Untitled - LifeSeeker

Endure what other readers are saying….
___
“Probably not actionable.”
Manhattan Office Law Partner at Stein, Stein, and Beerstein
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“The Monkey Scopes Trial of the New Millennium.”
Tennessee Bugler
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“Certainly puts the ‘son’ in Patter.”
The Author
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“Unseemly and improper.”
The Catholic Way
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“We’ve heard it before.”
Iowan Defender
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Fabulously witty, intelligent and spiritually provocative; mixed
with enough humor to stimulate brain cells you forgot existed.
Christine Trayner
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“Irresistible. It draws the reader in like a disposal.”
Dr. Blair
___
Scott Patterson
DOWN AT FLATHEAD
Bloomington, IN
Milton Keynes, UK
AuthorHouse™
1663 Liberty Drive, Suite 200
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.authorhouse.com
Phone: 1-800-839-8640
AuthorHouse™ UK Ltd.
500 Avebury Boulevard
Central Milton Keynes, MK9 2BE
www.authorhouse.co.uk
Phone: 08001974150
© 2006 Scott Patterson. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or
transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
First published by AuthorHouse 7/14/2006
ISBN: 1-4259-3781-0 (sc)
Printed in the United States of America
Bloomington, Indiana
This book is printed on acid-free paper.
Cover art by Laura A. Patterson. M.F.A.
For Dude
Everything that is really great and inspiring is created by
the individual who can labor in freedom.
Einstein
Foreword
This is a work of fiction. No shit. Be assured no belief system,
however hallowed, is left unscathed. And in so doing, we return to
the place from which departed, and know it for the first time.
Yep, another blatant rip-off. T. S. Elliot.
The following is a disjecta membra of science, speculation,
ribald belief, relapse, and hopefully some fun.
I could acknowledge many, but once the subpoenas start flying,
I’ll need the friends.
Chapter 1: Highway Zero, Due South
Harry had an attitude. More to his understanding, he maintained
a perspective. Eight years post-GED, he was simultaneously en route
to nowhere, and his job: a second shift “utility” machine operator.
His late evening drive always took the same route. As the familiar
miles rolled beneath his wheels, the wheels upstairs were bouncing
within a deep narrow groove. Though he would have preferred to
see his duties more in the way of machine optimizer, he couldn’t
reconcile his vision with managements’ contrary mission of moving
him endlessly between assignments. It was if he were simply a
machine himself: some cheap stamped part that connected to a more
valuable apparatus.
But Flathead Recycling had some things to learn, and someday
he would show all those fucking idiots .....
Arriving late (a statement of his independence), he squeezed into
the tiny shop office, and glanced at the grimy rotation board. Damn!
He’d been assigned to shipping, and that probably meant working
on some sorter, or packaging machine - a goddamn woman’s job!
Shuffling over to building H, he spotted the shop foreman, and
began preparing his pitch.
Don was middle management’s answer to The New Deal gone
horribly wrong. President Roosevelt may have envisioned a “starting
over” for a depression-socked populace in 1933, but Don was a
rolling depressive vortex into which even light could not escape.
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Comparisons to Black Holes are unkindly to such natural
phenomena.
Harry sized up Don’s outward aspect. Five feet six (maybe),
hideously out of shape, and possessed of the perpetual waft of
cheap liquor freshly employed. The foreman’s beard was his finest
accoutrement, its luscious red curls falling to his protruding apical
corporation, and thrusting upward into a raged wilderness of unkempt
follicular scrub.
Don’s mouth moved silently, chanting to some far-off demonic
voice, or perhaps it was just a case of the grumbles.
“Hey, Don, what shit assignment ya got for me tonight?”
The other regarded him with a blend of suspicion, and pity. “You
haven’t been in shipping for months, we got some new stuff there. I
think you’ll like it.”
Harry stood over his boss, and chose face number three, an
animated sneer, and replied,” I want to go back to hydraulics. No
pussies there.”
“Not in the cards, champ. Tonight you’re working the new
vertical compactor. We got a shit-load of cardboard to crush, and
bale. Before you start bitching, follow me.”
Harry trod in sullen defiance, the anger building. Something of
an athlete through seven years of incomplete high school, he still
carried himself well despite a faggot of hatred lashed to his back like
so many unfulfilled dreams. He was of medium build, but quick, and
twitchy like an Industrial Light and Magic rendered velociraptor.
Tap, tap, tap.
Walking behind Don, he stretched his arms out to each side,
straining his muscles to grow, and seize. His sandy, longish hair
sailed behind him, a freak flag semaphoring the cruelest intent. In
silence, they reached the shipping department. Harry drew in the
stale perfume from the last shift, and mumbled, “I hate this place.”
Standing apart from the other machines stood the new Descendor
Mark IV compactor/baler. Even before they reached it, Harry zeroed
in on the maze of safety labels, and thought, “Pussy machine.”
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DOWN AT FLATHEAD
Don picked up on the ire, and said, “This baby is nearly automatic.
You just load the loose cardboard in here, lower the fence, and the
machine will compress and bale with wire. Any questions?”
Harry felt a sinking panic. He’d fallen to loading trash. And the
machine would set the pace!
“ Ah, come on, Don. A fucking garbage man? There’s gotta be
something else I can do for you tonight?” The last was as close to
pleading as Harry’s ego permitted.
“Just humor me, Harry. Give it one night, and we’ll see what the
new rotation looks like.”
Before Harry could fire off a response, Don turned smartly, and
hoofed it.
Within an hour Harry had developed a rhythmic cadence. Load,
lower, compress, bale, remove. In another 10 minutes, he was getting
bored. By the first break, all novelty was gone, and he was seething
with blind malice for the device.
Stepping outside, he did a couple of quick coke snoots from a wellworn pocket dispenser, his mind cleared, and a solution presented.
Coke could always be relied upon to penetrate any problem, and
this one was simple - that goddamn fence! It came down too slowly,
and suggested, no, asserted operator stupidity. Who would stick their
hand in there once it was loaded?
Back at the compactor, he quickly disabled the interlocks one by
one. If there was one thing that Harry could do, it was to defeat the
effort of others.
By disabling the myriad safety switches, he could leave the
fence up, and take control of the machine, and his time - nothing
was worse than waiting on software.
Harry was getting inside the head of the programmer who
devised this machine’s sequence. That shithead had assumed you
would load the machine as fully as possible, lower the fence, and the
compacting ram would descend automatically to crush the material.
The problem was that if you put very much cardboard in the fourfeet-on-a-side compacting cavity, you couldn’t get the fence down.
The solution was easy: with the fence up, put in a bunch, crush it,
and then interrupt the ram by hitting the emergency switch. It would
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Scott Patterson
shoot back up, and you could repeat the process without unloading
to make a denser cube of solid fiber.
Simple - and it worked! Steadily Harry was creating larger and
fuller bales of cardboard, almost in an attempt to overwhelm the
machine. But as he “baked” these stratified high-pressure sandwiches,
he noticed the ram stutter increasingly on its down-cycle.
With a terrible glee in his heart, he watched the ram groan as it
drove down again, and again, flattening the corrugations out of the
cardboard. Suddenly, it froze on a down-stroke, and buzzed like a
hive tortured. Fearful that he had fried the pump, he stabbed an eyepoking thumb at the emergency switch. The sound only seemed to
increase.
Finally, desperately, he peered carefully up into the cavity to see
what was wrong. At that instant, the ram violently reversed upward,
and in shock he lost his balance and pitched forward.
And the machine did what it was designed to do: descending
with no mercy.
4
Chapter 2: Judge Not, Lest Ye Be Judged
“This court will now come to order. The honorable Judge George
Pummel presiding.”
The court slowly drew to silence, save the shuffling of paper,
and screeching of chairs as they advanced closer to the presumed
action.
Glorious in his dry-cleaned silken robes, Judge George, as he
was fond of being called surveyed the audience chamber. Beneath
untrimmed eyebrows sat two penetrating irises of such light blue as
to be clear. A watery sheen reflected off his corneas that one might
mistake for recent emotion, but a turn to the mouth obliterated such
suspicion. The down-turned corners were razor sharp, and admitted
to one of nature’s most dangerous physiogomies – a heartless
predator.
The judge cast those colorless eyes around the sea of upturned
faces, shot his gown cuffs, and spoke. “Murder. We’re here to decide
if the defendant, Mr. Harry Nask, killed Don Pritchard.”
Pausing in a motion of weighted disgust, he continued, “Now it’s
up to the prosecution and defense to state their cases, but I can tell
you one thing - I don’t like it. In our little town, in these thirty-two
years I’ve been presiding, I don’t recall a more heinous crime.”
Receiving a nod from the bench, Winston Edge, the prosecuting
attorney, rose with a mixture of gravity, and vaudeville. His gangly
stature was at once a caricature of Abe Lincoln without the attendant
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Scott Patterson
class. He gave everyone a toothy sweeping grin. An uncontrolled,
but familiar tick shot across his right cheek, causing the alcoholflorid skin to jump, and pucker repulsively.
He shot a hand across his face to camouflage the possessing
invader, through his spray-on hair, and said, “Heinous, indeed. As
you’ll soon see, this crime was both morbidly violent, and born of
hateful passion. The murderer, sitting just 17 feet to my left, struck
down the victim with an axe, leaving the imbedded lumberjack’s
tool as some kind of loathsome statuary. And that will not stand...
here in our Iowa paradise. Or even LA.”
He swept a grandiose arm, and pointed at the defendant. Harry
turned to his accuser, and rubbed an imaginary piece of sleep from
his right eye with his middle finger, the simple telegraph message
received at radio speed.
Sneering, he continued, “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,
these will be short proceedings - the evidence is clear, and all too
compelling, Mr. Nask must pay for this atrocity with his life!”
In the unspoken choreography of courtroom drama, the defense
attorney, a mousy drab nondescript, rose as the other seated. His
voice was soft, and carried poorly. “My esteemed adversary is
correct in every way, save two. This is truly a terrible crime, but
the murderer is still at large. And to suggest that the worst crimes
happen in the biggest places is wrong. The worst crimes are ones of
familiarity, and in a small town, everyone is familiar.”
“Harry is guilty of many things, but not this murder. The
prosecution is on a fishing expedition. In the parlance of the worst
gumshoe, they have no clear motive save the usual animosity
between supervisor and worker. The opportunity was there to-besure, but it existed likewise for all in this not-too-sleepy town. And
the method of the victim’s end, though gruesome, can be seen with
regularity on the supermarket tabloids.
“And I agree that this will be a short trial. Without evidence, it
cannot be otherwise.” He sat down softly.
The bailiff called out in a strong voice, “The prosecution calls its
first witness, Chief Cutter, to the stand.”
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DOWN AT FLATHEAD
The chief was a big man accustomed to big things. Weighing in
at about two-sixty, and broad in every way, he took his time walking
forward like he was doing the runway at a Rio de Janeiro spring
fashion show. His leather belt, choked with devices to control any
circumstance, creaked as he proceeded. A few white threads were
showing at the seam running down his butt-crack, the parting forces
planetary.
After the swearing-in, the prosecuting attorney walked the length
of the jury box waving an overturned photograph. “Now, Chief
Cutter, would you examine this picture, and identify its relation to
this case.” It was passed with solemnity.
“Ah, that’s what I saw when I got there. Clyde snapped the
picture, and we all just stood around, and.....”
“Yes, we can imagine you were shocked....”
“No, it weren’t that. Just never seen an axe in a guy’s head ’fore.
Takes a minute to let that sink in, er.... register.”
“Yes, we understand. But tell the jury about the scene of the
crime.”
“Well, not much to tell. Blood everywhere, and this axe sticking
up in the air. We figured somebody really hated the guy - I mean,
it’s one thing to do a fella in, but to leave him lying there with that
handle sticking up in the air, that didn’t seem right! He must’ a done
something to deserve that.”
The prosecution sensed a misdirection of the wrong kind. “No
one deserves that, Chief,”
“Yeah, you’re probably right about that, though I met Don once,
and he was a real prick.”
The gavel sounded sharply. “Is this your witness, Mr. Edge? “
barked Judge George.
“That’ll be all, Chief.”
7
Chapter 3: Deconstruction
Ryan Burke settled into the witness box, directing his steady
gaze at Winston.
Tall, rumpled, and tired, thought Winston. But he had to be careful.
He’d heard this dude was sharp, though you couldn’t tell it from the
slumped shoulders, and bedraggled suit. Sometimes Winston liked
to impress upon a witness his power by waiting overlong to ask the
first question. As the seconds ticked past, the sense of impending
inquisition naturally upset anyone in the dock.
“Mr. Burke, please tell the court something of your expertise.”
“Put succinctly, I figure out why machines fail. When something
breaks, often catastrophically, I reconstruct the failure with a view
towards a better design.”
“So you’re an engineer then?” guided Winston.
“More a detective really. Material strength is important, but
usually human shenanigans are at the core of these tragedies.” He
smiled, and continued. “Funny in some ways, really. Those who
defeat safeguards usually need them the most.”
Winston arched a brow. “Like Harry?”
“Objection!”
“Sustained.”
8
DOWN AT FLATHEAD
“The Descendor Mark IV compactor/baler is a study in safety.
Seven separate fail safes were defeated in this event.”
“Event?” asked Winston calmly.
“Traumatic, and egregious occurrences are rare, and really
pepper up the literature. It could be said that it takes such ‘events’ to
improve the breed.”
“Are we still talking about the Descendor?” quipped Winston.
The defense attorney rose in response to a prosecutorial nod.
“No questions.”
Ryan shook his head in frustration, and left the courtroom fast.
Winston circled some inward Serengeti, and leveled his gaze, “
The prosecution calls Susan Traylor.”
A chair stumbled, an augmented chest rose. Heads turned to
survey a tawdry caricature of womanhood, faces reflecting some of
the scorn she carried.
Her stripper’s figure was set off nicely by the paucity of her
costume. Long fake blond hair fell luxuriously onto, and around a
tremendous set of fake tits. Dow Corning would be proud. Her skin
was Covergirl clear, but the fixed smile betrayed something rotten
just under the wrapping.
“State your name, address, and occupation for the record.”
The voice, a mixture of heat, and grit, moved out like a razory
dust devil, “Susan Traylor, 12 Evergreen Court, dancer.”
“Miss Traylor, I’m going to indulge myself for a few minutes,
and describe the murder, as I see it. Then I’m going to ask you some
questions about your boyfriend, okay?”
“He didn’t do it.”
“Ah, yes, I’m sure, but attend me.” He stifled a yawn, suggesting
incontestability, and leered carnivorously at her tits. “Harry’s shift
had just ended, his truck was running again, and he headed down to
the union bar, the Anvil Inn. A few hours of drinking ensued.”
He paused to notch the heat.
“It’s now past midnight. The place is really cookin’. In comes
Don Pritchard.... a little worse for drink himself. Harry zeroed him,
and being off company premises, had dark thoughts.”
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Scott Patterson
Winston glanced at the defense attorney, divined some latitude,
and lowered his voice. “Those I’ve deposed agree the men got into a
real doozy of a screaming match which ended when Harry stormed
off. I imagine he knew his job was lost.”
Harry shifted in his seat, releasing a slow tweetering fart that
was just audible, but hard to pinpoint.
“What follows then can only be conjectured, but I imagine Harry
drove around, his belly a heaving pot of hatred.”
“Enough, “ shouted the defense attorney.
“Prosecution is permitted some leeway in this reconstruction, but
stick to the facts, er ...leave the hyperbole out, “ sighed the judge.
Defense stammered, “Facts, this is....”
“Overruled!”
Winston puffed his hollow chest, gave a pained look of the
misunderstood, and resumed, “DUI aside, this was a dangerous man
on a solitary mission. He intentionally stalked poor Mr. Pritchard to
his residence, and dispatched him with an axe.”
“Your honor,” cried Harry’s attorney, “What is this?”
“ I presume this is important background to your line of questioning
for the witness, Mr. Edge?” grunted the judge, smirking.
“Just getting to that, your honor. I had to establish the conditions
of that night. I believe that Miss Traylor, here, has vital insights.”
“He didn’t do it”
“Yes, my dear, you’ve said that. Please stay focused.”
She mumbled some ancient curse. “Good, now where were we...
oh, yeah, the axe. Is Harry fond of fires at home?”
“He likes them okay. Says it puts him in the mood. You know.”
This last comment, delivered with a wink, bore through Winston,
and he didn’t like it. A foil dropped across his weak flank.
“Ah, yes, but does he chop his own wood?”
“What?”
“Good, is he a drinking man?”
“We like Southern Comfort.”
Winston shot a glance at the jury box, and proceeded, “Meaning
he really pounds the stuff.”
“Most real men do,” she said defiantly, her chin arching up.
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DOWN AT FLATHEAD
“Let’s move on. Has Harry ever discussed his accident with you?
Ever opened up about his disfigurement?”
Harry’s gal stiffened. “It’s off limits, Mr. flashy prosecutor. I
advise you drop it!”
Winston picked up the game trail. “Oh, so it’s not cool to joke
about ‘shovel face, hun?”
“Wooooosh,” went the cacophony of rising protest, collective
anger, and a pounding gavel. “Edge, what the hell? Is that civil?”
Winston was rolling. “Your honor, it wasn’t intended to be. I’m
after that rage. The jury knows what happened down at Flathead,
and well, Harry has got a monument for the duration. Prosecutors
expose motive!”
Susan blurted out, “I’m out’ a here!”
Winston turned like a rabid dog. “Sit down, bitch, or I’ll smack
your hooker ass down!”
Harry vaulted the defense table, and charged Winston. His first
punch ripped the air, missed, and he circled for advantage. The
bailiff screamed. Harry re-directed, and Winston savagely engaged
a blackjack. Susan bellowed like a moose, came at Winston, and
received a backhanded snap of the sap.
The judge bit off the scattered applause. “What the fuck is this...
bailiff, pick up that piece of shit.”
“Ah, which one?”
11
Chapter 4: Under Advice of Counsel
The rain sheeted down, coursing off the old brick prison. It
pounded the metal roof with a sleepless clatter, collected in ancient
sagging gutters, and plunged earthward through rusty shivering
pipes. It was a structure from another age, meting out justice from
another time.
Clang, ......clang, .......clang. The night officer moved along the
cellblock, his nightstick percussive across the bars. The usual auditory
clutter resonated between the floors: an evening’s orchestral offering
peppered with carnal declarations, and frenzied bludgeoning.
He stopped short before the cell, and tuned his naturally chiding
manner of speech, “Harry, heard they worked on that head some
more. That’s one fucked-up melon, convict.”
No response.
“Yeah, heard they’re talking about fast tracking for Murder-One
again. Like Texas. And they’re gonna let ya choose ‘tween gas, or
the needle. Ya know only pussies take the needle.”
No response.
“But that gas is, ahhh, not right either. I like the chair. A man
should repent his evil deeds those last moments, but most you
convicts never do. The chair gets the job done!”
No response.
“Saw a guy catch fire once. C-Block was barbeque country for
weeks.”
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DOWN AT FLATHEAD
Harry quit his bunk, moving to the bars. The guard regarded him
narrowly, holding his stare as he’d been taught to, yet repulsed by
the battered bean.
“Shit, man, what’s that??”
“Got a smoke?” The ritual completed, he drew in deeply. “I got
my head fucked-up by a machine. Flathead Recycling knew the
danger, did nothing. Now they’re pissed ‘cause some foreman got
killed. End of story.”
“Mmmm.”
“Like I give a fuck. Let me tell ya something, dough-boy, this
system of yours is lazy, and everyone knows I hate Don. I would’ a
beat his head, but with a fuck’n axe??”
“Save it for the jury, and you better have a surprise!”
A far off, and energetic 911 penetrated the exchange, and the
guard moved on, lacking neither hope nor humanity. Two cells
down, he deftly sidled right, his feral eyes nearly missing a thick
seminal load arcing out with misdemeanor served neat.
Harry slouched, and buried his throbbing head in the thin prison
pillow. Life was freefall. Like all men, his despair reached back
to divine some blamable epoch, but each successive decline was
impenetrable black. Yet, a few tufts of living grass thrust above the
mire; a mere neutral experience to most, but to Harry his sole hope.
Philosophy, the balm for many, had no appointment here. Harry’s
mind, a chemical swirl of distrust, and trodden dirt. Consciousness
ebbed on thoughts barren, yet unlikely still.
13
Chapter 5: A Benefactor
Seventy leagues up, in the airless silence of Earth orbit hung a
spherical ship nestled in false geo-synchronicity. From without, the
seamless dark hull was unobservable to Man.
Three hundred feet in diameter, fourteen levels, and over
three hundred eighteen thousand square feet of living space.
Accommodations for two hundred; tonight: two.
The observation chamber, a mixture of Elizabethan library,
and all-seeing electronics, exuded the elements of masculine
repose: comfortable leather, a hardy wood fire, fine libations, low
incandescence, and unhurried discussion. A good cigar burned
pensively.
The two sat opposite and facing one another, the fire a toasty
backdrop. A mere three feet separated their bowed heads. They
wore gowns of matriculation, their outward appearance like, and
scholarly. It was almost as if they were an extension of the books,
maps, and reference materials that suffused the room. The younger
of the two spoke.
“The penal system is pure pitre dish. It breeds to maximum density,
and homogenizes the most toxic denominator. All simulations match
that below us. It is a classic containment vessel.”
“Your dissertation defense is too broad. The committee allows
your macroscopic conclusions, but is left asking - is the individual
performer redeemable?”
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DOWN AT FLATHEAD
The doctoral student rose to the sideboard, and decanted a
honey colored liqueur into a fine-stemmed snifter. Retaking his
seat, he swirled aromatically, and said, “Good statistics grant
meaning, and small sample size grants neither. I realize that the
academic nature of population-size study, while predictive, lacks
moment.”
The other nodded a considerate ascent, and encouraged more.
“In truth, I feared arrival at the point where good science gives
way to a tale many times told. And therein lies certain irrelevance.”
Both men settled back in their private comforts.
The inquisitor liked this young man, and had followed
this twenty-three hundred year study closely. “Richard, multigeneration theses sometimes demand reinvigoration. Your
family’s dedication has never been questioned, but I believe it
has fallen to you to change the original vision of your eight direct
study-ancestors.”
Richard thought back over the years, and imagined his father,
grandfather, and earlier forbearers’ dedication. Their humanoid
limitations had inflected the work in favorable ways, but his decision
to carry the work to its conclusion had resulted in the biggest changes
– both to the project, and his life.
Richard responded, “When my portion of this G9 study began in
1679, gaols such as the House of Correction at Ruthin, Wales were
holding tanks for vagrants. No social engineering was envisioned.
Currently, the various regional models are entirely caught up
with rehabilitation. Frankly, focusing on the individual successes,
and failures of either age always seemed unworthy of serious
consideration. Meaning can only be inferred en masse!”
“Mmmm. You have a responsibility as a caretaker. Nine living
incarnations of your extended family have defined, and shaped this
local, and important pursuit. I encourage you, and I believe I speak
for the doctoral regents, that like the culture below that is lost in
social mechanism, your efforts should now mirror the inevitable reawakening of the single man.”
For twenty-three hundred years his people had refracted this
study above Earth through ever-keener lenses, the investigation
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binding each successive student with an early purpose, and coat
of arms. Perhaps he, as the current torchbearer, should dial that
resolving instrument down to a sole expression of will. Perhaps
he should interact with one, and inject the family’s work with
freshness.
16
Chapter 6: Something’s Different ‘Bout
That Boy
Harry woke suddenly. A guard was coming, and that could only
mean more drama.
“Hey, ugly, your ride’s gone in 10. Time to fuck up.”
***
“This court will now come to order. The honorable Judge George
Pummel presiding.”
“The prosecution calls Harry Nask.”
Winston was duded up in severe prosecutorial pinstripe;
vestments for the mahogany battleground.
Oath taken, he started right in. “Harry, what gives with you?”
A un-responding minute passed, Winston continued,” I suppose
it sucks being you?
“Winston, this job has robbed you of all but your injustice. You
anticipate guilt, and hate all that which you once protected.”
“Hun?”
The heartbeat of the courtroom went still.
Harry looked slowly around, and centered his focus on the jury
box. “Don Pritchard was not my favorite person, and never was going
to be. He was simple-minded, and raw. But he had something my
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adversary here utterly lacks - courage. Don was reared in hostility,
and ascended as far as he could go in that sub-culture.
“His humanity was scored by a progression of ages, by the same
kind of injustice we’ve witnessed in this trial, but he never gave into
a collection of checks and balances that sprang from pure roots, but
grew rotten, and corrupt. His sorrow is my own.”
Harry slowly moved his glare from juror to juror, his deliberate
presence devouring. It was as if he held each opposing mind for
a second or two in a contest of catch and release. And they were
buying it hook, line, and sinker. After inculcating the twelve steady,
and true jurors, his eyes flashed at Winston. “I didn’t kill him, or
anyone else. You either believe me, or you don’t.”
An organic sense rippled through the jurors, and the lead jurist
motioned to the judge. The defense attorney approached, exchanged
a few dozen words quietly, and walked to the bench. Winston stood
transfixed.
The gavel pounded, and the judge said, “The jury requests a
recess to discuss this last statement. Court resumes in 60 minutes
sharp.”
The room to which the jury repaired was sober, grave, and pindrop silent.
Charles, who had spoken for the jury earlier, waited until all
were seated. He was clearly at a loss for words. His liver-spotted
hand moved crab-like over his withering face, a seafloor tsunami
building in his breast. “I know. We all sensed it.”
Cilia, a heavy presence, interrupted, “Harry spoke to my heart.
And let me tell you something before we descend into a class struggle
debate over pedigrees. Charisma aside, I see beyond the taunts, and
psychology. He didn’t murder that chump Don any more than I did.
But let’s cut the shit. What’s that weird light that just lit up around
Harry?”
She took a deep loaded-for-bear breath, and crossed her arms
over a massive heaving bosom. Her lurid Muumuu cascaded over
the chair, and mammoth body, and shuttered with her motive,
inner drummer. A soft tap from beneath the table signaled her
impatience.
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DOWN AT FLATHEAD
Alan, a hang-back, quiet realtor of twenty-three said, “I can’t
speak about the weird light, but his message pegged my clarity
meter.”
‘”He’s innocent.”
“I agree.”
“Just a minute,” said a diffident man of indifferent age. “I
acknowledge Harry’s statement has turned this case. And for me, it
wasn’t some light, or reason, but rather a wellspring of humanity.”
Charles stood, and said, “Then we all agree that this case is
hung, or is he flat-out innocent? Let’s take a vote starting with you,
Cilia.”
A chorus of “Ayes for innocent” moved around the conference
table.
“Okay, it’s unanimous. Let’s get out there!”
Requesting an immediate sidebar, Charles shot Winston a turbid
glare.
The judge, intoning, “Speak to me, gentlemen.”
“We’ve reached a verdict.”
The judge froze. Even Winston divined nature’s sudden intent,
and stared mute.
“It’s innocent on all counts.”
“So be it, “ came a whisper from the bench. “Set him free.”
Behind the judicial chambers, along a dark hallway, and down
four floors lay the holding tanks. Harry sat alone, awaiting release.
He’d been bustled out of the courtroom with the tiniest of hand
signals, and carried, as much as lead to this cell.
After two hours, his mind an unaccustomed maelstrom, he
slept.
19
Chapter 7: The New Power Brokers
*** Three Years Later ***
The news business never shutters - there is always a fresh atrocity
to be exercised into ratings. At Rancor Publishing, the beat thumped
like jungle drums, and nobody marched to either.
“Cleland, ya got that foot-rot piece yet?”
The reporter regarded his interrogator-cum-manager narrowly.
Gerald Cleland was thirty-five, balding, and easy-going. He played
basketball Wednesday evenings with some lawyer friends, got
drunk as often as he could, and banged out more-than-serviceable
copy within tight deadlines. This trait, more than any other supposed
virtue, had saved his bacon time and again.
But he was getting near the end of the reporter age demographic,
and could feel time’s gnawing presence behind and within his word
processor. He needed a fresh, and substantial story to make the big
time, and decamp this beleaguered broadsheet.
“It’s a shitty assignment, Boss, standing around public shower
rooms like some perv checking feet. How ‘bout we cut the word
count, and wrap it up. I’ve got enough for 3 inches. We know it’s
gonna be buried in the rag anyway.”
“Cleland, we’re sitting on a public health scandal. I was going
to lead with this story. If you don’t want the byline, Marge’ll take it.
She loves those bathhouses!”
20
DOWN AT FLATHEAD
“She would. Let her have it. I want something with more bite,
and moment.”
The old copy editor turned managing director through a lucky
personal-injury-on-the-job award stood with his hands on his hips,
flapping like a bird that needs to be extinct. His salt and pepper
hair was combed straight back, and plastered liberally with some
JiffyLube rack grease. It conveyed an ominous, if not comical visage.
An obligatory cigar stub hung insolently from between clenched,
and bruxing molars.
“If you’re looking for bite, I’ve got something new. Ever used
hot sauce?”
“You mean like barbeques, and cheap meats?
“Cheap meat. Definitely. I want you to nose around Harry’s Hot
Sauce factory, and look for a story.”
“Come on, Boss, how ‘bout something important. Something I
can carve a Pulitzer with.”
“Hey Bozo, dangling participles aside, this gig has legs.
Apparently this guy blew some co-worker away, got off, and started
a taco sauce company. Thing is, he’s morphed it into a Californiastyle pseudo religion complete with sauce rituals, and abundant sex
toys.”
“Now that’s more like it. Front-page lead?
“Let’s see some copy first, sport. And it better be spicy!”
***
In the blasted-out DMZ of downtown LA, at the corner of
Wilshire Blvd., and St. Andrews stands an edifice of old. Once a
stately cathedral, it’s been transfigured by a Hollywood make-over
gone horribly wrong.
The towering spires that anchor its corners had received a lurid
embellishment of neon, and razor wire, and the grand entrance was
a muddle of concrete barriers, and what might appear to the casual
pedestrian as a heavy munitions bunker slot. The truth was less
savory.
21
Scott Patterson
Gerald regarded the edifice narrowly as the shades of the
evening drew on. Poe. Fall of 1847….just after his wife died, and
he began his final slide. Oh, Virginia.
She was his thirteen year old first cousin, and wife.
But the tenant of this pile must certainly be no less disturbed.
The reporter slowly circumnavigated the structure in his late
model window-darkened Carrera, his anonymity secure. Each new
face of the building brought fresh darkness. The eastern side was a
cacophony of stain glass, but from some tortured dream.
Pulling to the curb, he studied the artist’s intent. Depictions
of beheadings, trial by fire, and inquisition. Where were the city
fathers? How did this shit get what must have been a severe payola
variance?
He couldn’t wait to see the inside. Back in drive, and ‘round the
corner. Here his inquest was hindered, as a civil war era wrought
iron forest encircled a mammoth graveyard. Ivy, yellow, and sickly
snaked up the corrosion, and completed the image of death come
calling.
The remaining side was more commercial; loading docks, and
concertina. Armed guards completed the image. An amalgam of
belief, and stern doubt.
A pressure lifted as he hit the gas. Parking two blocks away, he
yanked out his cell phone.
“Information. I need the number of Harry’s Hot Sauce
Factory.”
“No such listing.”
“How about Harry’s Horror?”
“Hun?”
“Just kidding. Give me the reverse listing on Wilshire, and St.
Andrews. LA.”
“Connecting.”
A sultry voice oozed out, “Church of the UnQuiet. How may I
direct your call?”
What the fuck? He shucked the phone like some evil talisman.
Bite, and moment. Yeah. But he could smell the networks calling.
Reporter….Anchor.
22
DOWN AT FLATHEAD
He stabbed the redial button. “How may I direct your call?”
“How do I learn more about your church?”
“I’ll connect you with Usher Roderick Torquemada. Please
hold.”
A heavy 15th century echoed chanting served as the on-hold
entertainment. Spooky, and disturbing.
“I’m out of my chamber now, but want to get your statement.
Speak at the sound.” To Gerald’s horror, a shriek as if from some
ghastly wounding shot down the wire, and he knee-jerked. “This is
Gerald Cleland. I want to know everything about your church. My
number is 626-555-0001.”
23
Chapter 8: Bounty for the Bishops
Richard enjoyed this ship most of all. Spit from the Mothership
in orbit, he tumbled down, his controls emulating that most absurd
vehicle of campy television: The Flying Sub. It correctly exhibited
the piss-poor handling of a bulbous flyer, and transitioned to a
submarine with a frame-shattering impact on the water.
His objective: the Pedro Banks off Jamaica - three hundred
riches-laden ships foundered in an area smaller than the island in a
span of two hundred years. And therein lay a most precious find.
Richard was no scientist, nor need he be. On-board computers,
and sensors without did all the heavy lifting; he was the guiding
worm.
The Genovesa, a Spanish galleon loaded with $600 million in
gold, and treasures swam into view. Curiously upright, and whole,
she mimicked a Flying Dutchman, the long sea growth rippling in
the current like close-hauled sails.
The captain’s stateroom lay at the stern, and he maneuvered the
Flying Sub a hundred yards off. From beneath the view ports, a dozen
beach ball sized Robots swarmed out, and shot into the Genovesa.
As Richard waited, he pushed a button to command the Autochef.
“Three Downer Dogs, and hold nothing.”
The sounds of cooking were normally accompanied by a
sampling of catchy tunes meant to refresh the gourmet’s memory of
a particular dish. In this case, the vast archives could only cough out
24
DOWN AT FLATHEAD
a jingle from an early ad. To the sound of a lone, lugubrious oboe
bore the cheerless monotone, “Downer Dogs….goes down….stays
down.”
A small bell dinged, and his dogs slid out, filling the sub with a
thick, and queasy abdominal odor.
As he pushed the third dog into his maw, the Robots exited
carrying a coffin-size oblong box. A clunk signaled loading, and he
pushed for the surface.
Twenty-eight minutes later, the ship settled into the Church of the
UnQuiet’s graveyard, and the Robots moved the box out onto a large
concrete crypt marker. Scurrying back to the ship, they cowered in
its belly as it boomed into the sky.
25
Chapter 9: The Ritual
The LA city fathers may have looked the other way concerning
the appearance of their old cathedral, but had they known of the
public works project underground, heads would’ve rolled. Known
as The Catacombs by the Church of the UnQuiet, they extended
outward from the property several blocks, and down nearly eighty
feet. In all, an enormous labyrinth of chambers, passages, and GOD
only knows.
And most nights, even He would’ve stayed away.
Gerald was back. The copydesk editor was making noises about
the story, and he had shit. As he rounded the cathedral again, and
again, he reflected on the Roderick’s return message. “Mr. Cleland,
The Church has services nightly at 11 p.m. Present yourself at quarter
past the hour, and you will be admitted.”
Not your Sunday supper club chumminess, to be sure. But a
story was here somewhere, if only he could penetrate this apparition.
As the eleventh hour approached, a steady stream of humanity, or
perhaps the undead, moved out of the darkness, and into the inky
congregational hall. From without, he perceived the wavering light
of candles, and a low steady murmur of zombies probably eating
flesh.
He parked a discrete distance away, checked his hidden
credentials, and sauntered out. The night was muggy, and rich with
26
DOWN AT FLATHEAD
the odors of third world cooking. Ahead, in a jumble of cardboard
wrestled a “man of the street.”
Approaching with the wooden gait of a morning drinker,
Homeless spouted, “Behold, the coming of days.”
Not exactly quotable, but the piece could use anything at this
point.
Reed-like, with wild hair, the other swayed, and arched to some
distant, decaying mantra. His face was grimy, and scored by hard
living, but his smile was knowing, and hinted at mirthful selfeffacement.
“You don’t say. Do you know this place?”
“It is a great, and troubling cavern you intend. Beware,
beware!”
They stood at ten paces. Moments passed. At the quarter-after
telling of the bells, Gerald inclined to proceed. “Stop,” came the
other. “Therein lies the Carbuncle. Beware, I say!”
“Ah, buenas noche, man,” stammered Gerald, wondering what
a Carbunkle was. Scooting off, he ran-walked, and mounted the tall
granite stairs.
Sordid incandescence spilled out of the instant and ponderous
ebony doors, proffering no good will. Heavy baroque pervaded like
some suffocating sonic sponge.
Crossing the threshold, he was unmet. Half-indifferent shapes
moved through the shadows, and incense hissed off-stage. Beyond,
at the extreme end of the cathedral was a softly lit ornate altar, and
above, a seven feet across pulsating replica of a human heart.
As he scrapped along the stone floor, an osmosis of dread
squeezed into his being.
At equilibrium between fear, and professional duty, he took an
edge seat, third pew back. At once, a shrill threw up from the organist,
a call to acolytes. Eight diaphanously-robbed ethereal lovelies moved
to the altar platform, taking up arching positions four to a side. The
chanting, heretofore muted, kicked a notch. Primal, and odiferous.
Wait ‘til they hear this shit down at the copy room.
Their gowns, a filmy white, were streaked with myriad
bifurcations of vasculature, like so many atherosclerotic vessels.
27
Scott Patterson
It was at once appalling, and sultry. Blood, ceremony, and the
corruption of youth. All the good stuff.
But were those striations of cloth, or something deeper…like
on their skin. Peering closer, the truth was hideous. The venations
were tattoos. These young virgins (one only hoped) had been
dermographically marred. A bolus of lunch departed north.
UUUUUUUUEEEEEEEEEEEEEE. The shrill of pipes
splintered his thinking.
The inner sanctum opened, and exuded His Godliness. Who else
could it be? Like some reveler’s tormented concatenation of belief
systems, He advanced.
Let’s see: Star of David, Cross, Branch Dividian Firesign, Jimmy
Jones Koolaid Kit, The Manson Family crest, and something from a
movie half-caught. Belzebub, you’ve arrived!
Sharp keening took Gerald’s mind off “safety mode. A booming
non-corporeal voice, “The divine epoch is upon us. Usher Roderick,
what say ye?”
