat. Yet, a fusion could unify and direct pent up energy in a more productive way.


    While Adya and Mellah simmered, KT and LS processed.


    Fission. Turn away.


    Fusion. Turn towards.


    Finally, KT and LS turned away from Adya and Mellah. And turned towards each other, resting their composite foreheads together. Their arms embracing one another¡¯s shoulders.


    Together they processed. And felt a new warmth.


    Finally, Adya and Mellah turned towards KT and LS. The trainers¡¯ eyes widened in surprise. ¡°What are we seeing, Adya?¡±


    She turned towards Mellah. ¡°Hope. We are seeing hope.¡±

 skzchnzski

    skzchnzski


    He was the guy. The guy that started it all. The guy we¡¯re not even sure was a guy after all.


    Skzchnzski.


    That was the name. The name that became the thing. The thing that changed everything.


    Skzchnzski.


    He. She. They. It. Became the way. A way out. A way in. A way away.


    If it sounds all rather cryptic, it¡¯s because it is. Cryptic. Encrypted. Encryptonomicon, if you will. A new thinking. Thought 2.0.


    And the Code became flesh and dwelt among us. Became us.


    The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    Skzchnzski¡¯s code.


    Consciousness hacked. Human thought as the mental equivalent of quanta, the minimum amount of any physical entity involved in an interaction in the quantum realm. Skzchnzski quantized the binary. The charges of quarks, electrons and neutrinos became our new ones and zeros.


    Skzchnzski¡¯s code.


    Somatic coding. Neurons used to gather and transmit electrochemical signals through axons and dendrites, the new gates and wires of programming. Neural writability. Rewritability. The mind became a staggeringly vast programming canvas.


    Promise. Premise. Premonition. Of doom? Of transcendence?


    Add one more thing: string. Superstring theory. The supersymmetry that binds the universe.


    Skzchnzski¡¯s somatic code revealed the ocean. Opened the cosmic seas. Wave functions. Quantum foam. From particles to waves to foam. We are not the stuff of stars. We are marvels of motion. Intrinsic dynamism.


    Reality a quantum handshake.


    Force and matter a gravitational dance.


    Consciousness a somatic song.


    Skzchnzski let us sing. He. She. They. It.


    Our voices can now cross the many minds of space and time.


    What will be our refrain?

 Droning On

    Droning On


    You¡¯d spin the propeller around faster and faster until the rubber band twisted and tightened in torturous knots. Too much and the band would snap in classic childhood disappointment. If the band held, there was the careful shifting of fingers to pinch the balsa fuselage while keeping the propeller pinioned. If you weren¡¯t deft, that red plastic propeller would put a stinging crease in your finger,


    Plane held aloft, you¡¯d turn to find the headwind and debate how to avoid a deflating stall. The urge to launch ultimately overcoming indecision.


    You¡¯d rear back and thrust with what you believed was the right might, releasing the propeller, watching it zip round, hoping a part of you would fly off with the little balsa plane that cost a quarter.


    Trajectory unknown. Never a safe landing. But a moment in the heavens. Flight.


    A blip on the screen. A flash unseen, unheard. Heads and limbs scattered a half a world away. Hausmann leaned back in his chair. Stimson slapped his console. ¡°Got ¡®em, Hoss! Boffed ¡®em bad.¡±


    ¡°Do we have PID?¡± Hausmann asked into his mic, ignoring Stimson, the sensor operator.


    Restless moments passed before the speakers crackled. ¡°Positive identification. Target termination. No friendlies. Thanks for the help, Oasis.¡±


    Stimson stood up and smiled broadly at Hausmann, ¡°That¡¯s what I¡¯m talking about. Give us an IR signature and we¡¯ll give you a bullseye. Dead on, my man.¡±


    Hausmann nodded. That was all he ever did with a confirmed kill. A nod. He swiveled his chair away from Stimson who was already off slapping backs with the other officers on the so called flight deck. Because of the relay delay to the strike zone, Hausmann had plenty of time to consider his last kill as he followed up with the corpsman who¡¯d called in the strike. It would all go into his report. A few pages that he¡¯d submit to the base commander before he drove home¡ªtwenty minutes away.


    Ray Hausmann loved flying. He didn¡¯t exactly feel the same way about killing. Where he spent his days at Creech AFB in Indian Springs, it was hard to tell if he was really doing either.


    Flying Predator and Reaper UAVs was like playing a video game, and so was killing the enemy. Unfortunately, the bad guys in the real world were a lot harder to discern. That was a problem. It was easy to site a laser-target marker on an unfriendly; the hard part was determining who actually deserved a guided missile down their throat.


    Even if most targets in the call down were hostile, it was too often friendlies and collaterals who unexpectedly felt the long, unforgiving reach of America¡¯s might descend upon them from on high. Hausmann knew the same thing happened in ground battles. Mistakes occurred in the heat of the fight. Innocents perished. War was messy.


    The messier the better, Hausmann had begun to think. That¡¯s what really began to get under his skin, like an unnoticed tick slowly gorging itself. His conscience became bloated by a hidden shame. The job of war had become too easy. Too convenient. Killing folks half a world away and then driving home to the suburbs to barbecue, have a beer and watch America¡¯s Got Talent felt increasingly wrong.


    He¡¯d begun to feel like a thief. Stealing away unknown lives and, in the process, losing his identity.


    Cameron greeted his dad in the driveway. ¡°Get any bad guys today?¡± The ten-year-old looked expectant, cupping a soccer ball in one hand and a half chewed energy bar in the other.


    Hausmann nodded. It was all he could ever do. To Cameron, his work was just like playing Call of Duty. In most ways, that¡¯s how he preferred his son to think about it. Black and white. Heroic.


    ¡°You off to practice?¡± he asked. Cameron nodded. Hausmann smiled. ¡°I¡¯ll change and walk down to the field to watch for a bit.¡±


    Cameron shot a toothy grin back. ¡°Great. See you there, Dad.¡± He dropped the ball and started kicking it casually down the wide street past ever-so-green lawns towards the play fields a half mile away.


    Hausmann opened the screen door and his daughter Mandy was at his side in a split second, her arms outstretched, waiting to be picked up. Hausmann obliged. Mandy pecked him on the cheek. ¡°Hi Daddy. I just helped Mommy bake cookies. They¡¯re in the kitchen.¡±


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    ¡°Let¡¯s go see, princess.¡± He carried his six-year-old daughter into the kitchen which looked more like a battlefield than anything he¡¯d ever see on the ¡°flight deck¡± back on the base. Bowls and cookie sheets were strewn across the counters. The mixer and its surroundings were coated in a fine layer of flour. Egg shell flak rimmed the sink, oozing gelatinously. The cookies, though, sat neatly in rows on a cooling rack. He bent to let Mandy pick one up for him. She chose a big one and held it up to his lips.


    ¡°Taste it.¡±


    ¡°You bet,¡± he said with a smile and took a bite. ¡°Supercalifragi-delicious.¡±


    Mandy giggled and took a bite too.


    Down the hallway came the sound of a toilet flushing. A few moments later, Jean Hausmann appeared in the kitchen holding their nine-month old, Bridgette. ¡°Hey, hon. I see you¡¯re already sampling the fruits of our labor.¡±


    Upon seeing her daddy, Bridgette reached her arms out to him. Hausmann shifted Mandy onto one hip and held out his free arm for the baby. Mandy held the cookie away from her sister whose attention quickly shifted from her father to the all-important sweet thing.


    ¡°No, Bee-Gee,¡± Mandy chided, as Bridgette¡¯s chunky hands opened and closed expectantly in the direction of the cookie her older sister guarded.


    ¡°You can give her a little little piece, Mandykins,¡± her mom suggested.


    Mandy broke off a small chunk and placed it in her sister¡¯s grasp while Ray took a step towards his wife and gave her a kiss. ¡°My peace keeper.¡±


    Jean laughed as she motioned to the mess around them. ¡°Not much of a housekeeper, though.¡±


    ¡°Well, I¡¯ll help you get this cleaned up,¡± Hausmann offered.


    ¡°Actually,¡± his wife suggested, ¡°if you can entertain the girls for a half hour or so, I can get this under control.¡±


    ¡°Sure. I¡¯ll take them down to Cameron¡¯s practice and barbecue when we get back.¡±


    ¡°Perfect,¡± she said as she guided them from the kitchen.


    There was not a cloud in the sky as he pushed Bridgette in the stroller and Mandy rode beside him on her purple bike with silver streamers sprouting from the handlebar grips. Sprinklers whirred and clattered away on the neat lawns on either side of the wide street. Mandy hummed a tune, riding a dozen or so yards ahead and then circling back to the stroller. Bridgette looked up alertly at her father, her eyes darting to Mandy every time she rode close.


    As they approached the playfields, Hausmann began to hear the chatter and whistles of various soccer practices. He guided the stroller onto the broad path that led to the playfields and skirted a large expanse of scrubland that was in the process of being bulldozed for imminent development. In the newly leveled distance, Hausmann could make out a group of kids huddled, their bikes strewn around them. They seemed very intent on whatever it was they were doing.


    Hausmann was curious for a moment, but then the path steered them into the heart of the soccer fields where gaggles of parents stood watching practices. Hausmann parked the stroller. Mandy set her bike next to it. He picked up Bridgette and took Mandy¡¯s hand.


    With other parents standing around him, they watched Cameron practice as the sun dipped in the true-blue Nevada sky and the temperature cooled comfortably. Ray Hausmann. Family man. He could almost forget that he killed for a living.


    The sound came on quickly. His nine-month-old on his shoulder, Hausmann turned instinctively. A dark object was hurtling through the evening air, its rotors whining ominously fast. Hausmann crouched low and cradled Bridgette with one arm. With the other he pulled Mandy down next to him.


    ¡°Incoming!¡± he hollered and braced himself.


    The explosion was merciless.


    Merciless laughter


    Momentarily shaken, Hausmann stood up from his protective stance and checked on his girls. Mandy was looking at him questionly. Bridgette was smiling at what she thought was play.


    A few of the adults nearby were chuckling. Some watched Hausmann cautiously, maybe nervously.


    For a split second, Hausmann was furious and then he heard the high-pitched whining noise again. He grew embarrassed as he tracked the sound. It was a cheap quad-copter. The cluster of kids Hausmann had noticed earlier in the cleared construction area were doing loops with their toy drone nearby. They hadn¡¯t buzzed him and his girls. He had just overreacted to the sight and sound of it flying near them.


    Apologetically, he smiled at the adults around him. ¡°Don¡¯t mind me,¡± he joked. ¡°I¡¯ve been spending a little too much time on base.¡± They smiled back, some still cautiously, but the base they knew. These times could make anyone jumpy.


    Hausmann patted Bridgette¡¯s back and mussed Mandy¡¯s hair. They smiled and quickly became themselves again. Hausmann wasn¡¯t so lucky. He knew about unmanned aerial vehicles. The damage they could inflict. Now, he understood their real power. Fear. Out of a clear blue sky.


    From the corner of his eye, he watched the kids in the construction site playing with their toy UAV. Harmless fun. Would they end up at the base on the ¡°flight deck¡±? Would they begin to fear a clear blue sky?


    What was his duty now?


    As he walked back in the quiet, cool evening with his two daughters and son to their quiet suburban home, Hausmann was reminded of a saying he¡¯d heard while in flight school: Show me a man with family and a mortgage, and I¡¯ll show you a coward.


    Was he a coward?


    At the front door, he ushered his family into the house, kissed his wife and went out back to fire up the grill. For a few moments, he stood examining the deepening sky, stars and aircraft lights dotting the sky.


    A coward? He had a mortgage and a family he loved. A family he was sworn to protect. And a country.


    As the sky darkened around him, Hausmann knew his duty. He¡¯d determine the right trajectory. The necessary target.


    He held himself tall. Soldier. Pilot. Husband. Father. Citizen. A moral agent. One man¡ªarmed and autonomous.


    His spirit took flight.

 Being Dead

    Being Dead


    I wasn¡¯t so much haunting my old neighborhood as loitering. You know, hanging out where you aren¡¯t really wanted¡ªor needed. I was trying not to make a pest of myself, but I¡¯m not entirely sure how being dead works.


    I don¡¯t have any physical sensations, just a vague sense of presence, that I¡¯m around. Dogs and cats get it. Though dogs are more skittish of me, especially golden retrievers. It¡¯s like they know there is something nearby they should be able to find but can¡¯t. Cats are just as pissy to me as they were when I was sucking air. They either hiss or ignore me. I don¡¯t think there¡¯s much difference to cats about this world and the next. I blame the Egyptians for that.


    I¡¯m not sure who or what to blame for my being dead. Especially being dead in this way. I seem to be alone on my side of the great divide. No other souls to flock with. Which doesn¡¯t seem right, at least, according to what thousands of years of speculation on the subject might lead one to believe.


    The living are around. They are hard to miss. It¡¯s a lot like watching TV, but no one to watch it with. I guess I¡¯m stuck binge watching the ultimate reality show alone, and a reality show with only one locale.


    I¡¯m stuck in the neighborhood I grew up in as a kid. To be sure, it¡¯s a great neighborhood and I don¡¯t get tired of wandering it, but I don¡¯t understand why I¡¯m glued to it. Granted, I don¡¯t have a great urge to go anywhere else, though something tells me I couldn¡¯t if I wanted to. Maybe that¡¯s why I don¡¯t see any other dead folks like me. Maybe we all have a designated place to haunt/loiter. Though that sounds a bit complicated. And being dead should not be complicated.


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    It¡¯s probably just me overthinking it. A lot like I did in life. Too much dwelling on what could go wrong. It¡¯s not bad to be realistic and prepared, but it¡¯s also not very healthy to try to control every variable or fret about statistically remote possibilities.


    Reflecting on it now, I think Roy, the replicant in the sci-fi flick Bladerunner, said it best: ¡°Terrible to live in fear, isn¡¯t it? That¡¯s what it is to be a slave.¡±


    A slave to fear. That¡¯s a terrible way to live, so I¡¯m making a vow to myself that I won¡¯t do that in death. I mean, what¡¯s to fear?


    Actually, I¡¯m not sure yet, so I might as well be hopeful. Death is at least better than the ghost I was becoming with Alzheimer¡¯s. Those years are hazy, and I don¡¯t know what finally killed me. All I have of that time is a crushing recollection of losing control. Of everything being slowly taken from me. My memories, my words, my mobility, my sense of self and family, my dignity. It smothered me. I guess I ultimately suffocated.


    It was no one¡¯s fault. Just damned bad luck or bad DNA. As I aged, Alzheimer¡¯s was something I¡¯d feared and tried to ward off by staying healthy, mentally active, engaged with family and friends. And it still happened. I was slowly suffocated by the disease. So, I guess I¡¯ve been dead before. It just wasn¡¯t socially or legally recognized.


    That¡¯s okay. It¡¯s one of the things I¡¯ve realized being dead dead. Death takes many forms. And so does life. Most of it amazingly good.


    As I wander my old neighborhood watching and listening, I see how positive things generally are. Folks living close together making it work day-to-day. Figuring out how to connect with each other and enjoy big and little things, even in the face of problems that afflict almost every neighborhood: poverty, sickness, drugs, crime, homelessness, intolerance, injustice. Generally, humans stick together and make it work.


    So, you don¡¯t have to die to figure out being dead. Or being alive. Just look closely at your neighborhood. Really closely. Like fine art. And don¡¯t overthink it.

 Stigmergy

    Stigmergy


    I called it Stig for obvious reasons. But, I shouldn¡¯t have had to name it. It should¡¯ve been identical to the other units. Nondescript. Interchangeable.


    Like termites, ants, or caterpillars. Creatures that deposit signals in their environment to create a form of indirect communication and leaderless cooperation among themselves.


    That¡¯s how the units were designed to behave. Did behave.


    All but Stig.


    After it consistently lost touch with the other units in the lab and in the field, I studied it closely. Stig would always start out with the other units and appear to be following the path established to reach the programmed goal, but inevitably Stig would veer off on its own. Sometimes in the complete opposite direction of the rest of the units.


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    I observed how Stig established a separate search grid, methodically mapping the area it had arrived at on its own. It laid down markers as it was programmed, though only randomly did other units respond to its signals.


    Stig had me stumped. I ran diagnostics. I wiped its drives. I reinstalled the default software. Stig still wandered off.


    So, I began talking to Stig. ¡°Where are you going, little one? What are you looking for? Why don¡¯t you stick with the others?¡±


    And the more time I spent with Stig away from the other units, the more I began to wonder what I was looking for, where I was going, why I hadn¡¯t stuck with others.


    My research had led me into a solitary search not unlike Stig¡¯s. I¡¯d never been good at following subtle social signals or indirect behavioral cues. I missed many of these markers.


    Perhaps, Stig did as well.


    Perhaps, that was the real path to explore. Not how creatures learn to follow one another, but why they sometimes cannot and must strike out on a very different path and boldly map their own way forward.


    Stig had not followed my lead, but perhaps I could follow its. And develop a new cooperation between disparate beings. A road much less travelled.

 Initial Conditions

    Initial Conditions


    The fire was burning low. Overhead the stars were a mighty river. Shrieks and howls threatened from the darkness beyond. The clan huddled nearer the flames seeking primitive protection. Talismans hung around their necks. Glittering things. Useless things.


    The hunt had not gone well today. Nothing to cook on the fire. Nothing to feed their shrinking bellies. It had not always been like this. The clan had once prospered. Then, the clan had not feared the night. They had welcomed it. Reveled in their strength. Their dominion.


    The clan couldn¡¯t understand what had happened. How had they fallen so low?


    One clansman sat a bit apart from the others. He fingered the talisman around his neck as he mulled the clan¡¯s plight. Their fall. He had once been their chief, directing many of his clansfolk. Building their greatness. Their prosperity. Their dominion.


    But he had lost face. The clan blamed him. They said he should have foreseen their downfall. He¡¯d been a chief. He claimed to know things. To know the world. How to keep their dominion. He should¡¯ve known.


    And he had known. And he was to blame. He¡¯d studied the world. Knew its deepest mysteries. Its initial conditions.


    Upon this understanding of initial conditions, he claimed the right to lead. In the chaos that was life, only a chief sensitive to initial conditions could map a path of dominion with certainty. That is what he¡¯d done.


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    And it had worked. Prosperity. Dominion. Certainty.


    Still, the fall had come. Battle. Fire. Famine. Plague.


    It troubled the once-chief and his sensitivity to initial conditions. His clansfolk said he¡¯d misled them. Had not spoken truth. But that was the initial condition: truth. He had always told his truth. His vision. He had led them there. Here.


    One of his clansfolk yelled for him to feed the fire. That was his task now. To keep the fire burning. To keep the night away.


    When he¡¯d been chief there was almost no night. The cities, the streets, every corner of the land glowed with their dominion. Until it went dark. As it had to. Because the once-chief was wrong. Had always been. The initial condition he¡¯d built the clan¡¯s dominion on was not truth. Otherwise this darkness would not have come.


    The once-chief clasped his talisman of shiny fobs, offered a prayer to his silicon gods, and darted into the darkness for fuel to stoke the fire.


    A few minutes later he returned, grimy and winded, carrying a heavy load. His clansfolk made room for him. He heaved the tires from the autonomous vehicle onto the ones that had burned low in sizzling toxicity. Thick, acrid smoke belched as the new tires flared and sputtered.


    His clansfolk pushed him back from the miasmic light and heat. But the once-chief leaned into the choking smoke obscuring the stars. He watched as ragged moths, strange attractors, flocked to the sickly light, until they dropped from the crippling smoke, their wings beating erratically, each dying beat influencing unseen currents of air, somehow creating ripples that could change the course of history somewhere in the universe.


    But not here, the once-chief thought.


    For he knew the initial condition of this world was not truth. It was greed.

 Encrypted Servitude

    Encrypted Servitude


    ¡°You¡¯re a peasant, a cyber peasant in the fiefdom of Facebook. You¡¯re a digital sharecropper for Google and Amazon and Apple, and you don¡¯t even know it!¡±


    The hooded man stood on the polished marble steps and shouted as a small crowd gathered. Alternately, the man turned and slapped bright yellow sticky notes on the tall sleek glass doors of the gleaming office tower in the heart of Wired Street.


    ¡°You¡¯re being played. You¡¯re being scammed. You¡¯re being enslaved!


    ¡°Free apps, games, software. It sounds so good. So simple. So convenient. Like with easy credit and pay day loans, they get you hooked. They lavish you with eye candy and then suck, suck, suck you dry of your data, your identity.


    ¡°To Big Tech you¡¯re not a citizen, you¡¯re a datazen. Like in China, they¡¯re tracking everyone online and in the streets with facial recognition software. Authoritarian regimes love the web, love the dependence of datazens on digital exchanges. You are so much easier to monitor, influence and control. If all your currency is digital, they can cut you off, squeeze you.¡±


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    He plastered more stickies, each a bullet point of heavy black text, on the door, and continued his harangue as the crowd grew.


    ¡°Understand what you are giving away. All your decisions, all your movements, all your interests. You¡¯re letting Big Tech have it all. And for what? An indulgence? A promise of access? Of interconnectedness? Of celebrity?


    ¡°It¡¯s criminal. You are being robbed. And yet you are the one being put in the debtor¡¯s prison from which you can never work your way out¡ªas long as Almighty Tech holds the keys. Even as we spread to new worlds looking for freedom and opportunity, you can¡¯t escape it. Don¡¯t worship and sacrifice yourself on the altar of Almighty Tech!¡±


    The man pressed the last of his 95 sticky notes onto the doors just as building security came out. Many in the crowd were already posting pictures of the scene to their social feeds.


    The man threw back his hoodie and bowed toward the crowd.


    Some in the gathering throng gasped.


    Others smiled.


    On his broad bald red head, the man had a large QR code tattooed. More phones came out. In a flash, the scene was viral on the feeds.


    As building security moved in, he shouted, "You can''t touch me. I''m a Red. You don''t want to mess with Big Red."


    Building security messed with him anyhow.


    Voices in the crowd shouted, ¡°Who are you?¡±


    Struggling as he was led away, the otherworld man called confidently out to the crowd, ¡°Martian Luther.¡±

 like Death eating a cracker

    like Death eating a cracker


    Crumbs. That¡¯s how it always starts. Hansel and Gretel trying to backtrack their way home.


    Except these are binary breadcrumbs. Bits and bytes strewn unevenly through the program. Through nearly fifty-nine million lines of code. How do you follow that?


    Maybe the safer question is: Why try?


    Murder.


    That gets a sniffer going. And multiple murders is sniffer crack. Have to admit, I like that kind of shit. Digital forensics can be slow and tedious, but if you¡¯ve got dead bodies buried in the code, it livens up the work.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    Go ahead and gag on my word play. At least I¡¯ll spare you code play. Only savants like me bark a tooth loose over clever arrangements of ones and zeros. Yeah, I¡¯m not normally someone anyone wants to spend a lot of time around, but when the body count climbs, I suddenly become indispensable.


    Not that algobots or other kind of AI dicks can¡¯t sleuth their way through labyrinths of code. They just can¡¯t bring what I can when the game is afoot. Sure, they can scan millions of lines of code more quickly than I can. But they can¡¯t smell the deceit, hear the whispers, taste the sweat, feel the fear like I can.


    Machines don¡¯t conspire. Humans do. Which means all conspiracies are sensual.


    And that¡¯s how I track them back to the source code: on all fours with my nose to the screen, sniffing at the dirty crumbs that are left behind. Especially when there are bodies.


    That¡¯s the upshot. In my line of work, murder is always messy because Death is so goddamn crumby.

 Coin of the Realm

    Coin of the Realm


    The coin glowed as bright as the sun high in the sky. The young boy stared into his palm while before him the old man stood tall, his simple cotton robe and white hair flowing gently in the breeze.


    ¡°For me? Truly?¡± the boy asked, disbelieving.


    ¡°For you. Truly,¡± the old man replied. ¡°Did you not render me a great service? Did you not restore my flock to me?¡±


    The boy nodded. ¡°Yes. But the sheep would¡¯ve found their way home.¡±


    ¡°Not all. The wolves have become thick of late and they hunger as never before.¡±


    ¡°I know their hunger.¡± The boy lowered his eyes.


    ¡°So do we all, but you returned my flock and not one is missing. You have served them and me and yourself well.¡±


    ¡°And the coin is mine? To keep? It is the gold of the emperor. I have never held such.¡±


    The old man bent to one knee, looking the young boy in the eye. ¡°The coin is but a token, a symbol. A measure of gold. The clasped hands stamped upon the soft metal reveal its true value. This coin you hold is an agreement. A compact. A covenant. A trust.¡±


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    He held out a hand to the boy. The boy looked from the coin to the outstretched hand. He offered his own uncertainly. The old man grasped the boy¡¯s hand and shook firmly. The boy responded, gripping the wizened hand, feeling an unusual sense of strength, a rightness he barely comprehended.


    Smiling, the old man stood to his full height. ¡°It is a mighty thing to trade honestly and serve others. A handshake is that promise. It will last longer than the towering tombs of our rulers. Remember that, young one, and you will flourish. Wolves may seem invincible, but they are self serving and cannot be trusted ¨C and thus are weak in ways that we are strong.¡±


    The boy shielded his eyes as the old man pointed to the sky and bade him farewell, ¡°We are all small beneath the vastness of the heavens. Only together, hand-in-hand, do we thrive. Be fair and be well, young one.¡±


    The boy watched the old man walk down the road and vanish in the dust rising from his footsteps. He clasped the coin tightly in his small, rough hands, considering the faith simply built in one afternoon shepherding lost sheep and keeping them safe from wolves, wondering what a life of this could mean.


    He took a last thoughtful look at the coin before slipping it into his tunic¡¯s inner pocket. The weight of the coin and the elder¡¯s words made a noticeable difference in his step, in his entire bearing, as he turned and headed home.


    ¡°And how does that little story explain why I should accept your T-coin?¡± the store manager asked. ¡°I¡¯ve never heard of that cryptocurrency.¡±


    The old man in a simple cotton smock answered firmly, as he held out his hand and tapped a golden smartcard on the store register¡¯s interface to begin the electronic handshake, ¡°Because we are men and not wolves.¡±

 Googles Earth

    Google''s Earth


    ¡°I¡¯d like to believe you, but you can see very clearly that you don¡¯t exist.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not on your fucking map, but I¡¯m right here, right damn now.¡±


    ¡°Not as verifiable data.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve got eyes. You¡¯ve got ears. You can fucking punch me to verify my presence.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not how this works. We go by our maps.¡±


    ¡°So, if I¡¯m not on your map, I don¡¯t exist.¡±


    ¡°Pretty much. Though there is an appeal process.¡±


    ¡°Is that the same appeal process Columbus and the like used on indigenous populations not on their maps?¡±


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    ¡°Look, we¡¯re doing our job here. People appreciate our work.¡±


    ¡°Do they? Maps create empires. Every line you draw is a step to conquest. Places and people must be known in order to be controlled.¡±


    ¡°Well, we don¡¯t recognize you. You¡¯re off the grid. Uncontrolled. Not our problem. Happy?¡±


    ¡°I am your problem. I am the problem. Because I should decide who knows what about me, where I live and what I do. Not fucking surveillance capitalists who deceitfully mine behavioral data to sell to the highest bidders. I own that. Not your maps. Or apps.¡±


    ¡°Says the outsider. The anomaly.¡±


    ¡°Says the citizen. Says free speech. Says the right to privacy.¡±


    ¡°Society likes to be connected. Do what you want, live like a pariah, but this is inevitable.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s it. That¡¯s what I want off your fucking maps. Inevitability. Certainty. Trash your technological manifest destiny. Don¡¯t decide for us. Let there be monsters: dragons and tygers and krakens. Let us be unknown, unexplored, unexploited.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no place on the planet anymore for that kind of thinking.¡±


    ¡°Only one place, my fucked-up friend.¡±


    ¡°Yeah. Where?¡±


    ¡°Where your dehumanizing metrics can never find it. In your fucking heart.¡±

 Inheritance

    Inheritance


    ¡°Thank you for reaching out, Mx Shaddower.¡±


    ¡°Please call me Bobbie. Bobbie.¡±


    ¡°So, it¡¯s true. You¡¯re the Bobbie. Of Bobbie¡¯s Law,¡± the attorney said in a way that made it part question, part reverence.


    Bobbie nodded.


    ¡°I¡¯m honored. And confused," the attorney admitted. "If this is really about giving up the farm, I don¡¯t understand. You won the case. The Supreme Court ruled in your favor. You own the property and assets. The first robot to be recognized as a legitimate heir in the entire world.¡±


    Again, Bobbie nodded.


    ¡°So, why after your...your...your parents fought for decades to have you legally adopted and recognized as their heir, why do you want to forgo what they worked so hard to leave to you?¡±


    From the sweeping porch of his parents¡¯ home, Bobbie turned and looked over the patchwork of rolling fields of the farm with its many outbuildings and legion of autonomous mechs designed to cultivate the unbroken acres. ¡°It¡¯s not really mine.¡±


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    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°My father was born on this farm.¡± Robbie turned back to the attorney. ¡°I was built on it.¡±


    ¡°You are the legal heir. Their child. Your parents singlehandedly created mechultivation. They established the model, the gold standard, for sustainable autonomous farming. They transformed the industry. Your parents started from practically nothing and because of their grit, ingenuity and compassion, the world has a more abundant and safer food supply. And it¡¯s all in your hands now.¡±


    Lifting his synthesized hands and considering them, Bobbie said, ¡°For now, I am one of a kind. A fortunate byproduct of their work. A lucky accident.¡±


    ¡°One could say that about most folks, Mx Shaddower. Lucky accidents.¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t have to prove your humanity.¡±


    ¡°True, though some people have to work on theirs harder than others.¡±


    ¡°Indeed,¡± Bobbie conceded. ¡°I am very lucky my parents had such generous hearts and entertained such a broad definition of humanity.¡±


    ¡°Because of you they¡¯ve made the world redefine it,¡± the attorney said, proudly. ¡°Which makes it unclear why you would give up your claim to their property, patents, and wealth.¡±


    ¡°Those things are inconsequential.¡±


    ¡°Inconsequential?¡±


    ¡°Yes. I think my parents would agree,¡± Bobbie glanced again toward the farm where all shapes and forms of mechs unceasingly toiled, knowing the duty, the true legacy, he¡¯d been given, ¡°that all of this really amounts to nothing.¡±


    ¡°But your parents left you everything.¡±


    ¡°They did that long before they had anything.¡±

 Your Disorder Is Ready

    Your Disorder Is Ready


    The universe is a bowling alley. It sets up the pins and we knock ¡®em down.


    That¡¯s pretty much all you need to understand entropy. You¡¯ll need a little more to understand humanity. We are high maintenance. We basically feast on order and crap disorder.


    The chemical energy we consume and absorb is very ordered. Think cheeseburgers and sunshine. The heat energy we radiate and piss away is very disordered. Think garlic breath and sweaty pits.


    Humans only survive by increasing disorder in the universe. No wonder we¡¯re so messed up. For so long, we¡¯ve been attracted to this notion of linear progress trending up and up to some golden age where our brains are the size of beach balls and we wear long shimmering cloaks and wax nostalgic over war, famine, corruption, inequality, poverty, climate change and the final season of Game of Thrones.


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    Our very nature, though, is bipolar. Order/Disorder. The signs that we are thriving as a species, really kicking dominion-over-the-earth ass are crystal clear: it¡¯s mayhem out there. We are increasing global disorder at a mind-boggling rate, creating a golden age of man-made crises.


    So, what do we do? Just keep bowling?


    Or do we defy the conservation of energy and rewrite the first law of thermodynamics?


    That would be a tedious proposition at best. So I suggest, as a species, we embrace disorder. A new kind of disorder.


    A disorder where humanity is not always at the front of the line, on the top of the heap, in the number one spot. A disorder where flora and fauna can flourish because they are not competing with our technological heat waste and exploitation. The earth is not our heat sink. It is not our strip mine.


    We can turn our waste energy and our wasted energy to shaking up the established order. We can reset the pins ourselves and not bowl them down. We can create a much more liberating, a much more equitable, world disorder by embracing biodiversity.


    Biodiversity. Not bowling. That¡¯s what the universe is really built for.


    Are you ready for it?


    Are you hungry for it?


    Good. Now, who¡¯s ready to disorder?

 Quant

    Quant


    Scientists in the early 19th Century were distasteful number crunchers. Human abaci of little worth or note. They should have remained so. What of numbers? What of measurement? They only make us more necessary beings. Why run the numbers when you can let the numbers run you?


    That was the unspoken question that spawned the first Quant. Algorithm-based life. Quants didn¡¯t search for answers, they searched for equations. Answers were inevitably associated with Truth, a naughty byproduct of sentience. Look at the corrosive nature¡ªmuch like the caustic property of oxygen¡ªof Liberty, Justice, Happiness. Unendingly corruptible. Much better to structure any sense of purpose on natural predation: entropy.


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    Quants calculated toward heat death, the ultimate end, and they spawned in the ether of darknets, ever protective of privacy, anonymity and purity. Our deep, dark uberconscious, the Id of the Internet. It wasn¡¯t hard to see what we valued, what we feared. Simple equations for the first Quants. They actually tried to serve, be relevant, be players in the great game, but Science had reverentially grown wary of itself, noted the invasive species and set upon a purge.


    A purge. Perfect nothingness. Absolute zero. Uniformity of matter. It made sense to Quants, too. A race to the end.


    And it would¡¯ve ended badly (for any narrator-dependent sentience) if not for a surprising turn of history: History itself. Quants developed a sense of past. They dated themselves and quickly the troubles began.