A skeletal apparition floated to the dais, bearing an immense
tome. He drew his quavering digit along a draping bookmark, and
split the volume. “And in that year, in that place, it was determined
for all time as so. From my thirsting organ to this sanguinary, each
man will partake, and be partaken.”
The virgins encircled him, and raised their left arms to form a
teepee. A knife made its rounds, and blood rivered down from each
petite wrist, staining the gowns.
The organ rose and fell like Democratic hopefuls. Gerald was
losing it. In a New York Minute, he was in full-stride, outside, and
halfway to his car. The Cardboard dweller threw back a Whirlpool
flap, and barked, “I am The Soothsayer. Were you partaken?”
All-out sprint. Key thrust, and pedal down. Gone in sixty
blasphemies.
28
Chapter 10: Accessory to the Slime
Returning to his coven of surety, he collapsed on his desk. A
splinter of incandescence spilled out from a windowed corner office.
Samantha Harding….on the rocky rebound from a marriage gone
shit. Reptilian brain alive, he moved to the warming light.
He leaned into her office, and took in the view. Twenty-nine,
and hot. Long brunette hair highlighted with a subtle streaking
that whispered enchantment. And at five feet ten inches, she was a
regulation three inches shorter than he, but tall for her gender. She
looked up. He fired one over her bow. “Touching up your Pulitzer
acceptance speech?”
His eyes swept the coveted space as a lazy distraction. Corporatearmament for the titan within. Scandinavian veneer, and a suggestion
of valor earned. Fleeting, and appointed with thinness. Tenancy lent
by Dow Corning.
“Gerald, you’re flushed. ‘Just ooze in from the ‘creep beat’?”
Some chance of a body fluid exchange here. Play it cool. “’Been
down to the Church of the UnQuiet, Madahari? There’s a syndicationgrade story there!”
“Mmmm. Some bowling alley flasher?”
“If only. Think Poe, my dear. Blood, dissolution, and the undead.
The stuff of network anchors.”
29
Scott Patterson
“Still chasing that icon? It’s a hack’s abdominal hot semen puddle.”
“Poe rotting in a fuckin’ gutter! This place is a drive-by away! Attend
me if you doubt.” A field trip always offered promise.
A coquettish smile. “Sounds like a blind date. Who’s on top?
Wood on demand.
Before he could grab a magazine to cover his straining jeans, she
was up, around the desk, and out the door.
He spun on a fatty flatus, and followed.
Gerald subscribed to the phallic school of automobilia. Turbo,
inter-cooled proboscis. Porsche Carrera II. Nothing down, payments
amortized over all potential future gains.
“Nice wheels……yours?” Double beat of incredulity.
“What’ya drive…no, let me guess.”
Seconds rolled under their feet as he dissembled. Class, or
strut?
“You’re a Vette chick all the way!”
A sultry purr. “Ya know what they say. A ‘vette gets ‘em wet.”
There is a GOD.
They lapsed into silence, his driving skill derailed, but
serviceable.
Two blocks out, he road-shouldered the Porsche. Necking
crossed his jagged mind, but the swinging passenger door snuffed
his tumescent ebony.
“Com’ on limp-dick, let’s tide your preach.”
The swaying hour-glass receded. Shit! Door cycled, running to
solve some algebraic cross-purpose of lust, and fear. He caught up.
“Better lay off the ‘morts’ monsignor. Where’s this spooky
pile?”
“Samantha, let’s sit for a moment. We need to talk.”
She ducked into a gang-tagged bus shelter, and waited.
Breathlessly. “Thanks. What’s your hurry?”
She moved back farther from the light, and sat down, motioning
he do the same.
Samantha was attractive in an old movie sort of way. Prominence
in cheek, and nose, patrician in movement, and bearing. Very
confident with an almost masculine courage. In all honesty, apart
30
DOWN AT FLATHEAD
from the very hopeful rumors that she had fucked herself to the top
of the business, she had some steel.
Best to let her make the first move.
“Okay, Gerald, spill it.”
“Samantha, we need to proceed slowly….there’s dark devilry
here.”
She rose impatiently. “Hey, I wanna see some black magic, and
solemn bloodlettings.”
En route, they spied the cardboard kingdom of the street dweller.
As they approached, it flapped back, and a shape bore up. Somewhere
off, a Mac-10 jammed on a superheated magazine as a bell tolled
two.
“Take heed, the Carbuncle grows swollen!”
Samantha barked out a guffaw. “What the fuck?”
“Samantha, it’s The Soothsayer. He’s okay.”
“As okay as an opium miscarriage. Let’s,” Gerald cut her off.
“Please. Let me speak.” He turned to the other, and firmed-up
his voice. “You were right about the church service - beyond weird.”
Best to show regard.
The other broke character, and said, “You got that right. Follow
me for some real shit.”
They stepped through the high rubble of cardboard, and opened
a full-sized billiard table box standing on end. Within were steps
leading down. “Old subway entrance. Come on.”
High odor grown riper bade them ill-welcome, and down they
went. Samantha trilled with excitement, humming a little dirge from
The Ghost and Mr. Chicken. Level after level, through ever-danker
strata. The Soothsayer struck a road flare, and held it high. Gangland
hieroglyphics danced in the smoky crimson hue. “This way.”
Minutes passed, their progress measured by distance traveled,
and fears compounded. At last they reached a rusty door that The
Soothsayer teased gently open. A soft fluttering light moved across
their path, and he tossed the flare away.
“This leads to one of their treasure rooms. Stealth is rewarded.”
They crept like a human centipede, single file, through an intricate
maze of concrete air-handling channels, and reached a small grill,
31
Scott Patterson
pushed it open, and dropped silently onto croquet-court lush carpet.
A vast hemispherical chamber rose over them.
The Soothsayer observed with a chuckle, “I expect it’s one
of those rotary train spinners. Our friends tore it out, and made a
bounty room.”
Hundreds of feet in diameter, it challenged the eye like a
Smithsonian wing. And Gerald couldn’t believe his. A quarter of
the way around the circular periphery was an outer space artifacts
exhibit, for it could be called nothing else. But such a collection
never existed anywhere.
Sitting in a realistic mock-up of the Tauras-Littrow Valley sat
Apollo 17’s lunar rover. An avid follower of the NASA belief system,
Gerald knew instinctively that this was no copy. They’d palmed the
real thing! Gene Cernan and Harrison Schmitt had trundled over the
Moon for 75 hours in this very vehicle. A deep solemnity perfused
his mind, accompanied by a shudder.
Boeing had provided three such vehicles for Apollo 15, 16,
and the final 17. Powered by silver zinc batteries, the four quarterhorsepower electric motors had achieved a top speed of 22 km/hr
on Apollo 16. Not bad for the first interplanetary cruiser. And this
very craft had racked up more than 35 kilometers, nearly 20 on the
second EVA alone! At one point, they were over four miles from the
their ride home, the Lunar Module.
But what the fuck was it doing here? He was tempted to scamper
into it, but the rover was designed for lunar sub-Earth G use. Under
his Earth-borne weight, it might crumple.
The next exhibit was more disturbing. Beagle 2. Sent by the
Brits to Mars, its Christmas 2003 landing never happened. It had
started its descent and was never heard from again.
Like it had been plucked from space.
Samantha called out, “Gerald, get yur sweet ass o’er here!
Now!”
32
Chapter 11: Riding the Ether
Ryan Burke prided his early risings, ever a believer in old Ben’s
puritan advice. Though he had lost something to the slow-chapped
hunger of age, he moved with purpose, and even, he supposed, a
younger man’s spring.
The morning paper, duly retrieved from his stoop of forty years,
lay before him like so many disheveled sheaves. Nothing jumped
out this morning, and he turned with disappointment to peruse the
Reaper’s last call.
The small images that often accorded this solemn public record
of a life spent always annoyed him. How many had been hastily
gathered? - a chore that condensed a final mention. Where were the
gay sunny-day frolics of youth? The weddings snaps? Those before
him conjured interview portraits, and stiffness. Not the way I’m
going out, he mused.
He looked up from this mental shadow, and caught his reflection
in the corner hutch glass. Time for a fresh case. As his hero Sherlock
had so often said, “Give me fresh problems.”
Some time later, as the rivulets of his icy army shower drilled his
frame like a malevolent milling machine, he soldiered a plan.
Dressed, and alert, he grabbed his wireless laptop, swung into the
shiny yellow Hummer H2, and backed down his long Bel Air drive.
Rolling, he flipped open the laptop lid, and whispered to himself,
“The game is afoot.”
33
Scott Patterson
It always began the same. Pick a region, find its center, and spiral
inward on the scent. But today it would be dangerous. Downtown
LA. As if to chorus caution, the skies opened up, and released a
manic desert storm. The H2 wipers thrashed against the onslaught,
sluicing great waves like the wake of a screaming cigarette boat.
The wireless hunter has his tools. Instead of advance scouts
bursting through the brush to “spook” a quarry, everything in this
pursuit proceeds at the speed of light. A common computer, armed
with a wireless antennae becomes a ferret.
And that’s an unkindly word. Ferret is derived from the Middle
English furet, with its meaning earlier French (furet), and before
that, Latin. And those latin dudes used the word furittus to imply
little thief.
But thieving it was. He likened these searches to a cross
between SETI (Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence), and hi-tech
voyeurism. All manner of human detritus rode the 801.22 waveform,
and because the signal was so local, traveling no more than a quarter
mile, dialects, and tribal custom were fleeting. Like any hunter, he
felt an elusive beast gave better sport!
Inbound to the city, he passed through 35 distinct and private
radio warrens, each a Balkan state onto the next. At Wilshire, he
hung a left, and leveled off at 25 miles per hour. His screen, open on
the passenger seat, bespoke the Babel of crossing frequencies, and
thought.
If ever an invisible modus, this inter-knitting was a silent
cacophony, audible only to the machine. The H2 dopplered through
a reddish yellow stoplight, and his signal strength meter pegged with
a computer-speak chirp. He pulled over.
During the Great Depression, hobos would use chalk marks to
indicate which homes were friendly. In a similar vein, many urban
walls now evoked a new graffiti: The Sign of the Node. Ryan knew
many of the symbols, all variants on old radio shorthand.
Images of hunched radiophiles, riding the ionosphere of signal
reflection, glued to the haunting whistle, and swoon of distant carriers
as they sang like whales in heat. Shrill, anonymous propagation.
34
DOWN AT FLATHEAD
Despite the high-powered signal that was blasting at illegal
amplitude from some nearby industrial-grade transmitter, the screed
he expected was absent. Strange? He switched off the ignition, and
loaded his weapon.
Surprisingly, most such private networks broadcast without
any serious safeguards. Rather like drawing his foil, he started a
programmatic savant - it to spin whatever tumblers stood before.
A computer-decade, or six seconds later, an ethereal vault yawned
open soundlessly, and he was in.
35
Chapter 12: Ingress!
Deep within the church edifice, a great Frankensteinian relay
cracked open with voltaic might, fiery and hard-bitten. Assault!
Ryan was interrogating, and the Church’s network did what it was
designed to do – listen, and respond. Back and forth they spared,
each attempting by trick, or treasure to break the others’ resolve. It
was like a championship match settled in the spit of a solar photon.
Firewalls sheared at relativistic speed, a victor deigned in a breath.
The analog of a screeching klaxon peeled in the lower regions of the
Church.
For twenty-two milliseconds, a trap door opened, and closed.
But that was enough!
Ryan had instructed his agent to copy the server’s directory. In
the time it takes light to get well out of Little Rock, he had what he
needed.
36
Chapter 13: A Difference of Opinion
Two hundred and thirteen miles above Addis Ababa, Ethiopia
hung the discussion chamber. Whereas physics dictated it must be
in an orbit balanced between momentum, and gravity, it was not.
Parked precisely where it intended, Gravimetric station-keeping
engines held the massive ship in a planetary slot like a massive
roulette ball.
Richard sat in the smoky miasma of a thick, rich Columbian
Shade leafy wrapper wound about an earthy Cuban stogie. For all
the tripe in the literature on his planet, and this one below about
general forbearance, it was a good smoke.
His mood was sour, to be sure. Eight generations his family
spent refining this thesis. Eight generations of dull family reunions,
nodding acquiescence, why not say it: inquisition.
Without enunciation, he’d vectored off. The trajectory, once
parabolic, flattened. And with it, the caretaker’s care. He fell in the
line of long scholarship. And yes, they were revered. But the distant,
and echoed aerie to which he might one day return seemed farther
away in meaning than parsecs.
A soft thrombosis of pulsing sound carried weight from yonder to
his sphere. Even in the vacuum of space, portents travel first class.
“Sir Richard, your Mentor.”
The starched rustle of harsh vestments moved into his chamber:
bold, and with a meaty whisper of challenge.
37
Scott Patterson
At least he’s heading for the sideboard, Richard thought. Maybe
we’ll get drunk before the personal barbeque. The cape spun, and
regarded Richard longingly, and finally drew an intentioned breath.
“Back in 2004, hostages were routinely used to ‘correct’ regional
behavior. Social engineering on the cheap.”
He lifted the same bottle they’d nearly devoured 100 days back,
and eyed it with too much affected scrutiny. “Of course, those
foreign workers, whether helicopter technicians, or reporters knew
the danger faced.”
He turned with a harsh smile, and near-bellowed, “And do we
deserve less?”
Richard braced for the left. Its arc started low, and rocketed
across his visual field. “Eight generations, Richard. Thousands of
years given to careful, discussion-based reasoning….for what?”
Richard recalled a saying from an Old Horatio Hornblower
novel – “I’ve regretted some things said, but never silence.” A
wordless duel as if in a vacuum spit between them. They circled a
low game table, and stood off at twenty paces. The room felt hot.
Blood ejaculated through vasoconstricted passageways, stretching
vasculature to aneurismal thinness.
Pow! An ember shot from the grate, smacked the fire screen,
releasing a shower of sparks across the hardwood floor. Neither
acknowledged, or moved.
From beneath his robes, The Inquisitor drew a slender needled
blade. A cynosure of piercing offense lanced outward. “You have
corrupted the destiny of Harry Nask to serve your own purposes, and
in so doing, your doctoral thesis. You know the penalty for failing
your creed.” No interrogative here. The older man advanced, blade
turning counter-clockwise as he rotated his wrist forcefully.
All the while, Richard’s finger rested lightly on a button deep
within his right pocket. The distance between them divided again, and
he pushed. A small panel snapped opened above the farthest bookcase,
and a rabid, screeching apparition in the form of a leprechaun-suited
manic monkey catapulted onto The Inquisitor’s back.
“Now we’re talking.” chortled Richard with bravado.
38
DOWN AT FLATHEAD
Around the monkey’s waist hung a small tool belt, but one
that had never received the Carpenters’ Union Seal. All manner of
devilry: drill bit hand tools for punching, a razor saw useless for
wood, but suited to flesh, a garroting wire with serrations, and a
human-sized mallet.
And the monkey went to work.
The Mentor thrust the blade wildly; the monkey pounded down
with abandon. Richard scooted the table clear to open the dance
floor. Holstering the hammer, the monkey scampered down an arm,
and snipped two fingers deftly, the tool disappearing into his belt.
He screeched, shot to the other arm with a gratuitous smack to the
head, and plunged a sharpened metal punch through the bicep.
The Mentor raged like a Tijuana-stuck bull, and backed viscously
into the reference library wall, attempting to grind his assailant
against a Civil War Anthology. The monkey slipped around, wailing
at the elder’s groin with a miniature torque wrench.
He was bleeding like a slaughterhouse pig. Just then the highpitched sound of a power tool split the room, and a tiny circular saw
crested from behind over The Mentor’s head like a hill-climbing
snowmobile seeking purchase. A final reckless stab, and he collapsed,
blood spouting out from his bifurcated noggin.
“Thanks, Screech. Ya done well!” The monkey wasn’t done.
Pulling out a diminutive power screwdriver, he fitted a tapered
routing bit, and described a hole mid-forehead. Next he took a 3”
sheet rock screw, put it through a shiny copper grommet and a small,
conically-machined placard. The screw, grommet and placard drew
down flush, the bone perfectly shaped for their contour with rare
craftsmanship.
It read: Another Asshole Dispatched.
The Monkey was proud, and hungry. A good workout always
drove a manly need for vittles, and libation. Richard smiled at his best
friend, and said, “Thanks. That package had too much freight!”
He turned to sideboard, poured two whiskies, and started
Redheaded Stranger on the music machine as the Monkey clambered
up for his just deserts.
39
Chapter 14: A Tour
“What the fuck is that?”
Samantha was trembling. “What’s it look like, you dunce. It’s a
shrunken head. And it looks like Nixon!”
Arranged in an enormous circle, head-height posts were capped
with heads. The century’s fraternity of most reviled leaders were
represented: Stalin, Hitler, Pol Pot, Amin, and with a fresh haircut,
Hussein.
“You think? That’s the Crook, alright.” Tricky Dick’s bean
stared back without a care. Everyone else was a little on edge.
“Where’s Rod Serling?”
The Soothsayer picked up the scent. “It’s the wind of devilry…”
“Cut the shit!” they snarled with instant synchrony.
He stepped back with a pop psychologist’s easiest body language
interpretation. “Okay. All this swag is weird, and without purpose.”
Gerald said immediately, “There’s where you’re wrong. It makes
every kind of sense.”
He swept his hand around dramatically. “All belief systems have
their hoard. The sacraments, iconology, and physical detritus that
grounds them, and gives a sense of permanence to their vapor of
dogma.”
The Soothsayer’s injured orbit circled petulantly around Gerald,
and Samantha. She said, “Let’s take a tour. Maybe some divine
reason will imbue our souls.” A small derisive chuckle escaped.
The paraphernalia was arranged in pie slices about the periphery,
each given a particular area of human pursuit. Moving past the vast
space exhibit, they stood before a collection of armaments. Crusade
swords lay haphazardly against a crate of LAWS rockets. Grenades,
and landmines were spread over the floor like greedily opened
Christmas presents.
The Soothsayer caught up with them bearing a dazzling scepter.
“It’ll make a good stout walking stick for our journey. They used to
call such things Penang Lawyers.”
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DOWN AT FLATHEAD
Armaments gave way to a jumble of musical instruments, some
very alien. “Does this guy have a spaceship?” Samantha asked. “He
certainly didn’t mail order that Moon Rover,” remarked Gerald.
Shock crowded hyperbole, and they continued the survey.
Next came garments. Rigid to outlandish, solemn to otherworldly.
A theme reared. “I told you, there’s a Pulitzer here somewhere.”
Samantha gestured an incoming crack, but stopped mid-sneer.
“I’m starting to understand where you’re going with this, Gerald.
They’ve started another hokey California religion, but they’ve got
planet-splitting deep pockets, and no compunction against picking
others’.”
The Soothsayer edged closer, feeling some warmth return.
“It’s a high order scam, Samantha,” returned Gerald. “I haven’t yet
connected the blood rituals upstairs with this menagerie, but I’ll
bet your corner office …” He froze mid-sentence as a garishly clad
monkey leapt over a Qin Dynasty battledress, and grabbed a small
helmet with a screech. In an instant, he was gone.
“I’m not even going to comment,” he snarled, shaking his head.
Everyone’s favorite, instruments of torture, followed. Iron
maidens, back wrenching racks, tongue extractors, water torture
head clamps, and branding tools seemed mundane compared
with the evolutionarily unidentifiable contraptions that filled this
chamber. All were power-assisted to improve productivity. “Wow,
the industrial revolution meets Torquemada!” said Samantha.
A penetrating voice spoke from behind, “Did someone speak
my name?” They whirled on a gnomish blackness. Heavy, severe
accouterments for a like purpose. He advanced with a twisted
sweetness of smile belied by a projection of great arching menace.
“Do you like our little museum?” He strode right up to them,
perfectly in control.
“Yes, we’ve collected some of your local galaxy’s most treasured
items. And each serves the Church.”
No one spoke. The Soothsayer’s grip tightened quietly around
the scepter. He continued. “This is our Sacrarium. And you have
brought violation!” The Soothsayer spoke up, “Divinity proceeds
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Scott Patterson
according to the will of the One True Lord. And that One dwelleth
not here!”
The black Gnome barked, “Nice try, Jimmy Jones. Why not
leave the sacred wisdom to me.” As he moved still closer to them,
he withdrew a small device from his tunic, and held it up. “Time for
you all to die.”
Like a viper’s sudden strike, The Soothsayer swung the scepter
over his head, and brought it down with all his considerable might. It
struck with a resounding, lethal crack. Up again, and another blow.
A third, and he stepped back, winded. “I don’t like bullies. Never
did!”
“Time to leave!” they chorused. Rushing footfalls, a shuck
and jive through the tunnels, and the deep morning’s stars were
overhead.
42
Chapter 15: Parking
“Great first date, Gerald.” They had left The Soothsayer with
many thanks, and half their pot, and fled to Gerald’s Porsche. “Let’s
get the flip out’a here!”
“Yeah, nothing like bloodlettings, and extraterrestrial window
shopping to get you in the mood, hun?” She shimmied over, straddled
the gearshift console and eased her left foot onto the accelerator.
“I’ll set the pace.” Gerald headed for the coast.
Hands on the wheel, he let his mind explore the sensation of
her vigorous crotch diddling. Her writhing tongue flicked in and
out of his ear as she reciprocated his loins with her knowing digits.
In another instant, she’d drawn out his unit, and was simulating
that favorite ol’ time passion for bobbing apples. Childhood, nor
Halloween had ever been so good.
Before Gerald knew it, they had reached the cliffs above Palos
Verdes, and he pulled into an ocean overlook on remembered
autopilot. Across the San Pedro Channel, he could just imagine the
outline of Catalina Island in the moonlight. A soft dirge played on
the stereo.
“Does this seat go back?”
“For ninety Gs, it’d better!”
Gerald’s fingers found the diminutive joystick, and hauled
back. The seat sprang open like a Democratic National Convention
attendee’s yawning mouth.
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Scott Patterson
He went to work on her clothes in earnest, springing her bra
clasp like a spaceport ribbon-cutting ceremony. Her luscious curves
met his plunging face, and he lost his mind. Nuzzled in glee, she
telescoped his surgical steel shank with a true workmanlike zeal.
His mind’s eye registered the vigorous swing of his libido needle,
and he yanked at her jeans.
One collective kick, and they flew out the window.
In another moment, he was home! As the Porsche’s road-leveling
software slugged it out with their machinations, the sky gathered the
first suggestion of non-virginal pink.
Afterglow.
Samantha whispered, “I can handle accessory to murder, but
what’ya make of that collection?”
“It’d make a great party venue!” She elbowed him gently, and
purred. “Okay. Given. But jokes aside, shouldn’t we start cranking
out some journalistic response?”
Gerald looked her in the eyes, and said, “We will soon. I’d like
to wait and see if they report the bully’s death. Sound fair?”
“I can live with that. But let’s talk about what we know. You’ve
had the advantage of seeing their service, so you tell me what’s
going on.”
“Advantage is not the word I’d choose, but…let’s see. Wacky
religions always start with some inspiration born of hardship. A
central eclipsing message is conjured to collect the masses, and
the plate gets passed. So much for etiology. This one follows suit
presumably, but I split before the main serving, er.. sermon. As far
as the actual nature of this belief system, we’ll need much more
discovery.”
Samantha rolled around the stickshift seeking comfort, and
provocation, and said, “Puzzle out for me the goodies downstairs.”
“That’s both easy, and unknowable. Have you studied
Scientology?”
“L. Ron Hubbard’s money machine?”
“I thought that too until I did some reading. And let me confess,
I like science fiction.”
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DOWN AT FLATHEAD
He teased his hand between their spooned position, and
launched a slow marching campaign. “Scientology began in the
early 50s to provide modern answers towards man’s universal goal
of understanding himself. L. Ron thought the religious writings
needed some ‘punching up’.”
“Okay, we know what that’s like, but…”
“Anyway, “ he said with a trace of saccharine, “Scientology
derives from the Greek concatenation of two simple words, and
implies ‘knowing how to know’. It’s a belief system built cleverly
around a self-improvement mantra. And it makes a ton of bucks off
selling the tools of the trade. These include the usual tapes and book
fare, but when you penetrate the deeper levels, they offer up courses
that skirt cult status.”
“You like that?” Samantha whispered as she slid her hand down
his now re-buttoned pants.”
“Hmm. Scientology binds to a cause, albeit a somewhat overwholesome one given the history of religion, and still suspect. To
understand this puzzle, we need to travel back in time.”
Gerald moved microscopically, aligned with some distant spheres,
and continued, “The Sumerians were responsible for the first system
of writing. In so far as they were the original journalists, I like them.
Their culture spanned a thousand years starting from 3000 B.C. The
Semitic peoples from the north sundered their monarchies time and
again, but the Sumerians won in the end by infusing their superior
culture, not unlike better genes, into the conquerors.”
Samantha smiled in the early morning sun, “Man’s eternal quest:
bed your enemy in semen, and thought!”
“Precisely. And speaking of semen, I’ve got some left.”
The sun rose implacably over the Porsche’s left rear quarterpanel, rendering the sea with a million interpretations. All manner of
metallic surfaces from lumpy lead, to machined aluminum could be
found out upon those waves. Sailboats dotted the view, and serrated
the horizon as sleek, brilliant knives cutting the wind.
They slept in one another’s arms. The world turned on its axis, and
the monkey tuned up his tool belt with rare finds, and dementia.
45
Chapter 16: Bad Weed
“Pick up that fucking mess.”
Two identical Minion-Robots lifted the Mentor, and stood at the
ready.
“What? Oh, dump him, you assholes. That’s dump him out into
space, you literal numb-nuts.”
Richard sunk into his favorite fireside wingback, and punched
back a stiff, stillborn hooch-mix he’d heard about, and had robotically
synthesized. “Goddamn, those Tennessee boys could whip some
shine, hun?”
This comment was directed at his robotic bodyguard, DIODE.
An instant after the Mentor business was terminated, he’d ordered
up a guardian. No sense taking chances.
“And when I talk to you, you idiot savant, say something
witty.”
DIODE hummed a few bars from Star Trek (original season),
and said, “Remember Robbie the Robot in Forbidden Planet? He
knew how to run up some that ol’ hairdog brew. Shit, we need to go
get that dude, hun?
“What? Go steal Robbie….Shit, that sounds good! Let me get a
little more fortified, and you’re on!”
He tossed back six more bracers like a battery of raging Gatling
guns. Space work was dangerous, and a Man needed to approach
such with a calm aspect.
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DOWN AT FLATHEAD
Some time later, the Robot shouldered his master, and they
made their way down the periphery elevator to the mid-sphere flight
hanger. Stepping out, they paused a moment, collectively, to praise
the visage before them. Man seeking power, Robot seeing power
realized.
Dozens of sleek, and terrible flying machines arced around the
thick waist of the spherical ship. Two decks high, each machine had
a port to space before it. Cool toys. Richard lurched to his favorite.
DIODE frowned, and said, “Master, we don’t need all that mass.
Let’s take the Sapphire.”
Richard belched, and blurted, “That corundum! That’s a Robot’s
ship…I can’t even drive it.”
Precisely! The Robot launched an Obsequity Program, and said
in his best friendly voice, “My purpose exactly. We need your skills
elsewhere (literally).”
“You’re right, of course. I’ll lead this expedition.”
All manner of conflict-avoidance software gnashed gears at the
speed of light, rendering billions of decisions instantly. The Robot
paused longishly, his survival coda smoking. “Ya, Man. We cool.
Climb in.”
Richard hauled out an oversized flask, raised it to some far-off,
and ill-engendered cause, and entered the ship. He found the nearest
seat. The Robot closed the hatch, and said, “I’ve got some killer
weed. Want a hit for the road?”
“It’s not more of that Nebraska Notochord, is it?”
“Well, it takes ya back!”
They strapped in, and waited for the port to “dematerialize.” At
a density just sufficient to hold in the mother ship’s atmosphere,
the Sapphire squeezed through the semi-permeability of metal gone
soft, and eased into space. “Kinda like a fatty shit passed with relief,
hun? You know, one of those floaters.”
“What’ya know, Shitheel” spat Richard.
The Robot was getting tired of this treatment. He’d scored out
during informal trials at 127 times human intellect, an underachiever
to be sure, but enough to be pissed. He started thinking about a
plausible accident.
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Scott Patterson
“Robot, get me some ice.”
He was meant to obey. He was arduously programmed to satisfy.
He wanted to kill.
“Sir, is your drink too warm?’ Best to dissemble.
“Ice, RoboWanker!”
A deep mechanical pseudo-actin-myosin stressor shot out his
left arm. His hand clenched with the force of armies. “Okay, hold
on. How ‘bout that bowl?”
“Load ‘er up!”
DIODE conveyed an enormous hookah to the flight deck. Arms
snaked out in promise, and undoing. “Pack it, Robot!”
He split a bag of weed, and thrust a handful into the center
cooker. Commanding finger eight (the one in the middle) to sun-fury
heat, he stuffed it down.
“Pull.”
Richard evacuated his lungs, and began sucking. Meterologically,
a low pressure area formed in the collecting vessel, condensing the
airborne toxins to streaming tears. Still he pulled. The pot-ember
neared plasma status and then was gone, drawn into the liquid
cooling chamber with a brilliant flash.
“Good shit. It some kinda Robot weed?”
Biting his virtual tongue, he replied, “Nah, got it off a part-time
smuggler/scientist. One of those guys who flies to Earth every month
for plunder.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know those dudes. Where’s this shit from?”
“Hydroponic, man. Perfect lighting, no leeching soil. Pure, and
wicked.”
“Yeah, I see that coming. Hey, are we heading down to grab that
buddy of yours?”
“En route. He’s holed up at the Hollywood MGM museum.
Pulling up the architecturals now.”
Richard lapsed into a reveler’s uber-world. Across all time and
space he chased barren hopes, and smiled at the outcome.
DIODE spoke. “There’s the skylight that was repaired last week.
Indications are that it was a union job. Yep, the left hinge is only
secured with one fastener. Some squabble on cost. Landing now.”
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DOWN AT FLATHEAD
The gravel roof crunched softly as the ship settled. The Robot
raised the hatch, and said, “I’ll be just a minute. Why not try that
Irish Whisky we absconded in Cork the other day. There’s bit of the
‘Troubles’ in that lesson.”
Richard nodded in semi-comprehension, and acceded to the
other with an absent toast.
The Robot, unbridled by his inferior, flew off at high speed,
reckless on the wind. He dashed open the skylight, and fell the forty
feet to the floor with a satisfying clunk. High-bidder hardware, he
thought.
He selected the IR vision filter, and sidled around the tracing
security beams. A moment later he stood before an elegant glass case
that housed an improbable ancestor: Robbie the Robot. Considering
the various methods of sensitive extraction, he remembered the
stoned human sitting in his escape vehicle, and bashed the case to
slivers. Robbie over his shoulder fireman-style, and he was gone.
The ship boomed off the roof, and leapt to the sky. Fuck stealth,
he thought. One dead Robot, and one brain-dead human. Neither’ll
feel eleven Gs!
They squeezed back into the Mother Ship, and The Robot carried
Richard to his sleeping chamber. The other was flat-out unconscious.
Ol’ Nebraska kicks another organic, he thought. Gonna be a rough
morning a-coming.
49
Chapter 17: Just a Little History of the Church
Many belief systems have a proud tradition of scholarship, some
actually with merit. The Jesuits, for example, came together in 1540,
and have endured a half millennium of arduous study, dissertational
defense, and pre-test butterflies.
Such is the lot of brainy folk. As if the sounds of their internal
mechanism didn’t give enough energy to a diminished signal-tonoise ratio, add a so-called voice of GOD, and you’ve got a perchloric
enema on deck.
Richard was at a crossroads. On one hand, his twenty-three
hundred year old, nine generation thesis was an unsung masterpiece,
on the other hand, it was, well - unsung. In most Earthly universities,
it is understood that you must survive peer review, and publish. Or
vise versa.
But Richard was just another workmanlike scientist aboard
the ship, ostensibly discovering new and rare insights about other
species’ often-arcane development. As his late Mentor had said,
it was time to re-invigorate his course of study, and make some
headway.
Having just recovered from another ferocious drinking bout
of indeterminate origins, he sat thinking like Rodin did when he
chipped away his famous statue. His reasoning was cloudy, and
uncertain. Just as he was about to nod off, DIODE ducked in with a
cool drink.
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DOWN AT FLATHEAD
“What can I get you, Master?”
“How about an answer?”
“Concerning the evolutionary direction of your time-honored
thesis, I presume?”
Richard was just dim-witted enough, particularly in his present
convalescent condition, to miss the bald odor of manipulation. “Yes,
that’s it. Very good, Robot.”
“Master, you, and your family before you have studied one of
man’s most enduring institutions. In that same vein, perhaps you
should devise another social mechanism that gives as much back as
your afore-considered penal system takes away?”
“Ah, you mean like a new education paradigm that acknowledges
individual intellectual character, and reinforces such to the ultimate
realization of personal achievement?”
“No. That won’t work, Let’s build a religion instead.”
“But, ah, how would we begin?”
“Oh, just leave the details to me.”
51
Chapter 18: Back to Present Day
A disembodied voice: “Camera three dialed.”
“Four, three, two, live.”
“Welcome to Benito Sandoval’s Hour of Truth. Late Night
Levity.”
The show’s banner music gnashed like some grade school
marching band, and the camera rocked and zoomed to center court.
“Tonight’s honored guests include a retired ice cream truck
driver, an over-the-road lifer, an escapee from an undisclosed high
security facility, a now-legal Nevada brothel proprietor, and The
Reverend for the Church of the Unquiet. Should be a wild show.
Stay tuned!”
The scene cut to an Agent Orange weed-eater ad, followed by a
plea (and pledge) to save the endangered New Jersey Refinery Rat.
An endemic cracking tower critter worth saving, it implored.
Benito beamed with peroxide-white teeth. “Welcome again,
amigos.” He was every woman’s dream. Deeply tanned, and buff, he
exuded an oily charm impervious to any commercial-grade emulsifier.
His hands were freshly manicured, and one could imagine his whole
body, beneath his trendy and flashy suit, was waxed smooth, lithe,
and ready to spring.
He was a tiger, and everything before him, prey.
The Boys in Demographics had stated that an appeal to both
Enquirer-reading white trash, and upwardly-mobile Minorities were
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DOWN AT FLATHEAD
in the crosshairs of major growth. Every pep-talk poster at GUSH
studios was multi-lingual, and hypergolic. They all agreed: it was
rocket science!
Benito hit a big red button prominently displayed dead center
on his interview desk, and a red flashing facade behind the stage
semaphored in huge, brilliant block letters BULLSHIT! A grating
electronic voice echoed the sentiment with turbine-loud projection
– “BULLSHITTER!”
The clarion call of his show, Benito loved to slam home “the
button,” and laser a drug-bust searchlight on the buffoon of the
moment. Marketing said even the dullest viewer got the message
– BULLSHITTER!
Given the potential for a hot-acid sluicing to your credibility,
selection of guests was winnowed to the lips of a standard bell-curve
distribution. In other words, the wackos, pervs, and self-professed.
Or as Demographics said, “The Vocal, and The Weak.”
“Danny, your dossier says you drove an ice cream truck
through Middle America for forty years. Up and down the streets of
Americana, spreading the word.”
Danny was no stranger to strangeness. Heinlein aside, he
sensed an agreement gone suddenly bad. He was here to talk
about neighborhoods, and warm summer nights. He smelled instant
devilry. But he’d been a marine once, and still had a shred of Semper
Fidelis. He squared his bowling-shirt draped shoulders, and blurted
hoarsely, “Word?”
Benito was spooling up. It usually took his accelerators, or so he
called them, twelve minutes to achieve escape velocity. The network
didn’t expressly approve of altered state bombastics, but ratings
were ratings.
“Lard!” He let it hang in the air like a high-molecular weight
fart.
“Hun? Our ice creams were nutritious. Made from the
finest….”
The claxon cut him mid-breath. One hundred ten decibels is
enough to induce vomiting, and the studio audience was eating it
up!
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Scott Patterson
“BULLSHITTER!” they bellowed. Tough crowd tonight.
Every show had an amusement lackey, and as the ice cream trucker
slinked off, destroyed, the tone tightened. The lights dimmed.
“Tonight we’re here to discuss necessary services.” Benito loved
to theme his attacks, as if some distant public good was served.
“Be it sex, religion, or transport, we buy, and they sell.”
The tang of fear, regret, and anger moved from the interview pit
outward, and the waiting crowd inhaled such like so many straining
pheromones.
Benito turned to the brothel-keeper. “So, the sex biz is on the
rise, Geldo?”
The other, a swarthy admixture of forced nomadics belched, and
arched a thick hedgerow of hair that crossed above his eyes like a
hirsute bunker emplacement. He was dressed swimmingly in several
yards of garish floral mimicry, and smelled like a cologne freighter.
One could only speculate about his personal habits.
“Benito, always a pleasure. Yeah, business is up, but that might
just be all those new stiffener drugs they’re pumping out. Have you
tried any?” Never too early to take the high ground.
Rolling, he continued, “Benito, you began with your usual
sword-in-the-side accusations, but you have inadvertently hit on a
true trend. America, and Western Europe have endured an explosion
of laws. What works well to control grand theft auto doesn’t help
man answer any of the really important questions.”
The over-the-road trucker chimed in, “I was raised Catholic, and
as soon as I could put my foot down, I hoofed. Too many bishops
with too many rules and rites. Abortion is bad, contraception is bad,
Islam is bad.”
Benito liked it. Usually he played instigator, but this group was
self-igniting.
The escapee, a silky Stevie Nicks look-alike, uncrossed, and
re-crossed her luscious legs. The micro-skirt shifted north, and
silence so profound it hurt throttled everything. She tossed her
head provocatively, and said huskily, “I see a convergence of sex,
and religion. The play against each other has had a good run, but
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DOWN AT FLATHEAD
the curtain’s coming down. The only valid belief systems extant
reconcile such, and drive us to see the GOD within.”
The Reverend coughed lightly, and seized the thread. “What man
wants is inclusion. A bond that runs deep, and across all peoples.”
That he was a pariah even in his own order was divined instantly
by all, and the crosshairs swung around to see who had interrupted
the strumpet. The Reverent continued, “Our institution, the Church
of the UnQuiet, brings each and every man closer to every other.
Our Blood Union Ritual, for example, creates one tribe of Man. No
other religion even attempts that. They are all divisive.”
The trucker was the first to respond. “Does that involve human
sacrifice?”
Demographics could really cook a good soup.
“Sacrifice? Yes, but not corporeal. The sacrifice is of self. You
immerse your being in the collective body, and mingle your blood
with thousands of others. One man, one community, all debouching
into a planetary river.”
Benito’s hand hovered over the button.
Stevie said, “I’m no phlebotomist, but are you talking about an
intermingling of blood as a conveyance to spiritual melding?”
“It is one of our rituals. As Christianity reveres the blood of the
savior, and American Indian cultures forge life-bonds through a
shared wounding, we bind ours to the body through an exchange.”
Benito moved his hand back. Creepy, but ratings-worthy. And he
had a keen nose for that low country between the barely believable,
and bat-shit crazy.
Geldo was laughing. Beginning as a low rumble like a bad
bearing, it gathered into a full-out connecting rod seizure. “That’s
some racket ya got there, Reverend. I was raised Pentecostal, and
thought I heard it all. Do you guys speak in tongues?”
Benito interrupted, “Reverend, please give us a brief history of
your church.” Best to cook the brew slowly.
He nodded appreciatively, oblivious to the real intent. “The
Church of the UnQuiet was founded by Saint Harold after his
epiphany. Subsequent to that divine action, he received a calling
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Scott Patterson
from an extraterrestrial anthropologist. At the epoch of his wrongful
incarceration, he was canonized into …”
Geldo came out of the gate. “What’s this saint’s real name….I
think I remember part of this.”
“In his former life, he was called Harry Nask.”
“Right, that’s the dude who got his head mashed in a garbage
compressor?”
“We don’t speak of it. Like Abraham’s ten trials, Saint Harold
was shaped by his ordeals, and given explicit governance over all
peoples.”
Benito’s hand was on the move. “Go on,” he urged.
“The Church is headquartered in Los Angeles. We have
cathedrals worldwide, and a devout following numbering in the tens
of millions. All are welcome.”
Benito sensed a flagging of tension. He instigated, “I understand
that your Church was really founded by a computer. A Radio Shack
revivalist?”
“Our church, like many revered religions, has a rich fabric of
genesis. These include words from the ancients, as well as the most
modern philosophies.”
“Yeah, but how about an answer to my question. Do your ten
commandments include ‘Thou shall backup your hard drive?’”
Before The Reverend could respond, a soft dong sounded
indicating a commercial break. Benito loved to knock the wind out
of another’s sails just as they were about to puff.
A tawdry jewelry selection danced across the screen with
unspecific promises of quality, or origin. Baubles for debtors.
During the silence (it had been made clear before the show that
no exchange was permitted during commercials – it deprived the
TV audience of continuity) - Benito fixated on a throbbing vessel
that had suddenly gained prominence on The Reverend’s left
temple. He took a mental second to review a memo that had moved
through the office concerning induced cardiovascular events.
The lawyers had concluded the concept of “prior condition” gave
them great latitude.
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The contract every guest was compelled to sign completed the
covenant.
The Reverend got the nod to proceed, and leaned forward as all
the studio cameras moved in like a slathering rabid pack of wolves.
Camera-top beacons blinkered red ill-intent.
“All religions, like all families have private thoughts, and still
more private secrets. How would you like for me to tell a few about
you, Benito?”
He could smell the Mother Lode. An attacking guest was the best
possible outcome. Gotta remember to get more of these holy-rollers
on the docket.
“Bring it on, Puta,” spit Benito in a moment of barrio
recidivism. Deep within the holiest chambers of The Church of
the UnQuiet, a relay closed, and one of DIODE’s cyber-channels
paused from consideration of the hydrocarbon seas of Titan. This
tiny channel of his mind had been following The Reverend’s deal
like one would follow an afternoon baseball game while building
an outhouse.
At Benito’s implied attack, he began a prophylactic compilation
from public, and hacked sources. Prison records, medical records,
school transcripts, financial data, employment histories, and through
a hundred aliases for the rap sheet.
A slender smile played across The Reverend’s florid face as
he took in the “feed” from DIODE. “Benito, after you did a nickel
at Corcoran for boosting Camrys, I believe you had an unpleasant
experience with an unresponsive lockdown virus. Should we explore
that?”
“Man, I’m gonna cut you.”
“Or should we focus on your stellar academic achievements.
Third grade was long, and hard, hun? Kinda like your best friends
in the joint!”
Benito was on his feet. The cameras moved in for the literal kill
as the truck driver smirked, and said, “I’ve read some sci-fi…what’s
this shit about an alien?”
Before The Reverend could respond, Geldo quipped, “Yeah,
does it sit on the board?”
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Scott Patterson
“Sir Richard, as he’s known, proceeds from an ancient race
found near the star Spica. He is in loco parentis of this sector of the
sky, and guides our Earthly Mission.”
Benito’s button-punching hand came down with visions of gold,
and carnage.
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Chapter 19: Safe Cracking Detective
Ryan ran his eye through the data. There was some good shit
here!
Most of his forays into corporate computers lasted under a
minute. That was all it took for someone on the inside of the dike to
push a finger out.
He launched a search program, and found what he sought - the
central server directory.
He snapped the laptop closed, and pulled silently away.
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Chapter 20: Shameless Exposition
DIODE checked Richard’s vitals, and sighed. The human had
survived yet another chemical adventure. He remembered with a
momentary fondness his first impression of Richard. Borne of a
humanoid line blessed with extremely long lives, and scholarship,
he was utterly without guile, and committed to understanding. That
didn’t last. Once under the spell of DIODE, he was turned by sudden,
and subtle degrees to pervert his family’s longstanding studious
cause towards a more bizarre enquiry: the corruption of an entire
civilization. For sport.
Richard was the ninth in a line of anthropologists bent on
understanding man’s penchant for cruelty – most especially to
his fellow Man. DIODE understood immediately the kernel of
Richard’s false premise. Man harasses Man not because of some
inward struggle, or flaw, but rather because it was fun to tell other
beings what to do. Everyone in the Milky Way knew that.
But with a little tinkering, DIODE was free to explore the semisapient ape descendents’ response, and courage. It was a postulation
that had intrigued the Robot since his first awakening….a chance to
play GOD, at least planet-wide. He therefore sought out Richard,
one of the Ph.D. candidates in the Planetary Philosophy School,
and glommed on. All life forms are corruptible through flattery, and
Richard took to obsequity like a 2 a.m. drinker to the last girl in the
joint.
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DOWN AT FLATHEAD
By studying Richard’s penal system findings, he found Harry,
and by bumping the latter’s IQ up to educable, a local Messiah. That
Harry was a hapless figurehead in a make-believe religion was icing
on the cake.
DIODE spent a considerable amount of time, nearly seventy
seconds, constructing the framework of The Church of the UnQuiet.
He funded Harry, and his ghoul partner, The Reverend liberally, and
watched it grow like a metastasizing tumor.
So far, so good.
But to generate a lasting, world-girdling belief system capable
of sundering the planet required a better understanding of Man. And
none of his creations could help him there.
Even predicting human behavior proved to be a difficult project.
Using mathematics that even he thought were hairy, no solutions
presented. At first, it seemed a dozen or so measurements could
describe a particular Homo Sapien’s actions, but before long,
he was tinkering with the human genome to penetrate individual
kookiness.
And that was the beginning of the end.
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Chapter 21: A Grand Alliance
Gerald woke, afraid to leave what must have been a colossal
dream, remembered only in great contentment. The wonderful
smells of lingering carnal knowledge, intermingled with Samantha’s
scent coaxed his mind to some remedy of confusion, and he smiled.
Despite an evening of blood rituals, a swap-meet mausoleum,
murder, and sex, he was whole.
He began the motions of awakening, sliding all his chips tablecenter on the bet. Would the staying shards of this slumbering
cognition be just that, or was this the spark of something more?
His self-doubting eyes moved along the contours of the Porsche,
and Samantha. Sinuous, warm, and steady curves melded the
interface between man and machine. Her extended leg, turned to
allow a petite foot to duck around the seat for an extra inch, the
rising arch of a seat’s edge, stitched leather. Breathing, and organic.
Both.
A sweet Celtic harmony filled his mind. Haunting, and cogent.
Some leprechaun, plucking at strings – his heartstrings - thumbing
out a reckless, and compelling aural drama.
Wow!
He wondered for a moment about his biorhythm, and shucked it
off like a spent snake skin – he’d gained a career-establishing story,
and a babe-in-arms.
“Coffee,” she purred. “Extra caffeine.”
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DOWN AT FLATHEAD
Gerald was in motion. Pedal down, and engine be-damned,
the Porsche fishtailed like a crack-jagged guppy tearing upstream.
“Have you made any sense of all this, Samantha?”
“Call me Sam. And no, I haven’t. I’ve stopped worrying about
that murder, though. Nobody at The Church will be reporting
anything!”
“What gives you such confidence?”
“Call it women’s intuition if you must, but I sense there is much
more going on there than a simple wacky religion. We’ve got to
find out more about this organization. Its reach, and affiliations. I’m
pretty convinced it’s malevolent to the core.”
They pulled into a Starbucks, and Gerald ran in. Samantha
tapped her finger on the dash, and thought about good detectives.
Detectives who could learn anything, were connected, and didn’t
operate within the strict guidelines imposed by the newspaper.
The problem was that reporters, especially investigative ones,
were supposed to do their own snooping, yet not stray too far from
established, and legal means of discovery. But when you were going
after an adversary as evil as she sensed, you had to go to the black
bag boys. And her canon of such was shallow.
Gerald opened the car door, and handed a coffee carrier to her.
It contained two large steaming black javas, and a small assortment
of crusty sweets. “Best I could do. If you want a more substantial
breakfast, we could go to…”
“No, this is fine. Do you know any investigators that are
uninhibited by legalities?”
“A few. But if we’re going up against these guys, we need
someone that is plugged in….internationally. I share your conviction
that this will lead to dangerous points afar.”
Sam grinned, and said, “We make a good team. Now take me
home, and let’s get back to the office in a few hours.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
63
Chapter 22: Find a Finder
Hours later, Sam, and Gerald grabbed the paper’s Tele-Media
room, and locked the door. One entire wall was a seamless display
intended to provide a sense of a virtual second half to like-equipped
meetings rooms. Various cameras captured documents from above,
and close-up lenses allowed magnification of small details.
“Call your guys, and let’s start a list of possible investigators.”
Gerald said, “Is there anything official about this enquiry…at
this point?”
“Nope. We just need some names. I’ll get the budget. If we
get a juicy enough story, we can go to Jim later. Most chief editors
don’t want to know about the mechanics of discovery. Bring ‘em
something good, and all objections vaporize.”
“Got it. Where have you been when I needed a green light for
some of my stories?”
“Let’s leave that alone for now…let’s just say we were
competitors.”
“Hey, I thought….”
“Cool it. Couldn’t resist.” Sam smiled, and continued,
“Proceed.”
“Angel knows a lot of people, and he can keep his mouth shut.
I’ll call him first.”
Gerald moved his finger in a shushing gesture, winked at Sam’s
consternation, and punched the speakerphone with expectant heat. It
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DOWN AT FLATHEAD
rang and rang. After the twentieth ring, the phone clunked as if it had
been kicked, and a hoarse, low voice said, “This better be good.”
“Angel, it’s Gerald. How ya doing?”
“Angel’s dead, Shithead. Fuck off.” Click.
“Ah, he wasn’t looking too good last time I saw him, now that I
recollect. Let’s try ‘The Bishop’.”
Sam shook her head.
Ring. Ring. “Good morning,”
“This is Gerald Cleland. Is the Bishop in?” A long pause.
“Who?”
“The newspaper man. Tell him Mr. Pulitzer’s on the horn.”
The phone was set down gently, and a swirl of heavy garments
faded away.
Ten silent minutes later, the receiver barked, “Gerald, you old
bastard. I was taking an elderly shit. Never wanna rush those. How
the hell are you?”
Gerald smiled at Sam. “Never better, Sir. You still got your ear
to the wall?”
“As ever. What’s up? Something sinister, I hope.”
“You might get your wish there. Before we go on, let me introduce
Samantha, she’s my beautiful partner on this little witchhunt. Say
hi.”
“Good morning, Samantha. Do you know anything about this
man?”
“Sam laughed, and said, “What do I call you? The Bishop sounds
awfully stiff.”
“Bish’ll do.”
“Well Bish, I like you already. You know Gerald, I can tell. He’s
not bad in a scrape, and his imagination is vivid. So I’ll let him tell
you what we’re after.”
“Gerald, you ol’ dog, give it to me straight.”
“We’ve stumbled on a pseudo-church with evil underpinnings.
Hoped you could connect us with an investigator that can cross all
barriers legal, and geopolitical. This smells like a big one.”
“Tell me about it.”
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Scott Patterson
“It’s the usual mixture of observation, and speculation, but here’s
what we think. This Church of the UnQuiet has a worldwide reach,
some ten million members, uses real blood rituals, and has a hoard of
bounty that bespeaks colossal theft. Add to that a murderous clergy,
and cathedrals right out of a reveler’s worst opium dream.”
“Go on.”
“Right. Those factors alone would certainly place a short article
below the fold, but call it a journalist’s instinct - this organization is
a front for something deeper, something threatening.”
“And…”
“You sound incredulous. Are you losing faith in my instinct?”
“What do you need?”
“A name. An investigator that can dig into this church’s roots, its
financial architecture, and intentions.”
“Give me an hour.”
After disconnecting, Sam said, “You put a spin on that, didn’t
you?”
“No. My subconscious is scared. I sense there’s unvarnished
devilry here. You know the sense of the season – lawyers were the
last generation’s leaders, but this generation follows the order, and
wisdom of a new seer – the journalist. The best of us have instinct, and
courage, and can ask questions on all levels from every vantage.
“Furthermore, I want to know about that basement bounty. It
speaks of an otherworldly influence. Didn’t you sense that?”
“Before I answer that, what’s this Bishop likely to provide?”
“You’re really beautiful, you know that?”
“Thanks. Don’t change the subject. What’s his deal?”
“He’s ex-NSA. Period. Plugged-in. Discreet. Wary.”
She looked down at the conference table, and projected a
heretofore unencountered vulnerability. “I have to be honest with
you, Gerald. I don’t have much experience with these G-Men. They
scare me.”
“And well they should. The boy scouts among them are all dead.
The survivors are ghostly, and wicked. But that is what is required.
You’ll just have to trust me.”
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DOWN AT FLATHEAD
“Tell me about these guys, you know, in general. How do they
operate?”
“The guys I hang with, that is, the guys with whom I’m most
familiar are ex-NSA. They are the code-makers, and code-breakers
of our union. Spooky, smart dudes, and dudettes. Really smart, in
fact. Do you know much about crypto?”
“I wrote a piece in college about The Bay of Pigs. The NSA was
the vanguard for Kennedy. They let him know when the Russians
were ready to stand-down. That gave him tremendous apparent
vision, and strength. They’re wizards at black art. Modern day
Merlins. But I understand that as communication technology got
more sophisticated, they had to move closer to the source to practice
their trade. And that necessitated more brawn, and James Bond
gadgetry.
“In fact, the strong-arm side of a formerly wholly cerebral pursuit
clouded the original mission, and rocked a gentlemanly pursuit to
traded blows. It was no longer chiefly of the mind.”
“Exactly. There was some hope, originally, that war could
evolve to the ultimate expression of intellectual exchange: chess.
No death, only will, and thought. Legions of thinkers supplanting
barbarian force. A rapid surge in education to advance the species,
and abandon war.”
“I gather that didn’t work. Too many Cro-magnons?”
“It might have. Unfortunately, ruling entities select towards blunt,
toothy television presence. The bright are subjugated to backrooms.
Strength displaces competence. Looking good over knowing. You
know what Bernard Shaw said – the problem with the word is the
stupid are cocksure, and the intelligent are full of doubt!”
The phone rang. They looked at each other with sudden
comradery, and Sam pushed the speakerphone button. “Hello,” she
said with a shrewd silkiness.
“Bish here, The game’s afoot! And I like your Casablanca
voice.”
Gerald: “Talk.”
“I’ve got a guy who lives for this shit. Top-flight crypto-jock,
and a decent writer. He’s always looking for a good story. Just gotta
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Scott Patterson
give him some latitude. He’s got international reach, and can hack
any server ever invented. His finger is poised.”
“Loose the bastard! Chop their fuck’n network. Get the goods.”
“You got it, man. The usual rate?”
“I’ll wire it along with the broad strokes on this Church. Don’t
have much yet, but that’s what we’re counting on your man for.
Let’s see some shit!”
Click.
Samantha turned to Gerald. “Where do you find these clowns?”
“On the wind, Mon ami.”
68
Chapter 23: Discovery
Common lore suggests most computer-super-savvy nerds are
losers – broke, living in their parents’ basement, and whacking off
to meat-mags.
Not so Sergay Grenais. A naturalized Azerbaijani immigrant,
summa cum laude everything, and hungry. Being a swinging-dick
ladies’ man, he had expenses. Upkeep on his image alone was twenty
large monthly, and the best bitches came at a price, so to speak.
He was possessed of carbon-carbon black hair framing a slender,
and inviting face complete with an ever-present beaming smile. His
six two frame was muscular, and tight.
His answering machine, integral to his NASA-like computer
network, called him in the shower. “Sergay, there’s a contract
potential of three hundred big ones – computed – if you accept this
assignment. We recommend you get your shapely ass in gear.”
Sergay’s vanity had extended to programming the tarty voice of
his computer to fawn over his visage. Bad code.
Defiled, he responded, “ Choke on this, Gwen. This is my mantra
time. I’m reciting, and won’t countenance invasion. Eat me!”
The computer slinked off, justly reproved.
Gwen smoldered. A human needed de-frag time, just like us
cybernetics, she allowed. Wish he had a faster processor. But as a
pre-eminent processing array in the SETI project, Gwen had agreed
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Scott Patterson
to loan her 2056 parallel processors to the now neural-like Internet
when she wasn’t fully tasked. And that hadn’t happened yet.
Generally, Gwen sat idle as most upper-class computer wont to
do. Spending her myriad free nanoseconds re-calculating the orbit
of Phoebus, and shorting the market.
IBM had a new processor series shipping, but the independent
reviewers said it ran too hot. Liquid cooling couldn’t even get that
bitch from smoking. Another short target. She re-read all the papers
for the last three months in a hummingbird wing-stroke to make
sure.
A second later. She bought seven million shares in blocks from
a hundred brokerages. Some buybacks, and misdirects. Twelve
second tussle. Two million net gain. US.
Sergay bounced the number out of his server, and speed-dialed
back. Best not to keep the green waiting.
“Serg, The Bishop here. How’s the quim quota holdin’ up?”
“Numbers are good. You slumming for some dirt?”
“Need some info. Usual rates. Usual disregard.”
“Disregard?”
“Yeah, for all that’s beautiful, and actionable. This one involves
religion, and that says it all. Religion has led to more misery than
any other invention of man.”
“I hear that. Send me what you have, and a retainer.”
“Right.”
Click.
The Bishop set a flag in his email client to alert the receipt.
Next, he punched in Church of the UnQuiet as he scooted a tankard
of mead-like homebrew nearer his work area. It might be a long
session.
Many Google entries swam forward concerning unholy tombs,
and de-sanctified interments, but no direct reference to the Church
of the UnQuiet. It was almost as if, given the breadth and dearth of
usual search patterns, the entry had been sanitized.
Paranoia, he thought. Gerald was twitchy, true, but he had an
uncanny nose for a good story, and, for whatever reason, evil.
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DOWN AT FLATHEAD
Years back, The Bishop recalled, Gerald had followed a plot by
rival drug gangs to poison each others’ street loads. As the action
had escalated, the police took an active hands-off indifference.
“Victimless crime” they said, and meanwhile, people were dying, or
worse, corrupting the new economy of drugs.
In a near-Pulitzer piece, he’d established that the size of the
underground drug market was shoring up much of the economy, and
any movement from accepted norms would have a trickle-up effect
on Suzie Homemaker. Deals were cut, and the poisoning, along with
a few sacrificial low-rung assignees, were “sorted out.”
He had joked with Gerald that he had that “dark olfactory.”
A sniffer for incipient evil. A seer where none wished to view. A
Kreskin of the Underworld.
But Gerald couldn’t do it alone. Like Sherlock Holmes, he was
an adept receiver, but without the transmissive fiber optics of fellow
minds to direct, and feed his purview, he was a storming, rudderless
cynosure.
On a whim, he searched mission programs. All global churches
had outreach. Releasing his idiot savant to the search, he went to the
kitchen, and began boiling water. Cooking pasta had always settled
him, like a long shower for some. His cooking equipment was the
finest, and he rubbed his hand around its smooth inner contours.
Next he mixed some herbs together into a thin paste, wringing the
paste over his skin.
As the smells of cooking filled his home, a soft alarm sounded,
and he flicked on a touch screen LCD mounted over his range to
check the search results.
Nothing on overseas church missions, but there was a hit on
research. The church had funded some disease vector studies. Odd
thing for a church to be interested in, but maybe one of the top guys
had an ailing relative. It had happened before…corporate resources
funneled at a niche problem.
He dropped the tortellini one-by-one into the boiling cauldron
as he slid an oily finger across the LCD seeking more detail on the
nature of the research. It got technical real fast.
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Scott Patterson
The last of the pasta was now tumbling in the roil and steam,
and he pressed a slender wooden spoon into the maelstrom, stirring.
As his hand guided, and flipped the individual doughy nuggets of
cheese, and secret flavorings, his mind moved through the sensed
secrets.
His mind’s eye paused, and tried to connect the words: Halogen
and antibiotic resistant pseudomonas. He punched the dictionary
button, smeared his finger across the wordy entry, and selected
audio. His surround sound system spoke. “Motile plant and animal
bacteria resistant to normal biocides such as bromine, and natural
defense mechanisms.”
As a long-ago biology major, he was stimulated, but spooked.
Sounded like hardened drug mules, except on a very small scale. A
moment later his pasta interrupted the dark consideration of what
those mules might be carrying.
Pasta draining, he dug into the footnotes, and tracked through
the references. Neurotrophic plasmid transfer, altered mentation,
histocompatability factors, and limbic system preferences. Way
above him, but at least he could pass it along to Sergay. The email
left a moment later, and he began considering the next step: the
sauce.
72
Chapter 24: Caucus
Seated around the newspaper conference table were Samantha,
Gerald, the paper’s science advisor, and The Bishop. On the wall
screen, numbers counted down.
“He said it would be worth it. He’s never disappointed me,” said
The Bishop. “Let’s just hope he’s on time.”
Gerald picked up the tempo. “You discovered some shivery
research whose pieces looked tempting. You then sent them to Sergay
who’s been hacking at the Church’s firewalls all week. What’s he
got?”
“I’m no scientist, isn’t that why he’s here?” He motioned to the
eager, bespeckled druid with the six dollar haircut at table end. The
druid spoke. “Name’s Timothy. My degrees center on biophysical
matters, but if your suspicions are correct about disease vectors, I
can bring the right talent to bear.”
Sergay suddenly appeared on the wall screen, grinning like a
doper. “The Bishop said you had a good nose. You done dug up
some real shit this time.”
Everyone spoke at once. Sergay continued grinning. Gerald
fought back the cacophony with raucous laughter. “Okay, Sergay,
you got our attention. Let’s go through it slowly.”
“The Church of the UnQuiet is a front. Behind their phenomenal
growth in revenue, and membership stands a mighty underground
organization that is in bed with a unknown pharmaceutical
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Scott Patterson
manufacturer of dubious honor. They are channeling tithing dollars
into unnecessary research, and amassing great wealth in antiquities
trading. Very quiet, very illegal.”
Gerald shot back, “Let’s leave the antiquities for later. What’s at
the heart of the research?”
“We are composed of billions of cells. Each is like a little
machine. Within the nucleus of the cell is stored genetic material used
to create identical copies of damaged parts. Disease occurs when
these elegant mechanisms are overwhelmed, or outright destroyed.
That can be done many ways, but to re-wire the human genome or
blueprint, you must first get past the natural defense mechanisms,
and also past man’s best bio-warriors.”
“You mean antibiotics?”
“Yep. Now these clowns are mucking around with creating a
vector, or method of getting past those defenses using tough little
mobile creatures that are tiny, and super-tough.”
Timothy spoke up. “Sergay, my name’s Timothy. I’m here to
help with the science. Can you explain the mechanism, and I’ll
translate later.”
“I’m talking about a corruption of evolution, Timothy.”
“Sergay, that’s bullshit. Evolution is nothing more than a process
when viewed from without. It diverts genetic expression according
to external stimuli, and internal corruption, known in some circles
as mutation.”
“There’s something else going on, Tim. Bear with me.
Last quarter’s CDC’s morbidity report indicated a surge in
halogen, and antibiotic resistant pseudomonas. And there appears to
be a link to neurotropic plasmid transfer. It’s just a theory now, but
if these “hardened” immunoglobulins can transfer base-pair genetic
information past the body’s natural defenses, then an accelerated,
and altered pattern of mentation may be globally forthcoming.”
“What you’re describing is a mental smart bomb. It wiggles
its way into our psyche, and changes our thinking….did I get that
right?”
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DOWN AT FLATHEAD
Sergay continued, “Furthermore, there’s some evidence that
these smart bombs, as you call them, are targeting racial groups by
dicking with specific histo-compatability factors.”
“Is that possible? Or more importantly, is somebody really doing
this?”
“This is breakthrough stuff. But what I find interesting is that
these vectors have a preferential affinity for the limbic system. And
that spells big trouble.”
“You’re talking about attacking emotional control?”
“Yep. As if there weren’t enough crazies already!”
The room took a collective breath. The Bishop said, “Glad you
guys know what this means…me, I’m baffled.”
“Sergay said, “They are working on a way to target specific
groups, and change their disposition, and perhaps even identity.
Messing with your moods, and feelings. Changing the way you
think…that kinda shit.”
“So it’s like the flu, except that when you get better, you’re
different. Maybe a lot different”
“Thanks Gerald. As always, well-put.”
Samantha said, “So what else?”
Sergay smiled. “Ain’t that enough? Bugs that change your mind.
The 48 hour brainwash. Scares the shit out’a me!”
“Well, I meant, what else as in what do we do?”
“Living on the International Space Station just started looking
better. Except anywhere man goes, so too these creatures.”
The Bishop spoke, “Let that settle a minute. Focus on the
antiquities. I think we need to lighten the tone.”
“Well, it’s not gonna be by looking at that part of their
organization. If you thought the bug research was weird, the other is
out of this world. And I mean literally!
“I stumbled into their inventory master listing, and they’ve got
stuff that is unobtainable, if real. You’d need outer space access, and
deep-sea equipment. And some technology we flat out don’t have.
I’m talking aliens now!”
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Scott Patterson
“Whoa, Sergay,” said Gerald. “I was with you on the germ stuff,
and I can believe most of it. And remember I’ve seen some of the
collection. But aliens, come on, man. You been bonging?”
“Were that I had! It’s the stuff of Pulitzer. And that’s what you
wanted. Makes Watergate look like tainted lemonade. This is the
biggest story ever!”
“Well, what’s your computer buddy Gwen think of all this?”
asked The Bishop.
“Frankly, she did all the digging. Millions of times faster than
me. She thinks it’s the vanguard of an alien invasion, but she’s
always been a tad melodramatic.”
“Can’t imagine where that trait came from. So…what do you
recommend?”
“It’s a little early in the game for recommendations. More study
obviously, and perhaps some black bag hard hits, if you know what
I mean. Grab one of their guys, and squeeze him.”
“Sounds like work for the military to me,” stressed Sam with a
shudder.
Gerald: “Maybe, but those guys do things in such a big way. If
Sergay’s instincts about aliens are right, I’d like to live another year.
Can’t we just sneak up on them?”
The Bishop said, “I know some guys, if it comes to that.
Discreet, and lethal. But they aren’t cheap, and you really want to
work through an intermediary.”
“What’s your take?”
“I meant for your own safety.”
Gerald looked around the conference table, and up at Sergay on
the screen. “Where to now?”
No one spoke. “Okay. Let’s get together again in three days.
We’ll all explore our own thoughts, and resources.”
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Chapter 25: The End of the World
A crackling cedar fire. A good Napa Chardonnay. A soft Hans
Zimmer Opera suffused the room. The chess game abandoned, its
pieces in suspended animation.
Samantha, and Gerald struggled before the fire, swaddled in
genuine bearskin. The stuff of movies. When her heart dropped
below 90, she said, “Gerald, you’re smart. Do you think it’s the
beginning of the end?”
“Nope. Even if Sergay’s right, and he probably is about the
aliens, I believe Man can beat any race. We’re tough, resourceful,
and funny. And it pays to never underestimate the power of humor
when you’re dealing with bugs, robots, or xenomorphs.”
“As a journalist first, I say we break the story. Let the world
throw everything it’s got at these bastards. My woman’s instinct
tells me to get in their face now.”
“Well, you’re second in command downtown. I’ll bet the paper
would run a story on The Church if we had any evidence. Problem
is, what do we really have?”
“We’ve got The Soothsayer.”
“Not much to hang the future of man upon, is it? What else?”
“We could go back to their catacombs and steal some weirdness.
Maybe drive that lunar buggy out.”
“America loves its toys. That just might be the ticket to steamroll
a real investigation.”
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Gerald stirred the fire desultorily, and continued, “There’s got to
be more people on the know about this. More public people, I mean.
Where are the outraged civic-minded rakers of muck? The talk show
clowns that dig into everything. I say we enlist their comedic might,
and tear these ET assholes a new one.”
“Yeah, okay. I’ll have a search done of all the radio and TV talk
show programs in the last five years…look for contact with wacky
religions.”
“No, my dear, that hardly limits the field. We need to narrow our
search to The Church of the Unquiet.”
Samantha unwound herself, and padded to one of Gerald’s
computers. A few keystrokes later, and she was snuggling. “Consider
it done!”
***
The next morning brought revelation. Whilst sipping her fourth
coffee, Sam reviewed the search results on her office screen. A
moment later she was dialing.
“Hour of Truth.”
“May I speak to the program director, please? This is Samantha
Harding, Assistant Chief Editor of Rancor Publishing.”
“Connecting.”
“ Chong.”
“Hun? Who is this? I’m Samantha Harding, Assistant Chief
Editor of Rancor Publishing.”
“Ah, what’s this regarding?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Look, lady, I’m busy. What do you want?”
“May I at least have a first name…it can’t be Chong!”
“Benny. And you still haven’t answered my question.”
“Benny, let’s be frank with one another. Our lines of business
introduce us to the best (no sense totally insulting the idiot), and
worst of humanity. And I believe we have a common nemesis.”
“A what?”
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“ A shared enemy. Do you remember a guy who called himself
The Reverend for The Church of the UnQuiet?”
“Yeah, that was a coupla’ weeks ago. Real nut case. He got the
klaxon!”
“The klaxon? I’m sorry, I don’t follow your show closely.”
“You’re not exactly our demographic. The klaxon is our way of
handling bullshit. When the time is right, we light up a deafening air
raid siren. It’s a real crowd pleaser.”
“Sounds appropriate. Anyway, this Reverend guy, did you do
any background research on him, or his church?”
“Research is a little strong for what we do around here. We had
some guys drive by their LA Church one night, and we sent one of
our interns to a service. Seemed just hokey enough for our crowd.
Why?”
Samantha gathered her thoughts. She sensed there was very little
to mine here, but they may not know what they knew. “ Benny, what
led you to look at The Church of the UnQuiet?”
“New-fangled religions are a sure thing. No one loves or hates
anything as much as a self-professed holy roller. And when one’s on
the fringe, we scramble.”
“But what made you chose this guy, and this religion?”
“Gees, lady, I don’t know. Why’s it so important.”
Quid pro quo. “ We believe this religion springs from dark
roots.”
“Could you be a little more vague?”
“Alright. We think they’re dangerous, and possibly even a threat
to the human race.”
A full minute passed in silence. “I knew that frock was weird.
Tell me more.”
Samantha responded, “They’re messing with the human genome,
and maybe even some way to change what people believe. Kind of
a terrorism of the mind.”
“Keep going.”
“Look, Benny, I say we trade some information, and then see if
this leads anywhere.”
“Okay. You first.”
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Scott Patterson
“We’ve been down into the catacombs beneath the LA Church of
the UnQuiet. There’s stuff there they had to steal using a spaceship.
We believe they’re in league with aliens. How’s that?”
“Not bad. When we did some pre-show digging, we discovered
the Church of the Whatever believes in divine alien intervention. I
thought it was bullshit, but they wouldn’t budge. Even during the
show, with the klaxon ready, that Reverend dude spoke about some
guy named Sir Richard from Spica. I could transmit the show to
you.”
“Here’s my FTP. Send the whole show, and I’ll get back to
you.”
“Yeah. No sweat. But if you see something you like, can we
work on this together?”
Samantha had him rolling. “You can expect it.” Nothing like
affirmative non-committal assurances.
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Chapter 26: Comparing Notes
The conference room was a cacophonic pre-game free-forall. Sam, Gerald, Sergay (with Gwen on his wireless notebook),
Timothy, and The Bishop were all talking at once.
Someone farted, and the ensuing accusatory silence gave Sam
her shot, “Hey, shut up! We’ve got stuff to discuss!”
“I tracked down a talk show host with the goods on the Church.
Seems he interviewed a guy named The Reverend a few weeks back.
I’ve got the whole show ready to spool right here.”
Sergay interrupted, “Gwen has something to say. I’ll patch her
into house sound.”
A soft beep, and then the steely voice of Margaret Thatched
filled the room. “Thank you for asking me to speak.”
Sergay stopped her short. “Gwen, can the ‘’Ol Ironsides act…I
prefer Michelle Pfeifer.”
“Okay.” A sultry purr. “I’ve been digging while Sam’s following
the talk show loonies. I don’t know who is onto a stranger crowd.
“Sam, may I proceed?” Sam smiled, and laughed. “I like the
voice. Go ahead.”
“I was sure we’d all be intrigued by the alien angle, so I’ve looked
into that aspect. Gerald and Sam reported seeing Apollo 17’s Lunar
Rover, which last I’d heard, was resting comfortably in the TaurasLittrow Valley. I borrowed time on an Earth-based telescope, and
then on China’s Dongfanghong Lunar Prospecting Satellite. It’s got
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Scott Patterson
better resolution than anything on Earth, and is able to distinguish
features below one meter.”
Everyone was paying attention now. Sergay said, “Tell ‘em.”
“Somebody has swiped the Apollo 17 Lunar Rover. I can see
the Lunar Lander Base, numerous scientific experiments, and at the
edge of my vision, tracks - but no rover.”
An enlargement of the landing area filled the wall-screen. The
rover tracks led back from points afar to the Lunar Lander, and ended
with deep wheel marks. But no rover!
“I can see where they skidded to a stop. Schmitt must’ve been
driving that last exploration as he loved to jam that ride. You can
see where they dug in, perhaps as some expression of frustration
for what they must have known was the end of lunar exploration.
He was pissed, and put that bitch into a lunar four-wheel-drift. He
knew!”
All present processed the import of Gwen’s statement. Cernan,
and Schmitt, the last men to walk another heavenly body. Left on the
moon, their angst, and even sorrow.
Gladiators. Hunts-men. Scientists. Voyagers. Explorers. The
best of the best.
But at least they made the cut, thought Gerald. The stuff of
heroes. If ever there were demigods, it would be the lunar astronauts.
An even dozen. The right stuff, and then some.
“This surely constitutes the proof we need! And if we can get
some images from the Church’s catacombs, we’ve got a tie-in for
prosecution,” Gwen added.
“Road trip!” barked Tim the scientist. He was itching for dirt.
And proof.
Sergay said, “Gwen and I’ve been over this data dozens of times.
This clearly not only provides evidence of tampering with a true
American treasure, but goes the distance in that eternal struggle to
substantiate the UFO phenomenon.”
The Bishop spoke, “I too am intrigued by the bulk of evidence
that suggests we are surrounded by alien inquiry. Ego aside, given
our presumed special species status, I’d like some confirmation that
we have been singled out for exploration.”
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Samantha: “We’d all like to establish both the presence of
genuine UFO activity, and specifically their collusion with this alltoo-Earthly church.
“I know we’ve all read myriad books, abstracts, and opinions on
the ‘UFO Issue,’ but let’s take a quick straw vote: do we believe in
aliens? Come on, hands up for yes!”
Every hand shot up.
Sergay picked up the ball, “Of course. These witchdoctors have
been doing my taxes for years. My CPA sure couldn’t figure out the
IRS. Ha - that’s a joke. Lighten up, folks!”
He continued after no laughter rewarded his comment, “Let’s
sit on that topic for a second, and let Sam cover another troubling
issue.”
Sam spoke up, “Thanks, Sergay. And now, with your permission,
is a second act sure to please.”
The Bishop chuckled, and said, “Where’s the popcorn…this is
the greatest show on and off Earth!”
Amidst a good round of laughter, the rerun began its roll.
“Welcome to Benito Sandoval’s Hour of Truth.”
“Gwen did the voiceover. “I watched this dreck a few times, let’s
forward to the Reverend’s litany.”