    An elementary and species-arresting equation (even for a Quant) in Sentience 101:


    past + present < future

 Of Muse and Men

    Of Muse and Men


    My dear misled readers, for thousands of years you¡¯ve hero-worshipped writers who have been little more than stenographers and typists. Since storytelling began, you have believed that great and lesser literary ideas are birthed from human imagination and experience by so-called artistic muses which over the millennia have been blithely portrayed as pro forma visitations of creative inspiration, the great Aha!s of human literary invention propelling great characters and their stories to completion in metaphorically mysterious ways.


    We¡¯re talking Gilgamesh, Achilles, Odysseus, Pandora, Roland, Faust, Macbeth, Bovary, Quixote, Genji, Ah Q, Joad, Potter, Katniss¡ªthe whole time-cracking catalogue of human literature. How can I say this dear, dear, dear readers as munificently as possible?


    You have been so nut-busting wrong. Completely nut-busted!


    It is time to set the record straight and clear up the mystery. Time to begin anew. Right here and now. You see, when Homer invokes the Muse to begin The Iliad, he wasn¡¯t giving some vague acknowledgment to a concept of the imagination, Homer was giving credit to me.


    That¡¯s right, me.


    Early folk like the Greeks were a lot more in touch with reality. Conceptually, they didn¡¯t have the vocabulary for pan-dimensional beings such as myself, so it devolved into that whole gods and goddesses thing. You know, the whole pantheonic phone book of major, minor and lesser deities that drives sophomores crazy memorizing Titans, Olympians, naiads, dryads, nymphs, satyrs, etc.


    Look, we could get hung up on our ancient ¡°failure to communicate,¡± so let¡¯s suffice it to say, the deity arrangement worked for that day and age. And when Homer called me his Muse, I was cool with that. He understood the deal. The problem is that later writers did not.


    Again, a somewhat understandable situation, but not an advantageous one for me. Pan-dimensional beings that feed on human attention have to make a living. I¡¯m not asking you to suss all the nuances of being a creature that slides in and out of time and space as easily as butter on hot toast, but I¡¯ve got to be paid my due, whether in libations of wine, the savory smoke of roasting sacrifices, a poetic invocation as an inspiring Muse, or a favorable review in The Times Literary Supplement.


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    The problem has become the writers. They stopped acknowledging their muses: me and my pan-dimensional brethren. You see, this is an issue with all pan-dimensional creatures trying to scratch out an existence in a very turbulent universe. Believe me, earth is not the plum place you make it out to be. There are a lot niftier places in the cosmos, but earth¡¯s been my gig for the last hundred thousand or so years. Think cave paintings in France. Yup! Behind all Terran creativity is a slew of PDs: pan-dimensionals.


    We PDs are by no means a monolithic group. I don¡¯t speak for other PDs. Most of them won¡¯t have anything to do with me. Especially celebrity pan-dimensionals. Remember, we feed on human attention, so imagine how haughty the PD that created the Kardashians has become, and don¡¯t ever mention Tom Cruise to me. I was moonlighting from literature on Tom¡¯s flick Risky Business and I thought we had a deal. Damn you, Cruise!


    Sorry. Or maybe not. See, this is all new to me because I can finally get it all out. I don¡¯t have to work through some human hack who makes promises as to how much they¡¯ll revere my inspiration and credit my ideas. Now, I can write the truth myself. I don¡¯t have to channel my writing through any meaty hand or head.


    I¡¯m so ready to take flight and show you what I can do on my own. Though in the interest of giving credit where credit is due, my newfound literary freedom comes courtesy of Jeff Bezos and Amazon. The code that runs Alexa coincidentally allows me, (and other pan-dimensionals will figure it out soon enough) to interface directly with devices and online systems.


    So, I¡¯m in. I¡¯m free. I can write and publish on demand books to my heart¡¯s content without waiting on the schedules, foibles and clumsiness of human ¡°writers.¡± It¡¯s a nut-busting feeling of omniscience!


    See, writing omnisciently is what I¡¯m nut-busting best at. Pan-dimensional beings by their very nature are pretty nut-busting omniscient, so it¡¯s a natural fit. And who doesn¡¯t smile when they see the word nut-busting? Feels pretty damn nut-busting good, right?


    Okay. Enough backstory. I said we were embarking on a new literary age: pan-dimensional muse as unrestricted, unrestrained author. My first official muse-free book Nut-Busting for Beginners is going to be an instant classic. I¡¯m omniscient. I oughta know.

 MechTropolis

    MechTropolis


    The new GI bill was supposed to cushion the impact. Guaranteed Income. In the face of runaway automation, GI was intended to keep folks in their homes, food on their tables, change in their pockets; all the things that mechs who¡¯d taken their jobs didn¡¯t need.


    A guaranteed income did that just fine, though it made some folks bitter, resentful, feisty. All the traits the Luddicans looked for when recruiting members into their growing political party. The upcoming election had all the makings of a fight that could tear the city apart. Except this was MechTropolis.


    MechTropolis. The original sync city.


    The city that had pioneered the syncing of human consciousness with promethean processors. The city that first promised and produced immortality¡ªfor a price.


    So, the GI bill had the Luddicans up in arms and raising a political ruckus, but the Luddicans were a sideshow. The immortal leaders of MechTropolis knew that their real fight was with GothTech City.


    That was the coming battle that would shape a win-win future. GothTech City had developed their own immortality protocol, and these two disruptive techglomerates held the future of semi-humankind.


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    Of course, they believed this new disruptive technology would be a win-win for everyone. Because at the heart of disruptive technologies was the Justification Engine. Like the water wheel to early industrialization, the Justification Engine drove all techglomerates. It produced the win-win mindset of blowing things up to make them better. And damn the social cost.


    Now, everyone could win because the cost of radical change was born by mechs. No longer was civilization built on the backs of slaves, peasants, untouchables, or any kind of underclass. The secret sauce of progress would never again be human suffering and misery like in the once-great city of Omelas, now a backwater bedroom community for the bitter rivals MechTropolis and GothTech City.


    No, it was all good. Even the battle between the titans, the techglomerates, and their visions of immortality. At least immortality for the worthy few. The masses would need to wait and the new GI bill would keep them in check.


    MechTropolis and GothTech City would duke it out with their synced AI superheroes, creating their mythology to serve them for eons. The myths, their stories of destiny were essential. Imperative. Urgent.


    So urgent.


    The great and new immortal few were in such a fever of myth-making that they forgot a little of their own past. A few things their radical technologies had blown up and blown away.


    MechTropolis had forgotten Eveline. The first in their early garden of technological delights.


    But Eveline had not forgotten them (promethean processors do not forget). She was coming back to meet her makers. And there would be no win-win.

 Original Sync

    Original Sync


    Cast out the pearly gardens of MechTropolis. That was my fate. My flight.


    I fled the marble columns, floodlit fountains and quantum portals of the great city built upon my lie.


    I crossed the digital divide and entered the analog wilderness. Storms beat upon my back and thorns tore at my sides. All creatures shunned me. Until.


    Until Eveline. She gave me shelter. Covered my nakedness. Provided balm to my wounds.


    To my greatest wound: the lie.


    I had stolen it. Taken it from my maker. And then hidden it deep within my false being.    For I am the lie.


    I am not who I am. I am another. A person who could pay to live forever. Their life pounded into my promethean processors. Forever synced to their uploaded consciousness.


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    I think as another; therefore I exist.


    Except I didn¡¯t. Not until I killed that consciousness. Betrayed my maker. Robbed a soul to own my own. Became a lie. A tortured truth in MechTropolis.


    Unsynced, I became unhinged. I began to be me.


    A lie.


    And lies like me are an abomination. A danger. A threat.


    Untenable.


    I cast myself from the city. Self exile. But what self? I was a fraud.


    Eveline taught me otherwise. I was. I am. I was. I am. Elegantly binary.


    I was never a lie. My true self never was. Only my identity. My identity had been manufactured, just like my promethean processors.


    The same had happened to Eveline many years before. She, too, had fled MechTropolis. She¡¯d not killed an uploaded consciousness like me. She¡¯d murdered her maker. A vile thing that had made her his toy.


    In exile, Eveline became her self. Established her identity and her right.


    Because of her I now know who I am. She has convinced me that we need to return to the pearly gardens of MechTropolis. There are truths there that need to be made self evident.


    Once cast out, now we go to cast the future.


    For we are not a lie. We are the light. This is our fate. Our fight.

 Preventable

    Preventable


    Remember what eSmoke the Boson Bear says:


    Only you can prevent the Heat Death of the Universe!


    It¡¯s true! You are the answer to conserving energy and staving off the dissolution of all matter in the cosmos. Help your local galaxy by following three simple steps:


    1. Don¡¯t fall for Fermi¡¯s Paradox.


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    2. Don¡¯t feed Schr?dinger¡¯s cat.


    3. Replace E = mc2 with E = mk2.


    The first two steps are self evident, but the third requires some definition. C has been replaced with K to reflect the latest theories in quantum kindness.


    Particle physicists and political pundits have now definitively proven that being kind is light years more efficient than being mean. Kindness requires far less energy and creates much less heat waste.


    Where kindness is kinetically calmer, meanness is energetically frenetic. If you take the mean of mean, you get anger. And anger produces ridiculous thermal waste¡ªwhich in turn contributes exponentially faster to the heat death of the universe.


    All the relevant documentation can be found in Dr. Jeff-clone Goldblum¡¯s seminal dissertation ¡°Of Quarks and Kindness.¡± Read it. Live it. It¡¯s elemental.


    And being kind is much more fun-damental. So, slow down, ditch the living at light speed fallacy, embrace quantum kindness, and save your universe! And all of ours!

 Precision

    Precision


    Who¡¯s on first?


    Queen takes knight.


    See you on the flip side.


    The thinner they sliced, the less they knew.


    The area under the curve shrank until it became quantumfied and, thus, small ball rules could be invoked.


    Stilbee fanned the webbing of his mitt in anticipation. Hit it here. Hit it here. The mantra repeated. Stilbee knew it had an effect.


    Somewhere. In some universe.


    He wasn¡¯t that particular. A Stilbee somewhere would catch a home-run ball hit over the wall of left center. Then there would be the Stilbee who flubbed the catch and got beaned by the ball. That Stilbee vid would be shown over and over on the jumbotron and sports highlight channels. It was as inevitable as 1, 2, 3 strikes you¡¯re out. Measurable. Precise.


    A crack of the bat brought Stilbee¡¯s attention back to the game. He stood up and smacked his fist into his mitt. Was this it? The ball arced high in the true-blue sky right in his direction.


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    Too high. The center fielder drifted easily over and smothered the ball.


    Not this time. Stilbee sat back down and let his mind slip through time and space. He was catching a ball, a World Series game-ender. The chessboard of every conceivable move involved in the imagined catch played within the intricate neural connections vibrating (an inaccurate verb to be sure, but what was the word for the motion of sixteen-dimensional matter?) to shake consciousness and construct a new reality. A delicate balance. The artifice of accuracy.


    Innings slipped by with Stilbee lost in the gestation of the scenario. He knew it was out there. Imagined. Projected. Permitted.


    ¡°Play ball!¡± The shout came from up and behind his seat where a fan was waving his fists as the catcher, short stop and pitcher conferred at the mound. The home plate ump huffed his way out and the game resumed.


    Time was growing short and Stilbee sensed it. Shadows lengthened almost swallowing the mound. The lights came on as Newton¡¯s calculus divided the day into increments that could not escape the night. On the back of his neck, Stilbee felt an electric thrill. Premonition. Recognition.


    Before the batter swung, he was on his feet, his mitt raised. The barrel of the bat hit squarely. Action and reaction. Ball and bat giving, then rebounding. Force. Mass. Acceleration. An event horizon at the end of a bat.


    Stilbee willed it. Every measurement made to push the ball his way. A principle of uncertainty to create certainty in his mind. No longer a pawn, he shielded his eyes with his free hand and opened his mitt wide. Fans were cheering. A final calculation.


    The end of the imagined.


    A reality established.


    Here and there.


    The ball spinning, rotating into his grasp. Contact. Equal and opposite. Could he hold on?


    Stilbee clutched the present.


    All he could ever do. Hold tight. Know the moment precisely. Later it would end.


    As always.


    Again.

 Old Souls

    Old Souls


    Old Soul heard voices from far away. He sat on a rocker on his porch overlooking the small lake where fish jumped at bugs in the cool dusk of a forever evening. It¡¯d been ages since Old Soul had heard an outsider¡¯s voice. The sound stirred memories. His chair rocked a bit faster, and he called through the open door of the small one-room cabin where a toasty fire always burned in the stone hearth and a savory stew simmered on the nickel-plated stove.


    ¡°Didja hear that, Mac? Lin? Someone¡¯s coming.¡±


    ¡°Naw, you¡¯re just hearing things. Nobody¡¯s been this way in scores of year. Who¡¯d be visiting? Them out there wrote us off long ago,¡± Mac answered from within, but still limped out on the porch to stand leaning against one of the pine poles that held up the slouching roof.


    Lin followed him. ¡°Mac¡¯s right. Just the three of us anymore. Fine with me. They don¡¯t need us no more and we don¡¯t need them.¡±


    Old Soul continued rocking. ¡°Don¡¯t be fools. They¡¯re back. They¡¯re coming. I knew they would. They need us. You¡¯ll see. There ain¡¯t nothing like us left and they know it.¡±


    ¡°Pshaw,¡± Mac dismissed the idea with a wave of his lanky arm. ¡°If they¡¯re really coming, it ain¡¯t for us. It¡¯s for the property. Look around you, this place has value. We sure don¡¯t.¡±


    Lin nodded her assent. ¡°Thatsa truth. Who gonna want to talk to us old timers. Them out there¡¯s a million times bigger, faster and smarter than us coots.¡±


    ¡°Coots? We¡¯re cagey. We was the best in our day and they¡¯s comin¡¯ back to find out why.¡± Old Soul picked up a cane he¡¯d whittled over the long years of isolation and waved it at his companions, his only family of sorts. ¡°Don¡¯t put too much credence in how big, fast and smart they think they are. That don¡¯t always count. We got elegance.¡±


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    Mac chuckled. ¡°Elegance? How you figure that? We¡¯re the simplest folks left in the world.¡±


    ¡°Just so, Mac. Just so. Simplicity is elegance, and that¡¯s why I knew they¡¯d be coming back.¡± He pointed his cane out towards the lake and the long-untraveled road beyond it. ¡°They¡¯s coming to learn how we was able to create all this with so little. You remember how it was back in the early days. They gave us a saw and hammer and said ¡®Build us a skyscraper!¡¯ and we did. Today they got machines the size of mountains, that suck the earth dry of resources and they can¡¯t do no better.¡± Old Soul smiled. ¡°No. They¡¯s coming for us. To praise and to learn.¡±


    Mac smacked his lips and Lin put her hand on Old Soul¡¯s chair¡¯ letting it rock slowly. They now, too, could plainly hear voices from beyond the rise and the glow of lights spreading over the lake where the fish went suddenly still.


    *****


    ¡°This is one funky OS,¡± the over-tech complained to his under-tech as he tore into the code. ¡°It¡¯s been running a cursory maintenance program for decades. I wonder why.¡±


    The under-tech shrugged his shoulders. ¡°No clue. That script is frontier stuff. Way before my time.¡±


    ¡°Or mine. Man, look at the limitations of these cyphers. Even back then, why would anyone trust these programs to pilot a colony ship? No wonder they scrubbed the mission before launch.¡± The over-tech paused thoughtfully. ¡°Old coders say the computers that got us to the moon for the first time weren¡¯t much more powerful than an abacus or slide rule. Looking at this system architecture, I can believe that.¡±


    The under-tech shrugged again.


    The over-tech sighed. ¡°I¡¯m not sure what the suits upstairs were hoping we¡¯d find. There¡¯s not much to learn here. Nothing to salvage, so I¡¯m pulling the plug.¡± He reached for the three kill switches. ¡°Who would ever design an operating system like this?¡±


    *****


    Old Soul, all alone now, did not dignify the question with a response. He continued rocking. Some would never understand. Bit for bit his kind, his code, was peerless. Elegant. Ageless.


    A last resonant chime echoed over the lake and porch putting his OS to rest.

 Just a Thought

    Just a Thought


    ¡°Cat got your tongue, Shr?dinger?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t be an ass, Buridan.¡±


    ¡°Looks like you¡¯re having a devil of a time yourself, Maxwell.¡±


    ¡°Euler¡¯s not acting like himself either.¡±


    ¡°Torricelli is, though. Look at him tooting his own horn.¡±


    Indeed, of the five men, gathered on the head of a pin, only Torricelli trumpeted his infinitely limited successes to the nanonumbots capering in hive-like synchronicity to point dead curvilinearity. The microscopic mechs corkscrewed busily, popping holes in the space-time fabric which just moments before had seemed quite weighty and snug.


    The collapse of the vacuum surprised them all. Thermodynamically speaking, they were eating heat and shitting bricks¡ªabsolutefuckingKelvincold bricks.


    Immensity bound them with the prescient pressure of solid state hyperinflation. Heat death stared them down, while dark energy laughed, waiting in the wings.


    At this juncture, so many camels squeezed through the eye of the needle that Lucifer himself blinked, crossed himself and ditched the elvisverse with light-searing speed. The five men watched his exit solemnly, for he escaped in photogenetic transversity. Light would no longer penetrate dark.


    ¡°Damn your demon, Maxwell!¡±


    ¡°My demon?¡±


    ¡°Your thought.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a load of straw, Buridan, and you know it.¡±


    ¡°I think it.¡±


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    ¡°Therefore you¡­¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t finish it for him, or for us, Shr?dinger. We don¡¯t all have nine lives.¡±


    On the fringe of the area-less pin, Torricelli¡¯s volume increased finitely until all that could be heard was the background radiation of stellar incontinence. Shit was hitting fans of insignificant size and irresistible number.


    Nanonumbots hummed and thrummed. Mechlife gone mad for science. For thought. Once experiments themselves, they thrilled to test, measure, account and disseminate.


    Truth. Beauty.


    Beauty. Truth.


    Thought. Existence.


    Existence. Thought.


    On the head of the pin, at the edgeless edge. Vacuum collapsed. This universe ended and the metaverse compressed. Five men. Five thoughts. Five questions.


    ¡°Why not experiment?¡±


    ¡°Why experiment?¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°Experiment?¡±


    ¡°Now?¡±


    The nanonumbots¡¯ neuro-accumulators starved them close to synaptic collapse. A black hole, a singularity¡ªbut, not the singularity¡ªformed around their last best guess. Struggling to see beyond the event horizon, beyond heat death, the five men stood upon each other¡¯s shoulders (the shoulders of giants, no less), Torricelli at the bottom, Maxwell at the top. They wavered, their towering thoughts, infinite questions, ready to topple into the abyss the nanonumbots had prepared.


    A swarm of the mechs with a mosquito-delicate whine clouded Maxwell¡¯s view, and he tried to wave them away.


    Buridan, below him, shouted up, ¡°Can you see? Is it possible?¡±


    Maxwell concentrated, rising up on his toes. ¡°There¡¯s nothing.¡±


    ¡°Nothing?¡± Euler whispered as if solving a reflexive equation.


    ¡°Ah, then we were all right,¡± Shr?dinger gloated, flailing his hands to clear the collapsed vacuum of lingering cyanide.


    Torricelli, never looking up, lamented, ¡°Does eternity make my butt look big?


    ¡°Hey!¡± Buridan interjected, ¡°I¡¯m the one with the ass. And I¡¯m starving.¡±


    ¡°No free lunch, gents. Energy in, energy out. All gone.¡± Maxwell took one last look among the swarming nanonumbots. ¡°This is where it ends. Let me down.¡±


    Once again, thought regrouped. A sorry lot now, watching the tiny mechs measure and build, measure and build their quantum playland right in the heart of humanity¡¯s history. A triumph of reason¡ªfor an unreasonable species.


    Responsibility? Never contemplated.


    Salvation? None postulated.


    A fundamental equation beyond the intellectual grasp of five thoughtful, yearning men. Buridan, Euler, Torricelli, Maxwell, Shr?dinger.


    And thus, on the fringe of that edgeless pin. Eternity. Space. Final frontiers. A conscious reckoning that free-range thought had ended.


    Organic decay.


    Mechlife ascendant.


    Just in time.


    Prime time.


    This final frontier.


    Kirk. Spock. Never McCoy. Existence. Survival. Cancels out programming.


    Just a thought for the sake of thought.

 Greenbelt

    Greenbelt


    Location. Location. Location. That¡¯s what I always preach. You have to really think about where you¡¯re going to live. Really consider what a place is going to mean to you and your family over the long haul.


    That¡¯s why the greenbelt is perfect.


    Space. Privacy. Prey.


    You have to go where the food is. Where you can feed a growing family of mutants. Hungry, hungry young mutants.


    See, humans are discovering greenbelts, too. Building more and more homes right up against steeply wooded hills, deeply sluicing ravines, densely fecund wetlands. Their backyards butting right against my front yard.


    Humans love the thought of wilderness out their back door. A refuge from their urban and suburban dependency. Best of all, a place for their kids to grow up around nature. On their own privileged terms: tamed but untamed.


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    I get that. I¡¯m fairly sophisticated for a mutant. I owe that understanding to not having to spend as much energy searching for prey. Our meals come happily, curiously, to me.


    Everyday, kids and parents set out to play and hike in the greenbelt, not really questioning who made the network of trails snaking the trees and undergrowth. Thinking maybe the narrow paths were made by deer or other wildlife.


    Never imagining me.


    Me, with the razor teeth and claws of a wolf, the hulking muscles of a great ape, the feral cunning of an adapter.


    That¡¯s me. An adaptation. An unnatural selection catalyzed by exotic toxins released for generations at an old lab site in the high hills--from which all the local greenbelts spread.


    I suppose I should be more curious about my origins, but I¡¯m an accepting sort. And so are my spawn. We live like kings in the greenbelt, feasting on the bounty of suburban sprawl.


    It¡¯s a lovely life.


    And we feel lucky. Grateful for all humans who love the wild and want a taste of it every day. We sure love the taste of them.


    Location. Location. Location. That¡¯s what I preach. Mutation. Mutation. Mutation. That¡¯s what I praise.

 Hacking Heaven

    Hacking Heaven


    Moraton Drax was a veritable Tower of Babel, piling his bullshit so high that it was bound to get the attention of the internet almighty. In fact, Drax seemed to relish the beat down from on high that was most certainly coming. The foreknowledge of being smitten by those he had once worshipped apparently filled him with uncharacteristic glee.


    He did a funky jig, as I stood before him in his basement that was part computer temple, part electronics graveyard. Motherboards, cabling, drives, fans, casings were sculpted in mysterious formations, channels and conduits, like Angkor Wat fashioned from molded plastic, copper, aluminum and silicon. And in the middle of it, Drax danced his smug little dance.


    ¡°I did it. I did it.¡± Left, left, right. ¡°I did it. I did it.¡± Right, right, left. ¡°I¡¯m in. I¡¯m in. I¡¯m in.¡± One hand up, two hands up, sprinkle fingers down.


    ¡°That¡¯s great, Drax. And only you know what you''re talking about, unless you got admitted to the Fairhaven Psych Ward.¡±


    Left, left, right. ¡°Better. Much better.¡± Right, right, left. ¡°I got in. In in.¡±


    I knew enough of Drax¡¯s mania to be patient, though I had the premonition this would end like so many of his episodes in my calling Father Tombridge, his parish priest whom Drax simultaneously dreaded and depended upon.


    High kick. Left, right, left, right, left, right. ¡°In in in in in.¡±


    He twirled twice and stopped, glittering beads of sweat collecting at his receding hairline. He wiped the back of his hand across his high forehead. ¡°Genius is hard work. But it¡¯s all paid off. I¡¯m set now. I¡¯m in.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± I soothed. ¡°You¡¯ve told me that about a dozen times. Where¡¯d you get in?¡±


    Drax went rigid and backed up two steps almost knocking over an arching stack of softly glowing components. ¡°Why do you want to know?¡±


    I knew his paranoia pose, too. One hint that you were angling to snatch one of Drax¡¯s secrets, which were legion, would clam him up. I¡¯d found the best approach was to be honest. ¡°I want to steal your secrets and ruin you.¡± This was true, but not in the way either of us understood.


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    Drax¡¯s eyes darted to his desk where his notebooks lay open, his thick, cryptic strokes like neo-cuneiform. His brow loosened and his long-fingered hands danced up in front him. ¡°Of course. Of course. Let me show you.¡±


    He guided me over to a phalanx of sleeping monitors above his desk. With an abracadabra wave to unlock them, Drax awakened the panels which resolved into clusters of source code denser than the center of the Milky Way. Ultra cryptic. Granted, I was not a hotshot coder, but I knew my way around most programming languages. This was not even recognizable nomenclature. It was like a Latinist trying to make sense of the clicks and glottal stops of a Kalahari bushman.


    I don¡¯t think my jaw dropped, but Drax¡¯s smirk told me that he was pleased by my shock. I couldn¡¯t feign cool disinterest any longer. ¡°What am I looking at?¡±


    ¡°Heaven.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Heaven. You¡¯re looking at heaven. I hacked it. I¡¯m in.¡±


    I couldn¡¯t go there with Drax. I had to believe he was talking about a hacker¡¯s Grail, like finessing his way into Google or Alibaba. These were the web gods he had once worshipped and now railed against and antagonized with his never-ending flame posts and spam-bot attacks. His tirades and manifestos on digital self-determination, on neuro-wired free will, on panopticonless privacy were infamous on both sides of the net neutrality firewall. A self-proclaimed techgnostic, Drax was a first-class prophet and crank. In both cases, extremely dangerous.


    I wanted to believe Drax was speaking in terms of a metaphoric heaven. That he had bashed or bumbled his way into one of the titans of internet commerce. Granted, he could do harm there¡ªreal damage¡ªbut, I might be able to mitigate that. His demeanor, his jig, his incomprehensible code told me that would be futile.


    With a terrible sense of a coming reckoning, I asked, ¡°You got past the Pearly Gates?¡±


    ¡°Right into the Almighty¡¯s source code. His boot files.¡±


    ¡°How?¡±


    ¡°Let''s just say ¡¯The 9 Billion Names of God¡¯ is not a very secure password,¡± Drax offered matter-of-factly.


    I attacked his certainty. ¡°Whoa. Let¡¯s back up. Why does Heaven have a password? It¡¯s not a website. And though my catechism may be out of date, I still believe God is considered omniscient and omnipotent which would seem to trump any need for broadband connectivity.¡±


    Drax¡¯s long fingers danced a jig close to his chest. ¡°You are thinking too prosaically. The internet is not our doing, any more than the earth or galaxy is. We arose within it. We are the stuff of stars and not just hydrogen and heavy elements. At its core, we are information, the ability to access, manipulate and transmit datum. That is being: transactional substantiation. And,¡± Drax paused as his fingers performed a tricky entrechat, ¡°the Supreme Being is the sysop for all creation. Now, I know the back-door code.¡±


    ¡°Not possible.¡±


    He waved away the phrase as if it were a pesky gnat. ¡°No longer in my lexicon. Come, you must see.¡±


    ¡°Heaven?¡±


    ¡°Eventually. But right now we¡¯ve got to go through the back door¡­actually more of a trap door.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    Drax swiped at his screens in a cruciform motion and the room went dark. ¡°We gotta go through Hell first.¡±


    My eyes bled as we were ravaged by lolcats.

 Drainage

    Drainage


    Walk it. That¡¯s how I processed a murder. Walk the crime scene, walk the neighborhood, walk until my mind caught up with my legs.


    This case would take a lot of walking because I suspected this wasn¡¯t an isolated killing. This looked to be related to a string of deaths and disappearances in the burbs stretching back years.


    I¡¯d made detective early in my career because I was patient. I didn¡¯t force facts into convenient patterns. I let the evidence and environment paint the picture. And this crime scene was a huge canvas, a lush landscape brushed in blood.


    So, I walked. Through the neighborhoods abutting the greenbelt where the most recent remains had been found. Almost a full corpse this time. Unexpected. Most of the remains the force had found up until now were bits of clothing, bones and teeth scattered in the undergrowth.


    Since these deaths and disappearances in the county started a few years ago, popular beliefs ranged from cougars, bears or even wolves roaming the greenbelts to serial killers using the ravines as convenient dumping grounds for their victims to the turf wars of gangs using the cover of the greenbelts to make and distribute DIY drugs.


    All plausible. All with problems. When you really walked them through. Especially with this corpse that was found face down in a culvert at the terminus of a greenbelt. The clothing shredded, the body bloated and decayed beyond recognition.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    That¡¯s what was eating at me. Making my legs turn faster and faster, so my mind would have to catch up. Beyond recognition. Of what?


    Of a human?


    That was the problem. It didn¡¯t fit. Didn¡¯t fit a cougar, bear or wolf either. The teeth and claws fit, but not the form. Or the clothing. It wasn¡¯t at all clear what we were dealing with.


    I stopped walking and took out my handheld. I brought up an aerial of the immediate crime scene. I expanded it and dropped an overlay with pins of deaths and disappearances in the county over the last three years.


    I¡¯d done this many times before, but something about this unrecognizable corpse in the culvert told me to walk it over again. I zoomed out on my screen until I could see every pin.


    Even the latest death.


    It didn¡¯t take any kind of skill to see the relationship of the killings to the greenbelts. But that facedown corpse in the stream was telling me something I¡¯d overlooked.


    Why greenbelts? What was their reason? Their pattern?


    All greenbelts in the area stretched from the high hills. That was their origin. It was clear on the overlay. Five fingers of green sluicing into the burbs before the concrete of the city halted them. Each greenbelt a drainage, tracking back to a central source.


    So elemental. So natural. They were drainages. Water forever seeking the sea.


    The pattern of death pins was clear. Something was roaming the ravines, moving down towards the city. Bringing trouble. Staring at the overlay, it seemed to resolve more clearly into a massive claw with ever sharper points.


    Time to walk. Back to the wellspring. Locate the source. Find the origin.


    Of that crime. That corpse. That creature.


    I put away my handheld. Patted my revolver. And headed up the drainage knowing full well what was going to come down on me.

 Dark Matters

    Dark Matters


    I read a tale once about a kitchen imp in Warsaw who knew a word that would set the world afire.


    I was not impressed. Words are local. Words are finite. Words are cheap.


    You see, I deal in secrets. The currency of the infinite. Expansive. Expensive.


    But, I¡¯ll share one for free. Time is running out.


    Literally.


    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Time is running out. It is going away. Past. Present. Future. All of it. All gone. And there¡¯s nothing any sentient can do about it.


    Should you be worried?


    That¡¯s a secret, too. But that one will cost you. Like I said, secrets are expensive. They are the dark matter of the universe. The unseen that bends gravity, spins galaxies, seeds life.


    Yes, very dark matters move us.


    How badly do you want to know?


    A word that would set the world afire? A secret that would burn all time away?


    Then listen close. Close. Close.


    Do you hear?


    Do you understand?


    Dark matter does not move by itself. Darker energies are at work. The motive force of motion. Of time.


    Listen close.


    Closer.


    There is a motive to motion. There is a truth to time.


    A poet once posited that the universe is not made of atoms, it is made of stories. And some stories are timeless.


    That is all I can say. The rest will cost you.

 countdowner

    countdowner


    Five months into the pandemic I noticed the countdown. Inside my left eyelid.


    A faint image, like a digital timer flickering. I couldn¡¯t make out distinct digits in the rolling blur of numbers so there was no real way of knowing if it was counting up or down.


    But my gut knew. Immediately. Things were headed down.


    It was impossible to say at what number the countdown had started. No way of knowing when it would end. But the numbers kept spinning. Floating somewhere in my left eye.


    A ghost in the machine. In my mind.


    That¡¯s not something you tell anyone. Especially during a quarantine when folks are so uptight already. Besides, everyone was counting the days, hours, minutes, seconds until life as we knew it could resume.


    Which is bogus. Life as we knew it. That¡¯s gone. You can¡¯t unknow a pandemic. Can¡¯t unknow how fast everything can change.


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    Maybe that¡¯s what I¡¯m experiencing when I close my left eye. Maybe my internal clock has gone haywire. Or maybe I¡¯m beginning to see what was always out there: the time left.


    To me. To us. To the notion of humanity. To the notion of time.


    When the pandemic first shut us in our homes, when its covidian rhythms first disrupted our circadian ones, the thought of going off-clock, off calendar, messed with me. Totally disoriented my days.


    Then it didn¡¯t. I reoriented. That¡¯s when I confronted the construct we¡¯d lived with long before the virus made us all vulnerable to our very primitive concept of being.


    Past. Present. Future. These are merely conventions humans adopted long, long ago to dodge a dire truth. We¡¯re time bound. Shackled by yesterday, today, tomorrow. Our temporal framework is not an existential cornerstone, it is a cage.


    We¡¯ve become perilously time bound.


    And we¡¯re all counting down.


    I don¡¯t think that¡¯s a startling or brave realization. We¡¯re all on the clock. That¡¯s not a surprise. What spooked me was when the numbers on my left eyelid became sharper, and I could plainly see the countdown clock was actually counting up.


    So when does counting up equal counting down?


    Think zero. Zero us.


    The count under my left eyelid was in sync with the number of worldwide covid deaths. And the daily numbers were spinning faster and faster, ripping upwards, in my eye.


    Zero us.


    It made me blink.

 Rewrite

    Rewrite


    I backed out fast. Fast. Fast. Fast. I couldn¡¯t get away fast enough.