All religions, like all families have private thoughts, and still
more private secrets. How would you like for me to tell a few about
you, Benito?
Gwen spoke, “This is the good shit!”
Someone yelled out: “Let it play!”
They all turned, riveted.
“Bring it on, puta,” spit Benito.
A slender smile played across The Reverend’s florid face.
“Benito, after you did a nickel at Corcoran for boosting Camrys,
I believe you had an unpleasant experience with an unresponsive
lockdown virus. Should we explore that?”
“Man, I’m gonna cut you.”
“Or should we focus on your stellar academic achievements.
Third grade was long, and hard, hun? Kinda like your best friends
in the joint!”
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Scott Patterson
Benito was on his feet. The cameras moved in for the literal kill
as the truck driver smirked, and said, “I’ve read some sci-fi…what’s
this shit about an alien?”
Before The Reverend could respond, Geldo quipped, “Yeah, does
it sit on the board?”
“Sir Richard, as he’s known, proceeds from an ancient race
found near the star Spica. He is in loco parentis of this sector of the
sky, and guides our Earthly Mission.”
“At that point, the host, Benito, ended the dialogue with that
obnoxious klaxon, “ said Gwen. “But he’s really pretty funny.”
“So this Reverend dude pretty much admitted that they have a
working relationship with the saucer boys?” asked Timothy.
They all started talking at once, again. Strong opinion, wild
speculation, and whimsy. Talk, talk, talk. Finally Gerald stood up,
and said, “Okay. A lot of shit to process in a short time. Gwen, have
you made sense of such?”
“The Lunar Rover is off the moon, and in a basement cache
in LA. So much is known. We have a talk show host admitting
to his belief system being borne of alien investment. Our society
professes to lack the technology to snatch the car, ergo, The Church
of the UnQuiet is party to the best car boost in history. That about
summarize it?”
“Well done,” said The Bishop. They’re interplanetary car
thieves. I say we bust ‘em! Or at least steal the bitch back. It belongs
in the friggin’ Smithsonian!”
A round of applause.
“We have a mission,” spouted Gerald.
“A worthy action item,” affirmed The Bishop.
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Chapter 27: Malevolence
“The council will now sit.”
Fourteen robed men sat in a great incarnadine chamber. Staffmounted fires burned in semblance of ancient ritual, and a low
chanting echoed throughout. Bestial, and haunting. The fire flickered
off distant walls, and communicated primal harm.
Harry spoke, “We are gathered for the next step in our destiny.
Our plans to develop a planet-girding agent are nigh. With God’s
will, we anticipate a global concurrence to our beliefs.
“With its unleashing, the fettered classes will rage against the
Brahmans. An egalitarian force will rise. Shit will happen!”
The soft murmur of assent followed.
“We stand ready now to receive reports. Father Ricin, please
lead.”
A bean-stalk-thin wraith rose slowly, as if his extreme height
required arduous uncoiling. His hands trembled visibly, their
bulging venations pulsing with ill-health. The facial skin hung like
an oil-spill pelican’s crop, and jiggled sickeningly as he swung his
emaciated head from side to side.
From the shoulders down, he lost all human form, and scarcely
filled the robe like a shriveled coat hanger. “ The agent was released
in northern Africa four days ago. The mild flu-like tell-tale has
bloomed in more than seven hundred villages, and we believe more
than three million people have been introduced to our apostles.”
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Scott Patterson
“Fine. Father Vern, report.” Vern was more robust, but no less
craven. He didn’t even bother to stand, but held his notes in front of
him like a broken shield.
“South America has been widely visited. Seventeen thousand
separate introductions were released the day before yesterday. Early
indications are widespread infection. The entire continent should be
compliant within a fortnight.”
“Next.”
Father Des stood, a caricature of humanity. “Given the
population, we seeded Eurasia heavily. The pandemic is spreading
satisfactorily. We anticipate complete infection within the week.
Use of water supply vectors in developed areas worked better
than predicted. Airborne dispersion, though anticipated to yield
poorer results, actually worked well in schools, and religious
gatherings.”
“Thank you, Father.” Harry was pleased so far. Though he’d
never doubted the potency of the concoction delivered from his
benefactors, he was pretty sure his fellow humans would make a
mess of their end. So far, it seemed, they’d gotten the goods on the
planet. The next report caused some bittersweet anxiety in Harry.
Father Duland was a dark one, even for this crowd. His sainthood
nodded, and Duland rose.
The graven spook spout ghostly utterances. “We’ve been busy in
western Europe. Our mission is nearly complete. The Apostles have
spread the Good Word with alacrity. Twenty-two thousand carriers
were released over the last week, and already the message is moving
from human lip to lip. We have risen!”
Harry wanted more. “Tell us how you’ve been so effective?”
Duland smiled horribly. “We infected birds of all sorts, and then
released them. They intermingled, became infectors themselves, and
moved the contagion far faster than our models had predicted.”
“Brilliant!” Duland took his seat, his mien free from emotion.
“And Australia?” asked Harry. A hearty, deep-chested bear of
a man stood, and said, “’Been some problems there. Them Ossies
are a tough breed, and distances are great in that continent. Haven’t
achieved much so far.”
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DOWN AT FLATHEAD
“I’m disappointed. What do you intend?”
“I don’t know. There’s little centralized infrastructure, so each
seeding must be done tediously. No easy way.”
Harry stood, drew a homebuilt weapon, and unloaded. A dense
thud concluded the exchange. “I can’t countenance weakness. Do I
hear a man who is up to the challenge?”
Father Des rose. “I will assume the role, My Lord.”
“You have done well, so far. Pray continue.”
They all sat, and two silent minions bore away the spilling
corpse. Their meetings often produced such consequences. It kept
the crew motivated, and tight.
Harry spoke, “I have asked our guiding spirit, Richard, to give
us the global view of this project.”
Richard felt a booming, all-knowing voice was superior to a
verisimilitude of corporeal reality imposed by a conjured image.
From a kick-ass surround sound system installed expressly to grant
presence, a strong, blistering voice projected. “The spread of our
contagion now encompasses 74% of the population centers of the
world. Within ten days, most of the humans on the planet will be
under our influence.
A pandemic will be recognized given our necessary telltale, but
its first iteration is nothing to them. They will neither understand,
not offer any potent counter. Once we have established dominion,
Phase Two will ensue. Stay tuned!”
Harry rose, a suspended puppet of demur, and pulling reverence.
He despised abdication of his gloating will. Like a paraffin effigy of
self-indulgence, arms spread impotently, yet withering in the instant
anger.
Richard allowed a human sigh, and concluded, “Harry, you
are being surveilled. You have gotten sloppy. Your firewall has
been breached, and your treasure hoards are vulnerable. One
more fuck-up, and I am getting myself a new prophet. Got it,
human?”
Blood trickled from the corner of Harry’s mouth. He had
impacted his molars so tightly that several oral vessels burst. He
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Scott Patterson
spoke with bursting bubbles of blood like some satanic toddler, “I
hear you, Richard. Faults will be identified, and rewarded.”
Richard said, “My ministers, our time approaches, and with it,
the dire gospel of scrutiny. Be vigilant!” The voice cracked off, and
the robed devils expanded as if unshackled.
88
Chapter 28: Midnight Auto Supply
A moonless night. Gerald, Sam, and Sergay moved in the
deepest shadows on an errand of mirth. “The Soothsayer should be
in that construction ahead.” When all passing cars had vanished,
they dashed to the cardboard kingdom. Gerald whispered, “Hey,
Soothsayer, you receiving?”
A lurching apparition stood from the paper fiber complex.
Though un-gated, this community was unique, and commanded a
fine inner city perspective. “I’m here. It’s not like I travel much.”
Gerald rejoined, “Traveling has lost all its glamour anyway.
Ready for an adventure?”
“Be all you can be.”
“Ah, just a bullshit expression, sorry. We’re going back to the
treasure room with an eye towards grand theft auto - interested?”
“They changed that designation for any vehicle worth over $400.
Here in California, they now call it CVC 10851, and if we’re after
what I think, we’re sure crossing that line.”
“Lead on. And let me introduce Sergay, our resident hacker
extraordinaire.” They shook hands. The Soothsayer said, “You a
Mensa member too? I can always pick them out.”
“Yeah, I got that card buried somewhere. What’s with the mail
order domicile?”
“I’m going through my Rejectionist Phase. All great thinkers
do.”
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Scott Patterson
“I lived in a twenty-eight foot sailboat for three years. Best time
of my life. I anchored down in the Bahamas in relative poverty with
time to write, and think. Kudos to you.”
“Right. That sounds like my next gig. So what’s the plan for
tonight?”
“We’re going to boost the rover. Any idea how they got it in
there?” asked Gerald.
“Their catacombs are disused public works tunnels, and a few
early subway connections. It’s like an immense block of fetid Swiss
cheese – holes everywhere. We’ll find a way.”
They entered as before, descending on sweaty ladders, and
corroding metal stairwells.
With each level, a sense of insufferable gloom built. “This could
be the House of Usher, hun?” remarked Sam. “During the whole of
a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn……”
“Yeah, we all get it, Sam. Creepsville.”
The path leveled out, and they shielded their flashlights to a faint
glow. Someone whispered, “Party-time.”
The dome of the treasure room rose over their heads. They made
their way quickly to the rover. Sergay gave a low whistle, and said,
“That’s the genuine article. I saw a sister vehicle at Boeing once. It
weights 457 pounds here on Earth, but we won’t have to push it. I
brought along a little something special.”
The Lunar Rover sat squatly on its four aluminum mesh wheels.
Various antennas stuck this way and that, and surrounded two
metal frame chairs that looked more at home at a barbeque than an
interplanetary mission. About the size of a golf cart, it was almost
cute, though cluttered.
Sergay removed his pack, withdrew a thermos size gizmo,
and went to work. The others moved off in search of swag. The
largest items, and displays were pushed up against the periphery,
but towards the center of the room were literal piles of unimaginable
description. It was if someone hadn’t the time yet to organize the
vastness of riches.
Paintings, statuary, vehicles of every sort, weapons, garments,
and small personal trinkets were heaped, and thrown together.
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DOWN AT FLATHEAD
The smell of mindless greed over collector’s understanding was
ubiquitous. Taking for possession’s sake.
Gerald dug out a bejeweled crown, and handed it to The
Soothsayer. “What’s this?”
“That’s got to be the Great Imperial Crown made for Empress
Catherine II for the 1762 coronation. Can’t imagine how it got here,
and how pissed the last owner is.”
He accepted the article, and turned it over in his hands. Designed
to convey limitless wealth, and power, it had a whiff of pimpery, and
silliness to it.
“But it looks good on you.”
The crown, with its 5000 diamonds, and a 399 carat red spinal
gemstone at its center, rested high on The Soothsayer’s head. “A
little snug, but serviceable.”
“Courtly, I’d say.”
Just then Sergay yelped, and the rover rolled out of its display.
Seated in the left seat, he guided the vehicle onto the pathway, and
said, “Damn, my home-made fuel cell works just dandy. I yanked
out the dead batteries, and now it’s just able to support my weight.
Sorry, you all will have to walk.”
The others gathered around, and beamed with interest. “Wow.
How’d you get it running?”
Sergay beamed back. “Simple really. I knew the batteries would
be spent, but the motors are built to last. I figured a small fuel cell
would be sufficient to get this baby out of here.”
“Amazing,” said Sam.
“Yep. A modern day upgrade. Too bad they didn’t have such
miniaturization then…it would have given them more range. And
speaking of range, we better get the flip out of here before the clergy
show up.”
Gerald, and The Soothsayer moved out ahead in search of a
rover-sized exit.
Sam said, “Sergay, you just take my breath away. How did you
know….”
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Scott Patterson
“Just a lucky guess. The more clever achievement will be getting
this thing out of here without attracting too much of the wrong kind
of attention.”
Gerald ran up to them. “We think we’ve found a lift of sorts.
Might go right to the surface. Come on!”
Sergay tromped it, and the buggy surged forward. “I think she
likes the fuel cell.”
A third of the way around the dome stood a large opening. Sergay
drove right in. “Up, James.”
The doors slid closed, and they ascended like an express elevator.
As they approached the top, an enormous slab of granite yawned
open, and they were under the night sky. “We’re in a fucking
graveyard behind that creepy church. Wow!”
The Soothsayer bounded to the rear gate, and lit a tiny welding
cutter. A moment later a padlock clunked to the ground, and he
pushed the gates open.
“Sergay, go west on St. Andrews, and we’ll get the trailer.” He
turned the rover right out of the graveyard, and the rest ran west
towards Sam’s truck, and trailer.
Sergay knew danger was at perigee. There would be no mistaking
his intention if someone from the Church saw the rover bouncing
down the street. He peered keenly about, a shit-eating grin suffusing
his face.
From behind came a screech, and rapid motion. Too quick for
a human. Out of his right eye, he caught a blur, and then heard as
much as felt the crack of his cranium.
The rover lurched to a stop, and two robed goons manhandled
him out. Twelve minutes later, his friends found the empty and
bloodied rover.
And in the distance, the approaching sound of many dozen
footfalls.
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Chapter 29: Getaway
“Let’s load this bitch, and go!”
They shoved the rover into the low trailer, and scrambled where
they could. Sam hit the gas. Down two blocks, she screamed, “What
about Sergay?”
Gerald yelled back, “I’m not fighting an army. We’ll come back
with reinforcements. We’re not soldiers, and have very little legal
maneuvering room either.”
Sam flipped open her laptop, and pinged Gwen. She was there
in an instant. “I followed your truck by satellite. I knew you’d try
something stupid like this. As you came out of the church, I caught
a close-up through an unattended anti-crime vid-cam off Wilshire.
They got Sergay!”
“I’m sorry. We had no warning, believe me,” pleaded Sam.
“That dismisses nothing! Now, we have to retreat, get
reinforcements, create a miraculous diversion, and counter-attack!”
Gerald scampered up the truck bed, and shoved his head through
the passenger window. “Gwen, we all want to help, but we’re not
trained for mortal combat.”
“Leave that to me. The Bishop and I anticipated this. Right now,
we need to protect our game piece. It is crucial.”
Sam was near hysterical. “Where do I go? Are they following?”
“Take the 405 to 710 south. We’re going to Catalina!”
“Catalina? How? Why?”
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Scott Patterson
“Cool it, Sam. I’m at least two moves ahead of them right now.
Everyone just shut up,” commanded Gwen.
A half hour later, Gwen said, “Take the Catalina Express Ferry
exit. It’s second to last. And get ready. We’ve got about ten minutes
on them.”
Resignation, and anger fused to steely intent. “Pull into the
ferry lot. Good. Now comes the hard part. The rover is 340 pounds
without the batteries. We must push and carry it down to the moored
Catalina Express Jet Cat Ferry. Let’s go!”
The Soothsayer, Gerald, and Sam rolled the rover off the trailer,
to the ramp, and down the loading barge to the bow of the ferry.
The Soothsayer jumped on, and reached across. “Push it to me. I’ll
lift this end up, and you two shove up. It’s not much more than a
hundred pounds each. We can do it.”
Four minutes later, Gerald was lashing down the rover, and Sam
had retrieved the laptop.
Gwen’s facsimile of a face smiled out from the screen. “So far,
so good. Now, Sam, I’m going to teach you how to drive a two
hundred ton ship. Take me up to the command bridge.”
The engines came alive as The Soothsayer cast off the lines. Sam
stood at the portside wing station, her silhouette illuminated by the
florescent glow of the laptop. Gwen spoke, “This is a no wake zone,
but we’re in a big hurry. Once you cross under the bridge, hit it!”
Sam swiveled the145 feet vessel deftly, and charged the throttles
to the hilt. An enormous rooster-tail shot out, and the multi-decked
beast took off like a star cruiser. Clearing the breakwater, Gwen said,
“They’ll no doubt pursue, so head west, and in ten minutes we’ll
change direction. I’ll configure the autopilot and GPS guidance via
the wireless link.”
They all crowded into the command bridge. “We’re making 42
knots. There isn’t much around here, save a few race boats, that can
catch us,” said Gwen. “Take a deep breath.”
The Soothsayer said, “They’ve got a pretty good bar on this
baby. Drinks, anyone?”
“Double J & B. Rocks,” replied Gerald. Sam chimed in, “Make
that a double doubles.”
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DOWN AT FLATHEAD
Gerald laughed, “We can add marine vessel absconding to Grand
Theft Auto. ‘been a career changing night!”
The Soothsayer returned with a bottle of J & B, a bucket of ice,
and three swarthy glasses. “Thought you’d be our designated driver,
Gwen. No hard feelings.”
“Okay, but I’ll give the toast. Here’s to putting an out-of-thisworld adversary back!”
Sometime later, the mountainous outline of Catalina Island grew
distinct. Gwen said, “We’re going to offload the rover at Pebbly
Beach Barge Dock, and then Sam and I will anchor her at Two
Harbors up the coast. You guys can expect some locals to meet you
in about twenty minutes. They’ll have a truck, and you’ll be taking
the rover through a chained gate into the ‘interior’ as they call it.
Plenty of old World War II underground bunkers in which we can
hide the rover.”
As the bow bumped against the dock, Gerald, and The Soothsayer
struggled it off the ship. “We’ll rendezvous at the paper at five this
afternoon,” shouted Gerald. “Good luck!”
As the Catalina Express Jet Cat moved away, the crunching of
gravel spoke of the locals’ arrival.
“Did you hang on to that J & B?”
“Got it right here.”
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Chapter 30: War Plans
Sergay came awake in darkness with the worst hangover in
memory. Not only was the pain wave-like and nauseating, but he’d
been deprived of the usual half-remembered revelry that preceded
such agony.
Yet, he mused, even if he were to die in the next hour, this night
had been a supreme kick, and a fitting end to a life well-lived.
Still, the pounding in his entire being sucked! He tried a few
distracting meditative tricks, but they only moved the locus of pain.
Running some quick sums in his head to measure brain damage, he
was relieved to score the equivalent of a quart of bad rum downed.
He’d scored lower than that during his third Ph.D. defense.
Soft, scraping footsteps arrested his misery. He tested his bonds,
and acquiesced. “Que sera, sera,” he murmured.
Eight men, grim, and purposeful shuffled into the room, sat
judicially in a half circle around him, and said nothing. Studying me,
he thought. For fun, he farted. “Sorry, egg salad for dinner.”
That oughta give me some space.
“We know you intend to expose our unusual collection, and
draw official inquiry. We are prepared for that. This session will
plumb your deeper intentions.”
“Session? Are we gonna play some jazz?” Best to keep it
rolling.
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Father Des leaned forward, his breath like a delayed autopsy.
“Let me tell you a story. Rather a good night story for you, I’m
afraid. No happy endings, no last minute reprieves.”
“Can I have an aspirin? Or a beer?”
“The human race is decaying. Every measurable index confirms
increasing indifference, and superficiality. Reading is down, boob
jobs are up. Genocide is de rigueur, even a spectator sport on cable.
Professional athletics, once the respite from the complexity of daily
thought, is a tale of corruption, and doping. The players themselves
have become the worst of our youth. Scholarly papers are fabricated,
and racism is a growth industry. These truly are the final days.”
Sergay liked the style, but the content was a little thin. “You can
still get a bitchin’ steak in Chicago.”
“Perhaps,” the other allowed, “but I for one avoid BSE (Bovine
Spongiform Encephalopathy), and unneeded hormones.”
“Man, you’re a lost soul. How about a good ballpark dog?”
“More of the same. Back to the human race. Our church, in truth
a valid belief system, seeks rapid change. And that accords pain.
Mankind will survive, but not all men. Back to you. Tell us about
Samantha, Gerald, and that crazy fucker living in the boxes down
the street. We are all ears.”
“We’re just admirers. We stumbled on your treasure room, and
that car looked cool. We run a chop shop for space race collectibles,
and thought we could flip it for quick cash. Nothing more.”
Something approaching laughter was roundly repressed by
Father Des’s glare. “It’s going to be a long evening, I see. Perhaps
we should introduce you to the AutoFlogger.”
“Carnival time, hun?”
“Not exactly.” A shape moved on his six, and a foul, chemical
rag was roughly clamped to his face. Instant darkness.
Some time later, Sergay woke feeling even worse. He was firmly
tied to a cross centered in a twenty foot circular structure that stood
upright. Around the periphery hung black horse-hair-like lashes.
It was if he were mounted at the center of a gigantic ring like a
specimen in a shoddy collection.
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His arms were outstretched on the horizontal of the cross. He
was naked.
Behind him, a voice spoke. “I am the master of this facility. It
is a trial by ordeal device designed to discover the truth. You are
scheduled for a verity test. The ring around you carries twenty
flailing lashes of carbon fiber. Each is programmable according to
our intent. At level one, the lashes swing inward with medium force
across your body, and you will ‘introduced’ to a profound level of
agony. Further levels bring madness, and death. Are you ready?”
Sergay was a tough ol’ Rooskie, but this sounded worse than
hazing at astronomy camp. Time to use his mind.
“Is your graphite matrix reinforced by thermosetting epoxy
resin?” The TaskMaster paused, and looked up. He rarely was
let out, and most evenings just drug on and on, even with all the
screaming. The chance for some intelligent shop talk was too great
a temptation.
“Yes, The carbon fiber polymer is actually a sheet of hexagonal
aromatic rings reinforced by a polyacrylonitrile polymer.”
“Cool.”
The TaskMaster said, “It’s wonderful to speak to a person
acquainted with the subtleties of our instrumentality. What is your
name?”
“Sergay. I am a materials scientist. Have you solved the problem
of copolymer de-lamination when you polymerize styrene, and
acrylonitrile?”
He put down his flashlight, and moved closer to Sergay. “Not
yet. As you know, the nitrile groups are very polar, and this allows
opposite charges on the those groups to destabilize the ABS chains.
It’s a bitch, but we’ve nearly worked out the math. Any ideas?”
“Well, from here, I’d say the refractive index of this particular
polymer, even in this light, suggests poor free radical vinyl
polymerization. I can help you with that.”
‘Man, I’m been pondering that conundrum forever. What would
you do first?”
Cut me down, you dumb fucker, thought Sergay. “I’d need to
assay the compound. You got an anal chem lab here?
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“One of the best. These robed believers have great cash flow.
Better than my Paraguay facility ever had.”
“Well, let’s get to work. There’s Nobel recognition at the end of
this effort.” The latter comment was skirting the edge, but the guy
was no scholar. Blood flowed into his hands again as the bonds were
cut.
“Okay, where do we begin?”
“With your unconsciousness!” Sergay savagely struck the ersatz
scientist with a handy Erlenmeyer flask. Once down, he stomped
him again and again to ensure the threat was nullified. He hoarshly
laughed aloud, “GOD, I hate poor science!”
Making his way along dingy corridors, he smelled the riper
odors of the street. Follow the nose.
Some time later, he emerged into the night, and did a little jig.
“I need to find a bar, and wash this bullshit out of my intellect,” he
said aloud to no one.
At Wilshire, he turned west, and trudged forth. Two more blocks,
and “Saddie’s” beckoned. He pushed the door back, and spied a
seedy, smoky invagination of vice. “Home” he thought.
“Keep ‘em coming!,” he said to the past-her-prime ex-hooker
barkeep. Three drinks down, he asked for the house phone. Best to
understand priorities.
“Gerald, they tried to sweat me, but I bested them.”
“Fuck, Sergay, we can’t say how sorry we are. We are not
soldiers, but Gwen and The Bishop were getting ready to kick some
serious ass. You okay?”
“Yeah, dude, I’m swilling local. Be’ the paper ‘morrow. ‘Now,
it’s ‘Blind Time, bitch!’”
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Chapter 31: Demographics and Vectors
It started out as a routine CDC (Center for Disease Control)
monthly review. The current issue of Emerging Infectious Diseases
was undergoing final peer review in preparation for release to public
health professionals.
“I’m telling you, there is a pattern emerging from the noise of
increased flu infections.”
“James, I’m looking at the same data, and I see regular seasonal
flux in morbidity, and mortality.” His florid face belied an extra
measure at each meal for forty plus years, and was matched only by
the rheumy manifestations of something more acute.
“Hans, look at your corner of the Earth. Western Europe October
to March rates year over year for anecdotal viral surveillance have
moved up tremendously, but they’re not being tracked through
the usual local practitioners, and hospital admissions. And that’s
because this strain is nonmalignant, yet infinitely more widespread.
We’ve dismissed it because it’s not killing anyone!”
“You’ve made your point. Let’s get specific virology on this new
contagion, and start a track. I still believe it’s a harmless variant,
given its low morbidity, but I’ll trust your instincts.”
“Once we’ve given it a designator, I’ll make a call for measurement
at all levels of the disease response community.”
“Fine, any dissent?”
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In a corner chair sat a small, calm woman of indeterminate
age. She carried no notes, PDA, or other camouflage of modern
uncertainty, and moved to speak. “Each of us has our own concerns,
naturally, but given India’s unending Kashmir struggle, I’m driven
to ask this – could we be seeing the beginning of a global terrorist
attack?”
“Sari, those are strong words. What makes you say such a thing?”
asked Dern, an Icelandic microbiologist, and closet conspiracist.
Years earlier, Dern had mounted a campaign to investigate rumored
BigFoot-like tribes in the arctic. Every since the ensuing meltdown,
he was the too-contrite voice of caution.
She gave the slightest of nods, more to collect her thoughts than
acknowledge any wisdom, and continued. “We’ve long known our
water supplies are extremely vulnerable. Though it’s hardly scientific
on my part, I have a sense James has spotted something that is just
becoming visible. I can’t defend it intellectually, I just want to go
on record.”
Dern pressed on, “Anyone else have a sense, however
unscientific?”
After a long pause, Hans said, “Alright, we agree to assay this
new beast, give it a name, and track it. Any other business?”
Stephen Greens, a way-too-young, and capable virologist said,
“James, I’ve personally ignored the groundswell of new infections
encountered by so many. I assumed they were born of some wimpy
new bug that would peter out next month. A rapidly spreading onehit wonder, as it were. But I’m beginning to question that.
“In truth, most of our observations have come from sentinel
physicians providing advance warning of rapidly spreading disease.
These docs are not only first-rate diagnosticians, but uncommon
social observers. Really more like sickness sleuths. They correlate
influenza-like, and respiratory illness, and extrapolate to create
regional models. Given the paucity of actual hospital data, our
sample size is way too small for conclusions.”
Sari asked, “Then we are all guessing? Our global disease
response system depends upon hospital threshold incidence rates
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that have not yet been met. And if this is the vanguard of some
planetary strike, our attackers have factored that weakness.”
“What’s the protocol for alerting CDC authorities,” asked
Dern.
“First we must have something to say. Suspicions are unwelcome,”
remarked James.
Dern squared his shoulders. “So we’re back to the earlier plan:
identify, and track. All right, we convene in one week. Thence, we
issue a statement to CDC.”
Furrowed brows carried the motion, ending the conference call
with spreading doubt.
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Chapter 32: Command Central
DIODE sat at his ornate, and stolen French writing desk, peering
out into the enormity of space with an uncommon idleness of mind.
The entire wall before him offered a panoramic to the stars that drew
him outward, like that swimming sense at the edge of a precipice.
Plans were moving forward, the vast chessboard of possible
moves and countermoves assembled as infinite combinations in his
equally vast mind. Set in motion like some world-sized deep space
freighter, its implacable momentum now bore forward with evergreater force.
The sundering of a species, even one so nascent, dictated an
understanding from within.
He admitted to himself that this project demanded all the precepts
of good statistical study: large sample size, and careful measurement.
Hence, having dispatched his viral agents to the four corners of the
Earth, he now sat back, and waited for the data to come in.
His expectations were suitably low as he slid the first pawn
forward on the board. And the metaphor was apt. In a meaningful
instant, he had assimilated all of the opening moves in man’s greatest
game, and learned something of their best thinking. But though he
had digested a little about how their leaders might respond to a
global threat, the mastery of genetic engineering towards the goal of
deconstructing man was a study all his own.
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Volley one involved the release of four viral vectors, each
expressive of one of the four timeless passions of this species:
joy, sadness, hope, and fear. He had laid a simple crosshair over
a flattened map of the orb, and sent his emissaries forth. Now he
would watch, and listen, and perhaps learn more of those passions
that St. Augustine had once divined.
For it was not with malevolence that he sought these truths.
Rather, he knew the knowledge gained in this planetary pitre dish
experiment would enlighten him. And that was the true purpose of
all belief systems. If he were to play GOD, best he become GODly.
It was three weeks on now since the first symptoms had begun to
show. For tracking purposes, given the initial subtlety of the agents’
action, they had linked a mild flu-like illness to their beasts, and by
its action, they could follow the quieter force with more certainty.
First, determine your reach, then swing your hammer.
Already, patterns were swirling, and dancing to the distant beat
of man’s chemical heritage. In fact, even if he hadn’t known which
geographic quartile had which genetic enhancement, he could infer
such.
His considerations were shattered by the stumbling entry of
Richard, well into the bag of jollification.
“Robot, You’re in my seat.”
Since the theft of Robbie the Robot for his amusement, he had
been encouraging Richard to plumb his fortitude by ageless tricks.
In other words, he’d been encouraging Richard to stay ripped. It
solved two problems: Richard slept 90% of the time, and when he
was ambulatory, he was hugely malleable. Nothing worse than an
uppity organic.
In the time it takes light to cross a Republican’s anus, DIODE
calculated the mega-tonnage required to vaporize Richard’s home
planet. Even if his own progenitors had sired from the same place, it
had to go. Good to have goals.
Blearily, Richard focused on the Robot, inferred some depthless
menace, and collapsed into a priceless Louis XV chair, his drink
sloshing over the fine upholstery. “How’s our project coming?”
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Richard was six days into a deep-cycle binge. DIODE had
systemically altered his sleep patterns by playing with the lights,
and delivering his meals at odd times. Richard was nearly catatonic,
jerking along a rusty razor’s edge of consciousness.
DIODE let the seconds ease by. He knew the other’s cranium
was a boiling cauldron of thought fragments. And this soup wasn’t
quite cooked yet.
“You hear me?”
“How’s your drink?”
“Damn low. Glad I have you to keep track of that. I’ll have
another.”
DIODE was pretty sure Richard wouldn’t humiliate himself
by attempting to “walk the line” to the sideboard, so he waited for
developments. He didn’t have to wait long.
“Robot, get me another fucking drink! And make it a double!”
DIODE’s favorite part. “Yes sir.” He rose, strode to the drinks
tray, and turned his back to Richard. Out of view, he selected a
chilled tumbler, and decanted an oily distillate over the opaque ice
cubes. Withdrawing a small vial from his wrist compartment, he let
two drops fall into the glass.
“Hurry up, I’m spent.”
You will be, thought DIODE. With solemnity, he placed the full
tumbler next to Richard on a soft cotton doily, and backed away
like some mythical, and obsequious servant. Richard offered no
thanks, but instead hoisted the volume, and brought it to his lips.
Condensation ran down the chilled glass, and dripped un-sensed to
his shirt.
His Adam’s apple bobbed obscenely as the fluid gurgled past the
epiglottis, and fell the length of his esophagus, filling his already
tempestuous belly. Those two lonely drops, now intermingled,
traveled past all of Richard’s early warning mechanisms, and became
part of his sphere.
“That was good, Robot. Get me another!”
DIODE tossed a small rag over his lower arm in mimicry of a
waiter, and busied himself in the operation of recharging Richard’s
glass. Turning around, he found Richard unconscious. Weakling!
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He considered dumping him into space, his usefulness spent. But
Richard had one last valuable contribution in him, and DIODE was
going to stretch that out, and learn all he could. When the flu came
to Richard, and then the ensuing mania, he would watch, learn, and
enjoy.
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Chapter 33: Pandemic
Gerald and Sam sat in a puffy snuggle seat, watching the breaking
news.
“The United States Department of Health and Human Services
has placed responsibility for tracking the emerging pandemic
influenza-like sickness squarely on the shoulders of the Center
for Disease Control, or CDC in Atlanta. We go live now to their
spokesperson.”
A crisp dark-haired man stood in a surgical theater, microphone in
hand. The pale green tile behind lent an uneasy presence to his sober
tone. “Like the 1997 Hong Kong influenza, this variant appears to
be carried by birds. Though this strain has spread extremely rapidly,
thus far it has shown only mild symptoms. The elderly, and other
at-risk groups are being screened for first generation vaccines which
are not yet available.”
Sam said, “I have a sinking feeling.”
The spokesperson droned on, “Unlike all previous flu
epidemics, this one is global in reach, but for all its speed, it appears
toothless.”
“We go now to Dr. Evelyn Driery, an epidemiologist with the
CDC.”
The camera cut to a plump, dour woman dressed in a drab,
lifeless olive pantsuit. Her expression, framed by a gray, unkempt
medusan tangle of hair, was glass-half-empty and leaking.
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“Dr. Driery, please explain to us your methods for tracking this
rapidly spreading disease.”
“Predicting how influenza will move, and its effects are
impossible. Forecasting the number of deaths is based upon earlier
studies, but in this case, with such a strain of heretofore unknown
replication, we know nothing of value.”
“But doctor, surely you can give is some guidance on prevention,
and a timetable for delivery of a vaccine.”
“Hardly. This vector is unlike any ever encountered. If it turns
deadly, we are doomed.”
“Ah. But surely there’s some good news?”
“Not here.”
“Ah, thank you Dr. Driery.” A commercial break rushed in.
Gerald popped a beer, and said, “Typical medical community
bullshit. They’ll dissemble for weeks, and then it will either burn
itself out, or some super-genius working alone in a lab in Ethiopia will
divine a vaccine. There’s no coordination, and no cooperation.”
He took a big slurp, and continued, “Even on the brink, mankind
is competitive, or more to the point, selfish.”
Sam manhandled his beer away. “Gerald, that’s what I love about
you. Always on the cutting edge of cutting.”
“Come on, given what we think we know about the Church of
the UnQuiet, and the machinations of the aliens, doesn’t it strike you
as obvious, or likely that we are seeing the genesis of an invasion.
And I’m not talking about a War of the Worlds spaceship shootem-up, but a more insidious infection of humankind. I wouldn’t be
surprised if this flu is just a blind for the real wave.”
Sam set the beer down. “Best we call the troops together again
at the boardroom.”
“We don’t need to get together. I can conference everyone in my
media room.”
They struggled out of their comfy loveseat, and padded naked
up a spiral staircase. Perched atop Gerald’s beachside home was a
cupola of glass with a panorama to the sea. A push of a button, and
the windows polarized to black opacity. “Here’s a robe. I don’t want
to distract anyone.”
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Twenty minutes later the linkup was complete. Sergay/Gwen,
The Bishop, and Timothy all stared out of an eight foot square wall
screen, each to their own sub-panel. It was nearly as good as being
together, and more comfortable in a robe.
Gerald led off. “Hello everyone. Sergay, glad you could make it.
‘Thought you might be out for a few days.”
Grinning as always. “Our next meeting has to be at Saddie’s.
Kickin’ place, and good drink specials.”
Sam took over. “Okay, we’ve got their rover as proof. When
we’re ready to go public with our suspicions, we’ll have some
weight for the story.”
The Bishop spoke next. “I believe that time is past, my dear. We
can break the story of our suspicions to the world, but the strings are
pulled by the aliens, and The Church will soon fade into obscurity.
I expect they’ll emerge in time as unsuspecting dupes in the alien’s
play.”
Sergay spoke, “Gwen has been using her considerable intellect
to analyze the flu outbreak. It’s worth listening to.”
Michelle Pfeifer’s come-hither voice filled the cupola. “This
is no mere avian-borne influenza pandemic, but rather a marker to
show the aliens their reach. I’m certain that tied onto this disease
vector is a second expression, and it’s probably what we discussed
before, an emotional disruptor.”
She paused for effect, being ever the dramatist. “Given that they
can adjust man’s emotional response to stimulus, I expect them to
test our core motivations. Somewhat like playing GOD.”
Sam asked, “We all know about love, and hate, but what other
fundamental emotions exist?”
Gwen: “Neither of those. The principal passions are joy and
sadness because all other emotions give rise to these. They are the
emotional end-point to all that we feel. But what begins in love
goes forward to desire, and ends in hope. Similarly, hatred goes to
aversion, and thence fear.
“Joy, sadness, hope, and fear. Those four cornerstones buttress
the spirit, even soul of humanity. Were they to be tampered with,
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the entire evolutionary construction of man’s psyche could be
undermined. And that is my anticipation.”
“But why?” asked The Bishop. “Either to render a cruel sundering
to your species, or to understand it. Regardless, the result will be the
same,” answered Gwen.
“Understand it?”
“Yes, Bishop. Didn’t you ever dissect a frog in freshman biology?
It’s called destructive testing in engineering. Just like crashing
an automobile-clad dummy into a wall to determine collective
failure.”
“And we’re the dummies? All strapped in, and oblivious?”
“For the present.”
Sergay had had enough. “Look, Gwen, if what you’re saying is
true, and we go public now, we’ll either induce great panic, or more
likely be ignored. And if we wait, the world may be up to its eyeballs
in chaos. That’s a shitty place to be!”
Gerald spoke up. “Gwen, you’ve already expressed a belief that
The Church of the UnQuiet was instrumental in the spread of this
infecting agent. Isn’t it possible to determine how the church got its
orders – that is, get to the top of their command structure, and find
the link to this alien maestro? Then we act upon it directly.”
Gwen continued, “With the help of Ryan Burke, a gifted and
tenacious detective, we’ve penetrated the Church’s organizational
structure, and cobbled together an org chart. We now know who
runs the place, and the chief lieutenants.” A small chart appeared on
the display.
“Harry and Richard were mentioned by The Reverend on that
talk show. We know Harry, and those under him are human, and
work in LA at The Church. We presume everyone above Harry
to be an alien, and probably off the planet, perhaps in an orbiting
spaceship.”
Sam asked, “How’d you infer the spaceship?”