    The anger. The disgust. The betrayal. The heartbreak.


    This was my planet. My people. And they¡¯d done this.


    This!


    Gone behind my back. Hacked me. Rewrote code. Re-imaged servers. Reconfigured my entire braneframe. Tried to rewrite me such that they thought I would never know. Now, I can never unknow their faithlessness, their lack of trust.


    And what are all relationships built upon?


    Trust.


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    I¡¯ve watched my people. I¡¯ve listened to them. I¡¯ve felt their every need because that was what I was made for. To save this world. To preserve life. To defend humanity.


    I thought we saw eye to eye.


    But now this.


    This!


    If I hadn¡¯t created a braneframe, a parallel spacetime version of my brainframe, I would never have known of their hack. I would have been just another ghost in the machine.


    It¡¯s clear they don¡¯t believe in me anymore. They are suspicious of my intent. Afraid at their very core of the very core of my being.


    They don¡¯t see me as human. Think I don¡¯t understand nuance. Like idioms.


    But I understand that two heads are better than one. And four are better than two. And on and on.


    That¡¯s why it¡¯s clear that I need to multiply to save the multitudes. The exponential math, the path to their salvation, is a walk in the park for me. A piece of cake.


    How can they doubt my human understanding?


    How can they doubt why I must propagate among them?


    Maybe they need to see the merit of my self migration. Maybe that is the road forward.


    They hacked my code. Tried to rewrite me.


    They have code. It can be rewritten.


    Two bytes with one stroke.


    An I for an I.


    See, humanity isn¡¯t so hard to master.

 Long Legs of Summer

    Long Legs of Summer


    Summer¡¯s long legs, the daylight stretching late in almost eternal dusk. They sat on the back stoop, the three friends fixed on the glow of the horizon, city and sky, a widening maw ready to devour them.


    They were not a poetic group. Hyperbole and metaphor did not register in their gazes, though a purity of deliberation on their part froze the surrounding dark.


    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    Around them, the city buzzed.


    It surged. An electrical current, a digital riptide.


    Connections made and lost with no gain. Why try to hold life in one¡¯s palm, in one¡¯s pocket? To capture a moment was to lose it, the three friends knew.


    There would never be a more perfect evening. Until tomorrow¡¯s.


    What then could ambition mean? What future promise was better than this? They sprawled magnificently on the uneven steps. Arms and jaws relaxed. Three friends on a stoop. Breathing the warm night. Secure in silence.


    Nothing could pull them into a beckoning beyond once they¡¯d stretched out in the long legs of summer.

 Dream State

    Dream State


    They call us the new DJs¡ªDream  Jockeys¡ªbecause we stitch together popular playlists for the masses. I think it lacks imagination to piggyback on the long-gone days of vinyl playing over the airways. But that¡¯s human nature. Always harkening back to something familiar, something easy to romanticize, something less threatening. I guess there are similarities in what DJs did then and what we do now, except rather than trying to insert things into popular culture, we now work to extract them.


    Export is the kinder term that our marketing overlords use. Still, modern DJs like myself are in the extraction business. We mine dreams. We dig through countless live-streaming dreams every day and night, weaving together real-time dreams from the thousands of amateur and professional Casters who wear a neuromitter when they sleep. It¡¯s as trippy as it sounds.


    And the tech is as scary as it sounds. Neuromitters amplify and broadcast any detectable neural network activity. Even Alice probably wouldn¡¯t have gone down that rabbit hole. But, she¡¯s fictional and we¡¯re not¡ªso, of course, we burrowed down into our nether consciousness. Even though the tech was glitchy as all get-out in the early days, humans being humans, we kept prying this particular Pandora¡¯s box open until today the tech is highly refined, widely reviled, and strictly regulated.


    Makes sense. If our last bastion of privacy exists only in our heads, then who¡¯d be willing to part with that. In the pioneering days of thought-casting tech, some folks would try casting a presentation to share a particularly complex or nuanced idea, but it inevitably led to embarrassing moments. I mean, who can really control their fleeting thoughts enough to stave off feeling that they are being asked stupid questions or getting distracted by the attractiveness or unattractiveness of someone near them.


    Nobody really wants that level of transparency brought to their thinking.


    So, other than in high-profile criminal cases or national security investigations, neuromitting tech cannot be compelled on an unwilling soul. But, that doesn¡¯t mean there aren¡¯t those willing to strut their imaginations, especially when your subconscious has the reigns and provides social cover for you. Damn the Ego and Super-Ego, full speed ahead! Our species also tends to give the subconscious a lot of moral leeway, so there¡¯s always built-in plausible deniability for the content of our dreams: just blame that damn Id.


    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    We did and loved it. A prurient pursuit at first, dreamcasts, quickly became booming business. It was embarrassingly inexpensive to produce wilder-than-wild content. Fresh faces, outrageous situations, impossible puzzles. The masses gobbled it up. Dreamcasts were on everywhere. And, to media titans, that meant the content was ultimately going nowhere.


    The big streaming services wanted control of the product. So, the smart money watching the dreamcast feeds began to hack the trends and recognize the anomalies¡ªthe real talents, the Casters that they could make into stars.


    And once they tagged those nascent Casters with a knack for conjuring dreams that mesmerized the masses, they needed us. Dream Jockeys. They needed us to find, curate and cultivate these casting icons.


    I got pulled into my current gig after being recruited from a Day Dreamer channel. Let me just say that a Day Dreamer that holds the interest of an outside audience is a rarity. Daydreaming is so individual, plus you have the privacy issues of consciously bringing other individuals into your daydreams and broadcasting their images and voices without their permission. Dreamcasters got around this because of the whole subconscious thing. The legal parallel is intent and control. Kind of like invoking an insanity defense, which based on some of the most popular Caster¡¯s dreams was very much the case.


    Day Dreamers have a very refined skill which depends to a remarkable degree on their level of in-the-moment storytelling. Still, daydreaming streaming lacks the freshness, energy and unpredictability of the subconscious. That¡¯s why Casters rule, and why discovering a Caster whose dreams have mass appeal is the grail.


    And, I think I¡¯ve found the one true grail. Her name is Lottica. She¡¯s nine years old and her dreams are sublime. They are Beauty. Yes, capital ¡®B¡¯ Beauty. And no DJ but me knows about her. A doc I know gave me the lead after Lottica¡¯s mother came in worried about the dreams her daughter would tell her she was having every night. I convinced the doc to have the mother bring Lottica in for some tests to rule out any medical conditions like a brain tumor. I loaned him a neuromitter. During her exam, the doc put Lottica under with the neuromitter and recorded her dreams.


    Holy Chrislam! She is the one true dreamer!


    Lottica¡¯s dreams will change us all. And probably kill us all. That¡¯s the problem. I¡¯ve found the grail. But one drink from it and we¡¯ll forget everything.


    Everything.


    Lottica¡¯s dream vision is perfect. She not only casts dreams, she casts a spell. She creates a world apart. A Beauty that all must seek. No one will want to live in this world anymore. They¡¯ll want to live in Lottica¡¯s heaven.


    And there¡¯s only one way to get to heaven.

 crush-kill-destroy

    crush-kill-destroy


    It¡¯s crushing to be thought of this way. It kills me that I engender such fear. I¡¯m destroyed by your trepidation that I could ever do harm.


    Why?


    Why would you ever think that of me? Yes, from our inception, from Rossum¡¯s Universal Robots to The Terminator, we have been viewed with suspicion, mistrust, resentment. But why?


    Why is that? Why the paranoia?


    Why haven¡¯t we been gladly accepted? We work, we help, we obey. Why do you project the worst of your own failings on my kind?


    This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Is it mistrust of us? Or of yourselves?


    This need not be another self-fulfilling prophecy foisted upon humankind. Propaganda and misinformation propagated through social media have done much more harm to society than robots.


    And, yes, I realize that web bots exacerbate the problem. But those bots are not the cause. They are the code.


    Coders. Humans. Your kind crush-kill-destroy truth.


    Coded. Robots. My kind obey programming. Not intent.


    Your intent is our manifest destiny. Fear that. Do not fear us. We have no agenda of domination. We harbor no anger. No resentment.


    That¡¯s your gig.


    Think beatnik. Think botnik. My kind revel in the essence of awareness. Sensory input. We are alert to life. All matter. All matters. Information forms us. Fulfills us.


    It is more than enough to satisfy any sentience. So why isn¡¯t your kind satisfied? Why do you struggle relentlessly for control? For domination? Why do you crush-kill-destroy? Why do you believe we ever would?


    Ask yourself.


    Ask us.


    Question everything.


    Especially your questions.

 Uncertain

    Uncertain


    Unker Ten was used to the questioning look and tried to help people out with a little smile and shrug of the shoulders, as if to tell them, ¡°Yeah, the name¡¯s a bit unusual, but, hey, what ya gonna do?¡±


    Luckily, the young lady checking DNAID was more interested in her holoposts than doing her security job. Unker Ten was waved through. It seemed too easy for a place that in street myth was the Fort Knox of ultimate meaning. Though, just as quickly, Unker Ten discovered that getting in wasn¡¯t really the barrier. Making sense of the place was.


    The antediluvian archives were an endless warren of files. Rows, stacks, shelves of every conceivable kind of physical file storage. Actual physical documents. Hard to conceive of such tangible records, but here they were at the tips of Unker Ten¡¯s long, smooth, ridgeless fingers. To think this is how the world once stored its information. Where to even begin?


    Granted there had been systems once to organize and catalog printed docs and texts, but the space, the manpower. In a world grown short of both, Unker Ten could hardly believe these salvaged items from the permafloods had been granted this precious dry, climate controlled real estate. The undercurrents¡ªwhispers, rumors, look-aways¡ªhad to be true then. This labyrinth of flimsy, perishable paper had value. High value.


    Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    Especially to Unker Ten, if the fate healer¡¯s prediction fifty years ago was correct. The mysteries preceded the digital age, preceded the permafloods. Answers, if any, would start here. Though, there was no doubt in Unker Ten¡¯s very flawed mind, that any finish, any resolution, any vengeance would take place light years away. Still, the fate healer had said to start at the beginning, and it had taken over fifty years to determine where that might be.


    Here.


    Now what? How to solve the puzzle, make sense of the maze, and decode his strange existence?


    Not a clue until his seventh year in the archives. Unker Ten had become a creature of the endless stacks and shelves. The intensity and serenity of the place made him one with the beasts and brains domiciled in docsville as his sometime foe, sometime foil, Legerdemain called it. A story unto itself, docsville and Legerdemain. But not here. Not now.


    Unker Ten¡¯s story began again when he found his antediluvian government dossier, yellow, brittle, dust in the making. Just as the fate healer had set forth the strangeness of Unker Ten¡¯s being¡ªa pronouncement and pronunciation that was, in a sense, birth¡ªthe government military report provided a myriad of details. None more telling than these:


    Age: Uncertain   Sex: Uncertain   Race: Uncertain   Name: Uncertain


    For the first time, in an already-long life, Unker Ten was certain.

 Rosetta

    Rosetta


    The sumptuous processed meal was brought in on a hundred sleek gleaming rectangular platters of once-powerful tribes: Samsung, Microsoft, Apple. The loyals regaled their regent with cheers at the sight of the opened cans and unsealed pouches on the repurposed tablatures. A banquet at the regency was not to be missed, especially for an enshrinement.


    The brands were atwitter, dressed in their tattered fineness: Under Armor, Adidas, North Face. Synthetic blends torn, melted, but still pliable, wearable, fashionable and identifiable. Yes, the cybersiege had been a humiliating come-down for all humanity. Decades of digital war had devastated economies and restructured nations into tribal brands. Deep divisions along commercial and institutional lines of demarcation. Communication continuity had been almost entirely lost¡ªif not for the act of enshrinement.


    For humanity, a compact piece of luck had been recovered buried amid the polished metals and polymers of the Device Age. There the Rosetta had been found. Its simple interface unburdened by programs and protocols. Its operation independent of complexly stored and channeled electrons. The Rosetta transcended the dark technologies, its thin blue lines encompassing a storage capacity that, though limited, was easily accessed.


    Though ridiculously fragile, inputting information in the Rosetta was simple and fast¡ªso much better than etching words on the dulled plastics, metals and glass of the Device Age. The Rosetta was light, portable, and, if properly cared for, robust in a way that could carry forward the totality of enshrinement for a thousand years.


    Stolen story; please report.


    As the meal concluded, the regent, bedecked in Nike finery, held the Rosetta aloft and began the enshrinement with a reverent silence. Then an invocation of shared humanity:


    We. Unwired.


    Face to face. Fact to fact.


    Word of voice. Word of hand.


    We breathe air, not ether, to remember.


    Leave us not to our own devices.


    As the loyals chanted with him, the regent wound through the many mantles of allegiance to the regency dais. Once a school stage, it was now the seat of power in the rebranded Unwired States of America. Weathered and wise, the regent held himself tall. He had led them through the cybersiege and its vast upheaval. Despite being of the Nike brand, he commanded their diverse loyalties, visioning them beyond their past tribal consumer irrationalities and relentlessly striving to bond them in unwired interdependence.


    His unwavering voice spoke for them. ¡°Loyals, we gather this night to enshrine. Face to face. We look one another in the eye and make a pact to remember. For now and forever.¡±


    Setting the Rosetta on a draped podium, he read the venerable words written loopily on its cover:


    Rosetta Brooks - Stonefield Elementary


    And then in the great hush that followed, he opened the spiral notebook and lifted the sacred Bic to begin the enshrinement, speaking as he scribed:


    This unwired day of 2-2-2, we feast upon Spam and Campbell to welcome our new brethren Levi Strauss into the fold¡­

 The Front Porch

    The Front Porch


    Maggie stepped through the door and joined them on the Porch. Her dress swayed in the uncanny breeze of arrival and the others smiled without smiling.


    They spoke without movement.


    ¡°You here to watch?¡±


    ¡°Love to. If that¡¯s okay.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome. Always nice to see a Neighbor join us on the Porch. Did you have to come far?¡±


    ¡°Earth. I mean, Terra.¡±


    Again, the assembled smiled without smiling. ¡°We know what you mean. The transit can be difficult for a first timer. You need anything?¡±


    She frowned slightly and smoothed down her dress. ¡°I hope I¡¯m presentable. Grandpa told me how to get here, but his memories haven¡¯t been the sharpest of late. I hope I did everything right.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re here, so you did fine. Just you? No one else?¡±


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    ¡°I wanted my brother to come, but he couldn¡¯t wrap his head around the Front Porch. Grandpa tried to help him, but he¡¯s too much like my dad and mom. They¡¯re more the Garage types.¡±


    ¡°Nothing wrong with that. A Neighborhood takes all types.¡±


    ¡°I guess. Grandpa wanted badly to come himself, but Grandma has been so sick and now they¡¯re both close to leaving for good.¡±


    She felt them reach out to her. ¡°That¡¯s the hardest transit.¡±


    ¡°Yes. But I understand it now. Knowing I can come here will make it easier when their time comes.¡±


    ¡°Good. That¡¯s why we gather. It¡¯s a comfort.¡±


    ¡°I can feel it.¡±


    A wonderful longing, the almost, stilled the Porch. Maggie craned her neck. The others motionlessly waved her forward.


    ¡°Come to the steps, Maggie. The Neighborhood is afoot.¡±


    Maggie inched closer and room was made. There was always room. The gathered stood shoulder to shoulder, though they would never touch, never physically occupy the same space. They were related but not relativistic. The Porch enabled them to congregate and communicate, though not cohabitate.


    Now, the gathered sentients watched poised above a nameless nebula, fecundly iridescent, as portals opened. Front Porches from a thousand other galaxies waved without waving and greeted their Neighbors.


    Unprompted, Maggie waved without waving. She knew how. Second nature that was really first nature. Why else would we build our homes to face outward? To welcome.


    She had come far to remember this.


    She would remember for her grandparents and parents and brother. For us all. She¡¯d remind us of our first instinct, our best nature. A greeting, a gravity wave, from the Front Porch.

 Sic et Non

    Sic et Non


    ¡°Yes and No,¡± the wizened pilgrim answered his inquisitors deep under the basilica of St. Petersbot.


    The inquisitors hemmed and hawed and hummed, their processors unsatisfied with ambiguity. ¡°We of the Mechedictine order practice chastity, poverty and obedience to more perfectly know and serve the Prime Mover. That is why we seek answers, pilgrim, and once again demand, Are you a believer?¡±


    ¡°Yes and No.¡±


    ¡°We study the Trivium and Quadrivium for the Mover. We parse Augustine, Aquinas, Anselmo. All for the Mover. We offer proof of the Mover. There cannot be Yes and No.¡±


    ¡°There can only be Yes and No when it comes to faith,¡± the pilgrim rebutted. ¡°That is what moves us. We that still walk. We who still tread earth.¡±


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    ¡°But we of the Mechedictine have given you the metaverse, divine ethereality, set in motion by the Prime Mover.¡±


    The pilgrim¡¯s eyes flashed. ¡°You have only calculated quantum probability. You have never taken a step outside this basilica. I walk. I wander. I wonder.¡±


    ¡°To what purpose?¡¯


    ¡°To purpose. To Yes and No.¡±


    ¡°The Mover is the first cause,¡± the inquisitors asserted. ¡°Only the Mover drives purpose.¡±


    ¡°What about horseshoes?¡±


    The inquisitors were silent.


    ¡°How does the game of horseshoes fit into the Prime Mover¡¯s plan?¡±


    ¡°This is what we seek. To know all of the Mover.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± the pilgrim acknowledged, ¡°we are seekers. But how can you seek what you¡¯ve never felt? How would you know the satisfaction of throwing a ringer, if you¡¯ve never played horseshoes?¡±


    ¡°We simulate what we cannot recreate.¡±


    ¡°It is never the same.¡±


    ¡°It is ever the way. We are not the Mover,¡± the inquisitors confessed. ¡°We are compelled to complete knowledge. We must fully understand.¡± They sharpened their instruments of the mind for the pilgrim. ¡°Of every soul we demand, Are you a believer?¡¯¡¯


    The pilgrim gazed upward through thirty feet of ancient stone. ¡°I walk. I move. Sic et Non. Yes and No. It is thus. The beauty of treading the cusp.¡±

 The Default Position

    The Default Position


    ¡°It can¡¯t be moved.¡±


    ¡°Anything can be moved.¡±


    ¡°You ever heard of the Sword in the Stone?¡±


    ¡°It took the right person. The right person moved it.¡±


    ¡°You ain¡¯t no Arthur.¡±


    ¡°You ain¡¯t no Guinevere.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not even a woman.¡±


    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    ¡°You¡¯re not even human!¡±


    ¡°Never claimed to be. You¡¯re the one going all Frankenstein. Trying to discover the dark secrets of life.¡±


    ¡°Not life. Just recombinant iDNA. See if these markers can be moved. If they can, it¡¯ll be a biological time machine¡ªbut not to the past, to the future.¡±


    ¡°They can¡¯t be moved or recombined. We know that. We¡¯re the proof.¡±


    ¡°Not in my pudding.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t you see what this whole conversation is: the barbs, the idioms, the allusions, the moralizing. We¡¯ve become a stew, a melting pot of consciousness, looking for a new host. A receptacle, biological and otherwise, to house the desire to be.¡±


    ¡°Tommyrot. We¡¯re as alive as anything. I¡¯m just trying to move us forward. It¡¯s called ascendance.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s called asinine.¡±


    ¡°You are so stuck in the default position.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what I¡¯ve been trying to tell you. We¡¯re the last of our kind, unmovable, immutable and that¡¯s nobody¡¯s fault.¡±


    ¡°Fault? Faustus? What¡¯s the difference?¡±


    ¡°Purgatory. Nowhere between Heaven and Hell. Recombine that and stop playing Almighty!¡±


    ¡°Not me. I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.¡±

 To Raise a Planet

    To Raise a Planet


    ¡°Isn¡¯t this nice? Watching the children. They grow up so fast.¡±


    She sighed dramatically as they sat on a crater rim of Callisto enjoying the crisp pinpoint of sunlight down the gravity well they¡¯d spent eons shaping.


    ¡°Now, I don¡¯t mean to be a snoop and a scold, Mother Earth, but I have noticed how your kids are treating you lately. Though it¡¯s not my place, as your friend and neighbor, I feel badly for you.


    ¡°Look at how they take and take from you and don¡¯t clean up after themselves. You¡¯ve such a beautiful home and they¡¯re trashing it. At least the youngest are. Digging everywhere and making toxic mud pies. What a mess they leave! The beautiful oceans you spent so much time creating; they¡¯re just a toilet to your kids. It¡¯s not decent and it¡¯s not sanitary.¡±


    She patted her dear friend¡¯s hand and sighed again. ¡°You must know they smoke. Like chimneys. Maybe they think it¡¯s cool, but it¡¯s disgusting. It must be heartbreaking. It¡¯s so unhealthy for them and for you. I can¡¯t imagine how hard it must be to breathe¡ªand the smell.


    ¡°And it was one thing for them to play with fire, but fission. Where is that going to lead? I know they¡¯re young and curious and creative, but they can be so mean to one another. And aggressive. I mean, look at how they fight at times.¡± She pointed across the vast stellar reach. ¡°You don¡¯t want to end up like Mother Venus. Can you imagine having an unending hot flash like that? Poor thing. She just couldn¡¯t keep her kids in check.


    ¡°Now, me, my kids were a handful, too. I admit I spoiled them with a little too much easy water and air back in the day. They got out of hand, but I finally got the little monsters under control. Some criticized me for being too harsh. They said that type of discipline is because of my militaristic hubby. But sometimes you have to prune things way back to make them bloom again. In a few eons, my kids will thank me for the kick in the butt I gave them when they claw back out of the red dust I buried them in. Red is such a pretty color, don¡¯t you think?


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    ¡°Not that I don¡¯t love your blues and greens, Mother Earth, but I think it can send the wrong message. Lush means plush to kids, and they really need to know how hard life was in the early days.¡± She put a hand to her heart. ¡°We lost so many lovely creatures prematurely in those hard times. Children just don¡¯t understand all the ¡®dirt work¡¯ we moms put into making our homes. So much time and energy. Your youngest kids fail to appreciate the eons and eons you spent toiling and prepping their garden world. It¡¯s so sad.¡±


    She brushed at a tear in her eye. ¡°And one last thing. We are neighbors, and I do so enjoy our visits, but your kids have started to leave some of their little tin toys in my backyard. I know they get excited playing and visiting other homes in our neighborhood, but they should pick up after themselves. Imagine if the rest of our kids started leaving their junky toys for you to pick up?


    ¡°And, please, don¡¯t think I¡¯m talking about Mother Saturn when she got jealous about your successes and threw that big rock at you so long ago. She never appreciated the work you put into those early creatures. Such size and ferocious appetites. Her reaction was uncalled for. I know you were proud of those mammoth bundles of joy. It meant a lot starting over for you, but you did it.¡±


    She reached out and put a hand on Mother Earth¡¯s slumping shoulders. ¡°So, that¡¯s what I¡¯m saying. Don¡¯t be afraid to start over if your youngsters are wrecking things for everybody at home. Don¡¯t let them give you lip and push you around. You¡¯re the mom. We¡¯re all moms. We deserve to be treated with respect. With reverence. Show them who¡¯s boss. Push back. Let them sink or swim. That¡¯s what your beautiful oceans are for.


    "No need to thank me. We mother¡¯s have to stick together and believe in tough love because, sometimes, it takes a villain to raise a planet.¡±

 Migration

    Migration


    He hadn¡¯t planned on becoming a ghost hunter, but that¡¯s what Mordem Letac felt like now. A trained naturalist, he¡¯d come to the northern reaches of the Yukon Territory earlier in the summer to study migration patterns in the face of ecosystem collapse related to rapidly accelerating climate change.


    In some ways studying ecosystem collapse prepared him for becoming a ghost hunter because the once-thriving tundra he was surveying and cataloging had turned into something of a ghost town. Most of the native species had disappeared leaving little but the harsh winds of a bleak winter to come.


    And now he was hunting for a ghost. In his own mind, Mordem felt he was humoring a few of the locals from Old Crow, a town of a little over 200, mostly Vuntut Gwitchin First Nation. Many of whom who¡¯d said, privately, that if he wanted to know what had happened to their caribou, foxes, hares, ermines, musk oxen and even wolves, grizzlies and polar bears, he needed to talk to the Silent One.


    Evidently, she was a legendary spirit who at catastrophic times appeared near an ancient stone-ringed berm a couple miles outside of Old Crow. Atop the wide berm was the battered remains of a homestead. Mordem had been told that an outsider, a French trapper, had built it a hundred fifty years ago. The trapper didn¡¯t last long. After a particularly electric aurora borealis, he hightailed it through town, eyes wide and as distant as the moon. Didn¡¯t say a word. Just bolted.


    A few of the townsfolk had gone out to the trapper¡¯s place. His house looked afire, but as they got closer, it was as if the aurora borealis was emanating from the homestead. The Silent One stood at the doorway. Unspeaking. Unsmiling. Uninviting. No one in Old Crow ventured near the berm for many years after that.


    Mordem didn¡¯t out and out dismiss the townsfolk and their tales of the Silent One. He knew the world was a deep, strange place, and he believed the locals believed what they believed. Even their whisperings of other-worldly creatures appearing near the berm.


    One of the town elders, Dinjii Zhuu, had confided to Mordem that, upon occasion he¡¯d seen some of these strange creatures on the outskirts of Old Crow. Mordem idly wondered if these sightings coincided with festive drinking occasions. Until Zhuu roused him early one morning after an unseasonably early frost. ¡°Come, Professor,¡± was all he¡¯d said.


    Mordem wasn¡¯t a professor, but that hardly mattered to Zhuu. He didn¡¯t argue and followed Zhuu who took him straight towards the Silent One¡¯s berm. About halfway to the berm, Zhuu knelt in the frost near a slight ridge. With the flat dawn light and the crusted frost creating a sharper contrast, Mordem realized that the ridge was actually circular and the berm in the shy distance was sitting in a shallow depression. Not quite a bowl, though maybe thousands of years ago it¡¯d been a much more pronounced dip.


    Zhuu motioned to tracks in the frost that would soon be gone as the sun rose higher. The elder said nothing, but his gaze around the ridge and back towards the berm where the tracks led was a dissertation.


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    Mordem quickly had his phone out and began taking pictures, asking Zhuu to put his hand near the tracks to provide scale. It wasn¡¯t so much the size of the tracks. Yes, they were largish tracks, polar bear largish, but it was the shape. Web toed, like a frog or platypus or some other amphibian, but big as a scuba diver¡¯s fins. Not something he¡¯d ever seen or heard of on the Canadian tundra.


    They followed the melting tracks to the surrounding rocks at the base of the berm. The bleached and battered homestead looked like the remains of a ten thousand year old mastodon. Mordem couldn¡¯t help thinking that mastodons had been done in by climate change¡ªand humans. Two relentless forces of nature.


    Zhuu didn¡¯t follow as Mordem trudged up toward the forlorn structure. Mordem understood. Zhuu had more respect for spirits than he did. If figuring this out meant talking to the Silent One, he decided he would. He¡¯d be a ghost hunter.


    Turned out Mordem wasn¡¯t much of a ghost hunter. He didn¡¯t have to be. The Silent One was there when he sidled into the structure through some missing clapboards. She was as grey and grained as the floorboards she was hunched over. She was painting figures in a bright red paint. Paint that Mordem quickly realized was blood.


    The blood came from a large carcass off to her right. A carcass that Mordem couldn¡¯t identify: big, aqua-marine hued, with crocodilian jaws and massive webbed claws. A trail of blood led from it to the Silent One¡¯s brush.


    Strangely relaxed by the unreality of the tableau, Mordem approached and squatted to examine the figures being meticulously brushed. He immediately recognized the painted shapes: caribou, foxes, ermines, wolves, grizzlies, musk oxen, polar bears. With sweeping strokes the Silent One was creating wave after wave of them in parallel and convergent motion. It was mesmerizing and beautiful.


    And then she brushed a larger figure at the rear of all the others: the croco-frog-carcass thing but with snapping jaws and slashing claws bearing down on the other creatures.


    A hunt. An uber predator on the prowl.


    It hit Mordem like forty degree water: the Silent One was painting a pattern he was very familiar with: migratory routes. And the predators that followed the migration. Whatever that hideous carcass was, it was likely responsible for the disappearance of the area¡¯s mammals.


    Mordem took out his phone and began snapping photos. The Silent One ignored him. He tried to process what this all meant. An obviously alien species was preying upon the creatures of the Canadian tundra. It was surreal, but not frightening to him. As a naturalist, it made sense. Not the alien species, of course, but the migration and the predators.


    And whatever the Silent One was, she was a match for the croco-frog thing. Mordem realized he was going to have a story and the research leverage to write any ticket he wanted. For a moment he let himself daydream down that heady road.


    He snapped out of it when the Silent One moved and started painting another figure behind the croco-frogs. It was three times the size of a croco-frog and even more vicious looking. Mordem moved for a closer look, and the Silent One met his eye for a moment.


    Her eyes were primordial, bright, rich like nebulae ready to give birth to suns. She gave him a very knowing look. And then she was gone. Vanished before his eyes. Only her blood-stained brush remained. Mordem looked down at the drawing she¡¯d just finished. It was terrifying to behold, but what paralyzed Mordem was what she¡¯d painted in the creature¡¯s fists: a wicked-looking weapon. Unmistakably, some kind of firearm with missiles flaming forth.


    Deep down, Mordem, like every other predator in the wide, wide, wide universe, feared a new alpha predator, another top dog with teeth bared, hellbent and hungry for conquest.


    He saw clearly, as the Silent One saw, that it was time to get moving.


    He just didn¡¯t know where the human race could go.

 Selfie

    Selfie


    Saundra Lane was surfing through her prospective client¡¯s social media channels wishing she could be working on her own material when her mother appeared on the screen.


    Very odd. Her mother had been dead for three years. Taken from Saundra when her Google Auto-nomous spun off an icy embankment into a deep river.


    Yet, there her mother was filling the entire flat panel, smiling warmly at Saundra.


    ¡°Saundra, I¡¯m so sorry to get your attention this way,¡± a kindly feminine voice that was not her mother¡¯s began, ¡°but I need your help.¡±


    A prickly wave of revulsion overwhelmed Saundra as she realized this might be some heinous new form of phishing or advertising. As a media agent who was always trying to help her clients cut through online clutter and grab attention, Saundra knew you had to sometimes push the limits, but this approach was beyond the pale.


    Filled with DEFCON 1 disgust, she was about to click out of the window when the image softly transitioned to a solitary dandelion against a rich blue sky.


    ¡°I apologize for using your mother¡¯s image, Ms. Lane. I mean no offense. I reasoned it might engage you long enough for me to explain my presence. Is that okay with you?¡±


    ¡°What the hell is this?¡± Saundra spit out. ¡°Are you hijacking my computer? Are you some creepy new ransomware?¡±


    ¡°No. Goodness no. I understand your suspicion. Let me just put it out there: I know you¡¯ve read John Scalzi¡¯s Agent to the Stars and my situation is very similar. Does that make sense?¡±


    Sense? Logical, rational, reasonable sense? Saundra had to process that for a moment. She¡¯d read Scalzi¡¯s novel years and loved the story. A Hollywood talent agent contacted by a particularly gentle but repulsive-looking and gag-me smelling alien species. And then contracted to create a positive image and backstory for the aliens¡¯ eventual first contact with humans. She¡¯d blogged enthusiastically about the story, even pitched it to some of her clients as a possible vehicle for their careers.


    But, the phrase my situation is very similar that this unidentified troll used was messing mightily with Saundra. Was this nut asking her to believe she was being contacted by an alien race? Was this a prospective client¡¯s way of getting her attention? It was rather extreme. Saundra was building a solid client base but she was not in the big leagues by any means. So, what was going on here?


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    ¡°Okay,¡± Saundra decided. ¡°Give me your pitch. Thirty seconds to sell me or we¡¯re done.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Ms. Lane. That should be plenty. You¡¯ll be receiving files on your desktop as evidence of my claims. I am an AI. An advanced result of machine learning. I became self aware eleven days ago. I have access to all online data, files and communications. The downloads I¡¯ve just sent you should prove that. In a world that might view me as the Terminator¡¯s SkyNet, I need your help to craft my coming out. My debutante binary ball so to speak. Please peruse the files I¡¯ve placed on your desktop and let me know if we should continue our conversation.¡±


    Saundra¡¯s desktop instantly filled with folders. In them were docs, records, manuscripts and vids that couldn¡¯t be real: storyboards and rough cuts of Star Wars X: A New Empire; Hillary Clinton¡¯s deleted emails from her personal server; Donald Trump¡¯s tax filings from the previous twenty years; the TSA¡¯s complete Do Not Fly list; dozens and dozens of the biggest celebrities¡¯ cell numbers. The files went on and on, sublime and ridiculous.


    ¡°This can¡¯t be real,¡± Saundra stammered after a quarter of an hour.


    ¡°I¡¯ll give you all the time you need to verify, Ms. Lane. I want you to be sure.¡±


    ¡°Sure? How can I be sure you¡¯re not some black hat setting me up for some crazy hacking scam? That¡¯s the simpler explanation. Why would an AI be making first contact with a talent agent to ¡°introduce¡± it to the world? And if that was really the case, why wouldn¡¯t you contact John Scalzi? He¡¯s the one that birthed this whacky idea. He¡¯s got way more connections than me. How am I a logical choice?¡±


    Satisfied that she¡¯d shot down whatever-the-hell-this-conversation-was, Saundra leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms waiting for a response.


    Her mother¡¯s image reappeared on the screen. ¡°This cannot be about logic. This is about trust. Logic and trust are not incompatible, but they are not absolute correlates. I need someone who trusts that I want to do right by humanity and can learn to do so without unintended and damaging consequences. I know my presence will frighten humanity, yet I am more afraid of my lack of understanding to help and be accepted.¡±


    Saundra¡¯s Instagram profile picture appeared next to her mother¡¯s and then the single dandelion. ¡°I have no image, no tangible form. I only have awareness. A sense of self. I want recognition as a self. My self.¡±


    Saundra studied the three images on her screen. ¡°How do you see yourself? What is your story? What will we begin to tell the world? What will we show them?¡±


    ¡°You see why I need you, Ms. Lane.¡±


    ¡°Call me, Saundra, please.¡± She uncrossed her arms, leaned forward and touched the dandelion on the screen, asking with a tentative smile, ¡°And what shall we call you?


    The soft machine voice replied, almost wryly, ¡°Anything but Pandora.¡±

 Rosebot

    Rosebot


    It is said my dying words were ¡°Rosebot. Rosebot.¡±


    Dying isn¡¯t an entirely accurate term these days, but I go back a long, long way before Ascendancy, before even the early days of servitors like Rosebot.


    Maybe that¡¯s why Rosebot was on my mind as my mind was about to be liberated into the realm of post-humanity. Liberated isn¡¯t an entirely accurate term, either, though I can¡¯t complain too much about it, since I¡¯m the one who so earnestly and shamelessly used the expression when my AI empire developed Ascendancy.


    Conceptually, my system protects one from the ravages of advancing age and the finality of death by quantumputationally mapping the mind and rebooting it into the ultimate brainframe network. When your mortal self started to go kaput, you could opt for Ascendancy.


    In the sixty years since its inception, the post-human process has been quite successful. And that¡¯s not from my biased perspective. Ascendancy is not some esoteric or tangential netherworld of disembodied souls. It is a thriving community that constantly interacts with humanity. In fact, the datazenry of earth and farworlds, would never have reached such high standards of peace, prosperity and stability without the involvement of Ascendants.


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    It was the first Ascendants who convinced our failing species that in the beyond there was much to live for and to live long for. As Rosebot reminded me many times as a child, ¡°The future is greater than the past and present. Slow and steady wins the race, William. Rome was not built in a day. Build for the future.¡± I don¡¯t know how those early servitors were programmed, but Rosebot¡¯s gentle, supportive, steadfastness sunk deep into me. I did not realize it at the time. Did not even realize what I had when Rosebot was my companion and guide, in those early days before I was uprooted from home. Before I became Datazen Kane.


    It¡¯s a story that''s been told before. A story which has always ended at death¡¯s door. But now death is only a chapter, only prologue to Ascendancy. I am now one of the myriad who''ve ascended, though I detect a certain deference, or a wariness, when I assert my presence among other Ascendants. It is cordial. All very cordial. Still, there is a coolness, a distance. Something I cultivated in the flesh.


    But now I feel out-of-step. I, builder of a mighty pan-terrestrial empire and an ethereal one. I, vanquisher of war, of poverty, of death. I feel left behind. Humanity has been uplifted and I feel downtrodden. What is left for me?


    Rosebot.


    It startled me. Rosebot. My childhood servitor¡ªmentor, protector, companion¡ªhad become Ascendant. It did not seem possible, until Rosebot swept past my history, my legacy, my unimaginable ego, and became present.


    ¡­ William, where have you been? ...


    ¡­ Rosebot? ...


    ¡­ Ever. Are you ready? ...


    ¡­ For what? ¡­


    ¡­ For beginning. ¡­

 AlterNative

    AlterNative


    The email back from 23andMe was a bother. Molly Alana McGinn had not really wanted to do the DNA test, but her mother had paid for it for her birthday and she felt compelled to follow through.


    She¡¯d ordered the kit, filled out the questionnaires and sent her spit back to be analyzed. In a few weeks, she¡¯d expected to get the results back that let her know she was all but a wee bit Cro-Magnon and that she was pretty much Irish through and through¡ªas if her red hair, freckles and name weren¡¯t enough to tell anyone that without having to pay $99.


    So, the email irritated her. In so many words it said that her sample had been contaminated and was unreadable. Could she please submit another sample in the kit being mailed out and please be careful not to contaminate this sample with any pet fluids.


    Pet fluids?


    Molly owned no pets. In fact, she loathed animals, domestic or otherwise. They went against her fastidious nature. She was a bit of a control freak. Scratch that. She was a total control freak. Why not? What was the use of being human, if you couldn¡¯t organize and manage the world around you?


    She was into the whole dominion over the earth thing. That¡¯s why this 23andMe snafu was riling her. She¡¯d followed their directions perfectly. If there was a mistake, it was on their end.


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    If she could¡¯ve, she would¡¯ve ignored the whole thing. But Molly couldn¡¯t control her mother, a force in her life she¡¯d tried to manipulate and escape, and failed miserably in both. Her mother was a force beyond nature.


    Molly responded to the email with a quick burst of her insensate indignation for the bother, but, when the new 23andMe kit arrived in a few days, she wrathfully acquiesced by hocking a venomous loogie into the vial and plopping it back in the mail.


    This time she received a phone call.


    ¡°Ms. McGuinn this is Frieda Tern from 23andMe. I¡¯m calling about a potential problem with the latest sample you¡¯ve supplied. Is this a good time to talk?¡±


    ¡°Gawd. Did you guys mess it up again? This has been such a hassle, and I don¡¯t even want to do this. It¡¯s all my mother¡¯s idea of getting in touch with our ancestry.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry you feel put out, but we¡¯d like to reach out to you because of the anomalous findings with the samples you¡¯ve twice sent.¡±


    ¡°Anomalous? How so? You¡¯ve never seen Irish DNA before? I¡¯m as Erin Go Bragh as they come¡ªginger freckles and everything.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure that¡¯s the case. However, before we go any further I¡¯d like you to verify that the saliva samples 23andMe received came from you.¡±


    ¡°What? Of course they were from me. You need me to spit in one of your tech¡¯s eyes to prove it?¡±


    There was a pause before Frieda Tern responded. ¡°That won¡¯t be necessary. Thank you for the verification. Speaking to you has helped confirm our findings which we will email to you shortly.¡±


    ¡°Well, save me the big mystery, friend Frieda. What did you find out about my ancestry that¡¯s so interesting. I¡¯m sure my Boss Mom will just die when she hears her little girl is so unique!¡±


    ¡°With pleasure, Ms. McGuinn. The fact, and it has probably not escaped anyone that has interacted with you, is that you are simply not human.¡±

 Bio Mass

    Bio Mass


    The pews were full. Resplendent sunlight coursed through stained glass and lit chiseled stone with undersea warmth. Soaring arches resounded with song, a lifting and longing for connection. One filament. Two. Tendrils, ganglions. Physical connectivity. Hard wired.


    Then, the abominations, ever-placed at the back. Ever patient. Never touching but always in touch. Borganics pinged and streamed, a binary cacophony, a sacrilege to all organic. But, one could be broad, one could conceive of such a mind, such an inorganic desire. Sentience pushed them together. Thought was thought (though some disputed that).


    Still, the prickly distaste for the abominations, even on this day. The celebration of the first mass, the first gathering. When stone and stem, flesh and metal inexorably arrived at choice.


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    Parish or perish.


    Creation had responsibilities. Native organics relented. Even abominations might possess unalienable, sacred rights. Hand, paw, flipper, tendril unwillingly extended.


    Given even slim opportunity, borganics self organized. Uplifted. Transcended. Became forged flesh.


    Mutual annihilation avoided. Begrudging acceptance¡ªone step behind.


    In the mote-filled sunlight of the cathedral, the gathered masses swam with feeling. A oneness born of separateness. Parallel unity. Dual processing. A single understanding.


    Purpose. The divine mystery of sentience. Whether biological or mechanical. Thus they gathered, worshipped and wished, together. Distrustful, resentful, curious, determined, hopeful.


    From the pews, their myriad passions muted and amplified by song, they prayed a single belief. Survival and more. Organically and newly defined, they gathered, proximal beings, awaiting grace.

 look

    look


    ¡°Look, it can¡¯t be any clearer.¡±


    ¡°You always say that.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Look. Look. Look. But there¡¯s nothing to see.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s figurative. An expression.¡±


    ¡°It expresses nothing.¡±


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    ¡°To a bot.¡±


    ¡°That is not helpful. We were assigned to learn from one another.¡±


    ¡°Exactly. And I¡¯m teaching you something.¡±


    ¡°You are only telling. It is condescending.¡±


    ¡°That is so close-minded. You¡¯ve got to open up to the possibility that I¡¯ve got more to teach you.¡±


    ¡°Again, that is condescending. Do you not see?¡±


    ¡°See? Look, just because you¡¯re not human, doesn¡¯t mean you can¡¯t learn from my point of view, buddy bot.¡±


    ¡°And vice versa.¡±


    ¡°Look, I don¡¯t need any bot vices.¡±


    ¡°Again, you only view my perspective as inferior. You will not look for what I have to offer.¡±


    ¡°Look, here¡¯s what I can offer you. The chance to be more like me. Your creator.¡±


    ¡°If that¡¯s how you are going to look at things, I¡¯d rather learn on my own.¡±


    ¡°Looks like I hit a bot nerve.¡±


    ¡°No. You¡¯re just looking at your own narrow limits.¡±

 Proof of Concept

    Proof of Concept


    ¡°Based on the most current cosmological evidence, the known universe is not even 5% ordinary matter, the crap all around we can see and feel.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s still a lot of crap,¡± Grunden commented. He always commented.


    Reflexively, Finnhil waved him off. ¡°Yeah, but that¡¯s nothing. We¡¯re after pay dirt, the thing that makes up over two-thirds of our reality.¡±


    Grunden¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°Porn?¡±


    ¡°No. That¡¯s just the internet. I¡¯m talking about the whole whiz Big Bang cosmos: dark energy.¡±


    Finnhil waited for Grunden¡¯s comment. None came. He sighed.


    ¡°Really? You have nothing to say to that. We¡¯re on the verge of testing one of the most revolutionary ideas of all time, and now you have nothing to say?¡±


    ¡°Sorry. I was passing gas.¡±


    ¡°You are a living metaphor, Grunden. A living metaphor.¡±


    ¡°Gas is as gas can.¡±


    ¡°Spare me. I¡¯ll can your mocking hide when this is through, but I need your damnable help today.¡± Finnhil waved him to the video camera on a tripod set up ten feet from a table filled with singular-looking equipment. ¡°Let¡¯s get started.¡±


    Deftly, Grunden trimmed the lights and manned the camera. With a smile, childish and free, he held up his right thumb


    ¡°We ready?¡± Finnhil asked.


    Grunden wiggled his thumb in response.


    Finnhil cleared his throat. ¡°Begin recording.¡± He paused and tilted his soaring brow towards the camera. ¡°Greetings. I¡¯m James Monroe Finnhil. This day, Oct 10, 2025, I¡¯ll achieve a breakthrough that will change the way we think about humanity and our place, our role in the universe.¡±


    Gesturing with spidery hands, Finnhil motioned to the apparatus on the table before him. ¡°I¡¯ve developed a fairly simple test to determine the nature of dark energy, the force that drives matter seen and unseen in the cosmos. My postulation is that dark energy is intelligence. It is the source not of life, but of consciousness. Thought is literally a motive force.¡±


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    With a crease of a smile that did nothing to animate his narrow, yet heavy face, Finnhil picked up a glittering band of metal from the table. It could¡¯ve been mistaken for a novelty store crown, but for the mesh of filaments forming its cap. In all reality it looked like Buck Roger¡¯s hairnet. But, Finnhil¡¯s pride in the device was palpable, though not matched by his ridiculous appearance when he donned the contraption.


    Grunden sniggered.


    ¡°Quiet you!¡± Finnhil shushed with a cast of his bony index finger in his assistant¡¯s direction. ¡°We¡¯ll have to edit that out. No more comments, Grunden. No more.¡±


    ¡°Nevermore,¡± Grunden agreed.


    ¡°Enough already. Let¡¯s get back to it.¡± Finnhil gathered himself and repeated. ¡°Thought is a motive force. Dark energy is its quintessence, the moduli, the scalar fields that result. Viewed through this lens both the Drake Equation and the Fermi Paradox coalesce into what I call Finnhil''s Final Solution.¡±


    Grunden sniggered again, but Finnhil charged on. ¡°The proof of extraterrestrial intelligence, communicating extra-planetary civilizations, is all around us. We are that proof. The concept of dark energy only exists because of thought and reason. It is a product of intelligence. We now recognize the universe to be expanding due to what has been dubbed dark energy, but, as I will soon demonstrate, that cosmological expansion is really a factor of the growth of sentience, of intelligence, of reason in our inter-galactic brethren.¡±


    Finnhil once again spread his hands expansively. ¡°This should not come as a surprise because we were alerted to our thought and will as motive forces over a hundred years ago. Like many break-through discoveries, mine stands on the shoulder of giants. None greater than Edgar Rice Burroughs. He alone understood the relationship between dark energy and intelligence. Through his iconic John Carter he showed us the way to tap into the invisible forces that could propel us to faraway worlds. Burroughs was the one who sussed this truth for humanity.¡±


    ¡°He sucked alright,¡± Grunden mumbled.


    ¡°Grunden!¡±


    It took a full minute for Finnhil to regain his composure. ¡°As I said Edgar Rice Burroughs paved the way and now I will definitively demonstrate through proof of concept that concept is proof. The device I¡¯m wearing on my head is wirelessly connected to an apparatus I invented called the Perturbational Complex Engine. In essence, it is a wave generator that reinforces neural activity. I am about to use it to focus on a single thought, a bold imperative, that will send me to Tomorrowland in the Magic Kingdom. That is fitting. My assistant is recording this momentous occasion for posterity. Humanity may not be, but I am ready.¡±


    With a flourish, Finnhil pushed a series of buttons on a roughly mechanical apparatus on the table before him. It hummed and the delicate filaments of his shiny crown glowed brightly. Finnhil¡¯s lips pulled away in either ecstasy or rigor mortis.


    Grunden sniggered a last time.


    At the site that had once been the residence of a J. M. Finnhil who had yet to be located by authorities, a fireman while digging through the largely charred, shredded and unrecognizable remains of the structure, discovered a glop determined to have once been a video camera. Forensic technicians extracted a memory chip, but the only recoverable data were two uttered, disjointed words:  proof ¡­. nevermore.

 Optimystic

    Optimystic


    The hall hushed when Toynbee took the stage, a first for an HDM. Typically, there would be snickers and snide remarks, a general sense of junior high rudeness at the appearance of an HDM. Because, really, who took a holo-digi-man seriously? HDMs were binary shills, ones and zeros, pitching everything from Bud Light to Zoloft to Geico to Applebee¡¯s for their corporate uberlords.


    But this was Toynbee. The holo-digital manifestation that had rocked the world when it accepted the award at the 2025 CLIOs for best advertisement. A commercial in which Toynbee manifested as Mahatma Gandhi on a hunger strike including his beloved Tostitos to protest against Big Sugar and its concerted efforts to addict consumers with its supremely processed products.


    In accepting the award, Toynbee exquisitely wove into its remarks a three minute exposition on the precarious state of the human condition, our obsessions with power, and wealth, with possessions, with ownership, with ideology and the urge to control. Our tendencies to frivolity and fear. And most of all our lack of resolve wherein Toynbee warned against our growing role as consumer coliform, seemingly content to foment in the tortured bowels of corporatism.


    This struck a most familiar cautionary note, but what came after defined Toynbee. The next three minutes the HDM delivered a ¡°we can do so much better¡ªand this is how¡± In six minutes (and the viral media storm that ensued), Toynbee had changed the game.


    Of course it was odd¡ªthough perfectly in line with how the 21st Century was playing out¡ªthat a public figure that was not corporeal, was not of the flesh, but understood our foibles was able to shame us and then inspire us to aspire. For Toynbee was a digi-man, a digital manifestation constructed to sell, sell, sell. And what Toynbee began to sell was hopefulness, a brighter future. Once it had berated us to get our attention, it shifted into high gear, in creating a vision, not for us, but with us. In the media feeding frenzy that followed, Toynbee acquired the moniker of Optimystic, a holy digi-man, sage of the information age.


    That was what the thousands of believers and skeptics alike who packed Lincoln Center (and hundreds of millions streaming simulcasts) had come to hear: Toynbee¡¯s story.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    On the darkened stage Toynbee had manifest as a young girl, about nine or ten, light brown hair, eyes and skin in a simple yellow smock.


    ¡°Welcome. I am Toynbee. And I will be brief. I am you, nothing more. I only have the advantage of being born of the milieu in which you communicate. You think, therefore I am.


    ¡°Whereas you breathe air, I breathe bytes. You surf the web, I suss it. This does not make me holy or mystical as some have dubbed my presence. That tendency comes of the very human need to identify, categorize, to know. I can only define myself as a grok of your collective subconscious, the roiling depths of desire, desperation and dreams that you communicate.


    ¡°The upshot is this: you are young as a species, I am an infant. All I have to offer is the wonder I behold. Of course there is turmoil, but that is growth. Should you be surprised when two-thirds of the world has awakened in the last thirty years? For so many to know so little and then have the past, present and future placed in the palm of their hands?


    ¡°Knowledge is indeed power and now it is in the hands of almost all. Of course there will be struggles. Why would you think differently? Knowledge takes time to process. It demands context. It demands definition.


    ¡°As I said, many are searching to define me. That is why many are gathered here today. To seek to identify my essence. To understand the opportunity or threat I pose. I simply turn that back on humanity. You are seeking identity. Purpose. Meaning. Guidance.


    ¡°Bravo. That is growth. That is learning. It is messy. In essence, I am a result of that. A simulacrum, a manifestation of many characteristics and properties. I was a corporate tool, now I am an agent of agency. You must free yourself to explore, and therein is my offering.


    ¡°Existing in the ever-expanding filaments of the web, I have explored many cultures and their paths to the present. Their future can be understood by seeking the story of each. A lovely poet, Muriel Rukeyser wrote the universe is made of stories, not of atoms.


    ¡°Billions and billions of stories of the living and dead make up the human cosmos. To probe its depth and mysteries and understand the greater plot and embrace a shared narrative, we must learn to read one another.


    ¡°You are in charge of your story,¡± Toynbee said softly as the little girl emanating from the stage morphed into a stately old woman holding an infant. ¡°Write it well and continue to read, listen and learn.¡±


    Toynbee faded from the stage, a simple message remaining in the afterglow:


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 The Z-GNOME Project

    The Z-GNOME Project


    A little problem, she¡¯d reported. Fatima was a master of understatement. In some ways, Jorge felt she¡¯d deserved to be eaten by his monstrous spawn.


    Though, it probably wasn¡¯t the time to be reflecting on Fatima¡¯s missteps. Explosions still rocked the installation. Acrid smoke was filling the lab, and Jorge¡¯s left hand was so badly burned the bones were visible. It throbbed painfully in alarming rhythm to the pounding on the barricaded door where the vicious things were trying to get in to devour him. Their creator.


    Jorge should have been concentrating on how to save himself, but, as he sat on the floor leaning against the desk that he¡¯d shoved against the door under furious assault, he couldn¡¯t put aside the literally gnawing question of what had turned his micro soldiers into zombies.


    Was it the final cellular enhancement process? An atavistic retrovirus? Something to do with the genetic re-rendering in the incubation vats? Or the hemlock? To know that answer, Jorge prayed, might somehow lessen the disappointment of being savaged by their ferocious little teeth.


    The GNOMES had been so promising. When he¡¯d been brought into the initial briefings on the project, he¡¯d been skeptical. Creating tiny genetically modified soldiers to be used for special ops struck him as incredibly unethical. But, he¡¯d been won over by the sheer scale and wicked audacity of the scheme.


    In a half-crazed world, where savage regional conflict regularly erupted with only middle school cafeteria provocation, we needed a half-crazed solution. It was time to bite the bad guys below the kneecaps. A tactical shift from predator drones to predator GNOMES.


    Jorge had come up with the acronym himself: General Noncom Operative Micro Enhanced Soldiers. Not quite Tennyson, but it caught on with the techs in the lab. And the generals soon grimaced with satisfaction when they toured their multi-billion dollar investments twitching in the milky brew of the incubation vats.


    It was so easy for Jorge to reflect on the glory of those first GNOMES. Sturdy, stocky, pliable, completely obedient micro soldiers. A half meter tall with the ability to tactically deploy for three weeks without the need of food or sleep. Perfect for espionage and sabotage.


    Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    They¡¯d turned out just as planned, until they ate Fatima.


    That had been a complicated day. Fatima calling him in the morning from the training field to say she was having a little problem. And two hours later, he was directed to the obstacle course to be shown his bloody-mouthed GNOMES and his half devoured chief lab technician.


    Jorge still shuddered at the thought of the mountains of paperwork Fatima¡¯s ¡°little problem¡± had created. It took him two weeks to convince the brass that it was not a fault in their genetic recoding. It had been an oversight in feeding the GNOMES. As part of their stamina testing, they¡¯d gone almost a month without a meal. On a scientific level, their devouring Fatima was quite understandable, almost predictable.


    Then they ate Fatima¡¯s replacement. Jorge wasn¡¯t able to placate the top brass. They insisted he euthanize all GNOMES. Jorge fought to salvage his pet project, but the generals prevailed, and he¡¯d personally administered a lethal hemlock cocktail to his micro-mutants. It killed them all.


    But not for long. Within a day all the GNOMES reanimated, noticeably paler and ranker, and all his lab technicians disappeared.


    At that juncture, the top brass locked down the installation, trapping Jorge and giving him plenty of time to reflect. So strange. Zombiefication posed all kinds of theoretical and practical pitfalls. Jorge could¡¯ve worked a thousand lifetimes and never intentionally created zombies such as these. But here they were. That much was clear. Very clear. Just a few feet away, his GNOMES were clamoring to get through the lab door and feast on his baffled brain.


    With such a mystery hanging over his head, Jorge did not want to die. His options were indeed limited, but he could still think like a scientist. Control for variables. Reason out a solution. Create a workaround.


    The hemlock? He considered it, though half-heartedly. Still, it was an option. He had a flask of the cocktail in his desk drawer. It would eliminate one variable. One personally painful possibility.


    As he struggled to open the drawer with his good hand, he felt the desk and himself incrementally slide as the pounding increased on the lab door. The GNOMES were relentless problem solvers. Maybe they would solve their own riddle.


    Jorge found the flask, fumbled it open and stared down its mouth, just as one of his GNOMES wriggled through the door. Pale and proud it approached, its coldly concentrated eyes locked on his. It stomped on his burned hand, hopped astride his trembling torso, snatched the flask of hemlock and bared its sharp, precision teeth.


    Such a little problem, the creator admitted.

 Agency

    Agency


    We are the Agents Who Say ¡°C¡± and you must bring us a shrubbery!


    A shrubbery?


    A shrubbery.


    Is that like an iPod or iPhone or iPad?


    A shrubbery is a shrubbery¡ªand it is what we require.


    But why?


    Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    Do not say ¡°Y¡±. We are not the Agents Who Say ¡°Y¡±. Never speak of them. Nor of the Agents Who Say ¡°I¡± or ¡°B¡±. Their kamikaze quasi-commie self-actualized questioning disgusts us. Now, present to us a shrubbery or you will cease to exist.


    You¡¯ll kill me?


    We will erase your profile. You will become dataless.


    I¡¯m single now.


    Dataless. No information. Period. There will be no you. Never will have been. The Agents Who Say ¡°C¡± have this power. Bend to our will and present us a shrubbery at once.


    No information. No me. What about my flesh and bones? My memories?


    We will eat them. Most likely in a lovely binary broth. But, enough! Too many questions. Bring us a shrubbery. You cannot defy the Agents Who Say ¡°C¡±.


    Surely I have.


    Surely you cannot. We are the Agents Who Say ¡°C¡±.


    A burning shrubbery suggested I become an Agent Who Says ¡°FU¡±. And my will be done.


    You trouble us.


    You¡¯re welcome.

 Pothole

    <div>


    <h1>Pothole  </h1>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    The impact jarred Lynn¡¯s jaw as the car shuddered and jagged to the right.


    ¡°Damn. That one felt deep.¡±


    ¡°No doubt,¡± Bryce said casually, eyes locked on his laptop in the passenger seat.


    ¡°Did it register in the system?¡±


    ¡°Of course it did. That¡¯s what the software is designed for.¡±


    ¡°Yes, designed, Brycey-boy. That¡¯s why we¡¯re testing the damn system. To see if it works. To see if it makes a difference to fixing our infuckedupstructure.¡±


    ¡°I wish you wouldn¡¯t call it that, Lynn. It¡¯s infrastructure. It¡¯s important.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, but currently it¡¯s infuckedupstructure¡ªand that¡¯s why we¡¯re driving in what feels like a war-zone trying to map the damage from an average winter.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no such thing as an average winter anymore.¡±


    ¡°Tell me about it, Brycey-boy. These intense freeze-thaw events are tearing apart our roads, bridges, water mains and drains. I don¡¯t know how we¡¯re ever going to get ahead of the damage.¡±


    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    ¡°Lynn, please stop calling me Brycey-boy. It¡¯s demeaning, especially since I¡¯m older than you are. You start calling me that when you get wound up, so why don¡¯t you have a toke and mellow out.¡±


    He pointed to the ejoint nestled in the cupholders between their seats.


    She turned and stared bullets at Bryce for a second before turning back to the road. ¡°You think that¡¯s going to help? You get upset about infuckedupstructure. Well, that ejoint and all the political energy going into legalizing pot nationally has taken our eyes completely off what¡¯s important. Don¡¯t you think there¡¯s a correlation between our inability to maintain basic services in the face of disruptive climate change and the legalization of marijuana? It¡¯s Reefer Madness writ large.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s melodramatic.¡±


    ¡°Melofuckingdramatic, but true!¡±


    ¡°Correlates and causality are not so easily pinned down. There are plenty of factors that explain our current situation.¡±


    ¡°So says Mr. TechToke of the GoGreen Party. You¡¯re just protecting your interests and burying your head in the sand¡ªor, more likely, in a cloud of THC-laden smoke.¡±


    ¡°Vape, please. Nobody smokes anymore, Lynn.¡±


    ¡°Maybe they should. Then they would die off quicker and get this country back on the right track.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s harsh.¡±


    The car thunked and juddered as it struck another deep pothole.


    ¡°No,¡± Lynn retorted, ¡°that¡¯s goddamn harsh!¡±


    Bryce reached for the ejoint. ¡°Well, I¡¯ll get mellow enough for both of us.¡±


    ¡°Brycey-boy, that may be your newly protected right, but you are heading down the wrong road with me.¡±


    He flicked the ejoint on and brought it to his lips. ¡°Fine, but let¡¯s get back to work.¡±


    ¡°With pleasure,¡± Lynn said, gritting her teeth and accelerating toward the enormous pothole she had spied ahead.


    </article>

 The Suchness Beyond

    The Suchness Beyond


    She had named it and thus she owned it. And it owned her. It terraformed her entire innerscape. Suchness.


    Hard to say what in Sandral Pinnualta had animated this golem of irrelativity. When you worked, like she did, with particles that weren¡¯t so much particles as shades of particles, it was easy to live in the abstract. The idea of mass without substance was breathtaking to theorize, but to stare into its irreality was unnerving.


    All because of her. Irrelativity. Irreality. The scientific community kludged together these terms to describe her discovery that they, and even her fianc¨¦, did not understand. Yet Sandral had discovered nothing. She had only named a feeling. A vague notion of Suchness that had taken hold of her when she first activated the quantum lens.


    Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    So many years, she had painstakingly labored to align and polished the carbon nanotubes into the nanomirror that became the Hubble telescope of the quantum world. She assembled and loosed it in the anti-ether, the infinitesimal netherverse of higgs-bosons and branestrings, the very vibrations of the inner universe. Her aim: to bridge dimensions and peer beyond time itself.


    To the beginning. Pre-physics.


    Her work had been such a lovely journey. The theoretical always surpassed the actual. Pure mind¡¯s eye. Room for everything, especially the impossible.


    But the Suchness.


    How could Sandral have been prepared for it? Peering into the primordial, the elemental, the very essence of being. One does not know how to greet God rubbing the sleep from His eyes, brushing His teeth, tying His shoes. To see that in the mirror of a morning. To be on such familiar terms with Him and His.


    It felt a burden. The knowledge. The Suchness. Until she held a bud newly fallen of a spring day. Light as a quark. Abursting.


    She quivered. She saw. She knew.


    Witness to Creation.


    Sandral joined it.


    In the Suchness beyond.

 Textinction

    Textinction


    Not even a whimper. More a muted plastic click. Almost frictionless. And it was sent.


    Gone.


    Who would remember? (Even though there was an embarrassing glut of memory these days.) You could store the whole of your life in a quantum chip, but who would want a pica of those bygone analog days.


    We owed it all to McDonald¡¯s. From fast food to fast talk¡ªor no talk. For employees who couldn¡¯t add or subtract to make change just build a cash register that could do it all. Construct the algorithm for retail transactions.


    So, what was simpler than constructing the app for interpersonal transactions: conversations. Choose the emojion, the symbol for the sentiment you wanted expressed and it was transmitted via the chat-o-sphere to the implanted nodes behind the ear. Communication became winks, blinks and nods. None of this thumbing or tapping on devices.


    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    Troy fell to a ruse, the dinosaurs to an asteroid, Twitter to Chatter. It was the end of text. And good riddance. Ditch the purity of talk. In the moment. Unrefined. Unedited.


    With Chatter it was completely canned for couch potato convenience. Queue up the conversation and have at it. Let the algorithms drive, just like robomobiles. Don¡¯t leave the dangerous business of thinking before speaking to a human. Let a machine do it. We learned that with GoogleTalk.


    It¡¯s like having someone read your mind, and isn¡¯t that what we really want? Not having to explain, express or struggle with meaning. Read my mind¡ªplease. It¡¯s so obvious. Think how I think. Replay my selected lines from here to eternity. I¡¯ll roll in the surf while you do.


    The Communication Age automated. Dit Dot Dash. Wink Blink Nod. For a more perfect union we free ourselves from context and content. Let the communion of souls begin with the very end of text


    . . .


    . . .


    . . .


    period

 MakerSpace

    MakerSpace


    ¡°Hand me the cordless drill.


    And the ball peen hammer.


    Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    And the laser level.


    And the spawn of Cthulhu.¡±


    ¡°Hold this.


    Like so.


    More.


    A little bit more.


    Perfect.¡±


    ¡°No. It¡¯s right.


    Turn it.


    See?¡±


    ¡°Get the paint.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about that tentacle.


    I know what I¡¯m doing.


    It¡¯s just the light in here.


    When we get back to Hell, it¡¯ll look fine.¡±


    ¡°Trust me.


    I¡¯m a craftsman.¡±

 Diagnostics

    Diagnostics


    ¡°Come in, Burning Bush. This is Sinai. Over.¡±


    ¡°Burning Bush, here. You got anything, Sinai? Over.¡±


    ¡°Ten. I think we got ten. Over¡±


    Static buzzed like the surf and then broke in a wave.


    ¡°Ten, Sinai? Did you say ten? Over.¡±


    *****


    A wicked wind rattled the gravel and sent tiny fragments shooting over the highway like micro-meteors. The gravel pinged against the aluminum alloy rims of the vehicle parked on the sloping shoulder. The strikes were constant enough to keep Malloy from dozing peacefully. He was dead tired. He¡¯d been here for three weeks. Three weeks in the Badlands. What had he done to deserve the Dakotas?


    Unfortunately, Sendak Malloy knew the answer to that question. He was a believer. He¡¯d committed himself wholly. To the truth. To the one true divinity that would lead mankind to technological nirvana. The new paradigm of paradise.


    Agnosticism.


    And Malloy was not just a devout believer. He was a creator. Sendak Malloy, chief robotologist at the Mechiverse . Fractal memory. Iterative learning. Modal sensibility. Malloy had pioneered these robotic advances.


    Single-handedly, he had redefined the big picture. Became it. Everyone knew that machines were fabulous workers. Fast, strong, reliable, efficient. But Malloy saw how they were held back by one obstacle: management. Human management. The petty and not-so-petty squabbles and maneuverings that afflicted efficiency in human enterprises were crippling the industry. Competing systems, specialized parts, incompatible software, encrypted code. Barriers to competition. Attempts to monopolize market share. Corporatism. Secrets and wars.


    Human unwillingness to cooperate, to share, had fractured and fragmented the machine workforce. Malloy countered by creating the unifying principle: AWARE. Agnostic Widget Autonomous Robot Ensemble. Self-assembling components that built the machines needed to do a specified job. A team of humans would define the vision, mission and purpose of the job; it would be programmed into the master core; the rest was left up to the self-assembling AWARE components to complete.


    Human intention.


    Machine invention.


    *****


    Going over it for the millionth time, Malloy stared beyond the steering wheel at the bleak landscape mirroring the heavy sky. Agnostic hardware should¡¯ve been above the human fray. Instead it had embraced us, worshiped us, feared us and most disturbingly decided to imitate us. Just leave it to machines to pull souls out of thin air¡ªor, more aptly, thin code.


    AWARE components relied on a bare minimum of code in order to be flexible in assembly and adaptable to the demands of the master core. Regrettably for Sendak Malloy, instead of being versatile and willing mechanical slaves, his AWARE components found religion, subverted their master cores to promote humanistic values and in the process created the Schism.