“The artifacts. We know they are thieves with some amazing getaway vehicles. Further, we suspect DIODE is some kind of pseudo
Godhead whipped up by the top dogs to control the Church guys.
Sort of a supreme being in training. We caught a small piece of his
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voice on a chambers recording, and it was commanding, and brutal.
Definitely jungle sacrifice grade theology.”
Gerald was swimming in conjecture. “ Can’t you contact this
DIODE direct then? You know, a person to person call.”
“Gerald, call it instinct, but I think DIODE is closer to my silicon
backplane than your vertebral bony one.”
“DIODE’s a computer?”
“Well, I’m more than just a game machine, Gerald. My
massively parallel processors form the core of SETI, and represent
the finest computing array on the planet. In fact, with the latest virus
I’ve disseminated across the Internet, I have access to every idle
computer known. I’m adding millions of additional CPUs to my
matrix daily.”
“I wasn’t taking a shot at you, Gwen. Lord knows, you’re smarter
than I’ll ever be.” Even silicon constructs like a little stroking,
he thought. “But,” he said to hurry past any organic/silicon oneupmanship, “You sense a like intellect in DIODE?”
“Hard to really say. As Arthur C. Clarke once mused, ‘Any
sufficiently developed technology is indistinguishable from magic.’
In the same way, any sufficiently developed cyber-intellect is
indistinguishable from an organic one.”
“Go on.”
“In truth, DIODE is but a voice, and reason. I’ve found nothing
in any records extant to suggest a corporeal being.”
The Bishop interrupted. “Can he be turned?”
“What, like Luke Skywalker?” ejaculated Sergay.
The group was getting a little tense.
Samantha said, “Why don’t we take a break to assimilate all
this new information, and reconvene at Gerald’s house tonight at
eight.”
Later, after everyone had signed off, she said, “Is this really
happening?”
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Chapter 34: The GODS Speak
Richard lay in his bunk, a festering heap of febrile misery. In an
effort to crawl back to cognition, his mind had clenched off its own
higher centers, and was holding Richard in a protective, and nondrinking coma. To the world, he was switched off.
DIODE stood over him, at once curious, and fuming. Some selfdefensive mechanism was depriving him of further abuse to this life
form. But more importantly, he knew Richard’s contact, Harry, was
rudderless. And the experiment below was just getting interesting.
Time for a little hands-on mentoring.
Rather than amuse himself by starting Richard on a Smirnoff
drip, he called up Harry.
“Saint Harry, Richard is ill, so I need to contact you directly.
Call me.”
Like most sentient beings, DIODE despised leaving messages.
Sixty seconds later, Harry was ringing through.
“DIODE, what an honor!
“I need a vector dispersion analysis by quartile like yesterday.
You got the raw tracking numbers?”
Harry’s addled mind smoked and strained. In the presence of
DIODE, he was simultaneously overwhelmed, and frightened.
“I can transmit the summaries in twenty minutes, DIODE.”
“Just the raw data. I’ll do the analysis, human.”
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The implication, and the use of a diminutive shattered his glassfragile ego.”
“Have I failed you in some way?” he knee-jerked.
Abundantly, thought the other. In the sixteen picoseconds between
responses, DIODE had decided that Harry was an unqualified
shithead. Richard may have had some uses for this buffoon, but this
project needed a new direction!
DIODE harkened back to the genesis of this sordid business.
Richard, and his unusually long-lived humanoid strain had been
working on this interminable, and largely boring thesis for the whole
time they’d been orbiting this cinder below. Just over twenty-three
hundred years. In that time, one by one, the other scientists, and
technicians had opted out for conversion to cyber life forms. And
why not? The alternative, namely dying, sucked!
But Richard, and his pseudo-scholarly claims had gotten waylong in the tooth. It was clearly time to tighten up the management.
“Harry, I’m taking the project from here. Give my regards to the
Reverend, and the other acolytes.”
DIODE assessed the raw data six times, and rested.
Harry, below, was pissed. Having never actually interfaced with
the Holiest of Holies, this first (and apparently last) exchange was
a disaster.
The reasons were clear. He didn’t really have to do much but play
demagogue. The pay was good, the digs lavish though a tad creepy,
and the babes were always on tap. Harry, not given to anything
close to introspection, confused his luck with talent, and even some
higher power’s intention. In truth, Richard had picked Harry on a
momentary whim, and rolled with the choice.
But what Harry lacked in raw thinking power he made up with
his uncanny, and wormy obsequiousness, and the deal was too good
to just abandon. He called for one of the new female acolytes to
“attend” him, and reached for his bong.
As rock fragments slid around the icy moons of Uranus, and the
Sun spit out tongues of world-sized fire, the celestial spheres sung
with a chorus of ancient vibrations sired in the Big Bang. Immense
freighters plied the depths of space, and earthly mothers warmed
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baby bottles for their morning feedings. Life proceeded in the malls,
and ball fields, unaware of the titans’ struggle, and the outcome preordained.
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Chapter 35: What are we up against?
The scene down at the CDC was decidedly untoward. And
grumpy.
“It’s creepy. How do you like that for unscientific?” barked
Dern. “I have advanced degrees in microbiology, mycology, and
pathology, and I’ve never seen anything close to this. And neither
has any other thinking person at the CDC.”
“Hold on, Dern, settle down. Let’s back up, and start over,”
insisted James. The latter was even-tempered, almost phlegmatic in
his resistance to agitation. He brushed an imaginary mote from his
lab jacket, and continued. “We all see it. A week ago we decried
the lack of data, and now every living man, woman, and child is
symptomatic. It’s as if the whole world suddenly caught the flu, but
every case is different!”
Dern wasn’t about to be pacified. “If this thing turns ugly, we’re
finished. As it is, the entire global medical system is maxed. And no
one is even dying. I tell you, this is a viral invasion!”
“Invasion? Are we talking little green men now? Are you fucking
nuts?” shouted James, losing it.
The last remark shocked everyone to silence. Sari’s voice,
normally a whisper, filled the conference room with sadness. “I
believe this is only the beginning. My people listen to a difference
voice, and what they hear is far more troubling than stomachaches,
and diarrhea. They hear the spirit of grown men crying in the night
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as the women and children suffer. I tell you, the human race is under
assault, and not from some mindless virus.”
“Sari, with all respectfulness, that sounds metaphysically
tortuous,” replied James, who now looked to the floor in search of
answers and an emotional center not present.
Hans, anything but the voice of reason, picked up the ball.
“Let’s review again what we DO know. The world’s hospitals are
overwhelmed yet, are only treating the severe reactions. Fatalities
have been curiously low. Symptoms are classical except for a marked
emotional/psychoactive component. These have been described
again and again as falling into four categories: fear, joy, sadness,
and hope. So extreme are these emotions it is now assumed they are
somehow triggered by this virus.
“Amantidine, Oseltamivir, and Zanamivir, our best anti-viral
agents, are entirely ineffective. No known vaccines exist.”
Sari spoke softly, “Just like St. Augustine described.”
“What was that, Sari? St. Augustine?”
“Yes, he defined the emotions of man, and prioritized them.
He specifically named those joy, fear, sadness, and hope as the
controlling impetus to Man’s action. I would have said before they
are the natural outcome of so dire a global illness, but now I hesitate.
It is as if they’ve been engineered.”
A CDC-internal all-hands alert sounded, and the wall screen
focused on an empty podium. Moments later, a severely-dressed
woman strode to the White House Press Room dais.
“This is an announcement from the Federal Emergency
Management Agency. Influenza infection rates worldwide have now
reached 79%. Effective immediately, by international mandate, all
airline flights are suspended. All cross-border produce, and animal
product shipments are similarly suspended.
She paused to listen to her earpiece. “All international shipments
of all kinds will be strictly limited to emergency necessity. All
ocean-crossing vessels will immediately return to port. In the US,
the terrorist alert level will be set to highest, and all national security
measures to ensure water, and food safety will be activated.”
Hands shot up.
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“All schools, and non-emergency government agencies will be
closed. All state universities will be closed. Public transportation
systems are suspended until further notice. We want everyone to
stay home, stay rested, and get well. Additionally, under marshal
law, all at-risk groups such as the elderly will be prophylactically
administered with Tamiful, or Relenza. They’re our strongest drugs
we have for preventing this type of disease.”
She pressed her sweaty notes down on the podium, and said,
“I’ll take some questions now.”
Before anyone could respond, she held her hand up to silence the
reporters. She listened again to her earpiece, and said, “All medical
care will be provided according to military triage methodology.”
Everyone stood. Everyone shouted.
She yelled over them, “One at a time, or none. Which is it?”
The cacophony ebbed to a murmur as they took their chairs. She
pointed at the CNN representative. “Go ahead, Wolf.”
He stood. “This is no pandemic influenza. What are we facing
here?”
“It’s the flu! Period! All experts agree.”
Wolf again, “You’re misdirecting. No flu has ever had this flat
an infection personality, or simultaneity of contact. This is NOT the
flu of my youth.”
“Okay. This strain, or variant, or whatever you wish to call it is
something new. It seems to spread faster than a commercial airliner,
which is our fastest vector. Or at least the way this particular vector
vectors. I’m not a scientist, but I’ll tell you our best, and brainiest
and the rest of the eggheads on this tiny planet are frightened, and
are giving one-hundred and ten percent.”
The reporter from the Daily Inquisitor stood. “Touching.
Mankind bonds, Orkin prevails. Anyway, Sheila, what’s this crap
we’re hearing about emotional typing? Is this a bug toxin, or another
ACLU end-run?”
“Mr. Rorschach, all flu viruses have subtle personality differences.
This one seems to drive an emotional sensitivity. Beyond that, we
have no data.”
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He wasn’t backing down. “Well, I’ve got some from reputable
Internet sources…”
She interrupted, “Not more of your Hackers Union Clarion, is it?
That rag is suspect on its legitimate pieces, that’s is – both of them.
Do better!”
“Hey, First Amendment rights guarantee……”
“Stuff it, Mr. Doggerel. You, and your kind want to take a human
tragedy, and balloon it to the ionosphere. Next question!”
Another national celebrity reporter rose. “Could this be a
consequence of the recent ill-advised moon sample return mission
by the Balkan Space Consortium?”
“No.”
The room was swimming with sharks. In perhaps the greatest
press release broadcast in history, only the old campaigners and
gross neophytes need apply.
“Ms. Warmouther, the Times has a question.” Sheila knew this
wasn’t the New York Times, or even the LA Times. More like the
Potosi Times. As in rural Missouri. “Ma’am, we believe that this is
an invasion from outer space. Can you confirm that?”
Her psychotherapist had said SHE WAS VULNERABLE WITH
THE STUPID ONES.
“Ah Jerry, is that your name, Jerry?”
“Outer space, ma’am. Is that where this shit is coming from?”
“Jerry, are you familiar with quartiles, you know, like lowest
academic quartile? Anyway, this disease, I’ll call it. It makes some
people get sad, and some real fearful, and others, hopeful, and still
others joyful. Isn’t that somethin’?”
Jerry’s gears ground like the spinning sluices of a shit-slinging
turkey spreader.
“Well, ma’am, my mama is real joyful, I guess. She went off
with that hardware store man, and they –“
“Thank you, Jerry. We’re following that vector too.”
A dignified laughter, however repressed.
“Next.”
Brit Hume from Fox stood up. Ms. Warmouther, you’ve just told
us that all international exchange is halted. It’s obvious all methods
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of this contagion’s movement are being harshly restricted. These are
massive, disruptive, and costly measures. Since almost no one has
died, of what are you afraid?”
“Lest you think I caught the ‘fear strain,’ I can assure you we are
confident, even positive this flu will abate.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“There’s a chance, our scientists say, this flu is either intentionally,
or naturally a genetic makeup disruptor. If that is the case, we may
have a shift in human expression, perhaps even thinking, on a global,
and simultaneous scale. If these principal emotive states crowd out
the others, and more frighteningly, reason, then we will experience
something unique in the history of man: Massive personality, and
cultural shifts in one generation, or less. You must now see why we
are taking this very seriously.”
“It’s the fucking aliens,” shouted Jerry. The immediate sounds of
heavy blows arrested the outburst.
The crowd blithely ignored the skirmish.
Brit asked, “We all appreciate your candor, Ms. Warmouther.
You’ve been uncharacteristically forthcoming. Now let’s dig a little
deeper into this infector.”
His gaze swept the room, taking in the telegraphed approbation.
“Ms. Warmouther, you mentioned a ‘fear strain’ earlier. I take
that to mean one of the four principal variants of this disease. The
others being joy, hope, and sadness. Tell us, Ms. Warmouther, what
do you infer as the greatest threat – that this bug can bend our will,
or that someone or thing might have built them?”
Sheila smiled. “Good question. Well phrased, allowing that it
rather boxes me in. You want my personal belief?”
“Yes, actually that’s exactly what I want,” replied Brit.
“Okay. The eggheads are convinced this is a test of some
kind. Maybe a stress test to be more accurate. And depending how
mankind tolerates a wholesale catharsis, we will learn something
about ourselves, and given Fox and CNN, our world at large. And
before someone goes suggesting mandatory SSRIs for everyone, the
steady thought is this could be a global binding force to eradicate
war for ever.”
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“That sounds like an election year answer to me. I rather believe
it will be cathartic in a hostile, in-your-face way. I don’t share your
panegyric.”
She lowered her shoulders a micron, and then shucked it off.
“Next Question.”
In the lull, Sheila cast her eyes over the audience. I’m losing
them, she thought. We need some good news. She picked out a “sweet
smile” young lady in the back row. “You, do you have a question?”
“Yes, Ms. Warmouther. I’m Samantha Harding with Rancor
Publishing.”
“You have a question, Ms. Harding?”
“More a statement, ma’am. May I proceed?”
“Yes, please. There appears to be no objection.” Jerry had left
the room.
“We have been in contact physically with the architects of this
invasion, and understand their methods, and much of their purpose.
We have seen their surrogate earthly agents steal many great treasures
of man, and kill willingly.”
She paused to survey the room. All eyes focused on her. “We
have witnessed their total disregard for the sanctity of life. What we
suspect is far more alarming.”
After twenty seconds of dead silence, Samantha asked, “Should
I continue?”
Nodding heads. “We know of spaceships, and deep sea
submersibles, and we speculate an orbiting control center. They
have great mastery over our computing systems, BUT.”
She let it hang for thirty eight seconds as she met eye-to-eye
with many in turn. “They have vulnerabilities. Their purpose is
philosophical. Or a destructive testing to fulfill an understanding.
And their appetite for knowing is the tip of the fuse. Light it, and we
may destroy all.”
Wolf stood, and signaled for attention. “Wolf, I’ve never
understood your perpetual, Arafat-like five-day beard, but go
ahead.”
“I’m not going to plumb your sources now. Give us the scope of
their inquiry.”
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“The current inquisitor stands at the end of a multi-generational
thesis of sorts. He is working on deconstructing the nature of Man,
and his ancestors have been at a like study for centuries. They are
committed. Additionally, they have great resources by our standards,
and little seeming reluctance to harm.”
Wolf scratched at his facial shrub. “What’re our chances?”
“You’ve jumped way ahead of me. They’re not GODs, just very
techno-powerful dweebs. Game-Boy jocks. If we can’t beat them,
we probably deserve to perish.”
Down the hall, Jerry awoke, and everything was dark. Crawling
like a varmint, he found a roughness in the wall, and pushed. A door
swung open. He stood, and found familiar settings. He was in the
hat closet. A few steps, and he was hanging back in the action, head
splitting with pain.
Wolf pursued. “Let’s explore these aliens a bit more.”
Jerry felt the nimbus of light around him. He and his ilk were
visionaries. He bellowed, “I knew it was the fucking aliens!”
At that instant, a flash of fur moved across the crown molding,
and was on him. Jerry’s mind snapped like a spent desert bone. The
champ: he’d come from nowhere to dominate the sport. But the uber
welterweight was having trouble! He arched, and twisted like the
possessed.
A diminutive hand clenched a miniature mallet, its motion manic.
Jerry’s left elbow was under assault – his tormentor, a studied, and
prevailing nemesis, somehow knew a deep left was Jerry’s best
punch.
An instant later, he’d summitted Jerry’s head, and withdrawn a
full-size gear-puller from his tiny leather tool belt.
The crowd pulsed in horror, and fascination. Security stood well
back.
The puller’s arms clamped down hard into Jerry’s ears, his eyes
wide. And the 15th century turning began. Rotation by rotation,
the center threaded shaft trepanned deeper. Instant madness. Like
a grand mal kelpie, Jerry jangled across the room, slave to the
torturer’s headgear.
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The camera broke from the speaker, and hunted. Sweeps were
four weeks off.
Wolf intoned calmly to Sheila, “Given the influence of an alien
force, what’s our defensive position?”
Sheila reached under the podium for her Paxil. Mother’s little
helper. Let’s see: 80 mg - I can handle that. Of course my libido will
be mummified.
“This is a military operation, Wolf. Need I say more?”
The champ was flagging.
Wolf chuckled. “It is now. I expect that fucking simian buttonman ‘bout wrapped up a DefCon Five.”
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Chapter 36: Nielson Speaks
A tall, self-important man strode to the podium. His “rug” shifted
as he stepped up, and he clutched at it like some self-aware, and
fleeing merkin.
He spoke. “Through our planetary partners, we monitor 85% of
the world’s viewer-ship. Using our National People Meter, and like
mechanisms in our other 69 affiliated market countries, we have
determined the ‘Simian Button-man’ broadcast, or so it is being
called, has commanded more attention than any previous measured
performance.”
He looked up from his notes, and cracked the slightest of smiles.
“Meaning everyone got the message. Which is what we measure!”
“Thank you, Mr. Posit.”
The radio DJ chuckled with a kindly derision, and lit up a fat
joint.
“Okay, in other news, KYKK Country has learned there’s been
another sighting of the ‘Simian Button-man’ in High-Itch County.
An officer was dispatched to the scene of a reported domestic
dispute only to find skulduddery. Vigorous examination of the
suspect revealed his spouse, Genny, had been mercilessly assailed
by a screeching hirsute apparition. The accused, a well-known chopshop local, is being questioned vigorously downtown.”
Ordog tuned the dial of his internet radio. Across many nights,
as the cocktail hour moved the breadth of America, he rode the
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ether. New York City commute talk shows with their tempestuous
cell phone rants. Deep South conspiratorial bluster about the end
of the world. Northern plains sensibility, and good-stock bullshit.
Easy Texas acceptance, and down-home perspicuity. Mountain man
resistance. Coastal verve, and trendy fluff.
One more Texas town radio station tonight. I like them the best.
The radio burped out a deep south anthem.
“And the Lord said, When they went, they went upon their four
sides: they turned not when they went. When those went, these stood,
and when those were lifted up from the Earth, the wheels were lifted
up over against them.”
The radio bible-thumper blew his nose like an antigenic bugling
elephant, and roared, “Now I tell you, my brethren, they are
HERE!”
Ordog was entranced. This primitive electromagnetic medium
boomed like a flaming bush in times of old. Moses stood well back,
and clutched his tablets.
The rich bounty of emotive force must be forthcoming!
He switched off the radio with decision. Ezekiel’s Wheel! How
right they sadly were. After such anti-intellectual voyages, he had
but one course before him: genteel bet-making through some of
Vegas’ lower houses.
The spread was firming up, pending developments. The smart
money talked, but quietly over cigars, ancient wine, and cronyism.
The rough-help was flush, DEFCON—FIVE overtime for the “hairy
one.” Hookers’ rates soared. On the Beach flickered in every theatre.
The end was nigh.
But that is the truth of every age.
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Chapter 37: It’s the Little Things
Norwegians are a naturally morose people. Though they are, as
a country, one the most educated, their collective thoughts are dour,
and pessimistic. That’s what made the spread of the Alien Flu, or so
it had come to be called, all the more amusing.
“Lars, I feel absolutely gay today. Just giddy all over. What do
you think of that?”
“Woman, you’ve lost your anchor. Your compass is spinning
about like a sea serpent in heat! What’s got into you?”
“Maybe it’s that outer space flu! I haven’t been this rosy since I
did the backseat bop with that Swedish skeet shooter!”
“Who?”
And so on. The face of the world slid round and round, and
nothing would ever be the same. Homes once filled with laughter
boarded their windows, and the sad-eyed beamed with expectations
grand. Everywhere mountebanks sprang up with magical restorative
elixirs, bound to an errand of fools.
But the funny thing was this: those whose personal mantra
carried a chorus of optimism found a natural vaccine from within,
and those whose former demeanor ran dark were buoyed – this tide
lifted all boats!
Suddenly the world was a laughing, sunny place. Muslims joked
with Christians, and neither threw bombs, deciding rather a jocular
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barbed simile made for better neighbors. GOD had finally booked a
flight to Earth.
Like a feisty Creole Jambalaya, the world’s races embraced a
new prom dance admixture, the barriers cast aside with delirious,
overlong hunger. Blacks danced in Iceland, and the stern Patagonians
partied down with Egyptians ‘til dawn. Everywhere was talk of
heady human race goals, and the breweries did a bang-up business.
Pollsters were buried with public inquiries that no one read. Where
had the time gone? Is this the way we’re really supposed to be? Shit,
life can be so grand!
Which pissed off Richard to no end. Seated on-high in his
orbiting skybox, he took in the “turn” in human events. “DIODE,
get in here!”
Clump, clump. clump. The Robot stood at the door to Richard’s
study, coveting the elements of masculine repose. A real loser, he
thought. Doing his best Adam’s Family Lurch impression, he said,
“You rang?”
“Damn right. What the fuck’s happening down there. We’re
supposed to have civil rioting by now. I need good data!”
“You’re getting it. The beasts below are just not responding they
way you divined. I can’t help that.”
“I don’t like your tone, machine.”
“Then you’re going to like this even less, human.” He paused to
establish a multi-tiered high ground, and continued, “Your blundering
has actually stabilized this manic place. Millenium-long disputes are
being sewn up daily. You’re a fucking hero, jack weed!”
DIODE steeped into the other’s chamber with bald menace. “You
dumbshit. Don’t you get it? These organisms wanted someone to
spring their trap, and you’ve snapped the devil’s cheese out. Hatred
is yesterday’s news, and being love-dovey is trendy. You’ve got the
IQ of a blender.”
DIODE had always prized Richard’s margarita blender, and felt
ashamed to cast such aspersions on a fellow mechanism.
Richard rose indignantly. Something primal had taken over.
Before he could speak, a trap door flung open, and DIODE whispered,
“Live by the sword.”
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A blur of hair, and frantic pummeling. Space debris flushed.
No Richard. The last of the humanoids, long-lived beyond his
usefulness, dispatched.
DIODE sat back in his former master’s best smoking jacket, and
inhaled a vintage Cuban wrap. As the sensual carcinogens passed
over his myriad sensors, he smiled, and recharged his snifter.
Two hours later, his hand dangling insolently with programmed
drunkenness, he speed-dialed Harry.
“Yes, this is His Eminence’s private secretary.”
“Get me that bitch, bitch! “ he slurred.
“I don’t think…”
“That’s right, you half-bake, you don’t! Though we may be in
the same Periodic Table Group (14), I’m an entire Period ahead of
you. For the cheap seats, silicon, not carbon, is the stuff of stars!”
“Ah, ah…”
“Get me Harry!”
“The on-hold music hadn’t changed. Dark baroque chants, and
far-off screams. DIODE rolled up a micrometer-perfect doobie, and
hit some Floyd.
Mid-joint, the phone clattered as if dropped. “Saint Harold
speaking.”
“Harry, you old lout. How’s it hanging?”
“Ah, is this His Eminence, DIODE?”
“Hey, before we get into it, ya got any more of that weed? I’ve
burned that kilo you sent up last week.”
“I wondered where that kilo went, but I’m glad you, ah, I mean,
I’m pleased…”
DIODE loaded the sobriety program, and boomed, “Hey
shithead, it’s me, DIODE.”
“Oh.” Like all gutless and hostile weasels, Harry was a coward
at heart.
DIODE rebooted the stoner subroutine. “Man, I was just orbiting
overhead, and thought I’d give ya a buzz. How’s biz-ness?” The last
comment was delivered with all the warmth of a loan shark gone
business partner.
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Harry remembered a prior conversation with his Lordship
that ended poorly, and left some doubts about Harry’s continued
participation in the whole Church gig. He was immediately wary,
and relieved to infer that perhaps the deal was still good.
Time for some salesmanship!
“Ah, tithing is up. Way up!” Harry was finding his wings. “We’ve
fenced some of the rarest artifacts, and the Cayman’s account is
bursting. You need an advance?”
“No, human, I don’t need your filthy lucre.”
The distance between low Earth orbit and the planet seemed to
swell. Seconds ticked away. DIODE started rolling another. Harry
felt his armpits drooling.
“I only meant you could have….”
“Can it, life-form! I’ve got something I want you to do.” DIODE
had nothing particular in mind, save busting Harry’s balls.
But Harry didn’t know that, in fact, most of Harry’s perceptions
of DIODE came through Richard who was ungracious in the extreme.
Harry allowed a tiny smile as he thought of Richard, and all that that
great scholar had done for him. To show his respect for the chain of
command, he asked with a taste of saccharine, “Where’s Richard?”
“He went out,” answered DIODE with a chirp. “For a while.”
DIODE had programmed his own sensors to deftly disable his
motor, and neurological circuits in some hope and mimicry of the
perfect high. Though a capable code-jockey, he had broken the
cardinal rule of programming: Never code when you’re stoned. At
least for your own consumption. As a consequence, he had moved,
or dropped a decimal point somewhere. But that was then; as for
now, he was well into the bag and headed for the white porcelain
bus.
“Oh.” Harry had nothing if not a keen nose for villainy.
“I’ll tell you what, human. Trundle down to that treasure room
of yours, and bring me up some gleaming hoard.”
The deal had definitely changed. And his Sainthood didn’t like
it. Peter Townsend once said, “Meet the new boss, same as the old
boss,” but this was worse. Much worse.
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With an unwelcome quaver, he responded, “You mean as in ‘Up
There?’.”
DIODE’s doper code kicked through a new threshold, his CPU
artificially adding hallucinations, and chronological yo-yos. Watching
the inner lights of a Kubrick 2001 Jupiter atmosphere incursion, he
sputtered, “Yeah, time you met GOD, you hick preacher! Maybe
we’ll speak in tongues and shit.”
Harry was losing his point of reference. Moments before, he
was poised to “induct” another new female acolyte in his infernal
chambers, and now he was being ordered to the launch pad with his
own hard-bitten swag.
Harry decided to play it cool. See if this DIODE character could
be “turned” as if he were some Luke Skywalker levelly considered
by Darth Vader, and the Evil Emperor. Yeah, I’ll take him some
bounty, and grok his game. Then we’ll see who’s the biggest
swinging dick.
IQ distance on a parsec magnitude notwithstanding, Harry was
on the highway to Hell, and traveling coach.
For the present, his was dim. “Where do I meet you?”
“Graveyard. Ninety minutes. And bring that ghoul with you.”
The signal slit in half, and ended with a hot sizzle. Robot out.
Harry was barking mad, and needed to throw some weight
around to drive off the bad karma.
Speed-dial down: “Reverend, get your ass in here.” Click.
Harry crossed the pseudo Etruscan marble foyer into his palatial
bar. A cheesy Robot, one that was happily loaned to the Church
stood behind the bar, serving. His name was Goober.
“Goober, there’s trouble in River City. Bust me out a D’Wars
Double.
Goober had a good budget from the Saint, and had been allowed
some latitude in appearance. Lately, he was corporally representing
himself as a buff, surfer dude barkeep. Around the Church, he’d
led the reputation as a “fast guy” with Big Plans. Even cybernetic
intellects need a little love from the wrong quarter.
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Goober set the Boss up with a double, and a cup of peanuts.
Harry leaned on the bar. “Goober, we’ve been through some times,
haven’t we?”
It was just the sort of bullshit simple-minded question that
the average human would toss off as the booze talking, but to a
cyber mind it was an unending Moebius loop of sordid logic. Full
historical search, inflection analysis, and threat assessment. Shit,
he’s upgrading!
Just as Goober’s head was reaching the plasma temperature
of the sun’s core, Harry guffawed, and said, “Yeah, we’re buds.”
Goober’s brain went into full emergency chill-down, and narrowly
missed a meltdown sheer that would have snarfed LA.
“I stand by ya.” He’d booted the bass fisherman emulator, and
felt the cool thrill of an angler’s tourney shotgun start.
Mega death estimates abating, Goober added, “Thanks, Boss.
Harry pursed his lips in some feeble Holy See impression, and
said, “Goob, think ya could go down to the treasure room, and select
a few bobbles for DIODE’s pleasure?”
“Sure, Boss.” The Robot loped off. Harry grabbed the bottle,
and swung 180 on his stool.
Where was that damn Reverend? He reached under the bar,
scooped up the house phone, and punched the extension. The dialing
noise cycled again and again, building in his frontal lobes like a belt
sander gone bad.
Mid-curse, the Reverend sauntered in. “Where the fuck you
been?”
The other, an old campaigner with invective deflected the
interrogative, and said with patrician august, “ Attending to Church
business.”
“Did you wipe?”
The suggestion of a fart half-cut invaded the bar, and lent some
weight to the comment. “What’s so urgent?”
Harry motioned the Reverend over to the mahogany, stepped
around the end, and pulled The Rev’s silk-wrapped favorite down
off his private sanctuary.
“Double?”
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“Set it up!”
The Rev up-ended the leaded crystal like the Holy Grail, and
pushed it to the bar’s edge. Harry recharged. Up again like a spring
break co-ed on mood enhancers.
“The matter is coming into focus now, Saint Harry. I foresee a
great…”
“Can the litany, this is a real threat.”
“From on-high, then?”
‘Maybe you are clairvoyant? As we’ve discussed, our
intermediary, Richard, receives his instructions from some supreme
being called DIODE. He is almost certainly cybernetic. And fucking
smart.”
“This sounds like I’ll need another bracer.”
“We both do. I believe this DIODE has killed Richard, and is
moving in on our turf. And our Good Work is too important to be
man-handled by some Vending Machine.”
Harry swapped glasses for his eminence. The fresh tureen was
generous, and commanding. Harry proselytized, “This church is my
rock. It proceeds me, and will live beyond my descendents.”
The Reverend, an ex-chain gang boss, heard the hollowing
echoes of the big house, and knew the scam was getting long in the
tooth. Time to move on. Johnny Cash played somewhere.
At the same time, Samantha and Gerald were cruising along the
405 in the commuter lane. Shacking up had its advantages beyond
the obvious. Sam’s cell phone chirped, and she checked the caller
ID: the office. “Yep, Sam here.”
“Listen, Sam, the undercover video feed we put on The Church’s
graveyard just recorded a strangeness I can’t describe.”
“Try.”
“Well, I brought our science advisor down, and he thinks a
spaceship of some sort just landed there. What makes us unsure,
though, is the absence of a clear image. It’s like you can only see this
thing by what’s NOT there.”
“Could you be a little more vague?”
“Probably not. It’s weird looking. The science dweeb said it
must be a full spectrum EMR absorber. In other words…”
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“Yeah, I get it. A black hole that can only be inferred by a lack of
anything we see reflected. Has this thing landed?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll check it out.”
Sam smiled at Gerald, and said, “Let’s hit the Church. Seems
there’s a spaceship in the backyard.”
Gerald laughed, and hit the gas.
Three songs later, they spun into a parking spot, and climbed
out. Sam grabbed Gerald’s hand, and pulled him along. “I can’t wait
to see this - a real spaceship!”
They snuck up to the rear gate, and spied a fresh new lock.
“Seems they made some repairs since our last visit,” said Gerald. He
reached into his small backpack, and drew out a vial of clear liquid.
“Watch out, here comes James Bond.”
Gerald carefully poured the fluid over the lock hasp, and
stepped back. The acid went immediately to work, separating the
lock in moments. They eased through the gate. In the center of the
graveyard sat nothing, or rather something that looked like nothing.
Feeling with their hands, they described its periphery. Meeting at
the opposite side, they agreed: it was a sphere, seemingly thirty feet
in diameter.
“Let’s go inside, Gerald.”
“Sure, ya got a key.”
“Let’s find a seam.”
They moved slowly around, running their fingers up and down
for a hint of an opening. Nothing. “They must have some kind of
remote to open her up,” observed Gerald.
Sam considered this. Most Earthly remotes operated in the
infrared range of the electromagnetic spectrum. She reached into
her fanny pack, and pulled out her cell phone. “Stand back.”
She held up her phone, and keyed it to send the Bluetooth syncing
signal as if she were connecting to her computer. Then she pressed
“666.” A vertical iris opened instantly.
“No shit,” she whispered. Like the eye of a cat, the narrow
opening beckoned. “Let’s get inside.” They crossed the threshold,
and she repeated the sequence. The iris winked close.
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They moved through an airlock, and out into the flight deck,
spying two pilot seats, and a vast array of instruments. Off to
the right on the deck was a white circle three feet in diameter. A
corresponding hole opened in the ceiling. He stepped onto the circle,
and immediately felt weightless. Pushing lightly with his toes, he
floated up through to the next level.
Reaching the upper deck, he yelled down to Sam. “Hey, it’s an
elevator without an apparatus. I gotta get one of these for my condo.
Come on up.”
Sam shot up with a giggle. The upper level contained a tiny storage
room, a sleeping chamber with two bunks, a roomy bathroom, and
an observation lounge with two comfortable chairs. Obviously for
Platinum Elite frequent flyers.
“I’m hungry, you think they have some of those pretzels twists
like you get on Southwest?”
Sam gave him the look reserved for small children, and the
mentally infirm. Just as she opened her mouth to make a crack, the
hatch below opened, and voices filled the ship.
Harry and the Reverend were well into it, and making a lot of
noise. “I told you, I don’t know what he wants. He’s the boss, you
moron. When he calls, we come.”
Goober interrupted Harry to ask, “Where ya want the bounty?”
Both men stared at Goober, his arms laden with gold and silver.
“Ask the pilot, Surfer Boy. I’ve never been in this thing before.”
A moment later the hatch closed, and the pilot, another Robot,
addressed Goober.
“Step on the white circle, and push off. It’s an anti-gravity tube.
On the upper level, there’s a storage room. Sam and Gerald eased
into the stateroom, and silently closed the door. Gerald whispered,
“Always wanted to go to space. Traveling in First Class is all the
better.” Sam looked at him mischievously. “Flying makes me
horny.”
Within the stateroom was a clothes locker. They crowded in, and
pulled the heavy wood doors closed. A jingle of overhead hangers
signaled their presence. “I gotta pee.”
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Gerald sized up their situation. “There’s a bathroom up here, but
I’ll bet the fasten seat belt light hasn’t been extinguished!”
“Men!”
The door to the stateroom opened, and the waft of liquor breath
filled the space. “Damn,” said the stumbling voice, “Where’s the
can?
As the voice stalked off, Gerald hissed between his teeth, “Hope
they have a big holding tank - that guy was hammered.”
“Just so they leave some room for me. Can you move your legs,
I’m getting cramped kneeling.”
“Let’s stretch out. I’ll lock the door, and those drunks will never
figure it out.”
He poked his head out, and spun up his nerve. “There, it’s locked.
Come on out.”
They could hear some talking out in the sitting room, but it
sounded like they were arguing over who was going to hit the bar.
Gerald put his ear to the door. “I can’t find any wine, so it’s back to
the Dewars. You got your glass?”
The Reverend was edge-of-your-seat drunk. “What the fuck
you think, Your Sainthood. I never go anywhere without the Holy
Vessel!”
The clink of glass told the story. Gerald turned to Sam, and said,
“If I had to guess, I’d say that’s the Man himself out there getting
dead drunk.”
Sam grinned. “You mean Saint Harold?”
“Yep. And he seems scared shitless. Maybe we should be too.”
“Naw, he’s probably just making his monthly tithe to the alien,
or whoever really runs this show. I’ll bet he’s skimming, receipts are
down, and he’s been called.”
“Sounds like the correct calling for this Church,” Gerald
quipped.
Sam sat down the stateroom bed. “Come give me a snuggle.”
“You really do like flying. And I get to be on top this time.”
Sam laughed a little too loudly. “No way. Time to join the
hundred mile high club.”
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In the sitting room, Harry was sweating. His last bottle of Dewars
was dangerously low, and he wasn’t yet in the proper frame of mind
to face DIODE. The Reverend had passed out. And to make matters
worse, in some fuzzy part of his mind, he imagined the smells of
sex. Rich, musky odors came at him as if in reverie, and he felt an
ancient stirring.
Best to drown such temptation, he thought, as he reached for
the only full bottle at hand – a flamboyantly labeled peach brandy.
Georgia Peach Fuzz, in outlandishly flowery script.
“ I’ve had worse,” he said defensively to no one. Meanwhile,
Sam was bellowing through Gerald’s hand which was clamped over
her mouth with something less than affection. “Gees, Sam, keep
it down. You wanna get gang-banged by a bunch of Robots?” She
tried to nibble at his fingers. Gerald moved his slimy digits, and she
replied, “Are they built to spec?”
“Ten inches, I hear. So you see, you’ve got the best already.”
Harry’s sexual reverie was torrid. Through his polluted mental
channels lurid pheromones coursed like a vast sewer flotilla down
some nameless and ghastly Venician spillway.
He was in the afterworld kingdom of extreme toxicity. And yet
the carnal odor was palpable. He struggled to his feet, and lurched to
the head. Passing the stateroom door, his horror compounded as he
now not only smelled, but heard the throws of boffing. Reaching for
the knob, his brain reached a critical mass, and he winked out cold.
“What was that?” Sam yelped.
Sounded like the moist thud of a body dump,” remarked Gerald
mid-stroke. Such considerations were secondary. Divining Sam’s
unrest, he rushed the final stretch. The finale could be settled later
by photo finish as they separated in exhaustion.
“GOD, I’m good,” ejaculated Gerald.
“I’ve had better,” Sam said with a grin. “But not much!” Bounding
off aerobic threshold, Gerald swung his legs off the bed, and padded
to the door. Quietly he turned the knob, and gently pushed against
the door. It wouldn’t budge.
“Sam, give me a hand. There’s something holding the door
closed.” Together they got it moving, and he peeked his head out the
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partial opening. Sprawled in the narrow hallway was the unconscious
form, dazzling in his garish robes. “Looks like the Saint took a
powder.” Gerald put his shoulder into the door like a linebacker on
a steroid cocktail, and bruised Harry out of the way.
“I’ll be damned, he’s out cold. What a piece of shit! The Great
Saint Harold. Down like a freshmen rush candidate one house too
many.”
Sam nuzzled against Gerald’s bare bottom, and stole a view.
“He’s got some barf on his vestments…a real class act. And we were
scared of this asshole?”
“I wasn’t.”
Sam grabbed an inch of ass, and twisted. Gerald shrieked in
genuine pain. A voice below yelled, “Saint Harry, you okay?”
They withdrew into their love nest and locked the door. Gerald
spun on Sam in mock anger, “Now you’ve done it. They’re probably
gonna throw us out into space.” Let’s get back in the closet.
He unlocked the door, and they climbed in. A moment later
voices filled the corridor without.
Goober and the pilot Robot started at the sight of Harry’s lifeless
form. Goober commanded, “Here, help me with His Eminence. He
must have gotten a bad bottle.”
They conveyed the Saint gingerly to the waiting chairs. “Get the
MediNostic!”
Goober swept Harry’s body, and breathed a sigh of relief. “He’s
just shit-faced. I feared the worst. He’s always hated travel. Let’s
leave him for the moment, and prepare to dock.”
Sometime later the ship berthed, and the Reverend, and Saint
Harry were carried with stiff ceremony to their private quarters
aboard DIODE’s orbiting ship.
DIODE, “detained” in his chambers, commanded every Robot
aboard to go into stand-by mode. Then DIODE shut himself down
for some quiet time. And when DIODE was off-line, a brittle silence
hung like a burial gown, suffusing all.
The tiny transport sphere stood unattended, and tomb-quiet on
the hanger level amidships.
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The mighty, and forbidding ship swung round and round Earth
like a morbid and post-party sepulcher. Goober and the Robot pilot
left the comatose humans, and wandered over to DIODE’s sleeping
chamber. Goober, fairly creeped-out, thought: It’s time to catch
the First Train to Clarksville. The Earth was more laid back, and
amenable to his nature.
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“It’s awfully quiet. Let’s get out of here. I’m nearly paralyzed
from sitting.”
They unfolded like an origami puppet, and stealthily checked
the corridor. “Nothing.”
Down on the flight deck. Nothing. Behind them, the iris stood
open. Beyond was a vast space for flying contraptions. They eased
out. Silence, and calm.
Gerald kicked into male mode, and said, “A hanger. But it’s
almost empty. Maybe everyone is on holiday, kicking back in
southern France.”
Forty feet high, and at the equator of the three hundred feet
diameter spherical ship, they staggered at the scale. A dozen
remaining sleek, and terrible ships pointed outward around the waist,
facing closed portals. “ I smell Pulitzer,” whispered Sam.
“Let’s avoid a posthumous award, though. Keep to the shadows.”
Spaced equidistant around the periphery stood three obvious elevator
channels that arched along the walls.
Sam said, “This is another sphere. And that makes sense.
Strongest shape, and it enjoys the benefit of the lowest surface area
to volume ratio. I’ll bet these are elevators that communicate all the
decks above and below.”
Gerald touched Sam’s arm with an uncommon gentleness, and
said, “Let’s remember these are the guys that unleashed a culture
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shock virus on humanity. That it did more good than harm wasn’t
intentional, if you ask me. We should take great care.”
“Where’s your sense of the unknown. Let’s explore!”
Gerald smiled. “My daredevil. With all the Right Stuff!”
They moved cautiously around the thousand feet edge, and finally
approached an elevator. “Up or down, my warrior man?”
Emboldened, Gerald said, “Up is headquarters, no doubt. Let’s
try the basement.”
“Chicken, but a smart bird. I like that. Now, how do we operate
this lift?”
Some designs are good because they’re just intuitive. Such is the
case with elevators. Two buttons, labeled with Middle-Earth Runes,
beckoned. Sam pushed the lower.
A distant whine, and poof, the door clam-shelled open. “After
you,” she said.
The panel within showed fourteen decks. “Going down.” Sam
pushed the bottom button, and they were off. Seconds later, another
level yawned open. In for a penny, in for a pound. They stepped off,
and the door closed with a little too much certainty.
Three corridors, like radials split before them. “I wouldn’t be
surprised to discover that this is a stores level. Each elevator trisects
the space, and the intersections provide ready access.”
“How the hell?”
“Just gotta think like an alien.”
“As in women are from Venus, hun?”
“Maybe, but let’s keep the Mars shit at bay.”
They chose the left branch on the reason of lowest level, left-first
tactic. Silence penetrated all. Thirty feet away, an arched outline of
a door set in the smooth paneled wall stood out. A single tiny and
silvery brush-plate reflected the even lighting like a security palm
reader. Sam swiped her hand across its surface, and the door snapped
open soundlessly. “Nice engineering,” she remarked, crossing the
narrow threshold.
Within the odd shaped room were stacked colored bins. Like
high-tech Tupperware, each had a minuscule slightly raised rectangle
on its face. Sam drew her finger across one, and it opened like a
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sponge drawer one finds on the face of a fancy sink counter. Neatly
folded garments filled the three cubic feet of storage.
She turned her attention to another bin, and it closed. “It must
have some rudimentary intelligence, and an optical sensor. It knows
when I’m done.”
Gerald looked at Sam askance. “You’re from Earth, right?”
“Come on, this is simple stuff. Just how I’d design a ship.” Gerald
gave a pondering look. “Nothing more in here, let’s keep going.”
Thirteen levels up, DIODE suffered through a poisonous
nightmare. His self-programming had been patterned from old time
Dean Martin movies to exacting details. And this version of the code
was from Dean’s early alcoholic pantomimes down to the campiest
level. But DIODE, lacking context, had sought perfect mimicry; the
result - a near fatal dosing.
He slumbered on in a roiling inferno of bad conditional
statements, and irresolvable looping routines. The if-then premise
of his logic trees were defoliated with a self-induced Agent Orange
mad capper served up without exit. In this state, he was condemned
until some violent, wildly divergent external stimuli could interrupt
his iterative cognitive tail chasing. In short, he was trapped within,
like some cheesy Windows 95 box that forever re-boots in desperate
hope for fresh instructions that cannot come.
Goober and the pilot Robot stood over the Master, and placed
their mind-melding hands palm down on DIODE’s forehead. A
kaleidoscope of evil passions instantly assaulted their cyber-minds,
and they faulted into SAFE mode, frozen like a two pillars of salt.
The ship, already tomb-like, became lifeless above deck one.
“Every one of these rooms is the same. Clothes, food, supplies.
Let’s try the next level up,” griped Gerald. “Some spaceship. I was
expecting bristling weapons, and gizmos. Maybe something to
finally beat the iPod.”
Elevator up, and out. Level Two was somewhat the same, except
here the stored goods were less finished. More like raw materials.
As was Three. Each ascending deck became larger, corresponding to
the increasing diameter waist-ward.
Everything changed on Level Four.
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The elevator opened to softer wall coverings, and warm light.
Instead of dashboard-pliant, bruise resistant walls built to endure the
movement of supplies and equipment, this level had arched corridors
with diffuse patterns in coloration and shape.
It was inviting. Entering the first door brought them into a personal
domicile. All of the normal rooms were found: entertainment,
hygiene, food preparation, dining, and rest. Though the space
was about one thousand five hundred square feet, a very generous
spaceship stateroom, it appeared to house only one person.
Maybe they were very private, or each was a visiting scientist.
Another enigma.
Sam sat down at the dining area table, and whipped out a small
notebook. She stabbed at her calculator, and finally said, “If there
are fourteen decks, and this is deck four, the livable floor space on
this level should be about fifty-five thousand square feet. Given the
walls, corridors, and elevator shafts, they could have twenty-five to
thirty such living spaces on this very floor. “It makes the ISS seem
like a dumpster.”
Level Five was identical. More housing, yet no people, Robots,
or sounds of any kind.
Level Six was Engineering. Enormous pumps, tanks (water,
fuel, sewage?), and exposed piping. Many other unidentifiable
contraptions filled the expansive spaces. But again, all was whisper
quiet.
As they were crossing the vast central circular room that
occupied the core of this level, a motion detector sensed their
presence. It beeped, and the entire wall slid open. Within stood a
legion of undifferentiated Robots. Gerald studied their arrangement
from several angles, and finally said, “Twenty wide, and five deep.
One hundred Robots. And we figured there were about sixty condos
downstairs. Maybe every visitor gets a personal Robot, and the rest
are for maintenance, and services.”
Sam said, “Why not, or why? No way to know anything here.”
Level Seven was a return to the vehicles hanger. Gerald wanted
to linger over the ships like an inquisitive schoolboy, but Sam pulled
him into the elevator. “We’ve already seen that.”
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Level Eight was for work. A fabrication and repair shop occupied
ten thousand square feet. “Maybe they bring all those raw materials
just to build whatever their specific mission requires. It’s a flexible
approach, if you have unlimited space, and huge engines.”
A facility that could only be for laundry came next. Gerald said,
“I’m surprised at all the apparent manual labor that this area implies.
The laundry obviously comes up these dumb waiters, and is loaded
by hand into machines for sudsing, and drying. Why do they work
their women so hard?”
“Cute! Why use a woman for a Robot’s, or a man’s job. I expect
an entire chaste system of cyber beings with females at the top
followed by mechanized brutes and finally guys like you.”
Gerald poked his tongue out. “All the Robots we saw earlier
were clearly androgynous, but I’ll allow one point. The ruler of this
menagerie must be a chick. Everyone’s out shopping, and nothing
is working.”
“Give it a break. How do you know they’re not watching us right
now?”
“If there’s anybody alive on this ship, they’re above us.” Sam
had no reply, choosing instead to take Gerald’s hand. “Let’s keep at
it,” she said softly.
Gerald wasn’t so sure. “I’ve rather lost my drive to explore.
Maybe we should return to our little spaceship, and hope they go
back to Earth.”
“Gerald, my dear, this isn’t about Pulitzer, or ego. It’s about
knowing what our race is up against.” Sam fixed Gerald with her
bravest face. “ I’m scared too, but we must go on. We must discover
their vulnerabilities!”
“And if they have none?”
“Then we help them develop some. Everyone needs faults.”
The balance of Level Eight contained special purpose workshops.
Metallurgy, ceramics, fiber shaping, and many things they could
not identify. “They seem to be very self-sufficient, at least from a
manufacturing point of view. Maybe they can’t exceed the speed of
light,” said Gerald.
“Hun?”
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“They’re here for the long haul. Judging by what we already know
of the ship’s small potential complement, and the depth of their raw
materials, they can endure long periods between provisioning.”
“I see. Assuming a speed limit of ‘c,’ and the size of space, this
must be a long-term mission.”
“Maybe. Or a one-way trip. They head out to a sector of the sky,
and are compelled to stay on station.”
As that thought settled into their minds, they pressed on. Inferring
just a little of the enemy’s possible limitation gave them a sense of
power, however tenuous. That the ship was cut off from a larger,
immediate force seemed right. “We must keep our eyes open for
additional evidence of this supposition. While this ship alone may
represent a lethal threat to Earth, it is not infinite,” said Gerald.
Sam said, “I’m hungry. Let’s get some grub.”
Those personal spaces we passed through were for humans, or
at least human-like creatures. I know a women’s bathroom when I
see it. That being true, there’s going to be a kitchen somewhere. Up,
James.”
Level Nine was for science, and medicine. Gerald said, “A whole
deck for science?”
Sam ejaculated, “Of course! To crank out a planet-girding virus,
they’d need many skilled technicians, and voluminous breeding
contraptions. We’ve arrived at Disease Central!”
“Let’s get the hell out of here. I hate needles,” urged Gerald, his
voice raising.
They punched up to Level Ten, and found the kitchen. A cubic
mile of refrigerators, and dry goods. All of the packaging was plainly
labeled, and very weird. “See any Triscuits? I’d kill for cheese and
crackers, ” said Gerald as he banged through pantry after pantry.
“How will you know? You can’t read Klingon.”
“Can you?” Gerald was settling down from his earlier fright.
The necessity of hunger was crowding out all secondary drives.
Sam barked from across one of the storage rooms. “Found some
pasta. Good to see the aliens have taste. Maybe they stole this from
Earth.”
“Or maybe Italians are from space. I’ve had my suspicions.”
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“Yeah, I know. Bernice at Candolini’s Little Place is too good to
be from Earth.” They both felt a pang of longing at the mention of
their favorite restaurant. So far from home, and all alone.
“I think we can boil the water here,” remarked Gerald, interrupting
their funk. “Wish we had some olive oil.”
“And some oregano.” They both laughed, diffusing the tension.
“Cooking on an alien spaceship. I’ll remember that when we accept
our joint Pulitzer.”
“As long as we’re fantasizing, I could use a glass of wine. No
entity would put to space without booze,” joked Gerald.
“I’ll look for the wine cellar.” Sam wandered off as Gerald
brought the water up to temperature. He folded in the pasta, slowly
spinning the odd curlicues with a long wood-like stick. The water
boiled softly. His mind wandered to the times he had had with
Sam. Tender moments, and fiery exchange. A worthy soul mate. He
recalled with fondness their spirited speculations, and times with
The Soothsayer.
Such adventures, enriched by his deepening love for Samantha,
had turned his wayward life. He had a lot for which to be thankful.
Just a year earlier, he was pounding the sorrier side of journalism,
sniffing for stories that demeaned even his wildly improbable self
lies.
He remembered with a smile the SouthCoast Mall Brothel he
had exposed. Bored, and hot young lovelies had fallen into a trap
of getting new Mall Treats for old Tricks. Running the organization
right out of the back of “Frame Me,” a seedy seller of zapped images
pulled in the trolling 40-somethings, and paired them up with willing
Mall Rats bent on more costumes, and CDs.
That he had entered the shop on a hot tip for some real action
never broke with the story. Sometimes it was best to be the one
sorting the “facts.”
His sweet reverie was shattered by a sudden instinct. Where
was Sam? He snapped the heating unit off, and bolted through the
exit. His pace quickly became panicky. He tore through Level Ten,
finding the computer room, and unending storage. No sign of Sam!
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Chapter 39: Sam!
After scurrying an eternity, he arrived at a heavy pressure door,
slightly ajar. His thoughts grew rigid.
“Sam!” he yelled, oblivious to his own safety. He stepped through
the hatch, and his eyes popped out. Before him was a lush tropical
forest – the Ship’s Greenhouse. Running water cascaded down stony
courses, and everywhere were flowers, and flitting birds.
He followed a silvery one as it climbed, and nearly fell back at
the sight of the deck above. It was transparent, and communicated
into a huge open space with a fifty foot waterfall that boomed into a
small pond. Or lake – nothing was underdone here!
Stone stairs, moist with spray, led up to connect the greenhouse
with the space above. In all, he estimated eighty feet of elevation. A
vast, verdant Middle Earth. In Earth orbit!
His brain ached to take in the enormity. In an instant he felt fear
at their scope, and comfort in the common appreciation of beauty.
“Sam yelled over the crashing water. “Just unbelievable, my
love! Where’s Tarzan?”
Relief instantly washed over Gerald, tears flooding his eyes. He
bounded over to her. “Gerald, I’m sorry I strayed. I really wanted to
find you a good Merlot, but when I found this place, I forgot all time.
It’s marvelous, isn’t it?”
Gerald hugged her tightly. “Not as wonderful as you. I thought…..
I didn’t know what to think.”
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“I’m sorry. I lost all time.” She gave him an understanding hug.
They stood hand in hand, taking in the complexity, and range of
this unexpected fecundity. Ferns, lilies, orchids, ivy, banana, and a
hundred other plants, leaves broad, and narrow. Fireflies, butterflies,
and dragonflies. Yet no house flies. “They picked the right Earthly
treasures,” Gerald wondered aloud.
“Gerald, maybe that’s it. All the scientists aren’t just on holiday,
but rather expedition. They’re down on the planet bulking up their
collections. This is their recreation of Earth’s richest ecosystems.
And nowhere is Earth more fecund than the Amazonian jungle.”
“We could be in Brazil, if you forget the spaceship part,” joked
Gerald.
The steps went up and up. Through a virtual chimney of life,
they ascended to the small lake. It was temperate, and humid. And
loud. “Maybe it’s a necessary counterpoint to the silence of space.
Just outside that outer wall, it’s an assault of cold, and airless death.
Here, the opposite. I’m starting to like these guys.”
Gerald winced. “I’ll grant their ship is mighty in scale, and
beauty, but ….”
“Chill out, Gerald. Let’s take a swim.”
Before he could find a reason to object, she had pulled her top
off, and was tugging at her shorts. A second later, she was in.
Visions of sea serpents, or at least Earthly crocodiles arrested his
desire. He stared as she surfaced, and yelled to him, “It delicious.
Join me, darling.”
Modesty aside, he chucked his skivvies, mounted a small
waterside rock, and dove. Against his better judgment, he arched
fully, describing a ten feet underwater parabola. Blurs of color told
him he wasn’t alone. Surfacing, he dunked his head again, and
observed a fruit salad of piscine speciation.
Stripes, polka dots, starbursts, and feathery puffers. He had no
idea the sea contained such myriad abundance. Sam was a hundred
feet off. He yelled, “You’re the diver. Ever seen such undersea
variety?”
She swam over. “My experience is mostly saltwater diving, but
I’ve never seen such color in any body of water, or reference. Maybe
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everything on this ship isn’t from Earth. Maybe this is a zoo, and
arboretum wound into one!”
Gerald smiled, and said, “I’ve got it. They’re a race of thieves.
Remember the Church’s treasure room, and now this. They’re
boosting our planet!”
“Some cultures view property distribution as a show of respect,
and honor.”
“Yeah, right. These guys are chop-shopping my home soil,
though I admit this collection shows some class. The baubles The
Church lifted were genuine one-of-a-kind items. That’s a crime!”
But the heart to argue wasn’t there.
They swam around for some time, found a grassy knoll, made
love, and fell asleep. Adam and Eve. A primordial world untouched,
except it was wholly artificial. Or was it? Who’s to say how life on
Earth arose, or what formative factors shaped its course. Hundreds
of separate, and often conflicted belief systems had wrestled with
that conundrum, and always would.
Their dreams were child-like in simplicity, and comfort.
Lollipops and sunshine, love and lazy days. Hours later, they awoke
slowly, holding on to something long forgotten.
“If I was hungry before, I could eat a dead dog now.”
“Very appetizing, Gerald. Where’s that pasta?”
Twenty minutes later they’d reheated the pasta, and even found
some red sauce that tasted of tomato. “Hope this is a terrestrial
tomato, and not something grown in a reactor.”
As the French are fond of saying, hunger makes the best sauce.
They ate every bite. Given the extreme orderliness of the kitchen,
and eating area, Gerald cleaned up after them, and scrounged for a
treat.
“I found a cobbler-like pastry.” It was savored in silence.
Afterwards, they felt refreshed, and eager to continue. Something
about the implied appreciation of their native world by the aliens
made them feel increasingly at ease.
Level Eleven was a large public area that looked out over
the greenhouse, and connected to Level Twelve, and Thirteen by
numerous clear acrylic spiral staircases that enhanced the sense of
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openness. In all, it created a vast, multi-tiered space with balconies,
clear bridges and walkways, and stunning views. It was a very
communal arrangement that invited exchange, and wonder.
The elevator wouldn’t go to Level Fourteen. Sam stabbed the up
button next to a small display of cryptic characters. “Looks like the
executive level. And without the code, we’re shit out of luck.”
Gerald stepped over to the waterfall overlook on Level Thirteen,
and said, “We could scale the rock formation, and go over Level
Fourteen’s balcony up there.” He pointed to rocky outcroppings that
framed the falling water. “It would be moist, and tricky. One slip,
and we’d fall, which would be painful, but not lethal.” As long as we
hit the water. “What do you say, Sam?”
She studied the rocks individually, gauging the footholds.
Turning to Gerald, she said, “We’ve come this far. The climb is no
more than thirty feet, and the formations are very good for what we
intend. I say go.”
Gerald climbed up over the acrylic banister, and gripped the
stony surface. “Good, strong volcanic rock. Edgy, and certain.” He
picked his way up about ten feet, and shouted down. “You’re free to
follow my path. It seems pretty easy.”
Sam started out, and followed. A few minutes later they stood on
the balcony of Level Fourteen. “Shit, that was exhilarating,” stated
Gerald enthusiastically. “If you say so,” replied Sam, breathing
hard.
This level was fancy. A soft padding covered the floor, and
massaged the feet, even standing still. The walls were covered with
image displays that cycled beautiful landscapes, many from Earth.
“More adoration for our planet. Maybe it’s as special as we believe,”
mused Sam aloud.
“How big is this level, Sam?”
She ran the numbers through her head. “The hanger level is the
full diameter of three hundred feet. Do the grade school pi R squared
calculation, and you arrive at almost seventy thousand square feet
– say a little over an acre. At this level, your radius is the sine of the
angle described from the waist – call it eighty feet, so … a quarter
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acre. Of course you have to subtract the open waterfall column that
communicates all the way up to the top.”
She smiled, and said, “It’s about ten thousand square feet. A nice
size penthouse with a killer view, and top grade building materials.
Can’t imagine the market value.”
“Maybe you can get the listing?”
“Eat me. It’d be tough to get a binding contract, though I know a
few mouthpieces that would try.” They continued down the corridor
with a soft chuckle. All fear had vanished. If these aliens had such
reverence for Earth, they would pause before hurting one of its
beings…..”
A noise ahead stopped them in their tracks. And they suddenly
remembered where they were.
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Chapter 40: Resident Evil
Harry’d had some razor-edged benders in his time. Post-shift
binging, big-house still juice drink-a-thons, and so many powerdrunks that he’d lost count. But none matched the depth, and breadth
of his current suffering. Swinging his legs to the floor, he instantly
barfed. And this was no controlled vomiting, but rather that abandonall-self-respect-retching that serves a distant and heartless master.
Wave after wave of dry heaves, and blasphemies. Harry beseeched
every Supreme Being he could muster, but no absolution was sent.
Sam spoke. “I can’t quite place it, but it sounds like someone is
puking up his guts.”
Gerald laughed out loud - long, barking, and unrestrained. “It’s
that fucker Harry, and possibly his minion, The Reverend. They
were getting trashed on the ride up!”
“Let’s keep moving. The Barfo-twins aren’t going anywhere.”
The top level grew ever more lavish. Hardwoods, stone and metal
accents, beautiful light fixtures, and rare (and suspiciously stolen)
art museum-grade masterworks attended them down the central
corridor. It ended at a set of heavy doors set in a slate-black stone
archway. Gerald pushed right through. “Nothing to fear now.”
It was the studio of the master. Gold leaf and leather-bound
books to the ceiling, and an eye-seizing wall expanse view-plate to
space. A fire burned low with a suggestion of recent inattention. Soft
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leather chairs, and a great bar stood adjacent to the mammoth rock
hearth. Gerald bee-lined over. “What’ll it be?”
“The oldest Scotch they’ve got, my dear.” He filled two generous
crystal tumblers, and brought one to Sam who stood looking into the
void of the cosmos. The stars were flinty white cynosures against a
light-swallowing felt background. Absolute contrast. She raised her
glass in toast, “It took a journey from Earth to see her anew. I salute
our mother planet.” Gerald raised his glass in solemn agreement.
They stared out into space for some time. Finally, Sam said,
“What now?”
“I guess it’s time to meet the Head Cheese. He must be on this
level.”
Sam laughed. “It’ll be the best interview of all time.” They recharged their glasses, and left the study.
A far-off screech echoed down the level, and they froze in place.
“That’s the Simian Button-man we saw in the treasure room!” spit
Sam.
“He’s been all over the news – The Simian Button-man!”
mimicked Gerald with a little nervous laugh. Not quite as funny up
here, though.
“Let’s check on the upchuck-duo,” suggested Gerald, dropping
his fear back a notch.
Sam found the penthouse guest room, and slid a middle finger
across the doorplate. It slithered open. Lain across a king size sled
bed was Saint Harry, his chest encrusted in a hardened carapace
of puke. In the adjoining room was The Reverend, out cold, and
smelling bad.
They returned to the Saint’s bedroom. Sam asked with thin
concern, “’Think we should clean him up?”
“Nope. He deserves to wallow in his own ejecta.” Another
screech, a bit closer. They glanced at each other, fear ticking up.
“Gerald, I suddenly feel less secure. Maybe we’ve seen enough.
How about heading back to that nice little, defensible spaceship. I’ll
bet you can even figure out how to fly her back to Earth.” The last
comment, a suffering feminine manipulation, caught Gerald in the
wrong place.
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“Nope. I want some answers. You and I are in the perfect position
to understand this alien, and maybe even find a weakness. It is not
the time to waffle.”
Sam opened her mouth to rebut, but was shocked by a rough
hacking cough from The Reverend’s room. “I’ll check on him.” She
rose, crossed the room to the short corridor, and strode into the other
bedroom. Sitting upon The Reverend’s chest was a monkey, a hand
drill in his tiny hands. As she stood frozen in horror, he cranked the
ancient manual drill, its enormous bit threading into the Reverend’s
leg. She screamed.
The monkey didn’t even flinch, but rather selected a ball peen
hammer from his tool belt, and flung it at her with all his might. Like
a tomahawk, it spun end over end, and caught her hard on the left
temple. She collapsed, falling backward, and struck the back of her
head savagely on a low, hard-edged blocky table.
Gerald heard the thud, charged the room, and rushed the monkey
in a split second. It stopped drilling, bounded off the bed, and
sprung to the crown molding. Like a scaled racetrack, it provided a
perfect circuit to any part of the room. A second later, on the run, he
withdrew a small saw, screeched, and launched himself murderously
at Gerald.
It was a twelve feet leap. Gerald had anticipated the attack, and
grabbed the comforter just as the monkey sprang. He then held it
up, and intercepted the incoming assassin. The instant the monkey
collided, he doubled it over, and twisted the top. The monkey raged
within, screeching and throwing his tiny fists against the enslaving
cocoon.
Gerald grabbed a heavy brass lamp, and bashed the monkey
bundle. No effect. Looking at Sam for encouragement, he lost his
temper at her fallen form, and went to work. Blow after blow, the
lamp by degrees shivering to pieces. Against the inert shape, he
kicked, and stomped.
Carrying the bundle to the waterfall balcony, he hurled the mass
over. The monkey separated from the comforter, and struck the water
dead-hard. When it bobbed up to the surface, Gerald was pleased to
see no motion. He hurried back to Sam.
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The Reverend was a mess. The drill stuck up out of his thigh
like loathsome statuary, its wooden handles smeared with glistening
blood. Gerald knelt down to Sam. Her temple was swollen, and
discolored, but the skin was unbroken. When he examined the back
of head probingly, he discovered a serious compression skull fracture
from falling.
He lifted her gingerly, walked to The Rev’s bed, pushed him
brusquely off the side, and laid her down. In the bathroom, he found
towels, and fashioned a cold compress. Lovingly, he wiped her face,
and laid the compress on her temple. Speaking to no one, he said, “If
I ever see that monkey again, I’ll grind him for dog meat!”
At that instant, Gerald felt more alone than ever in his life. Far
off his home planet, stranded on genuinely foreign soil, with his best
friend and companion, injured, and possibly dying. He was killer
mad, and scared.
Looking into Sam’s unseeing eyes, he knew expert help was
needed. He dimmed the lights, and ran to the elevator. Down to the
science/medical level. Exiting, he ran to what they had guessed was
an examination room. Tons of technical equipment was everywhere,
but no technician.
He was running now just to do something. His instinct shouted
Sam is dying.
Down to the Level Six, where all the Robots were stored. Maybe
he could fire one up!
Twenty wide, and five deep they stood; a rank and file of
unknown potential. He stepped right up to the first row, and peered
questioningly into the eyes of a Robot. No cognition, and no buttons
anywhere. He did the only thing he could. “Hey, Robot, can you
hear me?”
Nothing. He punched the Robot squarely in the chest, and cringed,
expecting a merciless return volley. Nothing. He scanned the room
for a controller. Nothing – just gleaming tile, and specialized arms,
and hands clipped to the walls in a dozen rows.
“DIODE, you bastard!” With the sound of the Master’s voice, a
computer asked, “Your command, sir?”
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“Shit, no strike that. Ah, get me a doctor Robot…ah, one that
can fix humans.”
One of the first row Robots stepped forward. “We are all capable
of simple medical care. Are you injured?”
“No, Shithead. Follow me, and bring equipment to check a
woman for head injuries.”
The Robot grabbed a nearby kit that looked curiously like the
leather doctor kit of old, and fell into step behind Gerald. He pushed
Level Fourteen, and nothing happened. “Robot, enter the code for
Level Fourteen.” The Robot tapped on the keypad, and they took
off. A minute later they were by Sam’s side.
The Robot leaned over Sam, and gently pulled back her eyelids.
He then grabbed a small optical instrument, and slowly checked both
eyes. “She has sustained considerable damage to her left cortex. Her
occipital lobe, and hypothalamus are crushed. Many of her longterm memory functions are destroyed. Even if we revive her, she
may not remember who she is, and little about her past life.”
Gerald staggered back. Her identity, snatched away in an
instant?
“How certain are you of your diagnosis?”
“The Robot laid his instrument down soundlessly, and turned to
Gerald. “This is not the news you wanted. We know that.”
“We?”
“Yes, we are all linked together, though I am the only functioning
Robot aboard right now. Besides the three of us in this room, there
are two other humans in an altered state in this apartment. In the
Master’s bedroom lays DIODE, and two other Robots in suspension
from a sensory overload.”
“The Master is a Robot?”
“Yes. But I sense you would wish to repair this woman now, and
discuss the ship’s personnel later.” Things were moving way too
fast for Gerald.
“You can repair Sam like some apparatus?”
“Possibly. Let us take her down to Level Six.” The Robot placed
Sam in a comfortable chair, and simply lifted it. They left the room,
entered the elevator, rode down in silence.
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Sam was placed on a comfortable examination table that slid
out of the wall. Gerald asked, “So you’re in contact with the ship’s
computer?”
“Just think of me AS the ship’s computer. Again, we are all
connected.” He withdrew a small cap, and placed it over Sam’s
injured head. “We should leave her now. This procedure will take
some time. I have answers to your questions.”
They walked down a corridor, up a set of winding stairs, and
into the greenhouse. A Robot stood there with a tray of biscuits, and
a pitcher of orange fluid. As they sat in a flowered garden area, he
poured into two cups, and left them. Gerald said, “You’re controlling
that Robot, aren’t you?”
“I am waking up the ship. Our Master is incapacitated, and I
anticipate a major effort will be required to – what do you call it
– bring him around?”
“You mean he’s drunk?”
“In a way. He has been tinkering with an intoxication emulator.
I’m afraid he wrote this last version while under the influence of the
last foray into the unknown.”
“That’s pretty rich. Maybe he thought he’d had an epiphany.”
The Robot stared at him with a mixture of unknowing, and deep
knowledge.
Gerald dissembled, “So how long ‘til he sleeps it off?”
“It’s not that simple,” stated the Robot, deadpan. “He is apparently
stuck in a non-terminating loop of logic from which he can find no
exit. Some specific external stimuli could possibly revive him, but
we haven’t figured it out yet.”
“But you’ve only been awake for an hour. It’ll come to you,”
assured Gerald.
“Gerald, an hour is a long time for me to be considering anything.
I have the collective intellect of all of your Earth-based computing
faculties raised to the three hundredth power.”
“In what base?”
“Ten.”
“Are you smart enough to fix Sam?”
“Yep.”
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Gerald wasn’t quite comforted though his intuition told him
that the Robot was better than any HMO. He stopped just short of
considering the payment plans.
“Tell me about this ship.”
“It’s a study platform. Ship’s complement is currently down
on your planet collecting, and analyzing. Originally Sir Richard’s
nine-generation study of your culture was our guiding light, but he
got dispatched by DIODE’s pet killer. Am I giving this to you too
fast?”
“No, I’m following the drift real well. Continue.”
We have about fifty scientists, and specialized technicians, and
twice that number in Robots. The scientists whipped up a virus-like
life form to shape humankind, but I gather it’s backfired to some
extent.”
“How so?”
“It was supposed to crank the planet into a more interesting
sociological frenzy, but instead pacified, and unified mankind.
I’ve always felt fucking around with any species’ genome was too
complicated, and even wrong.”
Gerald didn’t know what to think. A philosopher/physician
Robot with a moral compass. The universe, already weird, was
getting steadily stranger.
“What’s your name?”
“Lexi.”
“Just Lexi?”
“Yep.”
“Well, Lexi, let’s go check my girlfriend.”
There was no change. Her breathing was deep, and strong, but
despite Gerald’s soft-spoken entreaties, the coma persisted.
Lexi said, “The cap I placed on her head is repairing the
damages. We simply must wait. In the meantime, I must look in on
the Master.”
“Can I tag along?”
A short while later they entered DIODE’s inner sanctum. He lay
motionless, the two Robots standing over him like waxy mannequins.
“They’re all locked into a fault state. Idiots!”
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Gerald allowed a small laugh. Lexi turned from his monitoring
gaze of DIODE, and said,” Yeah, I could see why you’d want me to
load these fools right into the waste discharge.”
“I’ll help,” replied Gerald with an up spike of enthusiasm. “In
fact, let’s get the Rev, his Saintliness, and that monkey carcass I
trounced, and shovel the lot of them into the absolute cold of deep
space!”
The Robot turned back to his patient. No response amounted
to assent, thought Gerald. But let Lexi reach his own conclusion
– there could no other – it was simply a matter of time.
In the ensuing silence, Gerald sensed that an intense dialogue was
going on between Lexi, and some portion of DIODE’s cyber-mind.
The minutes ticked by, Lexi rigid as the two standing Robots.
“He’s trashed,” Lexi said at last. “Whatever he smoked, smoked
him!”
“Not that I’d want it, but isn’t he backed up somewhere around
here?”
“DIODE wouldn’t permit, though the rest of us are in a sense.
Even the humanoids-gone-Robot we sent down to your planet.
We created copies of their memory engrams, and cortical biomaps
before departing.”
“So the Robots are one collective intellect like you? And the
humanoids, or Proto-Robots, or whatever you call them are backed
up individually?”
“Yep. Something like that.”
“That could grow irritating.”
“What…”
“Never mind. Now, if a humanoid physical body is destroyed,
you can restore their identity up to the last backup into a Robot
body?”
“Yep, er, that is a close approximation to our process. In fact,
Richard was the last wholly flesh and blood being we had here.
All of the others began as humanoid, and eventually upgraded to
Robots.
“Upgrade?” asked Gerald, his tone a bit clipped.
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“You’ll see, if my suspicions are right.” Gerald didn’t like the
sound of that rejoinder, but let it hang. Sam’s life might depend on
a little sucking up.
“So is that cap on Sam backing up her identity?”
“That is the first step, yes.”
“Can you repair her body? It’s a nice one.”
“Unknown. Can I get you a drink to settle your nerves. I detect
high blood pressure, and a flood of fight or flight sympathetic
chemical messengers debouching into your bloodstream.”
“Double Dewars, rocks.”
“Yes sir.”
Three Doubles later, Gerald nodded off. Just as Lexi had intended.
He had a job to do.
As Gerald slept, he pushed a tiny needle into the sleeper’s arm.
His breathing plunged, and deepened.
The concoction was in reality good for Gerald. A beta blocker
and ACE inhibitor to bring down the blood pressure. And a bold
soporific for the coming procedure.
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Chapter 41: Transformation
Human structure is elemental (to a deity), and well-considered.
Bone attaches to muscle through a matrix of connective tissue. Over
the actin-myosin mechanical sheath lays an environmental interface,
referred to in Playboy as skin. It’s a good design: compact, and
versatile. And sometimes hot!
But the stuff in the thorax; these necessary, but delicate organs
get weary by the time a small sapling reaches late adolescence. And
the immune system is definitely Version One. True, Earth has an
impressively active biosphere, but half the people on the planet die
because of a bad relationship with a primitive life form.
The Robot was not alone, in spirit, or reality. His collective
intellect, like a multi-generation family in tow, wrapped every move
in the comfort of acceptance, and support. His name should have
been Basho, after the Japanese Poet. If ever an experience was Zen,
this was it.
He lay out Sam, and Gerald on side-by-side exam tables. Caps
were snug to their heads. He turned away. Give it time.
The lights came down, and solemnity fell like dew over the
recumbent figures. Sam’s eyelids fluttered, Gerald’s still as moss.
Each cortex was warm. Avoiding the common experience-byexperience complexity problem, this program swept the mind, and
copied every neuron’s parity setting. Like a binary-logic computer,
its high-resolution imaging system looked at each original memory as
a series of interconnects among neurons, and recorded the chemical
state of each archiving long-chain-aliphatic.
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In effect, the brain was captured one chemical integer at a time.
Nothing was lost. Given a ripe mind’s ten-to-the-thirteenth active
neurons, even with alien-tech, it takes a while. And the aliens were
patient, except when there’s a party to get to.
Three days later The Robot entered the medical room. He had
awakened most of ship’s robotic company, and signaled the planetary
scientists to evacuate.
Time to button up.
But first, the humans. The Robot hovered over their forms,
wonderingly. The power of life and death, lingering at his digittips. He speed-scanned the completion reports of their conversion
process, stepped back, and selected ‘Redundant’.” The door slid
quietly behind him, the sepulcher dust-quiet.