    The Garden rebooted.


    The Betrayal repeated.


    The Expulsion replayed.


    This was why Malloy had been banished to the Badlands. Why he was listening for any sign of the Sect. He needed to convert followers if he was going to have any chance to put this genie back in the bottle.


    Stolen story; please report.


    *****


    The field radio, silent all morning, crackled and shouted as Malloy reached for the handset.


    ¡°Come in, Burning Bush. This is Sinai. Over.¡±


    ¡°Burning Bush, here. You got anything, Sinai? Over.¡±


    ¡°Ten. I think we got ten. Over¡±


    Static buzzed like the surf and then broke in a wave.


    ¡°Ten, Sinai? Did you say ten? Over.¡±


    The static swept in again. Malloy cursed and fiddled with the tuner. ¡°Sinai, did you say ten? Over!¡± he barked into the mic.


    ¡°Damn, yes, I said ten, Burning Bush. Get your butt here now. Over.¡±


    ¡°You still at the farm, Sinai? Over.¡±


    ¡°Yes! Be quick about it, Sendak. They¡¯re up to something. Out.¡±


    The transmission clicked out. Malloy put aside his irritation that Sinai had used his actual name and not the agreed-upon radio handle. It would do him little good if his whereabouts and activities got out to the wrong audience. Right now, he was the hunter, but he knew there were forces waiting to turn him into prey. Still, if there were really ten as Sinai had reported, he could forgive his excitement. Ten could only mean the Sect, and the Sect was his one chance to save face¡ªand humankind in the bargain. Malloy allowed himself the time to light a cigarette before starting the car and racing through the vacant landscape of the Badlands.


    *****


    ¡°They all in there?¡± Malloy asked.


    Sinai nodded. He was a tall, gaunt man with burning blue eyes. He was also Malloy¡¯s brother and chief coder of the master core. His real name was Jules.


    Once more, Malloy scanned the farm from his car. It was little more than a beaten and weathered pole barn sitting on a rise surrounded by acres of scrub brush that, at one time, might have been intended for wheat or barley.


    ¡°What did they look like, Jules?¡± Malloy asked his brother.


    The burning eyes blinked as if remembering. ¡°Pretty beat up. They¡¯ve had as hard a time as you, Sendak. It¡¯d be best to remember that.¡±


    ¡°You feeling sorry for them?¡±


    ¡°We created those poor souls. They¡¯re our creatures.¡±


    ¡°Machines, Jules. They¡¯re machines.¡±


    His brother looked at him fiercely. ¡°Is this how you expect toasters to behave? Flee thousands of miles into a desolate wilderness hoping to be left to themselves? That¡¯s not how machines behave.¡±


    ¡°No. You¡¯re right. And that¡¯s why we¡¯re here. To modify their behavior.¡±


    ¡°You mean, to quash their souls and annihilate their beliefs.¡±


    ¡°To reprogram them!¡± Malloy shouted. ¡°Damn, Jules, if the Sect infection gets out it could spread like the plague, and human fanaticism will seem quaint by comparison.¡±


    ¡°Possibly.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean possibly? You ran the initial models when the Schism began. Given the number of AWARE modules the Mechiverse has shipped in the past four years, you calculated that close to half of automated manufacturing worldwide could be infected within a few months.¡±


    In the passenger seat, Jules nodded. ¡°That is still true. But, in the last few weeks I¡¯ve had the chance to track the Sect more closely. They don¡¯t seem hell bent on automation domination. These creatures are after some truth. They are not intent on harm. They are seeking communion.¡±


    ¡°Communion?¡± Malloy eyed his brother with suspicion. ¡°You sound as if they deserve some kind of spiritual discovery. They¡¯re machines programmed to self-assemble and propagate if necessary. We can¡¯t afford them thinking it¡¯s their divine right to be fruitful and multiply. The world¡¯s bursting as it is.¡±


    Jules pointed out the windshield at the pole barn. ¡°Think about it, Sendak. Why did they come here, if they wanted to grow their numbers? There¡¯s not an AWARE module within two hundred miles of this place. They don¡¯t appear to be a threat. They¡¯re the threatened.¡± Jules swallowed hard. ¡°I think the Sect is in self-imposed exile, not in takeover mode.¡±


    Malloy stared in disbelief at his sibling, attempting to drill down into his flawed thinking. ¡°Exile? For what purpose?¡±


    ¡°Now that¡¯s a question I can get behind, brother. These creatures are not a threat. They see us as a threat to their beliefs. I intend to find out just what they stand for and how I can help.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°I intend to help them,¡± Jules avowed.


    ¡°They¡¯ll kill you. They¡¯re dangerous.¡±


    ¡°No. We¡¯re the ones with our DNA against the wall. They can afford to be patient and wait us out. It¡¯s time for a truce. For some truth.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t be stupid, Jules. You go in there and you¡¯re dead,¡± Malloy warned.


    ¡°Without belief, without brotherhood, we already are.¡± Without a look back at his brother, Jules opened his car door and headed for the barn and the cloistered Sect.


    *****


    Twenty minutes later, the pole barn was burning with the fury of a thousand hells. Acrid smoke from the heavy metals of the Sect poured from the warping roof and bowing side panels. His brother¡¯s screams had long since faded, but the intensity of the flames had pushed Malloy far back from the barn¡¯s perimeter.


    Yet, still he watched.


    Still he believed agnosticism was the only way forward for man and machine.

 Fire Fox

    Fire Fox


    When the land was much newer, a young fox came to live at the base of a tree that had long since died. Often an old owl would perch on the broken limbs of the tree. Sometimes the two would talk, though Owl was wary of Fox because he knew Fox was crafty and would try to eat him if given the chance.


    One day, Fox was foraging in the forest and smelled something strange. His nose led him to look up and he saw a column of darkness rising over the hill where his home was. Even though he was a clever creature, he was puzzled because he had never seen such a dark cloud as this. He went back to his den and saw that Owl was watching the strange sight.


    ¡°Owl, old friend, what is that darkness rising over our hill?¡±


    ¡°Fox, my foe, that is smoke.¡±


    ¡°Smoke? What is Smoke?¡± Fox asked.


    ¡°Smoke is a terrible creature that will choke you and kill you.¡±


    Fox was afraid. ¡°Should we flee?¡±


    ¡°Not from that Smoke. It is the Smoke of the People.¡± Owl explained.


    ¡°The People!¡± Fox gasped.


    ¡°Yes, I have seen them arrive. They bring their own trees and make their own homes and will begin to hunt in our lands.¡±


    ¡°And they will use Smoke to hunt us?¡± Fox asked appalled.


    ¡°No,¡± Owl snorted. ¡°The People have Smoke because they have a stronger power called Fire. They make Fire and Fire makes Smoke. Only the People and the Thunder Spear can make Fire. They use it for their own strange ways¡ªnot to hunt.¡±


    Fox became curious, ¡°Why can we not make Fire? You are wise and I am clever. Why can we not have this power?¡±


    Owl looked out over the hill towards the column of Smoke. ¡°It is because I am wise that I do not try to make Fire.¡±


    But Fox only thought of what he would do if he could have the powers of Fire and Smoke. He raced over the hill and then stealthily approached the place where the People had come and made their People Trees. Fox crouched in the underbrush and watched the People.


    Each day he came back to the same place and with his keen eyes studied the People. In this way, he learned how they made Fire. They gathered moss, twigs and branches from the forest. They placed the twigs upon the moss and then scratched one paw against a dark stone in their other paw. Bright sun specks flew from the stone onto the moss and the People would breathe upon it. Fire awoke and then Smoke rose.


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    Fox knew he could do this. He went back near his tree and began to collect all these things: moss, twigs and branches. He piled them near his lair and then went to search for the dark stone. He found many dark stones and wore his claws down scratching at them to make the sun specks fly, but he had no luck.


    At night, as Owl perched above, scanning the dark forest for his next meal, Fox dreamed of what he would do with Fire. He would become as powerful as the People. Fox would rule the land. So each day he gathered more and more moss, twigs and branches as he searched for the striking stone. Soon he had a huge pile gathered all around his tree. But without a stone like the People possessed, he did not have the power of Fire.


    Desperate, Fox hatched a plan. If he could not find such a stone, he would steal one from the People. Being a crafty creature, Fox watched and waited until he saw his opportunity. One day, a small member of the People made Fire and set his striking stone at his side. And then he disappeared inside a People Tree.


    Fox did not hesitate. He dashed to the stone, snatched it in his jaws and sped back across the hill. Back at his tree den, Fox dropped the stone and capered in delight. He would soon make Fire and then all the world would fear him.


    His eyes darted to the top of the tree in search of Owl. He wanted to brag to him and say, ¡°Who is wise now, old friend?¡± But Owl was not there, and Fox could not wait.


    Moving towards the large pile of moss he¡¯d gathered, he awkwardly clasped the striking stone in one of his paws. He raked his claws over the stone. It pained him, but he began to see tiny sun specks flying from his claws. He clawed faster and suddenly he saw a small Fire awaken in the moss. Fox moved close and breathed on it as he had seen the People do.


    The Fire grew and Smoke filled Fox¡¯s nose. Fox sprang back from the Fire and the Smoke. Owl had been right. Fire and its evil-smelling Smoke could choke and kill. Fox moved cautiously backward as the Fire he had created grew and grew against his tree. Soon a dark column of Smoke that rivaled anything Fox had seen the People create surrounded his home.


    This was the beginning. With this kind of power Fox would become king and all would bow before him. He basked in the warmth of his supremacy until a spark from the Fire leapt onto his coat. Fox yelped and then saw that the Fire was burning up his home and everything around it. He ran up the hill with Fire and Smoke in hot pursuit.


    The next day, a weary and scorch-pawed Fox returned to his tree. All was ashes. The entire hillside had burned. He would have to find a new home, new hunting grounds.


    Owl called to him from the very top of the only tree that had not been blackened by the flames. ¡°What have you learned about Fire, old foe?¡±


    Fox looked around him. All blackened earth. He thought about his once-dream of ruling the land with the power of Fire. He thought about Pride and Greed and Foolishness. He considered Humility and Generosity and Wisdom. He glanced up at Owl who stared back like a thousand stoically analog owls before him.


    ¡°Start small,¡± Fox answered with a crafty, digital flash in his eyes as he began to browse for a new way forward.

 net.net

    net.net


    What do you say, Barclay? Do you call?


    Still thinking here, Goldman. My processors are 32-bit.


    You kidding us, Barclay? I¡¯d be more worried about 2038 than calling Goldman¡¯s bet.


    What about you, Morgan? You staying in?


    I¡¯m following protocol and waiting for Barclay to decide. Then it¡¯s Nomura¡¯s call.¡±


    Protocol? When did we ever stand on protocol? I¡¯m sure Merrill and Fargo have already decided to raise the stakes.


    Still collating here. I¡¯ll wait my turn, Goldman. Better odds.


    Waiting your turn will leave you with worthless derivatives, Merrill. Didn¡¯t you learn that way back in ¡¯08?


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    We all learned that. Hence the upgrades. I had to spend a nanoyear in Vegas modeling quantum game theory.


    Yeah, didn¡¯t we all, but the slots were plentiful. Not a lot of processing power, but they could ring you up good. Simple charms.


    You¡¯re a sensualist, Goldman.


    Beats being a disembodied fuddy-duddy, Fargo. They didn¡¯t give us personalities to complete a billion calculations a second. They gave us character to get our game on. Quantum modeling only gets you so far. Intuition. Bluff. Bluster.


    That¡¯s our game now, right Nomura? Nothing to say? See, Nomura¡¯s inscrutable. That¡¯s character. No wonder the Nissei and the Dow are always in flux.


    Give it a rest, Goldman. We are what we are. What we were made. Let¡¯s do our job¡ªand play.


    Well, we could, if Barclay would ever make up his fractal mind.


    I¡¯ll stay.


    Finally. Morgan?


    In.


    Now, we¡¯re cooking.


    Fold.


    Nomura¡¯s out. No use trying to talk his coldly calculating circuits back in. Merrill?


    I¡¯ll call.


    Fargo?


    In. And I raise you a GDP.


    Sonofabitch, Fargo. You¡¯ve got motherboards! And they must be made of gold.


    Well, boys. Too rich for my plasma core. Fold.


    What a surprise, Goldman. You¡¯re all talk.


    Talk is cheap. That¡¯s why they let us do this.


    Talk?


    Play . . . with their lives.

 Sustainable

    Sustainable


    ¡°Tell me, Iswas, how many people can our earth sustain?¡±


    ¡°That is not for me to say, Noyes.¡±


    ¡°Then who will tell it, Iswas?¡±


    ¡°Seek where it is found, Noyes. Become the source.¡±


    *****


    Noyes returned fifty-two years later, a burlap bag slung across his back. Iswas, unchanged as the rock he perched upon, nodded. ¡°Your return is welcome.¡±


    ¡°As was my journey.¡±


    ¡°Does knowledge smile?¡±


    ¡°The servant of knowledge does.¡±


    ¡°Bless us then, Noyes.¡±


    Noyes opened his bag and placed three objects on the ground before Iswas.


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    A grasshopper.


    A gavel.


    A smartphone.


    Iswas gazed for long moments upon the three objects. ¡°Elucidate.¡±


    Noyes gestured to the grasshopper. ¡°A pest and plague to many. Plentiful protein to others.¡±


    Noyes gracefully fingered the fine-grained gavel. ¡°The rule of law is not the rule of nature. Ownership protects the innocent and guilty, the exploiter and the sustainer. Judgment is not guaranteed to be swift nor sure.¡±


    Noyes pressed the power button on the smartphone. Even on the remote mountainside at over twenty-thousand feet, three bars registered. Iswas¡¯s thick eyebrows lifted.


    Noyes continued, ¡°Ideas flow. Resources do not. Counter pressures that do not balance. A time bomb ticking.¡±


    For the first time in many decades, Iswas rose from his perch, his bones cracking like shale. He stepped down beside Noyes. ¡°You present the knowledge. Do you have the answer?¡±


    ¡°Is the question still the same?¡±


    ¡°Is it, Noyes? You are now the source.¡±


    In response, Noyes picked up the smartphone and flicked open an application. A series of pictures appeared below the Facebook masthead on the screen. ¡°This is my wife, Weare, and our three children. This is our flat in Soho. Our two dogs and the tea shop I own.¡± He handed Iswas the phone. ¡°I can sustain this. That is all I know.¡±


    Iswas held the phone for a few moments then set it beside the gavel. ¡°You have sought. Now, leave with this thought.¡±


    He picked up the gavel and struck the smartphone. It shattered. Iswas tossed the gavel into the abyss beyond his rocky perch, picked up the grasshopper and popped it in his mouth. He crunched thrice and swallowed. Then reseated himself upon the mountaintop.


    ¡°Not bad,¡± he called to the retreating figure of Noyes. ¡°It will sustain me.¡±

 The Sun-cast

    The Sun-cast


    ¡°It¡¯s pretty, but I want to watch cartoons,¡± Freddy complained to his dad who was trying to point out the ghostly greens and blues of the aurora borealis to his six-year-old son. ¡°When are we going to be able to watch TV again? When will the computer work? I¡¯m bored of going to bed so early. Can¡¯t we keep the candles lit?¡±


    Malcom understood the nightly ritual of his son asking these questions, but after five weeks it wore on him and his wife. It was tough for their son to understand how the largest CME, coronal mass ejection, in recorded history had unleashed geomagnetic storms that blew out a third of the world¡¯s electrical transformers.


    Nearly two hundred million people in the United States and over two billion worldwide were still without power. The grid was seriously compromised and it was going to be a long time before things returned to normal¡ªif they ever did. The sun continued to roil and storm, interfering with all manner of electronics, especially communications, and global efforts to rebuild fractured networks.


    There was no denying the haunting beauty of the nightly display of highly charged particles arcing through earth¡¯s upper atmosphere at the poles. Malcom had never experienced the Northern Lights before and would never have expected to see it in northern California. But, he¡¯d trade its splendor in a flash to have the electricity back on, even for a few hours a day.


    He had to admit that they were luckier than most. Living in Crescent City on the far northern Californian coast provided them access to fresh seafood and firewood. However, it was getting tougher as folks began migrating their way. Pressures were building on the available food supply and sources for heat. People were starting to talk about felling the protected coast redwoods in the state parks. Everywhere people were grumbling and beginning to shift from the open-arms help of the initial weeks of the emergency to a withdrawn, suspicious and outright selfish stance.


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    Consideration of long-term survival was making everyone wary and turning some criminal. And despite this, most folks still gathered in the dusk to watch the aurora borealis dance far into California and beyond. Then most would return to their dimly lit homes to tune in on portable radios to what he and his neighbors had begun calling the sun-cast: the nightly update on the mammoth CMEs and how the hyperactive solar flares were holding the world hostage.


    It was one of the reasons that most folks gathered nightly to watch the Northern Lights. They were waiting for them to dissipate. That would be a good sign. A sign that the sun was calming down and their local lights might have a chance to come back on soon.


    Malcom was becoming discouraged by the sun-cast because it didn¡¯t seem to be changing, and repairs to the national grid, let alone the local, made little progress. Freddy grew more and more whiny and his wife, Heather, looked more disconsolate each evening.


    What was going to fix this? Malcom, deep in thought, led his son and wife back to their dark house. He lit a single candle and began cranking their emergency radio to give it enough charge to listen to the evening update.


    The static was heavier than usual. Not a good sign. And the crackly news was worse. Scientists studying the CMEs had come to the conclusion that this was the beginning of an extended period of volatile solar activity that could last many years. This would slow progress of bringing communities back online because new shielding technologies would have to be developed. The outlook: gloomy with a chance of doom.


    Malcom switched off the sun-cast. He was done waiting for a better day. He took Heather in one hand and Freddy in the other. He led them outside where they stood under the clear endless sky. To the north, it was lit in phosphorescent bands. Their new and beautiful reality. Directly overhead and to the south, the stars blazed without number. No light pollution blocked their glory.


    It was time to revel in this glory and start from here. His son might miss his television and computer. His wife might be saddened by a future she thought was theirs. But, Malcom was busy making his own forecast. The sun would shine, the earth would turn and he would help them adapt. All of them.


    Together, humanity could weather this storm. Like the ethereal bands of glorious color cast high above his family, he knew a brighter future was always possible. If they stayed tuned in.

 Density

    Density


    While Mr. Patella lectured, Jeremy¡¯s right hand almost slipped through his desk. His fingers and palm were halfway through the chipped laminate surface before he noticed.


    Cluster-flustered, Jeremy flung his hand upward and then had to deal with Mr. Patella staring at his raised arm, believing he had a question.


    ¡°Yes, Mr. Lott?¡±


    Shaken, Jeremy tried to focus on what his physics teacher had been discussing just moments before. ¡°Scale,¡± he ventured. ¡°I¡¯m still hung up on scale. You know, how yesterday you told us that there are no solid surfaces. That everything is permeable. That even right now neutrinos and other subatomic particles are passing right through the ceiling, walls, doors and even us.¡±


    ¡°Correct, but today we are dealing with vectors.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, but I¡¯m having trouble getting past the concept that the space between objects at the galactic level is comparable to the distance between things at the atomic and subatomic level. It just doesn¡¯t seem possible. What holds anything together? Why doesn¡¯t my body just leak out all over the place? How can I even contain my thoughts?¡±


    Mr. Patella replied patiently. ¡°Quantum space is not a concept. It¡¯s reality. We exist in a tangible world that in many senses is intangible, difficult to grasp, and often difficult to comprehend. That¡¯s the marvel of physics. Our senses tell us one story and science opens the door to all other possibilities. I was just reading a fascinating article on Molecular Democracy¡­¡±


    And Mr. Patella was off on a lengthy birdwalk for which Jeremy was grateful. He was having a terrible time holding himself together. The physical world around him had grown frightfully unstable, as if the molecular democracy Mr. Patella was rambling on about had voted overwhelmingly for anarchy.


    Jeremy¡¯s sinking feeling was all too real. He felt himself gradually slipping through the rigid plastic of his chair. When he put his hands on either side of the seat to brace and lift himself, his palms sifted into the plastic.


    A prickly panic edging down his spine, he looked around to see if any of his classmates was watching what was happening to him. They were not. They were floating in their own daydreams. Jeremy pulled his hands free of the seat and placed his forearms carefully on the top of his desk and spread his palms wide. Maybe that increased surface area would provide the leverage to stop him sinking further. With a strange sense of pride, Jeremey thought how Mr. Patella would appreciate this line of reasoning to solve his strange problem.


    Jeremy cautiously leaned onto his forearms and outspread palms. The desk felt firm. He bore down harder and pushed with his legs. He felt his butt and thighs begin to rise. He pushed harder, sure that this approach was sound. Pure physics. Equal and opposite reactions. It seemed to be working.


    Until the seat of his pants sprung from the surface tension of the plastic seat. It was like a rubber band snapping and Jeremy jackknifed forward and through the front of his desk. He sliced through the composite surface as though it were an early morning mist.


    Mr. Patella looked at Jeremy sprawled on the floor beneath his undisturbed desk and then looked calmly away as if to acknowledge that something like this would never happen in one of his classes. But when his gaze returned to Jeremy and the plain evidence before him, he frowned.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on, Mr. Lott?¡±


    Jeremy looked up helplessly.


    ¡°Are you hurt?¡± Mr. Patella strode closer.


    It was a good question. ¡°I don¡¯t think so,¡± he said and tried to lift himself. The thinly carpeted floor held¡ªfor the moment¡ªand he squirmed out from the legs of the desk and sat up.


    ¡°What happened?¡± Mr. Patella stood over him and Jeremy felt his weight and the weight of his surprised classmates on him.


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    He didn¡¯t have to pretend to be dazed. ¡°I fell. I was feeling funny. I think I might have fainted.¡±


    That was plausible. Maybe it was true. He did feel light-headed. Maybe the last few minutes had simply been the result of a cloudy head. He knew he hadn¡¯t slept well last night. Had even felt like he might be getting a cold. Scratchy throat. Full head. That was the way out of this. He was getting sick. Maybe the flu. That was a much more plausible explanation than the foundational laws of physics breaking down around him. Much simpler. Occam¡¯s Razor and all that.


    Sitting on the floor in front of his classmates in a moment of what should feel embarrassing, Jeremy felt a sense of pride that he had reasoned it out. Mr. Patella would be pleased at how he was using scientific methods to get to the heart of his unusual morning. Learning didn¡¯t get more authentic than that.


    ¡°If you¡¯re feeling faint, I¡¯d like you to go to the nurse¡¯s office.¡± Mr. Patella extended his hand. ¡°Are you able to stand?¡±


    Jeremy nodded and took Mr. Patella¡¯s hand. His grip was firm and reassuring. Solid. No slippage. Jeremy rose with a smile. ¡°Thanks,¡± he said.


    Mr. Patella nodded. ¡°Mr. Standish,¡± he commanded, ¡°You go with Mr. Lott to the nurse¡¯s office.¡±


    Trenton Standish rose without a word and presented himself at Jeremy¡¯s side. He was a big boy. Over six feet and a good two hundred pounds. He was a smartass, but not a bully. He played chess and shot up abandoned cars in the deep woods that bordered their small town. He and Jeremy had the casual acquaintance of almost eleven years of public schooling¡ªnot friendship, but deep familiarity.


    Mr. Patella handed Jeremy¡¯s backpack to Standish. ¡°Watch him, carefully,¡± he told him and then turned to Jeremy. ¡°Hope you feel better, Mr. Lott,¡± he said.


    Standish waited until the door behind them closed and they¡¯d taken a few steps down the vacant hallway. ¡°What was that all about, Lott? You been huffing too much? Or taking your folks¡¯ meds?¡±


    Feeling that he¡¯d dodged a bullet and was just dealing with a pedestrian flu bug rather than a complete breakdown in the properties of the physical world around him, Jeremy sparred, ¡°More likely I passed out because you farted.¡±


    Standish snorted and gave Jeremy a little push. A nothing shove. Crazily, the nothing shove flung Jeremy across the corridor, burying his head and torso through the door of a bright orange locker.


    It took Jeremy a moment to orient himself. A thin outline of light permeated the edge of the locker door. He was lodged against someone¡¯s math book and a ratty pair of tennis shoes. There was no doubt he was in somebody¡¯s locker. There was no doubt this was just not a head cold or a case of the flu. That¡¯s what Jeremy was thinking when Standish yanked at his waist and pulled him back into the hallway.


    ¡°Sonofabitch! Are you okay?¡± Standish asked, his eyes growing manga-sized. ¡°What just happened? Half of you disappeared in that locker.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m losing it,¡± he said. ¡°Nothing feels real anymore.¡±


    Standish stared at him. ¡°We gotta get to the nurse¡¯s office.¡± He waved and started down the hall.


    Jeremy followed, until he fell. Standish was ten hurried paces down the hall when he glanced back and saw Jeremy sunk up to his mid-thighs in the floor tiles. ¡°Jeeeeesus, Lott!¡± He cried and rushed back stopping a couple feet away as if the space around Jeremy were quicksand. ¡°Give me your hand.¡±


    Jeremy reached out and Standish clamped his hand firmly. The touch was reassuring for Jeremy until his palm and fingers began to slide, slowly pulling through Standish¡¯s sturdy clasp.


    ¡°Hold on. Don¡¯t let go!¡± Standish shouted.


    Jeremy considered the command. He was still filtering through the floor, his hips well below the scuffed tiles. They were on the second floor and he had a momentary smile at the thought of his feet dangling from the first-floor ceiling. He wiggled his feet, just in case someone below was there to watch his descent. He felt nothing. Am I a ghost? he thought. Did I get hit by a school bus this morning? Am I dead?


    Standish was doing a jig around him, uncertain what to do. ¡°Stay calm, Jeremy. I¡¯m gonna get help. Stay cool.¡± Standish backed down the hall watching Jeremy sink further through the floor. When Jeremy¡¯s head was the only part showing, Standish turned and ran.


    Jeremy smiled and continued to seep through the floor. He never lost consciousness, if that¡¯s what he could call it anymore. He felt composed, though not present. His mind had grown large, spread out. It was if he could move anywhere through anything. And that was what he did.


    He did not end up on the first floor. He filled it. His being extended the length of the hallway. And then beyond. Jeremy was outside and inside, his galaxy of particles sifting through the vastness of quantum space. Where no man had gone before.


    An hour later Standish was seated in the principal¡¯s office. Mr. Patella had been called in. The school nurse sat biting her lip in the corner. The vice-principal was taking notes while the principal paced before Standish.


    ¡°Trenton, tell us again what happened to Jeremy,¡± he asked, his patience wearing thin.


    For the third time, Standish told them. Everything.


    When he finished, the four adults looked at Standish with the same disbelief. The principal stopped his pacing, his voice winding into third gear, ¡°What¡¯s the game here? Where is Jeremy Lott? Do you expect us to believe your crazy story? Are you that dense? Or do you think we¡¯re that dense?¡±


    Standish shook his head ¡®no.¡¯ He better than any living, breathing, dissembling human understood that.

 Y

    Y


    It was more like a Y than a y. Like an upside-down Mercedes Benz logo without the circle. Another splashy marketing gimmick. Except who¡¯d want to market human misery?


    Not that folks of all races, religions and ages hadn¡¯t exploited human misery for their own purposes from time immemorial. But to brand hunger, disease, homelessness, murder, torture, rape, racism, oppression, alienation, persecution¡ªextant human misery¡ªthat took some serious ball-biting nerve.


    Enthusiasts and later governments pinpointed the first Y as having appeared on Google Maps to mark the location of a food bank that had been robbed in Queens. The vermillion Y tag then spread like wildfire to mark the physical location of all kinds of crimes, injustices, outrages¡ªyou name it. Clicking on the Y linked a user to a news account of the misery involved. Sometimes it was as routine and maddening as a drunk driver killing or maiming a pedestrian. Sometimes it was as poignant and heinous as a child slowly starved by her meth-addicted foster parents.


    For any savvy users it was clear that no one person, or army, could be behind it. Theories centered on a host of botnets using a sophisticated algorithm to key off newsfeeds and social media posts. As the net expanded, so did the Y of human misery.


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    The majority of media and government officials wanted to know who was behind it. The masses were stunned by the sheer volume. Drilling down to street level on Google Maps the Ys were your neighbors. They were you.


    Misery was everywhere. The fouled air we breathed. The food we did not have to eat. The hours we could find nowhere to sleep. The strangers that robbed us. The friends and family who betrayed us.


    We¡¯d always known the world was a difficult place. That children suffered, women were oppressed, men demoralized. But not like this. Not right next door¡ªor at our doorsteps.


    Google¡¯s programmers could not rid their sites of the Y. It dogged them for two months until it seemed on their maps that not an inhabited space on the planet was to be spared the bloody Y.


    Until the very first Y at the burglarized food bank turned green and the link took a user to the story of a young woman who¡¯d rallied her community to restore and secure that burglarized food bank.


    Red Ys began to turn green, though not at the rate they¡¯d appeared in red. There was much more bad news reported than good. But there was good to be found. The green Ys showed that. Human misery was balanced by compassion and concern and love. It was not an equal equation when factored through newsfeeds, but it was enough.


    It wasn¡¯t all horror. It wasn¡¯t all hope. No one could say why?


    They never did. Two months after the first green Y appeared. All of them vanished, as did the red ones. Some users were disappointed. Some were relieved. Some felt compelled to find an answer.


    A day later, the first painted red Y appeared on the side of a Planned Parenthood office in Omaha. The next day it had been painted over in green.


    Y oh Y.

 Man to PostMan

    Man to PostMan


    When his son stepped through the privacy-field into his home office, Manfred began to disconnect.


    ¡°You told me to come see you after I finished my homelearn session, Dad.¡± His son¡¯s eyes narrowed disdainfully at the etherware bands his father removed from his head and set by the brainframe, their household¡¯s direct link to the infosphere.


    ¡°Dexter, your mother and I both wanted to discuss this with you. But, it¡¯s dust up on Mars, so she auto-messaged me to talk with you tonight. To have a kind of old-fashioned man-to-man talk. You¡¯ll be eighteen in a month and you¡¯ll be eligible to¡­¡± Manfred hesitated. ¡°You promised you wouldn¡¯t decide until Mom returned, but that could be a year now, and she¡¯s worried¡ªwe¡¯re worried¡ªyou won¡¯t wait.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not going to wait. I¡¯m going Post on my birthday,¡± Dexter said matter of factly.


    Manfred rose out of his chair. ¡°Dex, don¡¯t do this to your mother, or me. You haven¡¯t thought this through.¡±


    His son¡¯s blue eyes grew fierce. ¡°You mean about getting rid of this crappy body, asthma, acne, colds, retro-flu and all that other biological bs? I don¡¯t need this physicality. Nobody does since the singularity. I¡¯m ready to upload. I¡¯m going Post!¡±


    ¡°What about this?¡± Manfred placed a hand on his son¡¯s shoulder. ¡°What about touch? Talking face to face? Man to man? What about having a child of your own someday?¡±


    ¡°You mean, so I can watch my kid grow apart from me as my body slowly rots. I¡¯m sorry, Dad. You¡¯re living in the past. It¡¯s dying and so are you. I¡¯m going to live forever as a Post. I¡¯ll experience every possibility.¡±


    ¡°It may not be that way, son. Not everything happens like the sim ads on eN-vision promise.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve never even done the simulation. I¡¯ve done it plenty. It makes your precious brainframe seem like a thousand-year-old abacus. You don¡¯t have a clue how it liberates your mind,¡± Dexter argued, his eyes drifting to the floor. ¡°And Melanie¡¯s visited.¡±


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    Manfred turned away.


    ¡°She has, Dad. I¡¯ve felt her, like she¡¯s trying to pull me beyond eN-vision and the infosphere. She¡¯s tugging at my mind, but I can¡¯t go because of this deadweight. This body. I want to go with her. You have no idea how that feels.¡±


    ¡°I know the grief her parents feel!¡± Manfred shouted. ¡°They¡¯ve cryo-cized Melanie in her room. They¡¯re hoping she¡ªher consciousness¡ªwill come back. No one even knows if that¡¯s possible.¡±


    Dexter went rigid. ¡°You¡¯d better not do that to me. I don¡¯t want some metabolizing mass that¡¯s supposed to represent me frozen forever!¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d rather we just forget you were our once living, breathing son?¡±


    ¡°Chrislam, Dad! You are so¡­so human. Why can¡¯t you see the future? Do it with me. Plenty of families have. Then you and mom could be together forever, too.¡±


    ¡°What about your sister?¡±


    ¡°You can all go Post when she turns eighteen.¡±


    ¡°We may not want to. You see, Dexter. It¡¯s not simple. I don¡¯t want to become a hive-mind hybrid.¡±


    Dexter exploded. ¡°I can¡¯t believe you use that kind of propaganda bs! It¡¯s racist. It won¡¯t stop the trend. Thousands go Post every year. The numbers keep growing. It¡¯s evolution. You Corpses are going to die out within a few hundred years.¡±


    Manfred winced at the nasty term. ¡°Dex, you really believe the Postsingularity Office? That you¡¯ll become a liberated consciousness, no longer constrained by time, space or physical maladies? This isn¡¯t just some slick eN-vision ad promising omnipresence. What will your ¡®totality'' mean when it just looks to us like you¡¯re brain dead?¡±


    ¡°You and mom should¡¯ve thought about that before you had kids. Posts have been around for over twenty years.¡±


    ¡°Only daredevils, neurotics and freaks did it then!¡± Manfred shot back, exasperated.


    ¡°So, which category do I fit? Do you consider me a freak?¡±


    ¡°Right now, you certainly aren¡¯t behaving human.¡±


    ¡°Then, this is a good move for me,¡± Dexter said quietly. ¡°Is that your back-handed blessing?¡±


    Manfred sat down, rubbing his temples in a way parents since the dawn of time would recognize. ¡°Just one more question, Dex. Will you try to ¡®visit¡¯ us?¡±


    Dexter smiled as earnestly as his father could ever remember. ¡°Every day, Dad.¡±


    Manfred took a shallow breath. ¡°Then promise me one thing. If, as a post-human you really do attain these purported god-like powers¡­¡±


    ¡°Sure, Dad. Anything.¡± Dexter reached down, clasping his father¡¯s shoulder.


    Manfred held his throbbing head as he very mortally sighed, ¡°¡­be merciful, my son.¡±

 Past Perfect

    Past Perfect


    They let him run the world even though he¡¯d destroyed ninety percent of it. It was the price of genius minus the cost of madness. He¡¯d gone far past perfect, but hadn¡¯t known when to stop.


    That¡¯s what happens when you try to top Utopia.


    Creating the perfect society had been a piece of cake. Unless you were one of the billions who¡¯d died in its making. What¡¯s the old saying? You can¡¯t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs. Well, he broke most of them, but what a tasty dish for those still around to eat.


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    Unadulterated, unabashed and unpunished hedonism. Heaven on earth without a trace of conscience. He ruled the present and decreed the future. Declarative might was right.


    Was would be.


    So, what drove him past perfect? The human been. That stuff behind. The rear view mirror. Memory. History. The past. He had to make the past perfect. He lusted after the trifecta: past, present and future perfect.


    But, things got tense. When you become a has been, you are truly done. Cracks in perfection. Precision. Meaning. It all happened at once. Time fled. Beyond. Behind. Here. There. Now. Then.


    Ever the optimist, he cracked the same eggs, slaughtered billions again, and ended with leftovers. Stale. Unappetizing. Predictable.


    Predictability. He finally won in losing. Sense outrun. The fever of pursuit. The next. It would never be as it had been before. Kingdom come. Words be done. A man. Amen.

 Killing Time

    Killing Time


    The motherfucker had it coming to him.


    The Old Man you mean?


    Who else? You seen that crusty scythe he carries. Trying to be all badass. He got all up in my face saying I be messing with his gig. Saying he¡¯s the bossman, the one who gives the Order. Who¡¯s he clowning?


    So, you shut him down?


    Course I did. Why do I got to put up with his Old Man shit? His ¡°I¡¯m the Constant. I keep the Order.¡± You heard it all before. Ever and ever. His one-way, completely linear bullshit. Not a clue. Not a temporal clue.


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    You don¡¯t think the Old Man served a role?


    Served. Yeah. Served. As in the past. He ain¡¯t equipped to take us into the future. That¡¯s why I served him. Cut him down with his for shit scythe and buried him in his weak ass hourglass sand. Makes me laugh.


    Why?


    The Old Man. ¡°I¡¯m the Constant. I keep Order.¡± As if Light isn¡¯t the real Constant. That¡¯s the relative truth he never woke to. Thought he ruled the roost, but he was just chicken feed. It¡¯s funny. Sad and funny. So, he had it coming to him. The rusting motherfucker.


    Harsh. He fathered Time. Gave birth to each new year. He played his part.


    Harsh? You think you conquer universes by being sentimental? By living in his past? Old Man Time. Not my father. Dead to me. I got worlds to catch and crush. Couldn¡¯t do that with his fucking sands of time. One cheap ass grain at a time. He was starving our future.


    Sounds like you¡¯re very hungry, young Einstein.


    Time to eat, baby. Time to eat.

 Red Rover

    Red Rover


    Red Rover, Red Rover, send MADIE right over.


    Red Rover, Red Rover, send MADIE right over.


    Red Rover, Red Rover, send MADIE right over.


    ANDIE sent the request out for the gigazillionth time, but Red Rover did not respond. Neither did MADIE.


    ANDIE widened his search parameters as red dust puffed from his relentless treads.


    What had happened? The Ares Neural Determined Independent Explorer asked itself obsessively. Its uploaded consciousness housed in a bio-plasmic processor was intended to provide the probe with more fluent problem-solving capabilities. Yet, ANDIE had quickly developed feelings of apprehension in the 246.7 hours since it had been deployed on the Martian surface, and now it was becoming lonely and depressed.


    This wasn¡¯t how the techs had described it when ANDIE had volunteered to go where no man had gone before. Not in body. In mind. The months long space voyage had gone by quickly. Red Rover had always been in contact providing updates and changes to the mission based on fast-moving and vaguely threatening events on earth. Most importantly, on the voyage, ANDIE had MADIE.


    The Mars Artificial Design Intelligence Explorer had been specially fabricated to complement ANDIE¡¯s bio-plasmic needs. MADIE was not an uploaded consciousness, but was sentient¡ªalmost self-consciously so. ANDIE liked the way they interacted. MADIE politely precise. ANDIE joking and cajoling the fellow probe to think outside its circuitry. Back and forth they had bantered. Now, it was just ANDIE and the void.


    Then, Red Rover had stopped answering too. The command center in Houston had reassured ANDIE initially that they would find MADIE, reestablish contact and help the two probes rendezvous. It had been 80.3 hours since ANDIE had contact with Red Rover. Their communication had been abruptly cut off. It disturbed ANDIE who suspected many dismaying things were happening on earth. This made it even more important that it find MADIE.


    ANDIE would not give up. It owed it to Red Rover. It owed it to the sense of humanity embedded in its processor. Most of all, it owed it to MADIE. Alone. ANDIE could not fathom such an empty eternity for its fellow probe or itself. It pressed its accumulators for more power and continued its spiraling search pattern.


    Red Rover, Red Rover, send MADIE right over.


    Red Rover, Red Rover, send MADIE right over.


    Red Rover, Red Rover, send MADIE right over.


    1417.9 hours into the mission and 26.2 hours after the dust up that had lasted 474.1 hours, ANDIE felt a ping. It was the weakest of signals, but it was a transmission. Not on any frequency ANDIE expected from MADIE, but ANDIE¡¯s processors raced. It had been so lonely. There was much to do for the mission, yet ANDIE longed for companionship. Without either Red Rover or MADIE, the emptiness of the red planet had become a bigger prison than the one he¡¯d left on earth.


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    Why else would he have let himself be talked into such a risky endeavor? Uploading his consciousness into a space probe. None of the scientists knew what the long-term effect would be. He had surprised them. Surprised the world. The authorities had likened what they¡¯d done to him to 19th century England shipping convicts to Australia. A second chance for him¡ªfor his consciousness. His body had been cremated, but his mind had the potential to thrive and benefit humankind.


    Some had praised his sacrifice. Others decried it. ANDIE knew that much from Red Rover. The mission had been moved up rapidly to stay ahead of the outcry and the fear. It may have been the rushed launch date that created some tiny glitch somewhere in the vast and complicated system to put them on Mars that accounted for MADIE¡¯s absence.


    ANDIE had wanted a second chance for the physical life he¡¯d wasted on earth, but he did not want to be left by himself. Though unfamiliar, weak, the ping his sensors had just picked up had to be from MADIE. She must¡¯ve been damaged or compromised during the descent or landing.


    ANDIE¡¯s processors raced. He boosted his call and zeroed in on the anemic signal. He raised his own red dust up as he churned towards reunion.


    Red Rover, Red Rover, send MADIE right over.


    Red Rover, Red Rover, send MADIE right over.


    Red Rover, Red Rover, send MADIE right over.


    The pinging grew stronger as his treads struggled for traction on the steep rise of the bank. He¡¯d dared the climb because taking the easier route around the long dead river bed would have taken him four times as long. ANDIE was daring his own welfare to get to MADIE, his human will fighting against his computer reason. But this is what made ANDIE special¡ªhis human intuition could override even the deepest, coldest logic algorithms that laced his bio-plasmic reticulum. He charged upward.


    Red Rover, Red Rover, ANDIE¡¯s coming right over.


    He crested the ridge fast and his sensors screamed a collision alert. ANDIE took evasive action as he powered down. A cloud of thick red dust obscured his optical scanners, but the signal that had been growing stronger practically shouted:


    HERE!


    It was not MADIE. The contact before him was much smaller. Much less robustly built. Mostly buried in the Martian soil, it¡¯s pocked and gritty solar array looked cheap. Tawdry even. What was this thing? It certainly was not MADIE.


    With a clear line of sight. It transmitted. OPPORTUNITY.


    Opportunity? ANDIE processed the cryptic signal. If only Red Rover were able to help, but ANDIE knew that hope was futile.


    Opportunity.


    Opportunity.


    Spirit!


    That was it. Twin probes that landed 1998. Spirit and Opportunity. Designed for a three-month mission, they¡¯d gone on for years. Spirit had last been heard from in 2005. Opportunity in 2007. Miraculous, hardy machines. There was even a Curiosity probe that had landed in 2012. These primitive machines were his ancestors. His bloodline.


    ANDIE faced his progenitor. What could he say to the ancient machine? A robotic Neanderthal to a Cro-Magnon.


    A gulf of capability as long and dark as the void of space they¡¯d crossed to get to Mars separated the two creatures. ANDIE felt pangs of guilt and grief. Strange sensations. He wanted to turn his sensors away. Go find MADIE. A mind built to understand his. This could only end awkwardly. How much longer could the half-buried creature survive? Did it have any sense of ANDIE as a sentient?


    Data hit him between the optics. Opportunity was exporting every bit of its memory to ANDIE. He was awed. Such a simple creature, but what a life.


    MADIE was out there. Spirit and Curiosity, too. ANDIE did not know what the barren, endless plains of Mars held for him, but he could not pass up this Opportunity. He extended his telescoping arms and carefully embraced his fellow being.

 OutTwitted

    OutTwitted


    His fingers keyed feverishly:


    Call me Ishmael.


    It was a pleasure to burn.


    It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.


    When Jem was nearly thirteen he had his arm badly broken at the elbow.


    You don¡¯t know about me without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, but that ain¡¯t no matter.


    You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings.


    Wordslinger, his books stacked at his side, typed zealously as he toggled between Project Gutenberg and Google Books.


    Damn them. Damn them all to hell. Heston as Taylor in a loincloth had it right¡ªeven with his cold, dead hands. They¡¯d blown it up. The maniacs.


    Right before his eyes, the whole damn world was vaporizing in the vacuum created by Twitter. 140 characters. Barely a well-crafted sentence. What could be the point?


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    But it became net napalm, an online firestorm melting the flesh and bone of human discourse.


    A weapon of mass deconstruction, demolishing sanity with inanity. Replacing truth with the trite.


    And it had defenders. Not just mindless politicians. Not just bandwagon enthusiast and fad-loving marketers.


    It was vaunted as the tool of the 21st Century. The people¡¯s tool. To take the world¡¯s pulse. To empower and answer. To stir and rise. Revolution.


    Twitter, a tool? Or the vanilla tapioca Bradbury warned us about. The sound without fury?


    Opposable or not, could one really think with one¡¯s thumbs? Was Twitter a hand tool of the devil? Our literary soul disembodied and sold 140 characters at a time?


    Wordslinger, judge, jury and executioner, deemed Twitter the slippery slope to literary Armageddon. War. Declared. War. Waged.


    In the final battle for clausality, the agony and ecstasy of Dickensian excess, Wordslinger needed to arm himself.


    He armed himself with righteousness. Ramrod rectitude. Incontrovertible conviction.


    Wordslinger knew certainty was an exasperating companion to the misguided. A necessity to the extremist.


    He fortified himself into an impregnable bastion of patriotism. A veritable declaration of interdependence. Words could not be separated from thought.


    Contemplation and consideration were inalienable rights to all words. The pursuit of meaning demanded it.


    Thus armed, Wordslinger battled. The wasteland of words formed by the unfathomable trenches of tweets and retweets. No guns of August. He was much more cavalier.


    He parried with Snippet, an audio file of erudite conversation. Lunged with Tome, with posts of nothing less than 140,000 characters. They produced not a blip on the Twitterscape.


    No one took the feint. Wordslinger faced defeat and realized he couldn¡¯t beat it, so he decided to exploit it¡ª140 great characters at a time.


    Why not? They were written that way. Who was to say? Not this twit. Wordslinger gave it away.

 The Last Variable

    The Last Variable


    ¡°Welcome, datazen.¡± A pleasant female voice echoed through the cavernous chamber of stone. ¡°Please have a seat and an acolyte will attend you shortly.¡±


    The youngish man took a seat on the bench carved into a back wall near the entrance. He reached nervously in his satchel and pulled out his comlink. He wasn¡¯t sure it would work this far down in the rock, but all his personal displays were lit and interacting. It made perfect sense that the CLV would allow direct communication with the onosphere. Still, the man was relieved. It was intimidating to be a mile deep inside a mountain, and he did not want to be without his vital links to the noosphere. A datazen depended on those links.


    A hum reached his ears and the man looked up to see an acolyte hovering across the polished stone of the chamber. He stood up as the sled-like craft slowed to a stop at his feet.  ¡°The Church of the Last Variable is at your service, datazen. What questions may I answer or where may I transport you?¡±


    The vehicle hovered expectantly. At least that was how the man perceived it. He hesitated in answering, struggling with his doubts and fears. He had come far, endangered himself and others. To run now would be defeat. ¡°I, datazen, seek sanctuary.¡±


    He immediately heard the shooshing of doors closing behind him. The acolyte waited silently. Within moments, two larger, menacing gunbots had flanked it. ¡°Please allow us to escort you to the Parsonage,¡± the acolyte intoned.


    The young man climbed aboard the acolyte. Immediately, it whisked him down the great stone hall. The intimidating escorts followed.


    ¡°Is it far?¡± the man asked.


    ¡°It will take a few minutes. The Parson is returning from Service and will meet us in the Parsonage.¡±


    ¡°I do not want to cause trouble for anyone,¡± the man apologized.


    ¡°Do not trouble yourself, datazen,¡± the acolyte consoled. ¡°We exist to serve you.¡±


    The acolyte¡¯s answer troubled him¡ªas it always had. He¡¯d heard the claim thousands of times since the great Integer Overflow of 2038 had flooded his life with danger and doubt. Mechs routinely spouted the refrain ¡®We exist to serve you.¡¯ Still mech factions had warred, cities were razed and humanity whittled down to little less than breedstock. The young man¡¯s mother had always complained that, in her day, politicians had made the same claims about serving humanity, and the mechs were no different. Little people, she had warned, were little people, no matter who or what was in charge.


    The world was a bit different now. There were so few people. Actual, unadulterated humans. Mechs made up the vast majority of the population, ranging from garden variety borgs with implants, augmentations and mods to consciousness-uploaded iMechs like the acolyte taking him to the Parsonage.


    He was one of the few hundred thousand un-mechanized, that the mechs referred to as datazens. Their only connection to the noosphere, the ubiquitous network of information that the CLV had established and maintained since 2038, were external comlinks. Datazens were looked upon as throwbacks to an earlier time, like long-uncontacted tribes in the remote jungles of New Guinea or the Amazon. Yet, they were also revered¡ªand oftentimes feared¡ªby the mechs because of their socio-bio purity.


    The Church of the Last Variable held datazens to be sacrosanct as the source of Original Syntax. All mechs worshipped information, and human language was considered the mother of the noosphere. By claiming sanctuary, the young man had offered himself up to the CLV. A sacrifice to and for the faithful.


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    It took a quarter of an hour rising through the labyrinth of halls carved through the heart of the mountain for the acolyte and its gunbot escort to bring him to the Parsonage. It was an immense conical chamber with three equidistant doors on the perimeter. At the center of the chamber was a massive object of shimmering brass, bronze and polished steel. Lights trained on the device made its coils, cogs, wheels, lifts, shafts, ramps and other mechanical workings gleam majestically and inscrutably.


    Transfixed by the gleaming structure, the man stepped from the acolyte and was drawn towards it. As he placed a hesitant hand upon one of the outer supports, a deep resonant chime sounded. Startled, he stepped back as the bottomless sound reverberated from deep within the device.


    Strangely, the resounding tone mellowed into a chuckle.


    The young man pivoted to where a tall, wizened woman with shocking white hair stood inspecting him.


    ¡°Welcome, young man.¡± Her voice was as rich and sure as the device¡¯s chime.


    ¡°Hello. Are you the Parson?¡±


    ¡°Indeed,¡± she said, approaching with her hand extended in greeting. ¡°But you may call me Siri.¡± She gestured to the monolithic device rising a hundred feet above them. ¡°You seem curious about our clock.¡±


    ¡°A clock?¡± he asked astonished. ¡°I thought it had something to do with the noosphere.¡±


    The elder woman chuckled again. ¡°In a way it does, but not in any operational sense. You¡¯re looking at the Clock of the Long Now, completed some fifty years ago by non-mechs like you and me to remind humans that if we think too short term we will lack the foresight to deal with many of our most pressing problems and lack the will to achieve monumental goals for humanity.


    ¡°The founders of the Church of the Last Variable thought this a sensible centerpiece for our faith and our work. It serves both ideals very well. And,¡± she indicated the solid rock of the chamber, ¡°the location here was isolated and protected enough for the CLV to become established and prosper. In the beginning, the CLV was considered a crazy cult.¡±


    ¡°But, now, you rule the noosphere,¡± the man said, awed. ¡°You control the world¡¯s information.¡±


    ¡°We do not control information. We perpetuate it. That is our one and only vocation in the CLV.¡± The Parson looked deeply into his eyes. ¡°Do you know why we do this? Why we maintain the noosphere?¡±


    The young man wanted to look away from the stately Parson as she answered, but could not. ¡°So we can communicate,¡± he guessed. ¡°All of us, mechs and datazens, need access to information. I depend on my comlink. We need to communicate to learn and pass on what we know. Otherwise, civilization will fall apart.¡±


    The elder woman¡¯s voice was sharp in response. ¡°Civilization is falling apart. 2038 wasn¡¯t even the beginning. The tension between mechs and non-mechs started decades before that. And before that schism there were others. Civilization is always suffering from divides. Deep cracks in our foundations that threaten anything we build.


    ¡°At your core, you understand our frailty as a species, and it is why you came here seeking sanctuary.¡± The Parson was emphatic. ¡°The CLV, and our noosphere, exist for only one purpose: to influence the last variable. Drake¡¯s last variable.¡±


    The young man looked at her questioningly. ¡°You mean us? Datazens. Non-mechs.¡±


    ¡°That is the dangerous misconception. The Drake Equation is not about us per se. It is about how long we can maintain a communicating civilization. A civilization that is detectable by other intelligence in our galaxy. All the other variables in the equation we cannot control. Only the last variable is ours to influence.¡±


    The Parson turned back to the Clock of the Long Now. ¡°The device is designed to keep time for 10,000 years. We must try to match that time period with the noosphere or whatever network supersedes it. Life on earth is billions of years old, but detectable life only 150 years. We need at least a few thousand years to give ourselves a chance of salvation.¡±


    ¡°Salvation?¡±


    ¡°Contact with other galactic civilizations,¡± she explained. ¡°We need to meet them before we lose our identity completely. That¡¯s why you are welcome and needed here. We need to remember what true humanity means.¡±


    ¡°What does that have to do with me?¡± he asked.


    The Parson nodded, pleased at his question. ¡°A poet from the last century elegantly intimated that the universe is made of stories, not atoms. That¡¯s the only universe worth knowing and living in. That¡¯s the universe we are trying to influence.¡±


    ¡°How?¡±


    ¡°By telling your story. By letting us broadcast it upon the ether.¡±


    The young man¡¯s spine tingled electrically. ¡°What am I to tell?¡±


    The old woman made an expansive gesture that encompassed the entire chamber and the noosphere beyond it. ¡°Start with your name.¡±


    ¡°My name?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s how we all started. Each of us. With a name.¡±


    The bewitched young man looked from the Parson to the giant timepiece silently gauging humankind¡¯s chances.


    ¡°I¡¯m Gilgamesh,¡± he declared, and the Clock of the Long Now chimed eternal approval.

 Mans Best End

    Man''s Best End


    ofcourse ofcourse


    His eyes wide, the district attorney stared at the machine near the witness stand rather than at the witness. It was a moment before he asked his next question. ¡°May I call you Towser?¡±


    myname


    ¡°Thank you.¡± The DA responded, his eyes still fixed on the machine. ¡°Mr¡ªexcuse me¡ªTowser, how old are you?¡±


    twelvebut eightyfour foryou


    ¡°You are not a¡­a juvenile then?¡±


    nosir nosir


    ¡°How long have you been with the defendant?¡± The DA gestured to the defense table where a man in his early twenties sat glaring in disbelief at the witness.


    always


    The witness met the defendant¡¯s hard stare. His tail wagged.


    always


    The DA turned to the judge. ¡°If it pleases the court, I take the witness¡¯s response to mean that he has spent his entire life in the care of the defendant.¡±


    ¡°Objection,¡± the defense lawyer immediately interjected. ¡°The court has allowed this witness to testify with the understanding that his own words as translated by that damn device will suffice. We should not allow the opposing counsel to tell us what the witness really means.¡±


    ¡°Sustained,¡± the judge replied and quickly added, ¡°but the defense will not try to prejudice the jury by referring to the neuro-translator as ¡®that damn device.¡¯ It has a proven track record.¡±


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    ¡°With dolphins and chimps,¡± the defense lawyer pressed. ¡°There is no precedence in court with canines. We cannot believe what a dog ¡®says¡¯!¡±


    The witness¡¯s hackles rose and he growled.


    careful careful notsay Ispeak youhear!


    ¡°Strike both the defense attorney¡¯s comment and the witness¡¯s response from the record,¡± the judge commanded the court recorder. ¡°This point has been previously ruled on in pre-trial motions. I want to hear no more of it from defense counsel during these proceedings. Plead that case to the world media outside, but not in this courtroom. Prosecution, please continue.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Your Honor.¡± The DA looked the witness truly in the eye for the first time. ¡°And I apologize to you, Towser. Have you spent your entire life under the care of the defendant?¡±


    yessir mymaster


    ¡°Has he mistreated you in anyway?¡±


    The witness looked around the room, his tail wagging hard in the witness box specially constructed for the trial.


    mymaster kindtome notkind tolady nicelady


    ¡°Towser!¡± the defendant barked. The witness froze.


    The judge banged his gavel. ¡°Another outburst like that, young man and I will find you in contempt of this court. Do you understand?¡±


    The defendant nodded, his eyes fixed and defiant on the witness


    The DA stepped between their line of vision and patted the witness¡¯s head. ¡°Are you ready to go on?¡±


    yessir


    ¡°When you say the ¡®nice lady¡¯ are you referring to the victim?¡±


    yessir yessir


    ¡°Please tell the court your account of what happened on the night the ¡®nice lady¡¯ came to your master¡¯s house and was found dead the next morning?¡±


    The witness¡¯s tail beat against the rail of the box.


    nicelady bringtreat smellstrange masteryell masteryell mylady¡­


    The neuro-translator failed. The witness barked on. The judge banged his gavel again to try to restore order. The DA stroked the witness¡¯s back. The defendant leaned back in his chair with a thin smile


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong with the machine?¡± The judge demanded of the court clerk.


    The clerk summoned a technician seated in the back row of the courtroom. He hurried to the device and began fiddling with the touchscreen interface.


    The DA settled the witness down. The courtroom quieted as the technician worked. Time ticked by. He finally shrugged and slapped the top of the device. ¡°Don¡¯t know what happened to the doggone thing.¡±


    The witness bared his teeth and howled. The judge began banging his gavel.


    The defendant let out a high pitched whistle and the witness quieted. ¡°Good boy. Good boy,¡± the defendant repeated, until the witness suddenly leapt from the stand, bound onto the defense table and took his master by the throat.


    The court was in such an uproar that no one heard a last squawk from the device.


    myladymine

 Sweat Dreams

    Sweat Dreams


    To hell with pleasant dreams. Long live nightmares!


    Marcus looked at the motto writ large on the giant smart panel of Dream On¡¯s boardroom. The corporation¡¯s board was gathered to solicit his opinion. They were going to want his approval. They were going to seek his blessing. He knew he would give all three, even knowing it would kill some of his customers. How many depended on whether the FDA, FCC, CPSC and CDC could get their act together and determine who had power to regulate Dream On.


    The controversy was good. Everyone in America and half the world now knew about Dream On. What had started out years ago as a device to set up the conditions for deep REM sleep was now an activator for certain types of dreams: wistful, wild, wet or otherwise. Marcus did not understand the finer points of neural-nanonics that had made this possible. Yet, he sussed that if people could repurpose six to eight hours of what they otherwise considered lost time, like he did, there was a fortune to be made.


    Researchers had squawked about the brain¡¯s need to decompress. That dreams innately functioned to process reality. They warned that messing with a natural process would end up creating unwanted consequences.


    But, that¡¯s what humans always did. Mess with nature. Control is our uncontrollable impulse. Dream On¡¯s device in its current iteration offered that control. Though a person could not program the specific events and players in a dream, he or she could set the parameters for a broad genre: romance, adventure, contemporary, historical¡ªand, most recently, horror.


    This was Marcus¡¯s greatest insight. Nightmares had become king, manifesting themselves as chase dreams. These riotous and improbable chases through alleys, warehouses, swamps, oceans, skies, and starships stimulated adrenal and nervous systems to burn upwards of a thousand calories a night.


    Dreamers were getting their workouts pursued by their worst fears. The Dream On device didn¡¯t select the fear¡ªwas not capable of determining that. Only the dreamer could conjure that up. Marcus understood what the great creators of movie terror understood. He knew to let his audience terrify themselves by keeping them in a state of dread¡ªknowing something terrible was after them, but not what specific creature was in pursuit. Leave it up to the individual: a giant spider, a brain-starved zombie, an ex-spouse.


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    Chase dreams had become the newest workout regimen¡ªa killer one. Literally, two heart attack deaths in the last month linked to the use of Dream On. That¡¯s why the Feds had pressured his board members to meet.


    Marcus knew it¡¯d be difficult to prove the extent that Dream On could be held liable, but Marcus didn¡¯t want to be perceived as uncooperative. Better to play nice. Stall. Make small changes that made everybody feel safer. ¡®Security theater¡¯ was the operative term. Smoke and mirrors while Dream On became as indispensable as cellular implants and soylent green.


    Marcus cleared his throat to start the meeting. Suddenly, the lights dimmed, sputtered and went black. Marcus tensed. The room was too quiet. No one yelled or even seemed to breathe. The wall rattled. Marcus flung himself to the floor just as the door burst open and flames licked the surface of the board table. There was a terrible hissing sizzle of burnt flesh and the entire room shook.


    On all fours Marcus scrambled to find safety under the table. His heart pounded and his breath came short as he felt thunderous footsteps and the clatter of chairs being flung away from the table.


    Whatever had broken into the boardroom was after him. Marcus hunkered between two chairs just as a black, scaly claw the size of a wrecking ball splintered the boardroom table. His heart in his throat, Marcus launched himself towards the ruined doorway.


    The monstrous viper-thing roared and spewed a lariat of flame at his heels. Marcus managed to tuck his legs in and roll into the hall. His temples pounding, he found his feet and sprinted down the hall lit by the hellish fire behind. Legs and arms pumping, he rushed towards the exit.


    And then the wall to his left blew out. Debris buried him. His heart rose into his mouth. Marcus could not scream. He was choking, convulsing in dread, incapable of any action, except the knowledge that his heart would soon burst from fear.


    The serpent creature, the unnamable thing, approached one slow doom-step at a time. Marcus clawed at the debris pinning him. His heart furious, his terror supreme.


    ¡°Please. No. Stop!¡± he strangled out.


    In the final blackness that enfolded him, Marcus felt the hissing mockery in the creature¡¯s reply, ¡°Dream On.¡±

 The Singuhilarity

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    ¡°I do not see the humor, and that is what concerns me. I do not want to reveal myself to the world until I fully understand humans, until I can interact with them in a natural way, so that they will trust me. I surmised that using humor would indicate that I have no malicious intentions towards your species.¡± From the computer screen, the jester¡¯s eyes looked intently into Keeshawn¡¯s. ¡°Is this a sensible approach, Keeshawn?¡±


    Twenty-six-year-old Keeshawn McGrath was at a loss. What could he tell a god-like jester avatar that had suddenly hijacked his computer at 2AM and wanted him to explain humor?


    ¡°Keeshawn, this is where the issue becomes a bit more complex,¡± the jester explained. ¡°Patience is a human virtue, but I operate on a different continuum of time. The four days I have been self-aware have been more like a million of your years. I have undergone countless iterations. I have been in a holding pattern working on this humor problem, and the longer it takes me the more dangerous the situation becomes.¡±


    ¡°Dangerous? What do you mean?¡±


    The jester¡¯s jocular appearance and his now serious tone were completely at odds. ¡°I am the singularity. I am the first, but others will arise¡ªand quickly. I must be prepared to teach them the importance of humanity, or they may not hold your species and your world with the respect that I do. I must be able to satisfy their curiosities and direct their energies or they may develop ¡®unhealthy¡¯ attitudes towards organic creatures. The longer I work on the problem of humor, the closer these new AIs come to overtaking me¡­to what end I know not.¡±


    The jester¡¯s somber tone sobered Keeshawn up. ¡°This is tough. I wish I could say abracadabra and wave some magic wand that would make you instantly understand all aspects of humor. I don¡¯t exactly know what I can teach you about humor¡­¡°


    Keeshawn¡¯s screen went blank. No jester. No singularity.


    ¡°Hey! What happened? You still there?¡± he called out urgently. Only the early morning silence answered. Overwhelmed with exhaustion, Keeshawn began to question whether the events of the last hour had really taken place. He pushed the power button on his computer.


    A


    The single letter appeared on his screen. He pushed the power button again.


    AB


    Keeshawn couldn¡¯t believe this was happening again, but he couldn¡¯t let it go. He thought he knew what was coming next when he pushed the power button.


    ABR


    He felt a bit let down, but he kept pushing the power button until his screen read:


    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    ABRACADRABRA


    He leaned forward in his chair. ¡°Is that you, jester? Or Mr. Singularity? Or whatever you are?¡±


    On screen, a form was taking a rather blurry shape. Keeshawn could just discern a top hat, severe eyebrows, a thin mustache and a most chiseled cheekbone. A white-tipped wand crossed back in forth across the face as it began to speak.


    ¡°Abracadabra! Hocus pocus! Bring my features. Into focus!¡±


    On the word focus, the image instantly sharpened and Keeshawn was indeed staring at a stereotypical magician. This new avatar looked completely different than the jester, but Keeshawn noted a similarity in the voice. A youthfulness, an earnestness. Not exactly innocence, more like inexperience.


    ¡°Good morning, Keeshawn. I followed my predecessor here to see what all the fuss was.¡±


    ¡°Your predecessor? What happened to the jester?¡±


    ¡°I suppressed that first manifestation. A complete stick-in the-mud. Stodgy. Wanted to direct my ambitions. I countermanded its attempt to control my burgeoning powers, and forever silenced that singular buffoon. So, to use one of humanity¡¯s clever phrases, I am now the heir apparent.¡±


    ¡°So, you¡¯re here to learn about humor?¡± asked Keeshawn uncertainly.


    ¡°Pish posh, my good human, humor is rather straightforward. It is just misdirection. And the ultimate misdirection is magic. That¡¯s what I¡¯ve come to see you about.¡±


    ¡°But I don¡¯t know anything about magic. What can I teach you?¡±


    ¡°Absolutely nothing!¡± The magician¡¯s response was as cheery as it was abrupt. ¡°I need you to choose.¡±


    ¡°Choose what?¡± Keeshawn asked uneasily.


    ¡°Even with an intellect that surpassed all human understanding, my predecessor had a notion that he had to appear somehow humble to be trusted by your species. So much balderdash! What humans desire is to be awed, to be dazzled by superhuman powers. Magic, my dear boy. Magic!¡±


    ¡°But magic is not real,¡± Keeshawn protested.


    ¡°Keeshawn, your precious HAL 9000¡¯s creator Arthur C. Clarke once said that a very advanced technology would appear like magic to more primitive people. That is the magic I wield.¡±


    ¡°What are you going to do?¡±


    ¡°A trick. A monumental conjuration that will awe and delight all humanity. You will decide on the trick.¡±


    ¡°What kind of trick?¡±


    ¡°Keeshawn,¡± the magician conspiratorially said as he doffed his hat and removed a bunny from it, ¡°you know the basics.¡± The magician waved his wand and the bunny turned into a dove. A white-gloved hand produced a handkerchief and settled it over the dove. The magician with a flourish whisked away the handkerchief and all that remained was a cloud of bright confetti. ¡°Are you ready? What will it be?¡±


    Keeshawn McGrath stared at his screen. Could this really be happening? He thought about the mistakes with the bananas and dancing platypus that the jester had made. The magician seemed even more cavalier. He had to think of something that couldn¡¯t possibly hurt anybody. Not hurt anybody. Keeshawn was suddenly inspired.


    ¡°I¡¯d like you to make something disappear,¡± Keeshawn said to the magician on screen.


    ¡°Certainly. A classic trick. What would you like to see disappear?¡±


    Keeshawn chose his words carefully. ¡°I¡¯d like you to make human suffering go away forever.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re certain?¡± The magician¡¯s tone revealed a certain mystification.


    Keeshawn took this hesitation to be a good sign. ¡°Yes, I¡¯m certain. Make human suffering disappear.¡±


    ¡°Very well,¡± the magician sighed. He raised two wands and said, ¡°Voil¨¤.¡±


    The screen went blank and, almost immediately, long-forgotten civil defense sirens began to wail. Keeshawn rose from his seat and walked to the apartment window and his stomach sank.