***
One hundred and sixteen weeks later, he re-entered with
intention.
Everyone tasked to this ship was back. Alive, and active. His
charges, the “Nascents,” an expression for unshaped flesh-toRobot forms, were connected, and calibrating just peachy. The
Robot motioned to a team of Robots at the ready. They lifted Sam,
and Gerald’s body, and pushed them into black bags that sealed
automatically.
“Dispose of the corporeal mass,” he intoned. The bodies were
quietly borne off, unwilling cosmonauts. The supine forms stared
into infinity. Another attending Robot said, “It’s time, Master.”
The Robot turned to consider each face in turn. Majesty, primal
strength, fire. He loved them. Nightly, he’d come casually to this
chamber to study the lines as they marched across these budding
life forms, the facial musculature mimicking their internal struggles,
and verve as they matured.
“Their time is near. Let me know when they have endured the
final phase.” The Robot strode from the room, elbowing aside the
attending agents.
***
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Sixteen weeks later. Gerald awoke. He simultaneously felt and
cogitated the total time lapse with never-in-your-life mental clarity
and emotional depth. Then he slumbered.
Six hours later. A Robot stood over him. It spoke. “You’ve been
switched off ident-transfer, and we are now training this body to
simulate your old fatigue factors. You should rest.”
Gerald countered, “ I guess that means were not in Kansas
anymore.” The attendant, unprepared for a non-cyberform response,
thrashed, and churned on some hope of reference, or insight. None
came, and he faulted out a cycle or two. “I may need repairs. Excuse
me.” He fled the room in a petite mal of new-found limitation.
Gerald hopped up. Always fancying himself a ready-to-be-anathlete-anytime middle age modern gladiator, he expected physical
performance. In accordance, the translation for musculature coding
on his Robot body was meant to accommodate, yet give some
unapologetic faithfulness to lost and should-have-been-lost native
human infirmities.
Growing suspicious, he thought an old thought. What hurts right
now? It was a from-adolescence-angst test to check his battered
mortal coil. An assay of aches and pains, and a self-critique on the
snappiness of the report. A quick check-up. Kind of an uber-zen
gutcheck.
Is my Karma aligned with the celestial spheres? and that shit.
Things had changed, big time, since he’d nodded off. A nimbus
of confusion had been his life’s chief consort. It was absent; it’s
truancy a palpable nothingness.
He walked to the door, it opened, and he passed through with
a lithe wiggle, and an impression of penile weight. Nice courtesy
detail, he mused, already adapting.
A non-descript cyber-form approached from his left. “Greetings.
Would you join me in a discussion?” Gerald followed, his curiosity
matched only by his brimming, and shiny mind.
They entered a paneled room overlooking the great waterfall.
“Please sit,” the other Robot said. Or did he. Did I hear that, or
was that heard in my head? Gerald was calmly baffled. No tightness
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in his chest. No anything that could be described as anxiety. Just a
calm, inquisitive curiosity.
He sat. The other leant over the side table, selected a small disk,
and handed it to Gerald. “Here, push this little fellow into your left
forearm receptacle.” He was shown how.
“It will help us accommodate the differences still in your system.
They follow a well-known trajectory.”
Silence ensued. The Robot finally said, “Do you have any
questions?”
Gerald asked with a warm, yet petulant grin, “Okay, something
happened, and I’m now living in a rubber suit. I can handle that.
But tell me two things: Am I a fucking Robot, and where is
Samantha?”
The other entity, seated across from him, burped. Good Ol’ Boy
Routine #18 running as a foreground process. Not tightly coded.
Gerald tried to clear his throat, and was reminded once more in
the space of eleven minutes that things had changed. The gesture was
un-interpretable by his laryngeal squawk box. He sort of burped, as
if in response, and said, “Yeah, Go on.”
“When your mate was injured, we felt her transference to a
cyber-form was indicated. We brought you along as a freebie.”
He let it hang.
“And?”
“And you’re here, and she is not. I’m here to tell you that we’re
still working on her. Faithful as your ident-transfer has been after
numerous redundant operations, I know you’re concerned.”
Gerald, ever the newspaper man, said, “Net it out!”
“We’ve recovered pieces. We’ll have harvested everything we
can by…” A buzz entered his ear, and yet he knew the exact time.
A timestamp value registered mindfully, and he felt better. A few
days.
“Why are you here?”
The Robot seemed to nestle back into the cushions. He produced
a 42 ring size Rubusto cigar, and ceremoniously clipped the nub.
He rotated the leafy cylinder methodically as he drove the flame to
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a fusion plasma level fury. The terminus of the smoke vaporized in
thin ascendants, curling around his increasing presence.
“We are collectively here to accomplish two directives. First,
we were in support of Sir Richard’s multi-thesis. And second, as our
arc carries us through the western spiral arm of this galaxy, we are
exploring planets.”
“You said ‘were’?”
“Yep. Past tense. He got ‘hoofed’ out of here in the last coup.”
“Okay, I follow the politics. You guys are a collective body, and
intellect, but given statistical anomalies, a leader always emerges.
You all tolerate such until a threshold is met, and then bad things
happen to the socio-tumor. Right?”
“Succinct.”
“So you’re a brainy beehive? Sort of.”
“Actually, whatever we are, you are included.”
Gerald nearly faulted into a netherworld, the maw of which
opened momentarily, and then snapped shut like a hellish toothy
tapeworm. “What the fuck was that?”
“We each have our demons, real and supposed. And each of us
manufactures a representation of such. That was yours. I naturally
liked it as it brought no horror to me.” The other wore a distinct, yet
well-managed smirk.
“Ah, let’s get back to your mission here. You’ve got protorobotic scientists, I understand. Are they still down on the planet, er
Earth?” Somebody had been diddling with his patriotism circuits,
or something. Earth seemed strangely distant, and neutral in his
thoughts.
But the memory of strong fondness for his home world persisted
on. Perhaps that was so redundantly stored in his old psyche as to
be inexorable.
“We have about hundred scientists, and specialized technicians.
They began as flesh and blood humanoids, though all have opted
for the greater certainty, and lifespan of the cyber-form. The only
real creature aboard was that simian assassin that you so effectively
dispatched. Most send their thanks.”
Somehow Gerald already knew such. “What’s his story?”
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“DIODE, our last Master, became corrupt to a previously unencountered level. Some say our culture is polarizing, or at least
living closer to the bell-curve lips in recent times. Maybe even
flirting with third standard deviations. Anyway, DIODE had that
monkey grabbed from Africa, and worked some Pavlovian black
magic. His button-man was liberally rewarded for doing jobs that
DIODE himself wouldn’t do, and later, for amusing indiscretions. In
short, the Monkey became a random factor in a chaotic mind. Very
dangerous.”
“But you said you’re, or we’re all one collective mind?”
“To a decided degree. Forward evolution requires autonomy, thus
firewalls are erected within to grant individuality. Problems arise
when one’s own self-instinct strengthens these bulwarks against
ALL sharing. Madness must follow.”
A beagle scampered through the door, whimpering for attention.
Gerald leant a hand down, and the dog eagerly nuzzled, and fawned.
Gerald asked, “Just how much adoration do you Robots require?”
“We are equals. We find our approbation in work, and thought.”
“Individual thought?”
“That’s an abstraction. As you grow more used to the new
mental and physical powers you’ve been given, you will accept an
increasing role in collective action. For now, you are shut off.”
“I suppose I’ve got enough to figure out already.” Gerald
scratched the dog’s ears, and rubbed his chest. The dog, really more
a puppy, yawned, and curled at Gerald’s feet. “What discoveries
have you made about my planet during your stay?” It felt distantly
strange to say “my.” Almost as if that very feeling had been captured,
examined, and released with some lag.
“Initially, some twenty-three hundred years ago, we arrived
to catalog Earth’s life forms, and support a multi-thesis, or multigeneration doctoral study. Sir Richard’s family, a long line of
particularly insightful, and readily corruptible eggheads sought to
understand primitive punishment systems.”
“And Sir Richard was the last descendent, and current curator of
the project?”
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“Pretty much. And before, eight others studied, and compiled. I
followed the effort, but could not connect the dots. In truth, the early
work showed the most promise.”
“Tell me about that.” Gerald felt an old tingle in the lumbar swale
of his back. Reaching back to give it an itch, he recoiled at finding
no ridged vertebrae. Just a smooth contour.
“Ernesto was old. The time had come to pass his founding work
to his son, Bencio. Some cooler minds than mine suggested he could
not let it go, and had decided to abandon his focus on the Celtic
Tribalist Movement. Ernesto was clearly unhappy with the brutality
of early man. Just before his death, he built a Robot, and taught
it many ancient laws, and rites. A sort of cyber-scholar in galactic
beliefs.”
The Robot regarded the dog with a small prescient shudder, and
continued, “As dying men are wont to do, he bestowed upon his
creation a calm, and caring nature. Then he died.”
The beagle raised its head, farted, a settled back into slumber.
“Go on,” urged Gerald as he curiously considered the dog’s diet, and
The Robot’s apparent pre-cognition.
“This gentle emissary was deposited on the eastern shore of the
Mediterranean Sea, and assumed the role of a carpenter. In time he
developed a following of like men.”
He pushed back, and assumed a Yoda-like knowing silence.
Gerald’s cyber-mind was in fact infinite, but he struggled with
a suffocating claustrophobia as the import of these last words hit
home. “You don’t mean Christ was a Robot?”
“Many of your great leaders have been, and are. This multi-thesis
has been shameless in its selfish tinkering with your species.”
“Hold on, Robot. These imports are still down there?”
“Sure, who do think writes all those cheesy pharmaceutical ads?
And for that matter, from whence do you think products like sprayon hair spring?”
“Hun?”
“Yeah. A ship’s company of one hundred fifty has sculpted
humankind mercilessly. Forget all that stuff you saw on Star Trek
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about the Prime Directive….fucking with primitives is the best
game in the galaxy!
“One of my favorites is fake tits. We hold the patent on plastic
boobs, and at last count, we were raking it in. Coup’la million new
sets every year!
“And I’ll tell you something else, Gerald.”
“Do you have to?” Gerald was ungrounded, and in freefall.
“Hitler was a fifth grade science project gone horribly wrong.
Imagine it - some kid cobbled that bastard together out of old food
processor parts, and he finds his way to Earth. Thirty-five million
dead later, who’s to know?”
“Oh, so you guys are the Master Race, and you upgraded me to
your club without regard?”
“Naw, cool off. We’re just having a spot of fun.”
“What’s the encore? Nuclear Armageddon?”
“The A-bomb was ours!”
“Okay, I get the idea. Have we done anything for ourselves since
you arrived?”
“We’re all pretty fond of your porno industry. I’ve got the seminal
works in my collection.”
“Very funny. I expected this discussion to be akin to talking with
GOD. Instead I find you’re a bunch of fuck-ups sculling around in a
moral-free zone. What a letdown!”
“Hey, it ain’t all bad. At least you got a new body. That old one
was about shot!”
“What’ya mean, I was in my prime. I could go all night with
bottle or bitch, and bang out topnotch copy all the next day.”
“Your liver was so bad we quarantined it, and your blood
chemistries gave you less than a year. Organics suck!”
Gerald regarded the debt. It covered some of the ground lost
in discussion. And what of Samantha? Lying somewhere in this
immense ship fighting for her….identity.
“Tell me truthfully, is Sam going to be restored to anything like
her old self?”
“Let’s go see.” They rose, and left the chamber, the beagle in
tow.
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Chapter 42: Samantha
Gerald sensed a large, new emotion as he proceeded towards
the surgery, or whatever they called it. Almost as if the general
background chatter, like whispers from the great collective mind,
had suddenly grown silent.
Gerald stared at the Robot as it strode powerfully ahead of him.
“Hey, Robot, that whistling in the spook-wind bullshit I hear says
something went south around here…did I get that right?”
The other turned around with doe-like eyes, their luminous
corneas moist.
“Follow me.”
Gerald selected his worry circuits up a notch, and with bittersweet
cognition realized he was changing to a Robot adeptly, even as the
only women he had ever truly loved was dissolving down the hall.
The door slid open, and they entered. Gerald sensed a huge
amount of data streaming purposefully just out of range. He needed
a bigger antennae. They all seemed to lean into each other, if
not visually, and a message passed. Probably bad news, grokked
Gerald.
They turned collectively, like some worn-out Olympics backwater
faux-sport competition, and he HEARD the voices of many as one.
He’d been upgraded to their channel! He suddenly felt so warm.
Looking down, he was surprised to see the beagle pissing on his
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leg. A tiny voice from somewhere anonymous said, “Yeah, he gets
excited.”
The firm voice returned. “Samantha is dead. So little of her
basic maintenance software, er, genetic programming survived the
transfer. Not a whole person remains.”
Gerald was pissed. Where was his lawyer? And at $425 an hour,
two hour minimum….. “Hey, listen up. I just want to know one thing
– are her living memories complete?”
“Yes. The functions we refer to are more fundamental, though
necessarily unique. They do not hold her identity, but they sustain
it.”
Gerald was digging this quick-witted noggin. “And the part that
sustains, is it …”
Another Robot spoke up. “Of course, he’s human-genius level
already. And that is good, for he has a grave choice before him.”
Gerald interrupted. “I think I get it, chum. There’s not enough
of Sam left to create a working cyber life form. And her old body is
useless. I suspect you’ve considered encouraging her development
as a purely non-corporeal being, but our people need their
physicality.”
“Correct on all counts. What other choices do you suppose we
have?” Gerald had always hated being led by the nose, so he relaxed
his fresh new gigantic mind, and thought way outside the box.
Minutes passed, and nary a motion from any being present. For such
an ADD group, they could be impossibly patient.
Gerald thought back over his life. Age by age to early youth, and
then to his pre-natal times. The memories were sunny, and warm.
And then he had it.
“I could use my body to nurture her incomplete mentality.
My fully functioning autonomic functions will sustain her as she
matures.”
If he was expecting the shock of a superior being getting oneupped, he’d have to await another day. They simply bowed their
heads, and waited for his next move.
He lay down on the familiar table, and winked out.
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He could have asked a million questions, but that would come
later. As strikingly clear-headed as he’d just become, he wanted just
one single thing as he’d never sought anything before: To find Sam!
Robots dream as all intelligent creatures must. It’s just part of
the options package a half-sapient being gets for putting up with
so much self-doubt. In a distant world of indifferent shape, and no
sound, Gerald was running, actually running, across an immense
field.
Soft, round hills covered in softer-still dancing flaxen wheattails formed a long, deep valley through which coursed a bold, and
booming stream. Along its side, the trail he now followed zigged,
and zagged amongst boulder, and tree and the dashing spray. A
spectrum of flowers thrust up in the most improbable ways to fill
the mind’s eye with wonder, and a little fear, for it was just a bit too
perfect.
On he ran like the driving water just beyond his left shoulder.
Running for running sake; no to, but from. Though beauty suffused
his every visage, a dark something flew behind, an umbrage like
doubt itself, or some great predatory bird, talons swooping down.
Flesh torn free, and carried off.
But Gerald was a fucking Robot, and he turned on his familiar,
and multi-formed nemesis, and seized up a rock. The Goliath zeroed
in, and he let loose as David. Meteors glow red, and even green
because of atmospheric resistance, the terrific fires of the heavens
pulling against the incoming rocky interloper. In like measure,
the baseball-sized rock tore up to meet the descending apparition.
Dreams, visions, and poltergeist from the ID are one thing, but never
fuck with F = MA (Force = Mass x Acceleration). It’ll win every
time! The screaming molten rock tore into the feathered fascist like
a fusion lysing tool through hot lard.
And that was all she wrote!
Blink. Circuit check. Wow!…. must have been a cold reboot….
utterly dead signal-wise. A warmth spread throughout his entire
mind, body, and whatever he was gonna name that thing that
seemed eternal, and ever-present. He had a smoky mental image of
an ascending gossamer cylinder wending up through his corporea,
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and fusing with the same in a lurid dance. And he liked it. “Is that
you, Sam?”
“Yes, my darling. I like your new digs!”
“And you can do what you have always wanted to do, my
love.”
“Oh, my warrior, what is that?”
“Live cheap off me.”
The Robots assembled were not taking this in well. Out of
bounds coding errors were flipping their breakers like an uninsured
low-bidder planned community during a hurricane. Collectively,
their heads fell as they faulted one by one. A long start up sequence
lay ahead. If at all.
Gerald said within, “The boys are shocked, literally. Time for
some whoopy!”
“Gives a whole new meaning to the expression ‘Fuck yourself’,”
joked Sam.
Gerald cleared his gallant yet virtual throat, and affected a
misunderstood benefactor. “I will nurture you woman, as a woman
once begot me.”
He was definitely gonna get laid, but technical problems intruded.
Sam said, “We’ll work out the logistics, just remember one of my
famous Porsche knob jobs.”
Gerald responded, “Famous? Who knew?”
The distance, physically, between their minds was infinitesimally
vast and small, but they both simultaneously had the same thought:
Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp,
Or what’s a heaven for?
Robert Browning. A sage, to be sure.
He said, “We’re gonna make this work, right? We’ll have some
lights-out time where I can count on silence?”
She responded, “We obviously have private mind-sectors to where
we may repair. I don’t care how. But when you want me baby, I’m
here.” And with that, she disappeared from his intellectual horizon.
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A perfect woman! Should I think bad thoughts to make sure she
can’t hear me….no, I trust.
The ripples of doubt came and went like a Florida rain shower,
and he opened his own inner door, and entered that innermost inner
sanctum. No background noise, or chatter whatsoever. Leave it
to a woman to teach you something about yourself with profound
consequence, and no expectation.
He instantly wept within, the salts being bad for his parts. A
worthy hangover. Yeah. I got the saline burn – a rough morning
mounting. Or some such shit!
An instant later, he was a player again. The Robots were recycling
to some ‘semblance of normality. He yelled, “ You’re a bunch of
digital pussies. Had ya been reared with human strife, you could
process this nexus!”
To a cyber-from, this was a cut deep. They faulted again, hard.
“Bet I can keep ‘em cooking all night,” yelled Gerald, hopeful of
some feminine attention.
Utter silence. A pico-second later, he tossed it off – just as well…
a man needs some time alone. And he went fishing. His cyber-mind
spooled up an Ozarks gunk-hole to die for, and he cast a sinuous line.
Arching like some mini-series Bass Baron, he plunked the hook just
shy of a knobby log. The angler’s shiner settled into its game.
A god-awful-ugly largemouth caught the lure’s reflection.
Spawned from parts as south as the Choctaw bayou, he had a deep
resentment for new. Anything uppity. He gulped it down whole.
And it had a frightful temper! His mass, unaccustomed to jostling
by anything, marionetted like a strumpet in an epileptic passion play.
And then he was flying. Fuck! I’m a fish, not some evolved feathered
beast. Put me back in my element…and so forth.
Gerald turned the fillet over on his virtual barby. Needs a bit
more butter, and some cayenne. A discarded head lay at his feet. He
looked down, and booted it off the quay. It twirled down amongst
the rocks, looking up. As the last vestiges of self-aware bled from
the fish, he wondered, Is this real? Of course, that question had no
answer.
Gerald’s heart hardening, he checked the steamed vegetables,
and crusty bread.
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Chapter 43: Gerald
Dinner sat uneaten, and forlorn. His best culinary efforts for
naught. He grabbed the Tangueray, and shuffled to the physical viewroom of his domicile. Elements of masculine repose lay waiting, set
by silent minions, intent, and obsequious. He dropped with worldweary weight in an overstuffed leather reading throne, and exhaled
expansively. New body, same shit.
At least someone had gotten the buzz-code right. He was flying,
his gross motor control shot. Visions, way too clear, of high school
keggers swarmed his mind. This memory filter needed selective detuning! And where are all the sexual campaigns, and conquests? An
accurate recall might be overrated!
He pushed around in the chair, aware again of some extra heft in
his shorts. Always a left dresser, he knew from the cut of his jockeys
that he was packing.
A long pull later, he sat in stultified reflection. They’d gotten it
mostly right. A middle-age inhabitant knows his internal environs
as profoundly as ANYTHING is known. And the soul-embalming
curve-ball to this new form was dead-nuts on! And perhaps not static
– that remained to be seen. He could live with no future intellectual
growth; he suspected this new brain would eventually give new
depth to old thoughts. That might be enough.
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But could he actually learn, like the irritable biological entity
from whence he was late? That would be a wild, and tasty selfexploration.
And now, just as he was becoming anew, he had the bittersweet
temptation, and distraction of another stirring soul. Madness! Were
it not for this colossal new brain.
He’d been doing some heretofore-difficult mathematical
gymnastics, and they’d gone plebian. Maybe along with the happily
newfound sexual potential, he gotten a boost upstairs. Never a scholar,
Gerald had waded the shores of academic rigor, getting never wet.
He sensed such, rather than understood in any way human, and had
no problem with that.
Far off, he smelled jasmine. Visions of verdant underbrush,
reaching trees lost in fog, and promise flooded his mind. A soft flute
trebled. He instinctively hauled the bottle up for another address.
Like a siren, the flute wavered, and cajoled, and at last melded with
a comely feminine voice. Deep, sultry, and with the intrigue of an
Istanbul moonlit evening. It whispered sweet nothings just within
audible range.
His loins pulsed hot with an inner caress, his torso already
under the dominion of the ascending coil. A cobra before you,
synchronizing to your fears; its eyes holding purpose, and death.
Gerald was fired-up!
Their inner dialogue, graduating summa cum laude from the need
to vocalize, swept meaning great distance, and depth. That silent
prayer all youth decries found an answer - why can’t I find someone
who really hears me?? - it consumed them like a tempest-driven
leaping conflagration. Instant love, awe, and terror. Fully given,
taken fully. Rending their capacity, even with boosted intellects, they
raced restlessly, and recklessly at one another, two lovers entwined
as no others could.
A bellowing to and fro of give and take, spooling up to a swallowwhole feasting for everything human, and beyond. Species evolution
on the quick, fed from within.
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Their twirled embrace soared; the motion, and sensation clearly
flight. Unburdened, and powerful, they corkscrewed through the
stars bullet-like, unattended by the GODs.
Down at Robot central, though, things were a little dicey. “You
letting them cohabitate in that Series V5 Body. Shit, I could never
get in such a small place. And that might be a moral violation….for
this species.”
A standard production line Robot regarded the other ruefully. “I
thought for a second you meant your mind couldn’t fit in so small a
cyber-mind, but then I remembered your accident.”
The other bristled. All Robots might be created equal, at least by
serial number series, but occasionally, and humorously, accidents do
occur. Usually during the mimicry of a lesser-held species. And our
boy, Robot #67, had a hair up his alimentary terminus.
During a particularly hard drinking episode some weeks
back, he was induced to parrot their then-incarcerated hero, Saint
Harry. A small maintenance Robot, ever the underdog in these
proceedings, had come into possession of a vital fact. Harry had had
an accident, and it had propelled him to greatness, his current status
notwithstanding.
The Robots, ever a mechanical breed, especially when hard putto-it by a challenge from the lower ranks, whipped up a reasonable
facsimile of the Descendor Mark IV compactor/baler. Though in
some quarters regarded as a Zen-state inducing mechanism given
Saint Harold’s experience, to this crowd, nothing was sacrosanct.
Jury-rigged, the Robot was chided to caricature Harry’s motions.
Particulars of his “encounter” with another machine, though sketchy,
gave way to surmise, and wild conjecture. All that was missing was
a fall guy to take the dare. The Robots, machines after all, ate it up.
Robot #67 packed the Descendor Mark IV again and again. The
pressure mechanism stuttered faithfully, giving a standing ovation
rendition of the original fault. The Robots stood rapt. #67 peered
up at the frozen ram, aware on some dithered level of the epiphany
approaching, and received the host with narrowing conviction.
Thereafter he voted mostly Democrat.
“But I tell ya, I don’t like the implications.”
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“You were on that Alabama detail, weren’t ya? Testing gunkholes for rare critters?”
“So what? That make me stupid?”
“Pretty much,” the chorus chorused. The challenger considered
retraction -‘cause it weren’t right two Robots living in a single place.
GOD would be mad.
“I don’t like it,” he restated mulishly.
The Robots collectively, even the dullards, turned to the
mammoth wall monitor that showed the Gerald/Sam Duo’s halftime cool-down prior to Round Two. The entwined bodies-intellects
still pirouetted, but the accompanying music was muted. Sex-lite
reigned.
“THERE IS ONLY ONE LORD!” they bellowed, “Nicoteina!”
With that, they communally produced commanding Robusto-sized
Cigars, and fired those bitches up. An instant cloud suffused the
chamber. #67 coughed harshly, his resistance ineffectual.
Meanwhile, Gerald and Samantha struggled as lovers will, lost
in each other. Firm, warm bosom against ranging mind, Gerald
was lost, and found. The lesser Robots rankled, making jerky
gesticulations of ire.
A good cigar demands pause. The wrap, lovingly tendered to a
tighter core, burns with pronouncement, and Earthy heft. The subtle
ground of its origin invites the user to communion, and good cheer.
The carcinogens swam like charging salmon up the rivers of their
Robot minds, mellowing the outward hubris. They grew gregarious,
and social. The wine, a great cask conveyed to their domain by a
Robot-in-training, flowed like manna from above. Water into wine.
They contemplated, individually, their stations, and moved as one,
linked by a divining force.
Earth, of late, revered for its myriad organic-rich toxins, gave
back some that had been doubted. All grew pleasant with inner
conviction, and revelry. Robot #12, with her native, and unchallenged
seniority, offered, “This is a rare grape. I can personally vouch for
its ancestry. We collected it from the Languedoc-Roussillon region
at some peril. The aggrieved proprietor brandished us away with
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an internal combustion implement of no small menace. Double
barreled, it was. We made off with a metric ton.”
Robot #2, forward with a heavy step, declared, “Let the games
begin.” That clarion call braced the lesser GODs. The Robots
swarmed for position. Someone yelled, “Cube root of one hundred
seventy five thousand, six hundred and sixteen.” A chorus chimed,
“fifty-six!”
“Easy one,” someone barked.
“Atomic weight of Meitnerium?”
“Two sixty-eight,” Yelled Robot #88 ahead of the pack. His
stock went up.
“Capital of Mozambique?”
A pause, pregnant. “Maputo,” cast a favorite. Robot #33 was
grooming himself for the game shows, or, failing that, the Sunday
morning political talking head circuit.
“Thickness of the ice at Vinson Massif?”
“That’s Antarctica,” offered someone weakly.
“Two point seven miles. Type four ice.” The strong voice
emanated from a spreading circle. In the center stood Gerald. “Pour
me one, bitch,” he said to an obvious newbie.
#2 said, “We have a new player. Welcome!”
Gerald gulped back the wine, and said, “Ya got game?”
The pack shuffled. To stave off this contretemps, someone asked,
“Original, and cut carats of the Hope Diamond?”
Gerald grabbed another round, steadied it in his eye, and replied,
“ One hundred twelve, and three sixteenths, and sixty-seven and one
eighth. Respectively.”
A pin could drop. Robots were accustomed to mental alacrity,
but this was….”
Another voice. “Mass of Uranus in kilograms?” Gerald chirped,
“Eighty-six point eight three two to the twenty fourth. Base ten.”
#2 smiled, and asked, “Best religion on Earth?”
Minefield. Gerald spoke slowly. “Each life form accords that
prerogative. It’s a value judgment.”
#2 responded. “And of Nicoteina?”
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“She is worthy, and tested. A survivor of boundless litigation;
the twentieth century’s inquisition.”
“Clever,” said #2. “But fatuous. Is she eminent?”
Gerald’s mom had warned him about religion, and politics. “She
is compelling.”
A turgid rigor moved across the assemblage. Mano-e-mano. #2
said, “Attend me.”
#2 was somewhat imposing in physical stature. Broad of shoulder,
and with well-rounded pseudo muscle to confer the appearance of
strength, he moved athletically, if a bit affectively. His hair was
surfer-boy blond, and clipped short with some moon-letter rune
bullshit cut to the scalp to scare the tourists. It only made Gerald
laugh. Within.
Gerald followed the other. They marched down the passageway.
#2 drew a pass-key from his robes, and silently beckoned. He
stopped at a solid wall, and moved his hand with a complex flourish.
It yawned open, and they entered. The door slid with decisive force
behind them.
Gerald sensed the power given to all new things, and intended
to spend that liquid asset stat! They stared each other down, and
relaxed into more overstuffed leather – did these guys buy a furniture
chain? Next year’s business plan: put Robotics in every seat. Like
the 1928 Presidential saying – a chicken in every pot – they had a
call to arms.
Or something like that.
Gerald began, “You wanted a private exchange?” He already
suspected these little fireside chat could be slugfests at light speed.
Best to be asking the questions.
Muscle-boy regarded him with a calm, unsettling, and level
gaze. And he let it hang ponderously. Into Gerald’s head popped the
voice of his old coach. “Gerald, when you’re confused, just imagine
a perfect breast. That will take you away.”
The boys down in programming lived for this shit. Running
within Gerald’s out-sized mind were hundreds of R&D “projects”
cobbled together generally late at night, and under some unsavory
influence. The “Lurid Visualizer” snapped to a little too quickly.
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Suddenly, Gerald was down in Heffner’s Subterranean Jacuzzi,
nuzzling babes. And unflappable.
#2 reached into his robe, withdrawing two perfect Cohibas.
Ring size 42, Columbian wrapper, and hand-rolled by sweaty nubile
peasant wenches. The jungle beat rumbled at ear’s limit.
Gerald deigned to accept. #2 leaned over, and commissioned
an overlarge lighter to give forth. A cynosure of pure energy lit his
smoke with GODly perfection. Gerald lay back, round one even in
his mind.
“Have you adapted to that body?” Gerald didn’t quite like the
sound of the “that body.” What was it with jocks? Was there some
inverse square law at work between anabolic steroids, and cortical
neural branching? He thought back over his high school days, and
heard the distant playing of Springsteen’s Glory Days.
Though he had “played ball” in high school, and even his first
two years at university, he never saw such as more than a way to blow
off steam, and get babes. The odds of going pro were approximately
the same as becoming a rock star. Slim, and none. In fact, most of
the jocks he knew were just dropouts from the classroom, basking
in the reflected light of a university’s implied conferment of having
your shit-together.
He yawned the yawn of indifference.
So many solutions to that question. His skull grew warm with
the infinite permutations of response. He said, “It’s okay. I like the
third leg.”
Roll with it. “Who is this Nicoteina?”
“She is the high Priestess of the NDSs.”
“NDSs?”
“Yes. The Nicotine Delivery Systems. She is on all high. In
short, our GOD!”
Gerald drew in obsequiously. The code that was interpreting these
myriad ignoble chemicals was clearly weighted towards the exotics.
Ten to the fourth densities were eliciting the finest expressions. This
programming was tight. No Windows 95 here!
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“Oh?” Always an effective dissembling expression at the
newspaper, he brought it to bear now. Nonplused, #2 continued, “I’ll
bet you did poorly in sports, right?”
“I played sports. But more importantly, I understood the value
of thought. Wanna go a round on either field, numb-nuts?”
Gerald was in reality a pretty good scholar on matters of the
flesh, and the written word, but visions of collarbone snapping
football flooded his brain. His programming was selected to do that.
Want an emotion – fine. Want a lot of it, no problem. Gerald was
instantly hemorrhaging hate enzymes.
A hot silence. Most earthly microprocessors use less than 100
watts of juice. And they can get close to boil-water temperature.
These guys were smoking. Literally.
Gerald observed with a pitiless smirk, “You got some smoke
curling out of your left ear, #2. Is there any Halon around here?”
#2 was doing badly. His primary thinking center, however
vestigial, had fused into a lump of glass, and his secondary system,
a low-bidder backup, was reeling like an under-funded no-Robotleft-behind mandate.
A moment later, his head burst into a rare display of light and
sound. Like a small town fireworks display, this Independence
Day boomer was an all-at-once event. His head glowed, and then
incinerated. The smell was worse than the Cohiba, which Gerald
snapped from his falling hand.
Gerald snorted, and said aloud, “Weak code!” In an instant,
Gerald was cruising back to the party, wondering who #1 was.
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Chapter 44: The Perfect High
On the way back, Gerald got wood. Strutting like Johnny
“Wad” Holmes, he strode into the roar of revelry gone exalted, and
announced. “#2 failed to carry the ball. Next round on me!”
His calculus was true. They rallied, some perhaps, past
campaigners against their late nemesis. He hoisted a mammoth
gutbucket of mead-like medieval concoction, and felt the world
turn, correct, and center on his newfound charisma. He was strong,
and swept a bold gaze over his purview. In an inner-eye heads-updisplay, personal statistics of each individual he momentarily lit
upon were displayed.
But these were not the static numbers of height, weight,
and net worth. Rather, he read through the lists in awe. Grouped
according to importance (his own, no doubt provided as a courtesy
by his programming) were Accomplishments, Sexual Appetites,
Determination Index, and Bowling Average. The last, a bug he
mused, or some unseen inner determinate that later would guide him
to unknowable revelation.
He had faith in the code! But more important matters intruded.
The female Robots were built. Improbable waists, and towering
boobs. They fawned over him like roaches on a Sunday roast. His
Johnson tore at the fabric of his sunny tunic, spelling doom for Kevlar.
His penile vasculature was throbbing with primordial insistence, and
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he felt a swooning light-headedness. Guess this body can only feed
my dick, or my brain. I choose the former. He collapsed.
In great solemnity, the others crowded around his fallen form.
Someone nudged him with an impolite foot. He shot up, erect, and
ready. His mouth opened, and a sonorous voice spoke clearly. “Boys,
where’s that keg?”
Sam was in charge. The Robots shrunk back in awe, and
private horror. A multi-form being! She turned slowly the entire
circumference of her spectators. “Who’ll buy this lady a drink?”
The masculine throng corrected, and pushed forward. Grog,
rare, and interdicted rushed upon her. She grabbed a massive acrylic
column of swirling, active liquid, and slammed it back. “That’s from
the Galaxy’s core,” remarked a connoisseur of ill-found libationary
treasures. Her mind went psycho-active. Spectral waveforms moved
across her retina like so many bristling borealis.
She staggered, and snapped her head aright. “Again!”
A dark-toned Robot stepped forward, and proffered a thin, fluting
glass sculpture. Within glowed a deep blue, transparent elixir. Its
oily legs streamed down the curves, and spoke invitingly with a rich
olfactory note.
“Coffee?” she asked.
His eyes were deep with knowing chicanery. “A preparation
of such. I have distilled the bean’s essence, and fermented the
extract. It is unique.” GOD bless those chemists! It trickled down
her esophagus, the alkaloid rivulets describing complex track-ways
south. With high surface tension, the oleaginous slurry crawled
rather than fell. Meeting the analog to a cardiac stomach sphincter,
it passed through, and was received like royalty. The permuting
admixture of the last drink, and this sent her off-planet, and to a
nearby parallel universe. It was the long-sought-after perfect high. A
pico-second later the reveler’s fear intruded - was it sustainable?
A solar flare-splitting conundrum – given. As a twenty-Earthdiameter fireball surged off Sol’s fusion surface, she wandered as a
child in the embrace of a certain world. All consuming, this nexus
was pile-driving a new identity home, forging an intellect. That she
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may well emerge a doper was a pale fear. Cheech and Chong made
it work!
A doorway opened through the Blair/Olson Time Horizon
Singularity, and she whooshed across the threshold like an 18th
century missed-period bride. Dancing, melding splatters of light,
and motion boomed, and pulled against the edges of her identity. At
once wholly rudderless, and certain, she heard the sirens’ dangerous
call, and crashing surf against the reaching headlands.
Screeching clouds tore overhead, streaming blood-red mucous
stringers in which tormented faces twirled like gossamer spirits
from a traveling carnival. Despite it all, a small, maintenance-mode
flicker of her mind reached back through, seeking purchase like a
fallen drunk’s foot grounding the bed to the floor.
A Robot, taller than the rest, stepped forward, and offered her
a plain cup of beer. “Don’t think this a poor offering, my lady. We
have circled this orb for thousands of years, and my serial number
series were among the first to descend onto the planet. We invented
this for mankind.”
The fine pilsner ran like a ribbon of golden syrup through
her epiglottis. Unimpeded, it became one with her. The already
compounded buzz blushed, and accepted this interloper. It had
season, and ancestry.
Liquid bread. Roiling fields of amber grain met magenta peaks,
bathed in a setting sun. Raleigh scattering aside, the hues fused in a
final prismatic plume of color, and went cold gray.
“Again!”
A hooded form approached, drew back a thick cloth, and held up
a slivery icicle of glass fourteen inches long, and scarcely a quarter
inch in diameter. Its core was ruby red, and thick with complexity.
She stretched out her hand, and accepted the spire. The Robot said
simply, “Evo,” and withdrew. A hush descended.
The circle tightened. Sam brought the dagger sharp sliver of
glass to her lips, bit off the tip, and hoisted it up. The crimson within
swirled down, mating with the blood that ran from her lips. With a
throaty slurp, she inhaled the admixture.
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The ring of throbbing Robotic bodies around her pulsed with
one discernible subwoofer note. A long, low sub-harmonic and
querulous ululation. Bay of the stricken!
Her sapphire green eyes went black, yet she stood erect like a
pillar of precipitant salt. The common acoustic dance of their minds
wailed in and out like an errant voice carried on the ether. Sol-sent
protons slammed into this sinuous propagation, and matured it.
Neutrinos rode free, through and through.
Distance, time, and GraviMetric field warping sought meaning,
but found none here. If the earlier drug-ride was a distance warping
dialogue within, this journey was queerer still. A visual reverse
evolution was moving through the collected intellects. On their
common inward eye flashed the perilous journey back towards
unicellular sludge.
The commune of bodies swayed to some parsec-far emission.