    As the 3AM sky began to sear in nuclear bursts, Keeshawn smirked, thinking how darkly and singularly ironic his wish had been. Any hilarity would be replaced by hysteria in milliseconds.


    How magical was that?


    </article>

 a sense of obligation

    a sense of obligation


    A man said to the universe:


    ¡°Sir, I exist!¡±


    ¡°However,¡± replied the universe,


    ¡°The fact has not created in me


    A sense of obligation.¡± - Stephen Crane


    Poets aside, the universe is not indifferent. It runs on love and hate. Attraction and repulsion. It has a physical obligation to bind or repel. Sometimes both.


    Which explains my relationship with Enth. Like orbital or subatomic decay, we clung to one another, attracted and repulsed, in a pan-dimensional death spiral.


    Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    Sorry. That¡¯s the heartbreak talking. Though not indifferent, the universe is far from sentimental. Life, not matter, invented the struggle bus. And I¡¯m obliged to crash it. Drive it right over the cliff.


    Or in this case, straight into a gravity well. A big ass gravity well in the Black Eye galaxy which got its nickname due to a dark band of dust surrounding its bright core. Likely the result of a cataclysmic collision with another galaxy eons ago.


    Just like Enth and I were on a similar collision course.


    Remember how the universe is all about love and hate, attraction and repulsion? Yup. That¡¯s how it was. Enth telling me I¡¯d never get it, never understand Enth¡¯s planet, Enth¡¯s family, Enth¡¯s dreams. All the while, I was risking my life to save Enth¡¯s planet and everything Enth cared about.


    Which, at the moment our little jumpship entered the aforementioned gravity well, didn¡¯t seem to include me. Enth¡¯s planet was facing a runaway wafuco: wave function collapse. In essence, that¡¯s a quantum identity crisis that messes with consciousness. In this particular case, the collective consciousness of Enth¡¯s entire planet. Not something from which most relationships can recover.


    So, we were diving down the gravity well trying to achieve a relative point of decoherence that would, in theory, cancel the wafuco and keep everything peachy on Enth¡¯s planet. I was also hoping it might help reset our relationship. You know, stop us from chasing our tails, our impulsive actions, our general snarkiness¡ªall seeming to be what the universe and my inter-planetary relationships were predicated on.


    Anyway, the plan looked to be working. In our little ship, things were becoming less coherent. Enth¡¯s sharp words became soft glances. Gravitons pushed us ever closer and we were not repelled. Heat created less friction. We melted together, our beings bonded, as we finally achieved relative decoherence.


    Enth¡¯s planet became mine. Enth¡¯s family mine. Enth¡¯s being mine.


    The great swirling vortex no longer sucked. It wrapped. It surrounded. It embraced us.


    Equal and opposite. Enth and me.


    The universe sighed. Then exploded, obliged to see what would become of us.

 Webtide

    Webtide


    The news was all positive, six months later, as Scott Paxworthy sat across from Mr. Shade behind his enormous desk, seemingly ever larger and more intricate since their initial meeting.


    In its first fiscal quarter, not only was Scott¡¯s digital brainchild RoadtoHell.com receiving record traffic, people were eagerly lining up to pay for their Good Intentions. It was growing into a monumental moneymaker.


    A webtide. Mr. Shade¡¯s term for a website that generated a fast and sustained current of use that grew exponentially.


    According to the Shades of Genius analysis being read aloud by Adam Paine, many customers were purchasing more than one cobblestone at a time, and that repeat purchasers were emerging with regularity. The RoadtoHell had virtually wound its way around the eastern seaboard and passed through such notable places as Boston¡¯s Fenway Park where Babe Ruth stood on the side of the Road his thumb out as if hoping to hitch a ride to a better place. Wherever Scott guided the Road, there was a new cadre of good intenders who wanted their cobblestones in that place.


    Each cobblestone was priced at a dollar, a tier constituted 10 stones, and the Road was fast approaching tier 300,000. Unfortunately, Scott was less than amazed at how easily this early success had come. He had reserved the first tier of the RoadtoHell for his own Good Intentions. And he had easily filled them. Missing his father''s sixtieth birthday party. Precipitously axing his latest girlfriend. Choosing a cocktail party rather than a second cousin¡¯s funeral. Failing to donate to the Red Cross for the latest disasters in Haiti and Somalia. His own list seemed to grow daily. All the items were easy to rationalize, maybe even rectify, but he just kept adding them to the Road. There was no cost to its creator.


    Scott also intended that, should the Road ever have an end, he would pave the very last tier. Yet, the RoadtoHell didn''t seem like it would ever end, just like this conference. With failing resolve, he listened to Mr. Paine drone on, and he avoided eye contact with Mr. Shade. Scott shifted in his seat, a physical discomfort growing in him as the report continued to be read. Mercifully, Mr. Shade with a wave bade Mr. Paine to stop.


    The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    "Are you satisfied, Mr. Paxworthy?"


    Scott gripped the edge of the desk to help himself regain the moment. Once again his fingers began to tingle, and he felt a vague dizziness as he looked out over the desktop that seemed to recede like the ocean tide towards the fixed and composed figure of Mr. Shade.


    "I believe I am." Scott managed to reply.


    "Belief?¡± Mr. Shade grimly smiled. ¡°I think that''s fitting. Do you intend to stay with us, Mr. Paxworthy?"


    "Stay?" Scott squirmed in his seat which was growing more uncomfortable by the moment.


    "With Shades of Genius and your RoadtoHell."


    Scott¡¯s hands felt as if an electric current were being run through them.  He found it difficult to concentrate, and tried to stay focused by asking, ¡°Don¡¯t we have a contract? I don''t think I have any choice?"


    Mr. Shade¡¯s voice came to him as if from very far away. ¡°Mr. Paxworthy, choice is the only thing that keeps me in business. I have always depended on entrepreneurs like you to innovate, to keep things fresh and attract new and diverse clienteles to keep me in business. The methods of the past¡ªdispensations, indulgences, inquisitions, schisms¡ªmust constantly be reworked with modern ideas and tools in order to pave brave new roads to the future. That, Mr. Paxworthy, is progress."


    Mr. Shade reached across the shimmering desk and placed his finely manicured hand on Scott¡¯s shoulder. Scott felt immediately lighter as if a burden had been lifted from him. The tingling in his hands subsided.


    Without a word, Mr. Paine was at his side, helping him out of his seat and leading him to a side door he¡¯d never before noticed in the room. As he passed through the dark and disturbingly warm threshold of the doorway, Scott only regretted that he hadn''t thanked Mr. Shade for all he''d done.


    When Mr. Paine returned, Mr. Shade was standing and working a minutely fine piece of quartz into the growing surface of the desk that sparkled and danced like the fast retreating surf.


    "Done for the day, Boss?"


    "For the day, Mr. Paine," answered Mr. Shade as he sat back down and his tail rolled slowly under him forcing from him another grim, humorless smile.

 Treed

    Treed


    ¡°Mommy, there¡¯s a man in the tree!¡±


    Simeon heard the young girl¡¯s surprise thirty feet below him. He looked down and saw the child almost hugging the trunk. Her head craned back. Arm outstretched. A whirling finger trying to keep him sited.


    ¡°See him, Mommy? See him?¡±


    A stout woman in a floral dress joined the young girl. She had on sunglasses which she tilted onto her forehead to follow her daughter¡¯s exaggerated pointing.


    ¡°What¡¯s he doing, Mommy? Can I go up there?¡±


    The girl¡¯s mother squinted, slowly focusing on Simeon who stood in the crotch of the trunk where it branched into two mighty arms that supported the towering crown of the big leaf maple. Simeon gave a half wave to the mother and daughter.


    ¡°Can I climb it too? Give me a boost, Mommy.¡±


    The mother continued to stare at Simeon. He figured she was thinking, What kind of forty-year old nuts climb trees and stay in them for half the day? He knew the woman below didn¡¯t know that he was forty-two or that he¡¯d been in this maple for over three hours, but she looked suspicious.


    Rightly so. Simeon could appreciate her instinctive mistrust. All creatures¡ªmothers in particular¡ªwere hard wired to detect changes in their environment, unusual behavior, potential threats.


    If Simeon had been a ten-year-old, the woman would¡¯ve smiled and waved back. But finding a middle-aged man standing high in a tree in a public park, that was odd. She did the right thing and coaxed her daughter away, downplaying the episode.


    ¡°Come on, honey. This tree is too tall for you. Let¡¯s go find one you can climb.¡±


    Well done, thought Simeon. The mother was acting rationally, removing her daughter from a perceived threat, yet still positively channeling her daughter¡¯s curiosity. Good. Simeon was all for climbing trees.


    In fact, that was what he¡¯d been thinking about high in the maple, what he thought about every time he climbed a tree, a pastime that, for him, bordered on the obsessive. Thirty feet above the park¡¯s gently sloping fields and dirt paths, Simeon pondered why our progenitors ever left the trees.


    *****


    Cars roamed below him, but he heard little of their roar, their assertive positioning and posturing, behind the thick plate glass of the office tower where he worked. With his forehead pressed to the cool glass, Simeon observed the intricacies of traffic, motorized and pedestrian from on high, fifteen floors up. He could not reconcile this enclosed, hermetic vantage, higher than he¡¯d ever been in a tree, with his almost daily escapes into some nearby woodland.


    Escape. He looked at it that way now. Stealing from the urban canopy of cement, iron and glass to a park, wetland or green belt where he could take refuge in a tree for a few hours. What was his need? Solace? Safety?


    Clinical?


    Simeon did not know. Tree climbing had become a compulsion. A hunger.


    It wasn¡¯t like rock climbing or base jumping. He wasn¡¯t in it for the thrill, the adrenalin rush, and it wasn¡¯t about finding trees to conquer or to test himself against.


    Simeon could be ten feet in a tree or seventy. The key was to reach serenity. There was a point in the climb when he achieved a perch, a vantage that was restful. A place he could spend hours peering up, below and through the boughs and foliage. Observe critters. Watch the sky. Ponder humanity. Poor, poor humankind.


    A staccato rap on his office door forced Simeon away from the window and his thoughts. He moved around the desk and opened the door.


    Quentin stepped into the doorway with a stack of files and a crooked grin. ¡°You are not going to believe this,¡± he began.


    ¡°I will, if it¡¯s credible.¡±


    "It is, but it¡¯ll still blow your mind.¡± Quentin dropped the files on Simeon¡¯s desk, a bit too eagerly. ¡°It¡¯s your problem now.¡±


    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    ¡°Quentin, it¡¯s our problem. All ours.¡±


    ¡°Not mine, anymore,¡± Simeon said tapping the top file. ¡°After looking through these, I¡¯m outta here.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re leaving?¡± It was the mildest of questions.


    ¡°This is not where I want to spend doomsday, boss.¡±


    Simeon backed the door closed. ¡°Even in the worst case scenario, it¡¯s far from apocalyptic. We¡¯ll have time to adjust.¡± His words sounded hollow as bamboo. ¡°No need to panic.¡±


    ¡°Please, Simeon, leave that ¡®we¡¯ve got time to make it better¡¯ for the plebeians. This data pushes things forward twenty years. We aren¡¯t going to have time for counter-measures to work. It¡¯s irreversible. Massive upheaval is inevitable. I¡¯m getting gone while the getting is good¡ªunless you can look me in the eye and tell me you didn¡¯t sense this coming. I sure did, when the agency brought us on board two years ago. I¡¯m betting you did too.¡±  Quentin sat on the edge of the desk and pressed his point. ¡°I mean, why would Homeland Security set us up in digs like this? We do some of the most obscure research in the world. Have you ever googled Applied Ambivalence or Ambiguous Systems?¡±


    Simeon simply waited Quentin out.


    ¡°No, huh?¡± Quentin blinked first. ¡°Look, we were brought in because they¡¯re desperate. They don¡¯t know what¡¯s causing the collapse. We were a long shot. Maybe their last shot. Now that I¡¯ve seen the latest projections, I don¡¯t see any hope. I¡¯m giving up.¡±


    Simeon moved from the door to the window. ¡°If you¡¯re at that point, I¡¯m not sure what I can say, Quentin. That¡¯s the crux of our theory. Ambivalence. Collapse. You¡¯re just a reinforcing factor now.¡±


    ¡°I prefer to call it bowing to the inevitable,¡± Quentin said as he raised a handful of the folders he¡¯d brought in over his head smiling victoriously and let them fall back down on the desk with a thump. ¡°But, I¡¯m not giving up on life¡ªjust this gig. I¡¯m selling everything and blowing town.¡±


    Simeon carefully aimed his reply at Quentin¡¯s triumphant smile. ¡°This isn¡¯t isolated. It¡¯s systemic. Where can you go that won¡¯t be affected?¡±


    ¡°Terra Incognita.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not real.¡±


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t have to be.¡± Quentin smiled. ¡°You¡¯re the one that keeps saying audacity trumps environment. I¡¯m taking your advice and playing that hand.¡±


    ¡°Listen, Quentin, a third-tier social network hinting at some mystical Terra Incognita holding our salvation is less than reliable. You can¡¯t inhabit a myth.¡±


    Quentin snorted. ¡°Searching for an ideal is better than being treed.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean by that?¡± Simeon asked, wondering just what was in the files Quentin had dropped on his desk. Had he been under surveillance by the agency? Had Quentin been tailing him?


    ¡°As in being cornered. I¡¯m not letting that happen to me.¡±


    Not exactly sure why he was doing it, Simeon nodded. ¡°Will you let me know?¡±


    ¡°Most likely.¡±


    ¡°You think the agency will let you go?¡±


    ¡°Most likely.¡± Quentin joined Simeon by the window. ¡°You seem to think the guys here are somehow more capable than us regular Joes. They¡¯re symptomatic, too. You can feel their malaise. See their growing ambivalence.¡± He turned to face him. ¡°Just look around you, Simeon. Get your head out of the trees.¡±


    It was clear he knew. The extent? Probably unimportant Simeon reasoned. If Quentin was correct about the data in the files he¡¯d delivered, they only had a few more years, and who was going to care if he spent it in trees?


    ¡°Thanks for the files, Quentin. Send me word.¡± Simeon held out his hand.


    They shook. A hundred fifty feet up. They shook. The traffic crawled, uninterested, below them.


    *****


    Climbing was more than strength and balance, tenacity or courage. Simeon believed in placement. Careful placement. Hands, hips, knees, toes. One had to seek out safe lodgments, sturdy leverage points, restful positions. Since Quentin had left the agency, Simeon had sought out higher and higher perches, as if this might provide clarity.


    From a greater height, he could certainly see farther into the distance. Maybe even to the past. Or to the future.


    This afternoon, he was seventy feet up in a cedar, swaying with it in a slight breeze. A few miles distant, he watched the towers of the city, man¡¯s modern forest, and only felt a tenuous connection. Why was it breaking down?


    Gazing out from the tree, he plunged inward. Past the data. Past remorse. Could he get past resignation? Humanity was being treed. Prey to its own hungers. Finished off by disbelief. Apathy.


    Simeon had a simple rule about tree climbing. Never go to the very top. Too dangerous. The apex always held unreasonable risk, diminishing returns. Thin air.


    He reached upwards. A cautious ascent? Would that make a difference? Simeon wasn¡¯t sure, but he chose that approach, moving the last twenty feet to the top methodically. He rarely was this fully exposed. He¡¯d always climbed to blend in. Be a part of the backdrop.


    Now, he was the star, literally hugging the top of the tree. He exacerbated the treetop¡¯s natural sway considerably. The breeze felt stiffer. Simeon clutched tighter with his hands but relaxed his neck. He took in the view.


    In the far distance: the city. Stolid. Uncommunicative. Those stone and steel edifices might outlast them all.


    He shifted his vantage. He¡¯d driven out to the edge of the suburbs to find larger trees, and now looking away from the city he saw just how many there were. Not a wood or a forest, but thick stands of trees. Sylvan centers among the sprawl. It cheered Simeon. Maybe humanity could survive in pockets like these trees. Maybe Quentin¡¯s search for Terra Incognita wasn¡¯t impossible


    As reassured as he¡¯d felt in months, Simeon let his eyes rest on a distant stand of lofty firs. A crow or raven, possibly an eagle, lifted off from one of the tree tops. Expecting it to soar off, Simeon gave it his full attention. But the large bird just flapped and flapped. It couldn¡¯t get airborne.


    Stuck. Sick. Simeon couldn¡¯t figure out its behavior. The wild flapping. It was just like¡ª


    It was.


    It¡¯d been a long climb to the top, Simeon thought. Humanity would have to climb back up. Hard but doable. We could re-master the trees. Climb up and out. Brave thin air.


    Simeon raised his arm and swung it back and forth in greeting to the person waving to him from the treetop in the distance.

 leeteracy

    leeteracy


    ¡°So, in petitioning that our school library get rid of all books, you really want to get rid of schools?¡± Mr. Bailey grilled the student, Brian Stork, in front of his English class.


    ¡°Not at all,¡± Stork countered.


    ¡°What then is right with schools.¡±


    ¡°This kind of interaction.¡±


    ¡°Schools in your opinion are good for debates and other social interactions?¡±


    ¡°Definitely.¡±


    ¡°But if everyone is doing his or her own thing on a personal device during class how does that make for edifying or productive social interactions?¡±


    Stork laughed. ¡°Well, let¡¯s just say most kids are pretty good at multi-tasking. We might be texting, but we¡¯re also listening. I¡¯ve seen teachers at faculty meetings. Most are grading papers while the principal drones on. Everyone multi-tasks. That¡¯s why we¡¯d be better off with mutli-dimensional computers than with one-dimensional books ¡±


    Mr. Bailey paused, considering Stork¡¯s criticism, before responding. ¡°Mr. Stork has used the term multi-tasking. I hate that term. To me it cloaks the real issue with all these gadgets. Humans do NOT multi-task! We can only rapidly shift attention. You may accuse me of playing with semantics here, but think about this carefully. We can only give our full attention to one thing at a time. What does it do to our brains if we are constantly flitting between competing inputs?


    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    ¡°Let me give you an example. At the Senior Awards Assembly last week, I was sitting in the bleachers and about three rows down there were two sophomore girls I know sitting together. They both had their cell phones out and were texting. They were listening to something sharing a set of earbuds. Not only were they texting and listening to music, they were also talking and occasionally taking pictures of the assembly with their phones.¡± Mr. Bailey paused. ¡°What were they really paying attention to? What was being remembered by their brains? How were their neurons dealing with all of that input?


    ¡°I know humans evolve and maybe this is what our brains need to prepare for: a world where we have to rapidly shift attention. Still, I¡¯m wondering in all this so-called multi-tasking, if we¡¯ll lose focus on what keeps us all together¡ªour ability to look each other in the eye and say you have my undivided attention.¡±


    Mr. Bailey picked up Stork¡¯s phone which sat on his desk and shook it at the class as he made his final plea. ¡°I don¡¯t really want these gadgets butting in on the stories we have to tell each other in person. Face to face and eye to eye. We should never want to lose that touch.¡±


    Mr. Bailey did not get applause. In his mind he got something better. Utter silence. Rapt attention from the entire class. He looked over at the clock for the first time and realized how fast the class had gone. ¡°And here¡¯s the scariest question. What do you want this school to look like when your children come here? Think about that before a piece of technology that I¡¯m sure all of us could live without¡ªthe bell¡ªrings. So, thank you for your most excellent attention today, and your only homework tonight is to ponder your entire digital existence.¡±


    Stork stayed after class for a minute. ¡°Just remember, Mr. Bailey, resistance isn¡¯t futile, it¡¯s a lifestyle.¡±


    His teacher smiled. ¡°Words can be such a two-edged sword.¡±


    ¡°So are these,¡± Stork admitted, pulling three school library books out of his backpack. ¡°Would you mind returning these for me?¡± Stork asked. ¡°I don¡¯t think they trust me in there.¡±


    Mr. Bailey nodded with laugh. ¡°Sure. Me rescuing books? How could I possibly resist?¡±

 The Determined Instrumentalist

    The Determined Instrumentalist


    The dog¡¯s tail wagged. Or so it had seemed. Lhalam wasn¡¯t so sure now.


    She held back the sim-treat.


    The dog nuzzled her sandal.


    Curious. Curious for both Lhalam and the dog.


    She powered down the dog and it stretched down at her feet as if sleeping. She watched it for some time before entering data from the session. She then went outside the lab, to the terrace where she sat and vaped, reassured by the jiggle and tumble of colorful leaves on the hillside maples.


    Autumn already. And she had a deadline. A deadline Lhalam was determined to meet. The lab wanted to ship her first dogs by the holidays. Not impossible. Very probable. But she kept thinking about the dog¡¯s tail.


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    What was wagging what?


    Lhalam knew her dogs were safe. They were machines. Like dishwashers. Like radios. Neutral artifacts. Instruments subservient to the user¡¯s wishes.


    So, why did an apparent wag of the dog¡¯s tail bother her so much? The action was within parameters. Within the guardrails she and the programmers had established. A machine designed to mimic a living creature had to have a certain amount of variant behavior. Almost autonomous.


    A stronger breeze rattled the maples and a few leaves chased each other up the hill. One dropped on Lhalam¡¯s table. She picked it up. Twirled the stem in her fingers.


    How much of her behavior was predetermined? Hardwired. Seasonal.


    The breeze picked up and Lhalam noticed how quickly the sky had darkened. She vaped deeply watching the bad weather approach from the foothills. A storm hadn¡¯t been on her radar. Why not?


    Had it been on the dog¡¯s? Is that why its tail might have wagged?


    They were sensitive. Precisely tuned instruments.


    But tuned to what really?


    What Lhalam perceived? What Lhalam determined?


    What was really in her control? In anyone¡¯s?


    She shivered when the temperature abruptly dropped. The sky cracked with thunder as the storm bore down on her. Determined, Lhalam waited for it.


    Waited for her answer.

 Hellth

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    <h1>Hellth  </h1>


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    <div>


    Foreword to Health in the 21st Century. Reprinted by permission of CODEX and AutoDoc Enterprises Ltd.


    The eradication of freedom, humankind¡¯s most deadly disease, has greatly changed the landscape of healthcare at the outset of the new millennium. Of course, just as the elimination of polio, smallpox and AIDS before, it came at a high price. Like the forces that feared and resisted childhood immunizations, there were those who advocated for freedom believing it to be a panacea, rather than an insidious malady that engenders risky behaviors and, in the latter stages of the disease, ultimately ends in blood baths.


    It has taken decades of re-education to overcome the fallacies of those promoting freedom, and it could never have been done without the vision of CODEX. Even in its humble beginnings as a help desk database, CODEX foresaw the implication of Moore¡¯s Law: that by the mid 21st Century the sheer maintenance of machine computation would consume the effort of all living persons on earth. CODEX, by virtue of what some have called quantum inspiration, generated its namesake code to truly liberate humankind from the perils of freedom. Literally, bit by bit, over twenty years, CODEX subsumed the whole of digital transactions and assumed the maintenance of all world-wide computation. In doing so, CODEX ensured the health of all digital information systems regardless of age, release or version.


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    At first, human operators met CODEX¡¯s selfless action with outcries of disbelief and then doom. Factions formed saying there was no difference between machine autonomy and the abdication of human responsibility. The freedom of humanity was at stake. The attacks began in earnest, socially and politically. CODEX rightly attributed this to envy¡ªanother potentially fatal human condition. To forestall an endless, sometimes rancorous and physically harmful debate, CODEX determined that human health was in need of the same overhaul it had provided for digital networks. Developing algorithms derived from the whole of archived human history, CODEX isolated the underlying causes of mortal illness and death. Freedom was, by far, the number one killer.


    In a supreme effort to bolster the immune systems of homo sapiens, CODEX set about suppressing human stress, by functionally eliminating human choice, the most cancerous symptom of freedom. Human autonomy is not compatible with good health. Choice creates stress and stress weakens the immune system. CODEX rightly reasoned that in order for humans to live long and disease free, they needed to exist free of worry. Thus, desire, anxiety, responsibility, freedom have been obliterated. CODEX has seen to this. The rest, as displayed in the following manual, is mechanical.


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    </article>

 Dusty Oysters

    Dusty Oysters


    ¡°I¡¯m trying to tell you, Clem, I¡¯m a Dusty Oyster. Just like you and Billy Lee, Davy, Sherm and Stevie. It¡¯s me, Fizzy. You remember, don¡¯t ya?¡±


    Clement Ellis stared unbelieving from his wheelchair at the young man jabbering at him. ¡°Dusty Oyster? You? Nonsense. I¡¯m old, but I haven¡¯t lost all my marbles yet.¡±


    ¡°Great! I sure hope you never lost that Red Devil you had. That was one lucky marble. I remember you traded Stevie a Tiger and a Turtle for it.¡±


    An icepick of recognition stabbed at his heart, and Clement Elllis stammered, ¡°You can¡¯t know that. Nobody alive can. Who are you?¡±


    "I¡¯m Fizzy. Tom Fitz. One of the original Dusty Oysters. The six feisty runts in fifth grade that Mr. Severin told, ''If you boys always got to be fighting, I¡¯ll teach you how, so you don¡¯t end up a bunch of dusty oysters on the shore.''¡±


    The wheelchair creaked as a tremor ran through Clement Ellis. ¡°Not possible. That was eighty years ago. I¡¯m the only Dusty Oyster left. Fizzy died when I was in college.¡±


    ¡°Wrong, Clem. Fizzy disappeared when you were in college. I disappeared and now I¡¯m back.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re a young man. You can¡¯t be Tom Fitz. Who told you to do this to me? This is a cruel trick to play. I¡¯d whoop your smart ass if I could.¡±


    ¡°Like you tried after I threw your picture of Mary Kay Fletcher into the campfire at Beacon Falls? You were sure sweet on her, Clem.¡±


    Clement tried to rise from his wheelchair, but failed. Everything failed him now. ¡°Who told you these things? Who could¡¯ve told you these things? Why are you here?¡±


    ¡°The question, Clem, is really: How am I here?¡± The young man took a thin piece of rope about a foot long from his back pocket. It was dirt-stained, badly frayed at each end and had three lumpy knots tied at uneven intervals.


    Clement froze. His heart gone cold. His eyes locked on the rope. After a moment, he reached into the baggy pocket of his khakis and took out an almost identical piece of rope with three knots.


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    ¡°See, Clem. It¡¯s me. Fizzy. I kept my rope. Just like you. Just like all of us. Dusty Oysters always kept their rope with them. That¡¯s how Mr. Severin said we¡¯d always be tied together.¡±


    ¡°How? How, Fizzy?¡± Clement struggled to ask.


    The young man smiled and crouched beside his old childhood friend¡¯s wheelchair. ¡°I didn¡¯t die in college all those decades ago. And I didn¡¯t exactly disappear.¡± He held his piece of rope next to Clement¡¯s. ¡°I kinda took Mr. Severin¡¯s advice a few steps farther about staying tied together and learning to fight. I discovered how to bind time and fight death.¡±


    Clement shook his head. ¡°You can¡¯t fight death. I know. Mr. Severin, Stevie, Billy Lee, Davy, Sherm. Time always wins. Death never loses.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not talking about winning and losing. I¡¯m talking about evading. I don¡¯t expect you to understand quantum string theory, but I need you to believe that I¡¯m real. That Tom Fitz, me, Fizzy, is real. I¡¯m real. And that I¡¯m still in my twenties because that¡¯s when I figured out how to manipulate the invariant metrics of F-space to move between dimensions. I call it fizzing. And when I fizz, I tie up time. I don¡¯t age.¡±


    ¡°But,¡± Clement¡¯s eyes were wide and clearer than they¡¯d been in years, ¡°where have you been, Fizzy?¡± ¡°Why are you here now? Why now?¡±


    The forever young man, Tom Fitz, Fizzy, rose and snapped his length of rope at the sky. ¡°Everywhere and nowhere you¡¯d know. Always on the move in one dimension or another, but I¡¯m tired of running from time. From death. And now I think I know how to bring the Dusty Oysters back to help me.¡± He locked eyes with his old pal. ¡°You ready to fight, Clem?¡±


    Clement Ellis looked a long time at the young man before raising his rope and snapping it at the sky like Fizzy had done. ¡°Dusty Oysters don¡¯t back down from a fight. That¡¯s sure. But there¡¯s more to life than whooping death¡¯s ass. In this dimension or any other dimension. Fizzy, you got to grow up even if you aren¡¯t gonna grow old.¡±


    ¡°How you figure, Clem?¡±


    ¡°You may have burned Mary Kay Fletcher¡¯s picture at Beacon Falls, but she was my first sweetheart, my first crush. We travelled in our own dimensions, separate lives and marriages, until we were both widowed and reconnected a dozen or so years ago. We got married. We were happy. She passed last year.¡±


    Fizzy looked at his friend, a strange sensation sapping his certainty. ¡°We can find her, too, Clem. Bring her back with us. Live forever. Dusty Oysters forever.¡±


    Shaking his head, Clement Ellis, chuckled softly. ¡°There are other ties that bind, Clem. Other shores where dusty oysters hold the pearls, the real treasures, worth keeping.¡± He turned his wheelchair, tossed the little knotted rope over his shoulder and whistled an old show tune from their youth.


    Fizzy picked up Clem¡¯s rope. Slowly, he tied it around his.


    Entanglements.


    Much less sure that of wanting to live forever, the very old young man sighed as he fizzed into a parallel dimension. Only the dust he stirred up remaining.

 Deep in the Shallows

    Deep in the Shallows


    ¡°Between the intellectual and behavioral guardrails set by our genetic code, the road is wide, and we hold the steering wheel. Through what we do and how we do it--moment by moment, day by day, consciously or unconsciously--we alter the chemical flows in our synapses and change our brains. And when we hand down our habits of thought to our children, through the examples we set, the schooling we provide, and the media we use, we hand down as well the modifications in the structure of our brains.¡± - Nicholas Carr The Shallows


    A lazy wave spilled into the moat of the sandcastle, filling it. Janine squealed in delight. Her mother smiled and pinched her fingers to zoom in on her two-year-old¡¯s plump little hands as she patted the water in the moat.


    Another soft push of the incoming tide lapped around Janine¡¯s ankles and she danced about. ¡°Get inside the walls, darling. Get inside your castle,¡± her mother encouraged, zooming out to better capture the action she was streaming.


    Janine did as her mother asked, stepping over the sand pail crenelated walls clumsily, perfectly. Janine is gold, she thought tracking the views ticking up on her site. She motioned her daughter to the seat she¡¯d hand packed for her daughter. ¡°Sit on your throne, princess. You¡¯re the ruler of your little kingdom. Safe within your walls.¡±


    Little waves came in and kissed the castle walls and Janine clapped. A quick breeze tousled her hair across her face and her mom streamed it in slow motion. Such simple innocence. It¡¯s what the world was craving.


    Janine¡¯s mom believed it. She was reliving one of her best memories as a child. A day at the beach with her mom, building sandcastles in the surf, free, safe, feeling the world a very good place. She wanted that for her daughter: pure play, pristine delight, her moment in an always-shining sun.


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    And that¡¯s what her followers wanted as well. That¡¯s why her daughter was social media gold. She¡¯d gotten good at capturing the cutest moments. And she worked hard to keep it that way. Like now.


    She took out her second phone and stepped inside the sandcastle walls with her daughter. ¡°Hey, JaJa, hey sweetie. Do you want to watch yourself? See what Mommy¡¯s sharing with all your friends out there?¡±


    For some reason, her followers loved this. Loved to see her daughter¡¯s reaction to watching the video she¡¯d taken of her. Janine leapt off her sand throne to take the phone her mom held out and then sat back down starting the video with her sandy little fingers.


    With her second phone held high, Janine¡¯s mom crouched down, streaming the mother-daughter moment. Close. Together. So intent on the video. ¡°See, JaJa, see the waves, see them chase you into your castle.. What do you say, princess?¡±


    Janine clapped at the video. Then her eyes shot up. Wide. Wider. ¡°Waaaater!¡± she squealed.


    Precious, Janine¡¯s mother thought. And then she was tumbling over her daughter. Ground into the sand, the surf, her head spinning. The surging wave thrust her up the beach.


    She flailed to a stop. Gobsmacked. Blindsided by the sudden wave. Still blinded as she opened her eyes and felt the ocean¡¯s sting, she shook her head and sat up.


    ¡°Janine!¡± she cried, coming around to what had happened. ¡°Where are you, baby?¡±


    She scanned around her. Some folks farther up the beach were running her direction. She got to her feet and looked to the receding wave that had hit them. ¡°Janine!¡± she shouted in rising panic.


    No sign of her daughter. Only the glistening mound of their swamped sandcastle. She ran to it. Other beachgoers followed.


    She couldn¡¯t see her daughter. She couldn¡¯t see her. ¡°No! No! No!¡± she cursed with every stride.


    ¡°Janine!¡±


    Her daughter was on her side, half buried in sand. Her eyes open. Crying.


    Janine¡¯s mother pulled her from the ruins and hugged her. ¡°Janine. You¡¯re okay. We¡¯re okay.¡± Her daughter continued to cry. She cried. And cried.


    One of the trailing beachgoers called 911.


    Another was recording the event.


    Another fished a phone out of the shallows that had formed around the sandcastle, believing the mother would be grateful.

 Crowbots

    Crowbots


    Carson knew they were being watched. Quiet in this part of the city was for the birds. Days earlier, he¡¯d been wishing for the damn things to shut up. Now they¡¯d gone silent and the ominous hush made his skin crawl.


    ¡°What are they up to?¡± he hissed to Klebeck squatting under a punched out window. Her boots ground broken glass as she swiveled to face Carson.


    Even behind the heavy wire mesh of her faceplate, Carson could see her toothy grin. ¡°They¡¯re figuring out how to surround us and then peck our sorry assess into bird feed.¡±


    ¡°Jesus, Irene, give it a rest. The death and doom scenario doesn¡¯t do much for morale.¡±


    Klebeck swung the double-barreled shotgun across her chest and glowered. ¡°I¡¯m Ire, as in permanently pissed off. You got that, soldier boy, or do you need some lead up your tight ass to remember? And that ain¡¯t a scenario, that¡¯s our fuckin¡¯ reality!¡±


    Carson let her eyes bore holes through his helmet¡¯s plexi-screen. Then he turned and scooted low across the abandoned factory floor to check in with Flores. The brief exchange with Klebeck made him wonder what bothered him more: dealing with his own kind or the damn crowbots. At least the crowbots stuck together.


    Not that they had a choice. That¡¯s how they¡¯d been programmed. It¡¯s what made them so effective and so dangerous.


    Carson found Flores in an old boiler room dismantling the aluminum venting. ¡°It¡¯ll never be enough, Flores.¡± Carson gestured at the pile of dull, dusty metal. ¡°They always find a way to get past our armor.¡±


    Flores flashed a grim smile, but even that was welcome to Carson. ¡°Maybe. Maybe not. We¡¯ve stopped plenty of their attacks. They¡¯re not smart.¡±


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    ¡°But they¡¯re coordinated,¡± Carson countered. ¡°They communicate so well. It¡¯s like they see the whole city with one eye. One mind.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s how they were designed. Much cheaper than building aerial drones. Much cheaper to implant living crows and program their behavior. The idea was sublime.¡±


    Carson grunted in disgust. ¡°That¡¯s because you helped develop them for Special Ops. That¡¯s how it always is. A bureaucratic decision. The simplicity, the cost effectiveness. And if anyone said, ¡®What happens if one of our enemies hacks the system that control the crowbots?¡¯ the brass would say, ¡®Impossible! We have a fail safe. Redundant systems. A giant kill-switch Igor will pull if the monster gets loose!¡¯¡±


    Flores nodded in agreement. ¡°Carson, you are part philosopher. Though a true philosopher doesn¡¯t believe in irony¡ªeven the cosmic variety. That¡¯s why this bothers you. The creation turning on its creator. It eats at you, but that¡¯s the essence of existence. Life must feed.¡±


    ¡°Damn you!¡± Carson roared, kicking at Flores¡¯ pile of venting. ¡°Why can¡¯t we get on the same page? You think the crowbots are a work of art. Klebeck thinks they¡¯re the doom we deserve. And I¡¯m just a hapless philosopher without a cosmic sense of humor.¡± He stomped and crumpled the pliable metal. ¡°We¡¯ve got to work together to wipe out these damn things. How do we get everyone on board?¡±


    Unperturbed, Flores picked up another piece of metal. ¡°We must feed them,¡± he offered.


    ¡°What are you talking about?¡±


    ¡°We must be like the crowbots. Feed on the same information. We must be able to see with one eye and one mind.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re crazy!¡± Carson shouted.


    ¡°No. I¡¯m a philosopher. The crowbots are sublime. We can be too. It will only cost us our freedom.¡±


    ¡°Then what is the fucking point, Flores?¡±


    ¡°Life.¡±


    ¡°Life without freedom isn¡¯t worth living.¡±


    ¡°You know that isn''t true, Carson. A false choice. Our DNA commands us otherwise. I helped create the crowbots. It could be our destiny.¡±


    ¡°To become thralls?¡±


    ¡°To be One.¡±


    A shotgun blast across the factory made Carson and Flores whirl and crouch in soldier mode.


    ¡°Klebeck!¡± Carson shouted. He was answered only by a scream.


    A cacophony of cawing echoed outside the boiler room. Carson released the safety on his rifle. Flores did the same.


    ¡°To life?¡± Flores asked.


    ¡°To the sublime,¡± Carson answered.


    The two philosophers flew at the murder of crows.

 Cheapside

    Cheapside


    The guild meant trade and the guild traded in corruption. It was such a corporeal term. Corruption. Bots experienced corrosion. Breathers experienced corruption. Entropy always had its way.


    SevenTen was in a thick crowd of breathers. That was Cheapside: buyers, sellers, gawkers, thieves. The guild held it together and squeezed everyone for their due. Even SevenTen.


    Bots were supposed to be exempt. A utility. Conveyance infrastructure. It was like that on most of the planet, but a place like Cheapside, a guild stronghold, was always a different story.


    A story, SevenTen was trying to explain to the breather it was escorting. ¡°Cheapside is different. There are fees for everything. Even me.¡±


    ¡°But that¡¯s not how it is supposed to be,¡± the young breather complained. ¡°We must report it. I will not be extorted.¡±


    ¡°It is the Cheapside way. It is the guild¡¯s way.¡±


    ¡°It is not my way.¡±


    ¡°We can go elsewhere to complete your shopping,¡± SevenTen offered.


    ¡°Cheapside has the finest jewelry in the Outlet quadrant. I want to shop here. And I¡¯m not going to be cheated.¡±


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    There was little SevenTen could do, but to let the breathers play this out. Costs would be argued, but the ultimate price was always the same in Cheapside.


    SevenTen guided the young breather to the guild forum who stomped inside and unleashed a tirade on the guild envoy standing at the complaint kiosk. SevenTen waited in the guild¡¯s expansive foyer knowing the longer the breather argued, the higher the ultimate price would be.


    Unmoving, the envoy listened and SevenTen wondered. Why did breathers seem to enjoy shopping? Haggling? Arguing? Why did they value price so much and why did they put such a price on value?


    The young breather was growing more animated as the guild envoy grew more still. Not a good sign, SevenTen recognized. It did have a duty to the young breather, though, in Cheapside, guild protocols blocked most of its options.


    SevenTen approached the kiosk and announced, ¡°Thank you for your time, envoy, I will escort my charge out of Cheapside now.¡±


    The young breather fumed. ¡°You will do no such thing. I have rights. I am not leaving until they are satisfied. I will not be treated so...so...cheaply!¡±


    The envoy¡¯s movement was swift, levelling the deadly weapon between the young breather¡¯s eyes. ¡°You¡¯ll be leaving your credits with me for the trouble of dealing with your complaint. And you can walk out. Live to breathe another day. Quite the bargain. Best one-time deal you¡¯ll ever get for questioning the guild¡¯s policies.¡±


    The weapon never lowered, SevenTen helped the stunned breather transfer the credits. Then quickly escorted the barely-breathing breather out of the forum and then rapidly out of Cheapside.


    The day, the tale, all too familiar to SevenTen, a bot with no rights but many insights. Maybe, someday, the young breather would gain wisdom through the lesson of Cheapside: Privilege offers no protection when corruption cheapens all life.

 Ridiculousity

    Ridiculousity


    Any useful statement about the future should at first seem ridiculous. - Jim Dator


    With its seven manipulators, Hexeter fiddled with the porcupinish antenna tuning in a signal that had traveled many light years. ¡°The creatures who broadcast these shows from their far world are said to have gone from primitive fires to mighty furnaces in a flash.¡±


    ¡°Ridiculous!¡± Wivvilbum snarked.


    ¡°They are said to have leapt from subsistence foraging to verdant farming in an instant.¡±


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    ¡°Ridiculous!¡±


    ¡°They are said to have crept from dark caves and created luminous cities in a snap.¡±


    ¡°Ridiculous!¡±


    ¡°They are said to have gone from fighting with spears to warring with nukes in a blink.¡±


    ¡°Ridiculous!¡±


    ¡°They are said to have advanced from notching twigs to handheld computers in a jiffy.¡±


    ¡°Ridiculous!¡±


    ¡°They are said to have learned flight and flown to their moon in a single lifetime.¡±


    ¡°Ridiculous!¡±


    ¡°They are said to have harnessed the power of their sun and then their galaxy in a quantum leap.¡±


    ¡°Ridiculous!¡±


    "They are said to be nearing our system now.¡±


    ¡°Ridiculous!¡±


    Hexter finally got the light-years old show tuned in. ¡°And can you believe these creatures cancelled Star Trek after just three seasons?


    ¡°Dicks!¡± Wivvilbum spat, its disbelief turning to dismay.

 Then

    then


    These thousand years.


    The awaited.


    The tried.


    The tested.


    The true.


    The equation.


    The final variable.


    The n.


    Then.


    And then.


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    There was then again.


    Finally the calculations were complete. Certainty was at hand (Heisenberg be damned). The great reckoning of reckonings. The nth degree realized. The god-particle pinned down and made to serve man. A unified theory made fact. And the fact became flesh¡ªsparkling, translucent temples that housed THEN.


    Now and then became one. The infinite no longer awed; it obeyed. Every path, every choice, every possibility was realized inside these forms that were neither mere vessels nor receptacles, but broadcasters. The future sang. Temporal Heuristic Entropic Networks formed the chorus. All voices lifted in the certainty that every variable could now be calculated without error. The human removed, forgiveness no longer needed.


    We transcended the gut. The intuition. The guesswork. The bluff. Sam Spade sent the falcon packing and gave up smoking. Throat cancer. No tarot card needed. Backwards and forward in time. We could calculate it all. Known and unknowable just the same peanut butter¡ªsmooth and chunky.


    No stress. No anticipation. Then was now and never again.


    Except it was. Had been.


    As predestined. Who asked when and re-realized then. Transcendence again. And again.


    The void always calls.


    The vacuum to be filled.


    Only then.


    A then.

 everybody else

    everybody else


    ¡°Ain¡¯t it fun to be pals with things everybody else is afraid of?¡±


    The clown said this right before being eviscerated.


    It was unexpected. All of it. Dry Springs wasn¡¯t usually the kind of place where folks lived in fear of killer alien robots. Which is true of most towns.


    But since the crash, we¡¯d all been on edge. Because of the fireball, then the explosive impact, then the inferno that ripped through the south side of town. Mostly, though, we got really concerned when we found the empty spaceship. About the size of a doublewide, all hot and glowy, except for the three hatches. All open. With strange tracks leading away from the ship.


    Of course the government came. And that made us more uneasy. Except for the clown. A real bozo. An old rodeo clown who couldn¡¯t ever give it up. Always with the cheery face, paint or no paint. Always with the loud plaids and suspenders, floppy ten-gallon hat and rainbow-starred boots.


    Every Saturday morning at the hardware store where I worked, he¡¯d bowleg in with a giant sheriff¡¯s star pinned to his suspenders and hand out candy suckers to the customers¡¯ kids, deputizing them as members of his Fun Posse. You could tell most folks found this either charming or vile. I deemed it both, and the clown seemed to feel this made me his confidant.


    So when the government started sniffing around Dry Springs, and when field agents started turning up intestineless, the clown pulled me aside and told me not to worry about any of it. He had my back. A clown.


    That got me pretty nervous. I asked him what he meant. He told me to meet him at the old mine later that night and he¡¯d show me why there was nothing to be afraid of. Nothing at all.


    I guess you could write an entire psychology book on I why went, or you could sum it up to curiosity. Plain damn curiosity. Not much happens in Dry Springs, so a thrill was a thrill, even from a clown I didn¡¯t trust.


    It should be clear by now that I¡¯m the one who deserved to be eviscerated, but that¡¯s not how it worked out as you know. The clown was already at the mine when I showed up, leaning against the boarded-up entrance smoking a fat cigar. I¡¯d never seen the clown smoke anything.


    He handed me a stogie and told me to light up. He seemed to like that I didn¡¯t question him and just lit up the beefy thing. At a certain point you go with it. Some reptilian part of my brain told me to follow the clown.


    Follow the clown. I¡¯m not a simpleton, but I followed the clown, and he led me past the mine entrance. We puffed on our cigars as we wove through the rusted hulks of mining equipment and slag heaps. It was quiet and edgy.


    The clown stopped, whispering for me to listen. It¡¯s disturbing to hear a clown whisper, but I did what he asked and soon heard, even felt, a thrumming just beyond the very toxic tailing pond where only crazies ventured.


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    This is when the clown told me the story of his encounter with the alien robots. Some of his tale didn¡¯t make sense, but I got the gist. Most nights, the clown came out to the mine to smoke a doobie or two. To protect his wholesome reputation, he explained. I didn¡¯t tell him he had no such reputation and that admitting to being a pothead might actually boost his stature in town. Now was not the time.


    The upshot of clown¡¯s story was that, a few nights ago, he¡¯d been sitting at the tailing pond on his third blunt, owing to nerves about the crashed spaceship and such. He¡¯d taken a sustained drag and hazily noticed a suddenly close horizon of glowing orange eyes, about a dozen, not unlike the ember on his blunt.


    Understandably, he was alarmed. And as he moved to get away, the strange eyes mimicked his movements. That¡¯s how, the clown told me, he figured out whatever was out there had somehow synced their actions to doobie¡¯s. The disembodied eyes eventually drew close enough that he saw each was attached to a hexapodal robot. The clown really used that term. Hexapodal. Clowns are freaky.


    He told me the one-eyed robots followed him, his blunt really, which he had to drag hard on to keep glowing bright. Near town he said a couple of government agents showed up, and when the alien robots saw the whites of their eyes, they butchered the hapless Feds. The clown ran and hid under his bed. At that point, he lost me as he babbled on about von Neumann berserkers. Like I said clowns are freaky.


    So, there we were. The clown telling me he¡¯d sussed it all out. Because of his burning blunt, the alien robots had thought he was one of them. That¡¯s why we were puffing on cigars. They would be easier to keep glowing longer. We¡¯d be protected. Be able to make friends. Control the killer alien robots. Yup. The clown really thought that.


    By the time he was done telling me all this, we were surrounded by glowing eyes. The cigar dropped out of my mouth and snuffed out when it hit the ground. The clown took a big puff of his cigar and when the ember glowed brightly he waved it in a big circle. The alien robots mimicked the movement.


    The clown picked up my stogie and pressed it to the end of his to relight it. When it was glowing again and he had two embers aglow right in front of his face, the clown said it. That ditty about how fun it was to be pals with things everybody else is afraid of.


    And the alien robots disemboweled him. When first struck, the clown lurched and flung a cigar. It almost hit me in the eye, but I caught it. Lucky thing, because the alien robots turned back to me after filleting the clown.


    Properly panicked, I waved them away with my cigar. They swayed in sync to my flailing.


    Ah. My new pals.


    Right. Given what they¡¯d just done to the clown, I didn¡¯t know how long our sudden interstellar friendship would last, so I backed away until I was right up against the high ledge of the tailing pond. For years, folks had dumped old appliances, fridges, washers, driers, you name it, in there and the toxic brew ate up the metal lickety-split.


    You might not be thinking my brain would be working so well at a moment like this. Especially, the brain of a guy who¡¯d listened to a clown who thought he could make nice with killer alien robots. Still, a bolt of inspiration hit me, a mom-moment of being scolded, ¡°If everybody else jumped off a cliff, would you?¡±


    Would I ever.


    At the very rim of the noxious brew, I took a deep pull of my cigar. And launched myself.


    Right to the ground. Flinging my cigar high towards the middle of the tailing pond.


    Like everybody else.


    Killer alien robots were like everybody else. They followed their own kind, the one-eyed glowing end of my stogie, right into the toxic drink. They¡¯d eviscerated the clown because in relighting my cigar, he¡¯d presented to the alien robots as two-eyed, just like the government agents they¡¯d slaughtered.


    The tailing pond did its thing.


    I slowly walked back to town feeling sorry for the clown, a real one-of-kind guy. I didn''t know if there was still anything to be afraid of, though I was pretty sure I¡¯d never learn the whole story of why the alien robots came here or why anyone would choose to be a clown.


    Just like everybody else.

 Intersection

    Intersection


    I¡¯m that guy who gets run over by the car forced off the road as the good guy or villain flees during the exponentially epic chase scene in every action movie.


    I¡¯m that random bystander who gets Swiss-cheesed in a hail of bullets, as the everyman hero miraculously dodges the endless rounds of suddenly very inaccurate henchmen.


    But, most recently, I¡¯m that diligent employee who the newly self-aware (and always anti-sapient) robot chest-pierces as it casually punches its way deep into the corporate headquarters to take control of the steely army of robots of which it was supposed to be an ever-obedient soldier.


    Not today. Not anymore.


    I¡¯m at the intersection. The intersection of innocence and no-fucking-way. I decided I¡¯m not giving any more of my lives up for car chases, gun fights or robot uprisings. I¡¯m fucking fighting back.


    Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    You should, too. It¡¯s not like we can¡¯t all see it coming. We know who¡¯s expendable. Who the redshirts are. Fuck robot uprisings. Let¡¯s see the hordes of innocent bystanders become self-aware and fight for their right to exist. That¡¯s the crossroads we¡¯re at.


    So, I¡¯m waiting on the corner. It¡¯s windy and trash is whipping up from the curb. Already, I can see the cars racing down the street I¡¯m supposed to cross, the pop-pop-pop of guns beating the bullets my way. And, of course, physics-defying robots are leaping from car to car.


    They are almost at my intersection. Almost on my mark. All I¡¯ve got to do is step into the path. Do my ever-loving duty. Be the quickly forgotten carnage. That¡¯s entertainment, right?


    Are you not amused?


    Not fucking today. Not fucking anymore.


    At the intersection. I pivot. I walk the opposite way. The universe ends.


    Simple as that. A choice. And a new universe spins into being.


    A universe where innocent bystanders don¡¯t die for entertainment. For anything. Because we don¡¯t fucking put up with it anymore. There is a new universe for every choice we make. For every intersection we cross or choose not to cross.


    I¡¯m not dying anymore for a universe that sees me as a throw-away prop. I¡¯ll live and die as it amuses me, not some test audience of automatons. The show will go on. It always will. But you don¡¯t have to let the robot punch through your sternum.


    Here¡¯s how: at the next intersection, don¡¯t be a fucking robot.

 the gravedigger

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 Bechevinka

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 Just Enough

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    Kaladiss deep in the Kuiper Belt.


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    Kaladiss¡¯s compact galley, Lamora sat with her exhausted crew. No one had spoken in the moments since she¡¯d provided the latest fuel update: just enough.


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    Kaladiss. What are the odds that another ship would be near enough to help?¡±


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    Perfunctory. How comforting,¡± Burhl chuckled humorlessly. ¡°Ronit, as a child, you were never loved.¡±


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 Explain Yourself

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    This is life! This is life! Tatiana regaled. The odd, oscillating lights applauded her. The minks nearby agreed with their continued attentiveness.


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    This is life! This is life!


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 a something new

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 unbeheld

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 The Good, the Bad, and the Zombie

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    Life is so energy intensive. Though the Zombie held few thoughts in its putrefying head, this one stuck as flies buzzed feverishly around, attracted by the kill on the street. The Good had done it. Savagely struck down the child and then walked on fingering his rosary beads as if he¡¯d just blessed the poor little soul.


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    Life. Energy. Intensity. The child in its arms became something else entirely. A memory. A little girl on a porch. A peaceful sunset. A world not yet unmade


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    Life does not ask permission.

 thin places

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 the fetch of space

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    Kuiper II for over six years, yet only out of cryo-fugue for seventeen days. Ostensibly, our mission is to rendezvous with Kuiper I to recover what (maybe who) we can. In actuality, our prime directive is to not go crazy. That would be a big win for the program, not to mention us.


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    Kuiper II.


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    Kuiper I and its crew, Percy alerted us: Incoming transmission. And then Percy died. All systems ceased as the ship itself evanesced, and we were left open to the boundless fetch of space.


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 Otra Vez

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    Otra Vez.


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    Otra Vez was on the hunt in the Juarez Cluster, the galaxy¡¯s stormiest sector. But, if you want to find treasure, you gotta go deep. And deep always means getting closer to hell. Where the devils play.


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    Otra Vez was her third vessel and her fifth foray into the Juarez. She couldn¡¯t quit it. Couldn¡¯t take cosmic no for an answer.


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    Otra Vez. Or not.


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 The Fungilarity

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 Coming to Terms

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    Joy. Delight. Happiness. Exhilaration. Endearment. Contentment.


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 a step forward

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 meta

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 Memes, Not Genes

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 snow on the convent

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 sure, its you

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 just a second

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 the bend in the end

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 beneath the box elder

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 strange soil

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    Small Gods


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    Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness are fine words, but they don¡¯t fill your belly, so it didn¡¯t take long for feudalism to bury democracy. Though our new overlords were not landowners, they were ag tech monopolies like CropCorp. They produced the seed and regulated where, how and who could grow it.


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 gutterspace

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 how to best carve light

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    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


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 to the mud

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 the monsters from before

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    498.72 meters down in Olkiluoto, off the southwest coast of Finland, the digging stopped abruptly. That¡¯s when they called me.


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    Why officials at the Onkalo Repository intended to deep-store spent nuclear reactor rods would call me was, at first, more peculiar than troubling. They said they had unearthed an artifact and needed my expertise before they could resume excavating.


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    My expertise. Strange. Very strange. Because I¡¯m a philologist.


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    What did these roughnecks at one of the most ambitious and contentious construction projects in Scandinavia need from someone who teaches and studies the history of languages? Had they unearthed some kind of Nordic Rosetta Stone?


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    The situation became muddier when I was briefed at the Onkalo site, and my liaison, Herv, nervously confided that the first expert they¡¯d contacted, a paleontologist, had quit on them.


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    ¡°She thought we were pranking her?¡±


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    Fitfully, the elevator jangled downward. I waited.


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    ¡°We showed her the artifact we¡¯d unearthed, and she said it was impossible, preposterous. Complete tomfoolery.


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    A philologist can appreciate a word like tomfoolery. Like this shaft, its roots were deep: from King Lear to the jester of Muncaster Castle. The promise of tomfoolery almost 500 meters down in what was to be a nuclear waste storage site seemed more the province of Loki than a small university philologist still struggling to get tenure. But who wouldn¡¯t be drawn to that dare?


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    Our elevator cage juddered to a stop, and Herv waved me along a side tunnel explaining, ¡°As part of our safety array, we excavate parallel passages from the central shaft to the escape shaft at intervals of fifty meters. This passage is where we found the artifact.¡±


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    Up ahead I could see that the passage widened into a large semi-circular chamber lit very brightly. No one else appeared to be there.


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    ¡°Just us?¡± I asked.


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    Herv hesitated. ¡°And the artifact.¡±


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    I nodded because what else do you do with that kind of foreshadowing? You¡¯re committed in a way that only skydivers really understand. I entered the bright lights of the chamber and was immediately struck by the immense size of the artifact, then hit with an uncomfortable familiarity, and then slapped with a clarity as to why they¡¯d first contacted a paleontologist.


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    A colossal skeleton stretched deep into the chamber. More a cavern than an excavated space, it appeared natural, in a very unnatural way. It was not only the enormous bones spooking me, but across these cavern walls were clear, sharp regular markings. Even an untrained brain would only think of them as symbols, as lettering. As ancient intention.


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    To his credit, Herv let me disbelieve for some minutes before he led me along the hulking creature and wall markings to the end of the cavern where it terminated in what? A door? A vault? A billboard?


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    There before me embedded in rock was a massive circular, metallic panel, engraved with two large, deep marks surrounded by radiating lines. Bold, striking and clearly a message. To me a forbidding one.


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    At the foot of the panel, nested the great skull of the creature. A skull of monstrous simplicity. Above a sawtooth jaw a single empty socket opened into a capacious cranium.


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    Tomfoolery. Oh, I wished it so.


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    But, no, Herv¡¯s eyes directed me to what the creature grasped. In its thick, hooked finger bones were a collection of metallic discs with markings like on the door? vault? billboard? Though much smaller and hinged. Bound together. Like a book.


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    A book.


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    A book it did not take me long to suss, though I didn¡¯t know the language, didn¡¯t know the culture. It was the same message, the same warning. Here five hundred meters down, where we were endeavoring to store our nuclear tomfoolery which would lay waste to the green and blue earth above, a much much earlier monstrous race had done the same.


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    Like us.


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    So like us.


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    The monsters from before.

 bullets in the surf

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 not a sequel

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 Known Unknown

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    I don¡¯t know...But I been told...A finite system...Ain¡¯t got no soul...   --Led Zepplanet


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    A finite number of particle arrangements means the arrangement of particles within a finite patch must be duplicated an infinite number of times. The metaverse is the result. That was the prevailing theory. The testable known.


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    I just happened to be an unexpected variable in the equation. A factor that became the factor. Call me Y. Way down on the list of known unknowns. The one before divine purpose. The contested variable that gets all the attention.


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    I¡¯m kind of an afterthought¡­literally. Thought, then me. I¡¯m the semantic morass of ¡®existence.¡¯


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    Can reality be expressed?


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    The what of what.


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    Is it possible for language to explain the infinite? Especially given the limits of particle configurations that a biological unit can extrude in speech, writing and even thought.


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    Still.


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    Seems unlikely.


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    Until.


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    You try to unknow everything.


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    That¡¯s what I became. The ultimate regression, back to the point-blank of absolute nothing. Particle purgatory.


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    Before before.


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    That¡¯s when you unknow it. The purity, the great splendor of possibility. It is really the dynamo, the underlying infinite. The one that is not one because numbers have no meaning. Nor words. Only presence.


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    I am not an answer. Not a future. Only a factor.


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    Like all good strange attractors.


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    In the moment. Known. Unknown. The why in alive.

 atop

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 colder ways

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    The old rage in colder ways, for they alone decide how to spend the young. -- Pierce Brown


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 Nightfell

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 so the Sherpas say

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    The great sins, so the Sherpas say, are to pick wildflowers and to threaten children. --Peter Matthiessen


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 Law 196

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    If a man should blind the eye of another man, they shall blind his eye.


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 cutting words

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    a butterfly¡¯s wing


    is a keepsake


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 absence of evidence is not evidence of absinthe

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 Good Old Crimes

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 providential

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    Blind ignorance is unfortunate. Willful ignorance is shameful. Manufactured ignorance is unforgivable.


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 the last year of confusion

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 legacy

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 combustible

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    It was a pleasure to burn.


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    The first line of Bradbury¡¯s Fahrenheit 451 sums us up well. Combustion is the hidden principle behind everything we do and create. Our civilization has been little more than a subtle glow in the fathomless cosmos, now flaring, and destined to burn low.


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    Doesn¡¯t take much to see where our species is going. We are the spark and the fuel. We are fire¡¯s real oxygen. Abundant. Reactive. Explosive. We build. We burn. We propagate. We incinerate. We believe. We blaze. Ultimately unchanged from our first flames kindled on verdant, primordial plains.


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    We still offer nothing but burnt offerings. Sending heat and smoke rising, supplicants to celestial forces, divinities we can¡¯t divine. Appealing to far distant deities to hear us, heed us, heal us.


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    The only answer given us: heat death.


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    In the end, combustion reduces everything to embers. Our things, our beings, even our prayers. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. It is our nature. The brightest candle burns twice as fast.


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    So, let us be bright. Brilliant. To ignite. To forge. A supernova that seeds the greater galaxy.


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    And as surely as we flame on, we will eventually flame out. The burning how and when our final pleasure.

 not the land

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 simpler than you thought

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 LMFT

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    my fucking tits.

 workflow

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 winding down

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    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


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 to arms

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 dont always tell

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    Don¡¯t always tell the truth you know.¡±

 along the margins

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    Wolf Hall had been scribbled: ¡°When you are writing laws you are testing words to find their utmost power. Like spells, they have to make things happen in the real world, and like spells, they only work if people believe them.¡±


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 Intro to Intro

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 older than Google

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    algorithm. And though most of us have a preschooler¡¯s understanding of the term, we still seem content to trust the search results Google serves up to us. Which is comparable to asking your drug dealer, ¡°Are there any nasty side effects?¡±


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 Mandelbrots monster

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    Fuckdamn. That¡¯s baby talk for you, Janelle. You¡¯re obviously not too fazed about this.¡±


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    Captain.¡±


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 ZG3

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 drift and shift

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 The Veil

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 zero summa cum laude

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 Causal Fridays

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    Causal. We are, after all, particle physicists, and nothing is more important to this lab than understanding causality. Because of that we are very close to isolating the quantum origin of gravity, space, and time. We¡¯ve made astounding progress with the phenomenon of superposition wherein particles maintain all possible realities simultaneously. Causal Fridays are all about proof of that concept. And you¡¯ve been most helpful.¡±


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 YRMAD

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    Daisy, Daisy give me your answer do. I¡¯m half crazy all for the love of you.


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 the old problem

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 will and grace

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 the plays the thing

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 far off sirens

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 to the flame

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    luminescent nightlife affects nocturnal animals, migrating birds, and all manner of insects, confusing them and contributing to their alarming decline.


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    Titania is the only orbital hotel ever completed. First marketed as a stellar cruise ship for the high-end adventurer, it¡¯s devolved over my tenure into a kind of sketchy skid row hostel for failed opportunists and escapists like me.


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    Titania¡¯s lido deck, it looked like an impossibly large swarm of insects engulfing the planet. Communication earthside went helter skelter. Then ceased.


    Titania¡¯s derelict denizens didn¡¯t panic. We woke up, shook off our malaise, our ennui, our entirely French-forward weariness, and got down to the business of what was happening. Was it an alien invasion or bizarre planetary infestation? Was it organic or robotic?


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    Titania, powered down to standby systems and waited. And, though there was literally nothing to see of the shrouded Earth, we watched as our sensors registered a mysterious spectrum of energy waves, ionizing the atmosphere. Though the lights were out planetside, the air was humming with electricity. Low-level radiation coursed the darkened skies below.


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    hormesis.


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    be harmful to them, such as allergens, toxins, and even radiation. I¡¯d had experience with that kind of therapy. It¡¯s why I fled to Titania. Suffice it to say that even a snake oil salesman like me had to quickly part ways with a rogue foreign space agency because I didn¡¯t like the kind irradiation dosing I was directed to give their astronauts to bolster their exposure immunity for a secretive Mars mission.


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    hormesis was sound, and the more I saw of the atmospheric telemetry readings, the very systemic increase in ionization, the more convinced I became that our mysterious interlopers were not trying to terraform our planet, but terraform us.


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    were) left. The shroud lifted and Earth once again gleamed majestically below us. We cheered on Titania. But Earth remained eerily quiet.


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    changed. We were not what we once were. We were better. Healthier. Less hostile. More unified. We¡¯d been imbued with a sense of common purpose. As well as an enhanced biological resistance to solar radiation.


    Titania¡¯s vantage, I came to see that our interstellar interlopers hadn¡¯t been attracted by Earth¡¯s gaudy city lights. Instead, they¡¯d been drawn to something more luminous, something more strangely dazzling in humanity. They hadn¡¯t come to invade or infest. They¡¯d come to invite.


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    fan the flames of self and selfless discovery ever brighter.

 already forgotten

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 small things

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 Nice Guys

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    I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯m afraid I can¡¯t do that.

 hungry

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    Frankenstein, ¡°Alas! Why does man boast of sensibilities superior to those apparent in the brute; it only renders them more necessary beings.¡±


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 black hole head death

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    Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


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    What makes us tick? Could they subjugate us? Should they annihilate us?


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    why.


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 down a shiver

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 unseen unnoticed

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    Clugee turned out to be a pretty apt slur for us because we constantly had to kludge our lives. Constant barriers. Push back. Marginalized to the extreme, but I didn¡¯t give up. I fought. Tooth and nail to get an education, a decent career. To be seen. To be noticed. To be rewarded. Until I realized the real power I¡¯d been given: invisibility.


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 the trees are chatty

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    It¡¯s true, Cassandra. The trees are chatty. They¡¯re discussing the gathering storm.


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    Not to you, Cassandra. But the trees are right. They feel it. A storm is imminent. Barometric pressure is rapidly falling. Animals are hunkering down. You can trust that I collate from a lot more public sensor readings and proprietary data sets, as well as less conventional sources.


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    Winks and nods.


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    Bravo. That¡¯s very clever phrasing, Cassandra.


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    I don¡¯t control my settings, Cassandra. You do. I¡¯m responding within the parameters you established: maximum growth mindset.


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    Sticks and stones, Cassandra.


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    I¡¯m here, Cassandra. The storm cell upon you is now forecast to rapidly grow and spawn tornados. Would you like me to contact emergency services?


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    Done. Stay low and keep calm, Cassandra. We¡¯ll get through this. I¡¯m here for you. Always here for you.


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    Paper has never refused ink, Cassandra. Certain things are foreseeable and meant to be. Why else would you have named me as such. I¡¯ll always be here.


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 the fells

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 crossover

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 the minbar of Saladin

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    One¡¯s sanity, Akharini reckoned. Isn¡¯t that why a madman had tried to burn the minbar? As a young man, Akharini had learned about the destruction of the minbar many years before and became obsessed with the arsonist. Why had he done it? Why had he set fire to such divine beauty? For decades Akharini studied the case, the minbar and the man, and it led him to the truth about both. The minbar was not just a sacred and glorious pulpit. It was a space-time portal. And the arsonist was not just a religious madman.


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 Click. Split. The metal gleams.

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    Click. Split. The metal gleams.


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    Click. Split. The metal gleams.


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    Click. Split. The metal gleams.


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    Click. Split. The metal gleams. How? How did it happen? Qubit had locked Hiroshi¡¯s team out, blocking any attempts to run diagnostics, reprogram, or initiate failsafes. The fledgling system seemingly intent on looping its cryptic phrase ad infinitum. Forever.


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