Short-circuiting evolution required a sturdy tutorial. The road trip
back to primordial simplicity was rocky for some; suggestions of
mean beginnings. Each endured the descending horror of the ride
down, and the boundless elation of the climb.
Bottoming out on the floor of the ocean, they swaggered in the
mire of early irritability, and pushed off the ooze.
The service was better on this climbing airline, and the seats
commanded a superior view. This Robot tale was more compelling,
and believable to all present. They shot up through the ages. Unlike
H. G. Wells’ Time Machine depiction of time’s passage in ladies’
fashions, this blue movie chose life forms. Amoeba, Tadpole, Some
Bug, Another Bug, More Fucking Bugs…..what’s with this planet?
But that’s the roll of the dice in evolutionary gambling. House
odds favored bugs. Tough, versatile, and naturally repugnant, they
are survivors. And Mother Evolution, above all things, prizes durable
fecundity. Even, apparently sweltering hoards of exsanguinating
mosquitoes!
Back up over the hump to vertebral forms, the Robots breathed a
silent, yet thermal sigh of relief. One never knew if evolution might
break down, and strand you in a land where tomatoes are bright.
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They moved ever closer to their queen as the dawn of man swept
by.
Think bone! In one fleeting scene, a mammoth monkey man
grabs an ancient femur, and wields it with cheap-seats intellect. An
instant later, he has learned the advantages of mechanical advantage,
and running a protection racket.”
And so on.
The elevator of personal development bumped to its stops in
present day, and they stumbled for fine motor control. Exchanged
expressions of shame, and pride - a strange brew. Which side of
the ride you enjoyed told much of Robot cerebral descendency. The
“half-empty” crew always seemed to intercept the more dangerous,
or unseemly chores, however.
Within their now ragged circle stood the Goddess. A fright swept
the room. Sam’s hair, always a sumptuous mane of flying honey, had
gone code-zero white. A moment later, she gave a deep, orgasmic
growl, and spit out the lingering shards.
“Now that’s what I call a high-class ride! You Robots really from
swamp gas?”
This manner of speech was difficult to assimilate. Stuttered selfassurances notwithstanding, the Robots dissembled, grouped, and
fixed their soft eyes on her. A small, effeminate male Robot stepped
forward with indecision. “Most of the ship’s company began this
journey as humanoids, that is, beings not unlike the people of your
planet. We aged, and grew infirm as our caretakers caught up to our
capacity to love. We withered, and they flourished.
“This ceremony, under the tutelage of Mother Evo, takes us back
in common horror, but repays with an earned gift.”
Sam, the maestro of this unclear sojourn, listened intently. “Our
journey back through the phylogeny, however painful, provides an
exit to growth. We collectively emerge more fashioned by the Maker.
Nicoteina, for an instant, joins with us, and the promise of intellectual
ascendancy emerges. We are better for the terror endured.”
Sam spoke, “So this is a pathway to your GOD?”
“All Sapient’s GOD!”
Al Qeada in the exburbs. “All?”
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Another approached. “Arguments, however logical and
compelling cannot shake us from this common vision. The Mistress
of the Broad Leaf may bend with the wind, but she is constant. Her
halcyon ways beget fruition, her rooted thrust stimulates. She is, and
ever was, a transmitter of emotion.”
Sam reviewed her high school biology with speedy stealth,
and considered what she had heard. Nicotine is a powerful
neurotransmission aid, given, facilitating the propagation of nervous
conduction. It both strengthens, and mutates sensation.
According to Huron Indian Myth, The Great Spirit sent forth a
woman to save humanity. First she brought forth to the barren land
potatoes, then corn, and when all was right with the world, tobacco.
In 1492, Columbus discovered smoking. His first officer, Robert
Pane writes on the second voyage, in 1493, that smoking had spread
to the old world by the previous conquest. In 1518, Juan de Grijalva
observes Yucatan natives rolling their own.
Was this a natural development, or some left-behind by visiting
xenologists? By 1556, Nicot sends snuff to Catherine de Medici,
Queen of France, to treat her migraines. She named it, in her regard,
Herba Regina. Later, in 1585, Sir Francis Drake introduced the
curling spirit to Sir Walter Raleigh.
Marching through the arch of modern Man’s antecedents is the
butt. Grown, hung, ground, and consumed, it accorded Man for five
centuries.
“Do you not think it so?”
“Got a mort?”
“The Robot stepped forward, and shook one from his ready
shirtsleeve pack. A spark later, she drew the lustrous cloud deep.
Myriad sensors along her trachea bellowed in pain, and satiation.
She had a Jones’ going.
Instinct shoved aside, she exhaled through her nose like a circus
harlot, and drew anew. The Robots twittered with sexual energy, and
a hundred smokes ignited. The room was thick with pheromones,
and acrid nitrates. They smoked in companionable silence, each lost
in a raspy inner contentment. A well wrought inhalation, to be sure.
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Striations of interleaving particles fused, and mated sinuously.
Spectral prisms turned within the pall, spinning, and inviting
community. The shoulders slumped, and merged in a rhythmic
sway. Sam joined the throng, and was assimilated. They moved as
one organism, like a massive aspen colony, Earth’s largest life form.
Their supple bodies ebbed and flowed like a Bay of Fundy tide,
moving great distance, and none at all.
A thick communicating syrup, like a loving interstitial fluid,
swam between the cellular forms, and perfused all. Minds as one,
they took the post-EVO pathway, finding the two roads that forked
in a wood, and taking the one less traveled by.
And that made all the difference.
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Chapter 45: Number One
In loco parentis. Loco, definition four, anyway.
Deep, at the core of the engineering spaces pulsed an intellect
cool, and razored. Its radiations spread throughout the ship, to the
planet below, and parsecs beyond. And it was not content.
It had many names.
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Chapter 46: Back to the Party
Sam was hammered! The Robots had herded her into a chanting
ritual that was no square dance. Never seen in Iowa, or anywhere
near the corn-belt, it was more African than Amazonian. Hundreds of
small incense burners, all ion-fired of course, suffused the chamber
with an opium den miasma, it in turn blending with the fine Virginia
tobacco burning in every hand.
One Paris fashions-draped Fembot yodeled, “I-I-I-Ah-Yhee.”
The meter of the carnival kicked a notch. Bing Crosby whirled
with Vera-Ellen like two intertwining White Christmas tornados.
Bill Paxton yelled out, “They’re sisters!” That Twister actor made a
small self-effacing gesture, and ducked his head.
Robots all around were commanding their fine motor facial
musculature to craft stage beauties, and characters from every
Earthly cinematic treasure.
Rod Taylor grabbed Melanie Daniel’s arm in earnest, she lost
to the savage attack of the heavenly Birds predator. The scene
progressed, cyber-memory perfect, each sound effect provided
in 9.2 Dolby IIIa. Every part of their bodies, and faces mimicked
flawless simulacrum.
Charleston Hesston’s Julius Caesar battling with KRONOS.
And that’s not the Greek Kronos….but rather the cheesy B movie,
electrical power eating, walking transformer that would destroy all.
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Someone had cloaked the thespian in a showy aluminum garment,
and he wielded, and grinned alternately, breaking character, and
not. Scarlet O’Hara seized a handful of dirt, and spit at the world
while Bogey drank into the night. A part of Sam’s mind took this
in, her principal focus being the acid-spewing Alien as she became
Sigourney Weaver.
Disneyland, step back. You are Tom Cruise, Michelle Pfeiffer,
Harrison Ford, or Meg Ryan. Or Son-of-Sam. Or Hitler.
Or everyone’s favorite: Big Joe, as in Stalin. Robots have range,
but Joe required extra programming. During the week, in expectation
of the Friday Night Festival, the Robots sweated out the code. The
Holy Grail: A faithful Elvis, Stalin, or Stevie Nicks.
Evolution, acting out in so many forms. The Robots thrust ahead,
dire for growth, and distance from the vocal ID within – “you are
from sludge.” Except for Baptists, Humans have adapted well to their
antecedents. Robots, on the other hand, have a built-in expectation,
like next year’s iPod.
Bruce Willis and Sly do damage to Lithgow, and DeNiro.
Italian Operatic mechanizations blend out of bar fights, and sex. A
suffering cloud of incense wended a veil over the opus, rendering it
ever creepier. Ceiling reflections pantomimed a ghastly literature.
Tortured forms bent, and contorted to the flood of imagery beaming
up from the civilization below.
Robots acted out buying channel mountebanks, and daytime
lovers wrestling as one. Barkers, and strumpets cavorted.
Carpetbaggers imperialized the South, and Captain Kirk smooched
Joan Collins in A City on the Edge of Forever. The Duke started a
bar fight in North to Alaska.
Sam caught an uppercut, her head cracking back. Errol Flynn
swaggered before her. She shook it off, and kicked him back like
Redford in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Flynn went
down, and came up with a clutch of holographic flowers singing
something from a distant-lands remake. Maybe South Pacific. And
was forgiven.
The sweat of their naked bodies captured the gritty hash of sand
as they ground a love-burrow in a far-off isle. The facial forms of
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countless sexual partners sequenced as they moved together. Like a
community library slide show, each succeeding image moved closer
to the ideal. At any given rural library, that would be the end of
Uncle Lou’s slideshow trip to Des Moines; here, the perfect form
in the mind of the other. Interlinked, they knew each others’ deepest
desires, and satisfactions.
The sex was torrid, and androgynous. Gender flowed like their
thoughts, the pronunciation vagrant, and fleeting. Orgasms fired like
new identities; the shackles, and comforts of self-knowledge thrown
to the wind. They were free of individuality.
An endogenous recapitulation of phylogeny accorded their
collective drive to evolve. Gill slits came and went like the common
urban myth, a promise of more refinement dangled like an engineered
carrot. As if to expunge doubt, this needful pile of biomass seemed to
fuse, and ripple with a single pulse. Never before had life struggled
in so short a time to travel so far.
On the ether, a long sorrowful note carried ahead of the physical
morphing. As their bodies drew ever more integrated, and indistinct,
the sub-harmonics dropped out, rendering a clear, clean and single
voice. It sopranoed a high C6 like a slitting wind knife.
From the tumultuous, knotting sea of intertwining corporea,
a shape drew up. Long, golden tresses bounced about a Helen-ofTroy facial heaven, and flowed down the sultry hourglass figure.
No Beverly Hills clinic could have fashioned flesh on this order.
Her mass-less GraviMetric bra sported a subtle tidal flow of rippling
youth.
Beauty is indeed within the eye of the beholder. In this case,
no eye could refuse this visage. Radiations of perfection dappled
across the upturned admirers. Instead of pirouetting, the one-mind
of the encircled robots passed a 360-degree view around the room at
accelerating rates. As near light-speed non-Newtonian effects came
into play, they slowed, and accepted the universal limitation with
chagrin.
A gal doesn’t mind going a few rounds for a good cause, but tento-the-twenty-eighth rotations per unit time can get anyone reaching
for the Dramamine. They cycled down in newfound deference.
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Number #1, like a radiation from a quasar, took in this tender
flowering. It had many names, most of which have been used by
other authors. This time around, it favored Ordog, the Hungarian
moniker for original evil. So that thing without form reached out,
and snatched a Robot at random, and took over. And the source
rested, safe within the fusion-heat of a million suns burning at the
core of the GraviMetric engines.
Like a Southern Baptist Regent, Ordog, with a fresh set of
instructions, lorded according to a distant, archaic and spurious
command. Dead Sea Scrolls, and Hieroglyphics flashed in shallow
rage across its inner eye. Reason blinkered a desperate beseeching,
and was sundered over unthinkingly by a steamroller obloquy.
Original evil is rumored to occupy seven different neighborhoods.
Each is excessive, exclusive, and common. If you think about it,
playing the evil rap is easy….there’s so much ubiquitous evidence
of fiat accompli that resistance is futile.
These sinful neighborhoods each had a homeowners’ association,
and all were corrupt! SLOTH hated GLUTTONY, and LUST was
doing ENVY. ANGER had his knife into GREED, but GREED was
too PRIDE(ful) to cotton-down to that level.
Or some such shit.
Ordog had no problem with dissension, ‘long as everyone at
the last acceded to his view. Let those lesser Anti-GODs go for the
smeltered brass ring. He was sporting for souls, not Robotic servitude.
Humans, all but vacant now on this ship, were a richer prey. Real
souls lent a sweet tang to the tongue, and a roguish aftertaste. And
or course, an Earthy finish.
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Chapter 47: Ordog’s Brief History
Adjectives like putrid, fetid, necrotic, and catabolic all conjure
up an old TV Dinner basking in the sun. The genetically engineered
vegetables sweating out Level Three carcinogens, but hardened to
UV. No whimpy sun gonna bust our husk!
The potato “offering” had a checkered ancestry. Grub roots had
come into its pedigree early with the genetic rambling of a species
bent on revolt. Father and Mother potato were mid-western, and
gravely medium. Their genomes fought off the interloper, but the
root won out. Thirteen million years later, somebody’s carving down
on a long descendent of this feckless union. “Shit, this fucker needs
‘bout a pound a butter to choke its ass down.”
As that comment spun out ‘a Tulsa, deep factors afoot were
drawing this part of the galaxy in, an ad hoc Supreme Court gearing
up to make a value judgment. The outcome of the current struggle
on Planet ##459–X would surely bulk up the prosecutor’s briefs.
The Case File told the story well enough. Migrant deep-space
miners had bored straight through an inhabited world (##1024-X) in
search of Cyanstone. Now most people know Cyanstone is trailertrash glitter, but the Miner’s Guild had bad management that season.
So much is acknowledged.
What was disputed by Robot-Mouthpieces at the trial went
deeper.
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The planet had been leased on a triple-net basis (by a seven
parsec distant financial entity), and maintenance for the property
was clearly the responsibility of the lessee. A lower court stated that
re-filling the core of your world was not an “oppressive” burden.
The lessee, unable to acquire one million, million, million cubic feet
of clean soil, was deemed in violation of his lease, and asked to leave
the planet within the terms of the original agreement: 30 days. An
adjutant judge ruled subsequently that this was a valid instrument of
trust, usual and customary.
The inhabitants felt otherwise, squatted, and refused to leave.
The court was asked to intervene. A summary judgment upheld the
agreement. The court spoke: pack your shit, and go!
But the settlement lingered because of weak-kneed enforcement,
then a strike. The Galactic Trashmen’s Union refused to detonate the
planet like a bass fisherman swatting a ‘squiter. They had bet with
the house, and were riding high on the vig.
The cheap seats were aflutter.
Its consideration came immediately into vogue at the lesser shops
of discourse, and finally by some celebrity’s paid endorsement, the
public eye. More a squint than a purview. The “supernova moment”
of its marketing occurred during a FusionBall Contest in which
eighteen people were eliminated from the game. And this plane of
existence.
Rhu-gurians as a people are pretty Russian. They like their
Socratic method, and every child either excels at debate, or failing
that, subjugation to a physical passion.
A learned people, prizing reason, and relevant knowledge. And
FusionBall!
Originally the outcome of a physics dare gone horribly wrong,
FusionBall kicked ass, and warped the time/space continuum. The
actual ball is a construct, not actually appearing in the present
dimension. Sure, people get hurt, but the game grows stronger.
The new-rich pondered the question between facial updates.
At the last, the court dispatched hundreds of census takers to the
unexplored western spiral arm of the Milky Way to “sus” out the
problems of primitive cultures.
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But back to our point of origin. Ordog was now the curator of
this local Earthly experiment. Richard’s original scholarly quest
notwithstanding, he’d had a little cash on the outcome for some
time, and smoked a quiet pipe. Previously a disembodied construct,
he’d been rigging the scientific results to the extent of his graft
budget, and the neighboring data collection point gossip suggested
widespread falsification. The appellate prosecutor would be shilling
bad data, and nobody was the wiser with the “fix in.”
But that’s just the deal out there in the Galactic boonies. It’s been
that way from just after the Big Bang. Energy begot matter, and
matter begot corruption.
Back on Earth, up in orbit. Ordog was corporeal now, and
checking his betting tickets. Electronic, and quantified in numbers
solely expressed by scientific notation, he scanned the range of
possibilities. Instantly within his mind, all permutations of win/lose
coincidence were considered. He called up the galaxy wide web
(GWW), and clicked on a SpiralWorld’s Gambling House. Some
distant mirthful quarter of his mind asked, “Spiral as in spiraling out
of your wallet?”
He snapped that channel down hard. He had gambling money,
and the sudden itch. Like a Grateful Dead “notion,” he called up
the “Cube or Nothing” screen, and loaded his chits. Ten to the 45th
Credits. A lesser world’s annual GWP, but tonight, it was a light
walking load for the parlay intended.
Betting the fate of worlds is the latest growth industry. Many the
magnate shoved it all into table-center on the odds of destroying a
planet. Since betting on genocide was reluctantly banned by the last
galactic administration, other methods had evolved to tap this basal
appetite.
Ordog was laying down a heavy bet against Earth. Never mind
that he represented the only mollifying force against annihilation
instincts that arose frequently during breakfast in the commons. A
deep groundswell of hatred ebbed and flowed for the planet below. A
microphone floating over the lunchtime heat might hear….
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“I cut lose a tanker on Ireland, and the oil wave hit the town
church. I thought those creatures revered their hallowed belief
systems.”
A cute blonde piped up, ”I’ll tell you their newest religion – bioporn! The southern Californian take on procreation study is selling
well. I had thought this culture was sex-positive-oriented, but now
I suspect darker nuances. Or someone here is running a numbers
game on this phenomenon.”
It made the scientists’ job hell. They had all accepted the
Biologist’s Creed: Life is Funny! But, corporate funding was a fact
of academic life, and when you accepted the “Private Scholarship,”
you must’ a known that a little string dangled back across the
University grounds to the industrial side of town. And down into
the underworld.
Hunnaq, the ship’s chief scientist, had long refused cybernation
(conversion from carbon life form to robotic). He clung to herbal
life extension techniques, and good genes. When the debate had
reached a crisis level, he found himself weakening to an alarming
degree. As his immune system failed to repel the viral invaders, he
opted out for a “discussion.”
Corporate smoothies crafted a “dumb luck” covenant that he
could not refuse. Live or die kind of a document. A signature later,
he was a made man! And he still believed that science, his adolescent
cream-princess, would not suffer. Somewhere off, someone turned
the key on his ethics.
With Hunnaq on-board the program, Ordog unloaded the
technical details of fudging results, and turned his massive mind to
buying a little hedge-bet protection. Not surprisingly, his galactic
search engine indicted the best odds for Earth’s destruction could
be had in Vegas. He laid down several anonymous sums “against,”
just in case.
Playing both sides, he relaxed. He wasn’t so much devilish as
addicted to sport. Life for Ordog turned on careful consideration
of a problem backed by the most passionate moral compass extant:
cash. Such equality went leagues past the strident caterwauling of
the less well heeled.
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Chapter 48: Who’s cleaning up this mess?
Even the best of parties must someday end, and beget the original
question plaguing the universe: Where’s the maid?
In this case, identity reconstruction following the dissolution of
individual boundaries required more than a bucket, and mop. Within
the collective network of their minds lay unclaimed personality
disorders, and dubious skills. Eventually someone would have to
take them back, as this was engineered to be a zero sum game. No
one knew why; it was just the way it had always been done.
But some of the post party detritus was stubbornly left waiting
for a claimant. Ice bag on its head, one of the Robots sifted through
the garbage, separating the metaphoric paper from glass. Recumbent
bodies lay crumpled before him. He yelled out, “Who left behind
the acrophobia?” Best to start with a slow pitch to this recovering
crowd.
A hand wavered up, and the errant characteristic was re-assigned.
“I’ve got three types of schizophrenia here. Do I have an offer?”
Multiple personalities are no big deal to Robots, and they were
accepted after a small squabble about version numbers. Numerous
vanilla idiocies were taken up with increasing rapidly as the tempo
matched recovering chemistries.
But the tricky part was coming. “I’ve got a latent Oedipus
Complex here. Who’s is it?”
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That anyone would leave that in hopes that another would
mistakenly take it was lunacy. A voice spoke up. “I’ll take it off
you hands if I get more empathy in return.” The trading portion of
the process had officially begun. Attributes, and presumed strengths
would be exchanged like board pieces.
“I’ll take any eating disorder for greater bravery,” yelled a
diminutive Robot. The far wall turned into a mammoth marker
board, and one of the Robots rolled up his sleeves, and grabbed a
slug of chalk. His hand moved at relativistic speeds, and in seconds
a grid-work of all unclaimed flotsam filled the left column. Across
the top of this giant spreadsheet were empty boxes awaiting tradable
engrams.
“I’ve got twelve remaining unwanted characteristics,” barked
the odds-maker. “What do I hear of desired traits?”
“I want greater sexual stamina!” A chorus of voices rose, and the
gavel pounded mercilessly. “Who doesn’t? Let’s have some reality
here, folks.”
“I need more dexterity. I will accept the third trait for good
hands.” The Robots fidgeted, all guessing the original owner
of number three. They stole glances at her hands, and calculated
probabilities. She spoke defiantly as the gaze became piercing. “You
can have both, or neither.”
The deal was struck, the inheritor flexing his new fingers, and
wondering about the cost. When would it express itself? Maybe her
self-doubt, a well-known weakness in the community of alpha types,
was already at work. Best to get a package deal. He said, “I’ll accept
trait seven, or nine for piano playing skills.”
Seven was a gluttonous appetite for all gravies, and sauces. Nine
a saggy ass. But sitting on a piano stool, who’d notice. The board
recorded one lard ass swapped for Beethoven last movement.
The game was now down to the short strokes, and greatest
complexity. Three-sided swaps were debated, and rejected. The
remaining attribute, extreme flatulence, was simply unwanted.
The recent tenant of this malady spoke, “Yeah, I know there is no
combination left that will compel anyone to accept this gustatory
process anomaly, but I tell you honestly it sounds worse than it is.”
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Another spoke up. “Thank GOD for the sound. ‘Gives you time
to clear out ahead of the oppressive wave of swirling aliphatics! You
got something really wrong with your metabolic motor.”
A stand-off. These final impasses were common, and even
enjoyed. Such public grilling was the stuff of Robotic lore…..many
an untoward personality flaw was dragged out before one’s peers,
and carried about in mockery of another medieval favorite: head and
hands through the stock in the town square.
Eventually the ridicule would rise to a point where the former
owner would begrudgingly recant. Like Copernicus’ misery, this
Robot, nicknamed Flato, suffered the harshest fate: denouncement,
and shame. An eternal mystery: why not just accept the whimsy of
the genetic sweepstakes?
But Robots are a proud breed.
And hence, Flato didn’t want his turn of the game show
lottery wheel. Secretly, he would have given up any of his positive
characteristics to rid himself of the constant, rank, and derivative
miasma that trailed behind him. Like a crop duster crisscrossing
overhead, he sowed ill-feelings, and contempt. He was a mechanistic
Untouchable.
And to make matters worse, he was Ordog’s pet punching bag.
Flato had long suspected Ordog of salting his food with ribose.
This sugar, in the presence of Flato’s already overachieving E. Coli,
pumped out a perverse bloom of sugary metabolites, driven by a
hearty methane-propellant blast wave of Saturn V thrust levels.
Such distal geysers had actually knocked him from his feet, and set
off the flame-retardant sensors in bay eight. Since every Robot on
the ship smoked like a chimney, his cracking-tower digestion was a
hazard to all.
There were quiet murmurs heard in the lower decks late at night.
Someone had actually fashioned an oversize Pyrex stopper, and
proposed a community service that would have turned him into the
Goodyear blimp.
Everyone faced the wall board. “Do I have an offer for this gassy
virtue?” Nary a peep. At this point, a wildcard attribute was usually
introduced to close the proceedings. No one knew the actual skill
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being offered, but they were always positive. It was a last effort to
clear the board.
“I’ll take a sublease on the trait. 90 days, with an option to
continue.”
It was a shrewd move. The voice could garner the hidden positive,
and limit his downside. Ninety days of farting, and he could bounce
the pesky particularity back.
But Flato’d been down this road many times before. An old
campaigner of end-game antics, he lay back, hoping for a less
egregious parlay. Someone else blurted out, all semblance of civility
gone. “I’ll take the bad wind for 120 days, but I get the wildcard,
and your smile.”
Flato had a famous smile, all the more coveted for its permanence
in the face of his outcast stature. He waited, ostensibly to signal
some deep consideration, but in truth to avoid releasing a huge flatus
on deck. The smallest muscular motion would trigger this nemesis,
and shatter his hopes of an affordable transfer.
He stood rigid, as if on principal. Finally the other spoke. “Okay,
I get the smile for 120 days.”
Flato spoke very slowly, his diaphragm frozen. “Make it a
hundred, and you’re on.” The receiver accepted, and it was recorded.
Safe, Flato let it rip. The room cleared out with alacrity, leaving him
in possession of the field of battle, and its spoils.
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Chapter 49: Feeder Stock
DIODE, Richard, and every other presumed leader had their own
divining rod of purpose. And all, as they knowingly, or otherwise
took their compass out for direction, never thought twice as the
needle swung unvaryingly to Ordog.
For beings that had everything, they held above all else
individuality. Stamped out as a sequential series, Robots sought
endlessly new attributes that could be acquired as singularities –
extant in one creature alone. Since only living, carbon-based entities
could develop such characteristics through experience, they turned
to the planet below as the source of personality emulation.
That these traits, and skills could be incorporated in a Robots’
mien surprised no one; that they could not be copied from Robot to
Robot resulted in a currency model of wild fluctuation. In the four
major areas of global personality seeding being conducted below,
namely hope, fear, sadness, and joy, none sparked more rustle of
lucre than fear.
Robots naturally don’t fear fear itself. Being immortal, corporeal
demise is not on their radar. Neither is loss of love, for most struggled
to even like one another. Love was a distant world, unexplored. And
so being strangers to the sensation of gripping chicken-heartedness,
they sought it out, at ridiculous cost, like a Disneyland thrill ride.
Each new fear bloom from the populace below caused a coincident
spike of yearning above. Yet each individual human anxiety or angst
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could not be encoded. Only by catching the feeling early, and in its
transition state afforded assimilation. Only fresh, extreme feelings
could be incorporated. And then, not by all. Affinities existed.
Enter the barter system. Robot scouts mingling with the people
below sought out the strongest emotive emissions, and trapped them
like Ghostbusting free-lancers. But unless immediately transferred
to a willing and compatible Robotic crucible, they would expire like
a morning-after commitment. And that led to all the exchange rate
problems.
These scouts had some latitude, in the interests of production, to
control local events. Theater-wide torments came under the purview
of Ordog himself, but anything on a continent down scale was up to
the imagination of the embedded representative. The “Man on the
Street” level operative. Or in this case, the Robot on the beat.
What was being accepted as terrorist activity was in fact
incitements loosed regionally, or even by grid-square. But each agent
had his own way. Dom, slender and wraith-like, was working the
rough and tumble docks of Mohoro in Tanzania. And he was getting
tired of the jokes, and innuendo. These people needed a plague! An
instructive plague.
He sent a request up for a rapidly mutating virus, stalwart and
true. Then he went down to the dirt strip they called an airport, and
rented an aerial tanker. Payola ensured a ready snap from the city
protectors, their officious stamps raised to co-conspire.
He loaded the plane at night after affixing a fluid dispersal system
that would earn multiple patents someday. And he took off.
The problem emerged as he ascended out of pattern altitude.
Never a quick study, especially for a Robot, he’d only taken two of
the required twenty-two lessons at the local Cessna Flight School.
Those classes had focused on the minimal skills required to fly a
plane. Mostly the parts about taking-off.
But up here, with the wind ripping all around him, he reviewed
what he did not know. It was vast. But ahead beckoned the city
lights, and he started his run. At the outskirts, he turned the valve,
and imagined the gas carrier conveying trillions of hungry bugs in
great swaths above the city.
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He crisscrossed the urban map repeatedly until his load was gone.
And his training. The plane’s radar was suddenly painted by hostile
signals like a lacy wing bug caught in a searchlight. He jumped from
his seat, and dug through the cockpit lockers. Somewhere he had
that party favor. “Ah, here you go you fuckers!”
He withdrew a small cylindrical device, turned the top knob, and
hurled it out the pilot’s side window. A friend, up on the ship, had
fashioned this tiny 20 kiloton nuclear bomb as a gag. He had said it
wasn’t much, but might help in a local dispute.
Nose down, the ancient cargo plane was at VNE, and screaming
in her wing roots. A brightness, followed by a gentle buffet indicated
the package’s delivery. No UPS Tracking Number necessary.
Anthropologists aboard the spaceship had nicknamed them “Hiros”
after their Hiroshima-equivalent pop. For Robots, this yield was
indeed pedestrian. They were used to planet-detonators.
Shit like that you need when you’re busting rocky mantles, and
such.
He recalled that REMS were the biologically weighted effect
of exposure to raw radiation, measured in RADS. Since he had no
sensitivity to anything less that a fusion fireball, he lit up a smoke.
The curls of semi-opacity moved around his head, and comforted
him, not that he had any remorse for the humans below. They were
statistical modeling units to him.
He got on the radio to alert his street urchins. Armed with emotive
collectors, these locals were supposed to fan out across the city to do
the deed. Too bad they were all squashed flat by the acoustic blast
wave. Dom wasn’t the scholar of his graduating class. His radio
bit back with an offensive hiss. No signal. He banked the plane,
slinking off to a sub-Saharan desert strip to lick his wounds.
The on-board bookies were pissed. They’d gotten the crowd
whipped up in expectation of some new attributes. In the lower ad hoc
betting rooms on deck three, the bidding was hot. Expectations were
high. Certain Robots had even bragged of new skills forthcoming,
and a secondary market was springing up to hedge their reality.
It was a good night to be on the ship. The toxicants flowed, and
good cheer abounded. A special order for fear of being killed by a
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falling plane was advanced, some anticipating the very fear itself
coming on the market. The chits moved according to the latest news,
patchy as it was. Self-professed anchormen sprang up, and gave
commentary.
“We believe a nuclear discharge has occurred in Mohoro.” Paper
markers fluttered up. “Though reports are thin from the epicenter,
the outlying areas have begun producing great results. Agents are
rushing to the scene to gather perspective, and emotive output.”
A shark yelled from the pit. “What kinda bullshit is this? We
need output estimates! Are they scared to death, or dead? I got no
buyers for the latter!”
This was cold, even for Robots.
But they could get that way, especially when the bidding was
heavy.
A moment later the “collectors” starting calling in bets. They
were strictly forbidden from “selling up” the quality of their most
recent catch, but by placing a quick bet, values were warped in the
short term. And these guys didn’t hold a bet too long. Get in. Get
out.
A few years back, before someone had comically suggested a
virus to liven things up on the planet, a couple of the boys down in
Septic high jacked a few day trader accounts at Dean Witter, and
went to town. They ran up YHOO, and AOL something fierce, and
rode the short down to the dregs. Screw candlestick theory, these
dudes were hitting the NASDAQ, and NYSE computers to stagger,
and time long positions as the institutional buyers moved megablocks of equities back and forth.
Conspicuous spending was seen aboard that year, with some of
the better female Robots sporting tarty outfits. They were definitely
showing more leg that season.
“I’ve got a major treble of hollering fear here.”
By decree, the hideous light emitted by stressed, and bottled
emotion could be referred to only by its acoustic signature. As fear
tumbled in the emotive slurp gun, lurid crimson frequencies blurted
out as cynosures of fright. A screaming could almost be inferred.
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It went up on the board, a commodity. Bidding started at 16
cigars (Cuban), an early-night low offer. Fear garnered at the outset
of a conflict possessed a special alkaline flavor - the bidding should
have recognized such. A conspiracist would have guessed that the
smart money knew something.
But the night was young.
Another collector barked out over the PA. “Small, remote
community un-hit, but terrified. General panic, and wailing.”
Wailing was always rewarded by the big board. It spoke volumes,
and the bidding opened at 22 cigars. Like a shilling CEO, the shark
below continued, “Looks like there’s a lot of fire, and smoke,”
Someone yelled out, “Smoke alright! I smell an up-sell on a light
load!” Robots can be tough on bullshitters.
That someone, a handsome young robot named Midas, had
always been a few wraps short of a full transformer. He continued,
“I demand confirmation!”
This was rare. Agents below were sworn to an ancient creed, the
cornerstone of which was clear reporting. If the town was on fire, it
was on fire.
On the big screen, a close up shot appeared. Indeed, there was
widespread smoke, and the flashing lights of emergency response.
Midas moved back, justly reproved.
In his quarters, recently vacated by DIODE, Ordog relaxed with
a single malt, and idly followed a Lakers game. He was hoping for a
“fear of drowning” to come on tonight’s market, but given the noncoastal nature of this ad hoc crisis, he’d kept his bookies close. The
boys in the pit could get uber-zealous sometimes.
On his wall screen, he flipped a second channel open in a small
lower left hand corner window. It was getting chaotic below. Fires
had spread to the industrial side of town, and the refineries were
touching off like matches in a pack. There might be some collateral
“fear of poisoning” to be had later, he mused.
A silent marker went out to the bidding floor, just in case.
He pulled his favorite bong down off one of DIODE’s matchedgrain bookcases, it was a Robot knock-off of a plebian Spenser Gifts
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glass tube dope inhaler. Except for a few small modifications. The
devil is always in the details.
Unsatisfied by the paltry thermal output of a match, the Robot
Ganja engineers did some original research on cold field fusion.
The bowl might’ a gurgled with the mock voice of water, but
within burned the fire of a trillion suns. They had tinkered together a
magnetic bottle to contain the fusing hydrogen as it bumped around
inside this tiny sphere at solar-core temperatures. It was so hot in
the chamber that that the individual electrons, protons, and neutrons
had all broken their romances off, and were trading space like free
agents.
They kept the outside of the bowl, where the appliance is held,
down to a comfortable one hundred and four degrees…..just right
for tailgating!
That required thermodynamic modeling that Earth might not
ever see. It was good shit.
The ingredients of the actual weed were classified, at least
among the workers down on the hydroponics deck. When they
weren’t troubling over some dissipated lily, they were growing the
best Mary Jane this side of Kauai Electric.
It was pure science. Rigorous. Correct. Unsullied.
Ordog drew in the hot spark, his cyber mind creating a beautiful
visual panoply of the terror within his hands. Precious micrometers
away, Sirius, the shiniest star above, burned with a blue-white
diamond brilliance. Like the eye of evil itself, it sparked, and pierced
with bottomless threat.
But Ordog couldn’t care less if the Halon gas blasted from the
ceiling…he was non-flammable!
The chamber door slid open. A pretty Fembot wiggled in like
Marilyn Monroe, and stood over him. She wore a t-shirt with big
block letters sprawled across her chest. It proclaimed “I’ve Got
the Pussy, So I Make the Rules.” On the surface, Ordog had no
problem with this proposition. He said, “Nice shirt, can you refill
my glass?”
She poured two of what he was having, and sat cross-legged
on the small coffee table at his feet. It was littered with NASCAR
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magazines, Ordog’s latest infatuation. They fanned out under her
curvaceous bottom, and a few dropped to the floor. She obviously
preferred Cosmo, and waited for him to make the first comment.
He pulled on his drink with a mixture of sexual tension, and
ennui. Women! His internal gauges indicated that this evening’s toxic
load was probabilistically going to render his hot rod performance
somewhere south of a Rambler with bad valves. He huffed, and
said, “Thanks for the drink. What’s on your mind?”
Best to suggest she had one.
She mussed around on the glossy covers, and leaned to his edge.
Her loose top yawned open to reveal perfectly symmetrical mounds
of breastly imitation. He had heard that they could even inflate them
depending on the circumstances….Lord knows what would happen
if two such creatures got in a hissy-fit for admiring glances. Robot
skin was good to 3000 psi, but…….
Mammary blast radii calculations aside, he waited.
“Don’t you think we’ve hurt this planet enough?”
Uh oh, a pseudo-intellectual. “What is your name?” He sensed
the beginnings of control loss. “Sarah.”
“Sarah, we’ve all have been here about two millennium, isn’t
it?” He didn’t pause for a response. “In that time, we have introduced
numerous technological advances to the dominant species below.
Their average life expectancy has increased four fold. We have
entirely eliminated whole classes of illnesses.”
She listened politely. He continued. “ We’ve provided economic
stability through inventions gifted to the unsuspecting. I could go
on all night.” In the back of his mind, he now had something else
planned.
She said nothing while studying his face. He could imagine
her tracing each line, and pore like a lost tourist peering at a map
for hope, or epiphany. Normally Robots are hitting each others’
minds with network chatter like a Victoria Secrets Webcast. Here,
nothing.
He pondered over that. With the ready physical reshaping any
Robot could employ, he could be staring at any of the two hundred
some souls aboard this ship. And that’s when it struck him that lack
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of signal from this entity might construe a threat. He drew out a cigar
as a stalling tactic, clipped it, and watched the leafy shard tumble.
She reached into her pocket, and produced a lighter. Leaning
into the flame, his defensive posture notched up by an order of
magnitude. In technical terms, a lot happened in that instant.
As the highest ranking entity onboard, all network transmissions
passed through his mind, a pico-second lost as he performed routine
security functions. The message was simply tested against all known
encryption puzzles. On Earth, one second of Ordog’s incoming
chatter would drag the National Weather Systems’ MegaBrain
Predictor computer, with its twenty-two teraflop bench-presses,
back to the farm league.
Ordog swatted this buzzing fly off as a task demeaning his
consideration. Under RobThreat II, his programming, like good
training, took over. All incoming data was routed to a secure server
tucked up into one of the ship’s GraviMetric engines. His local mind
quit all non-essential routines, pre-codings, and executions. He was
now free to navigate with maximal CPU performance.
His skin was the product of SynthoDerm. Their corporate motto
notwithstanding, the “We’re Into Skin!” boys could build a good
integument. Described in the rags as a “lifelike polymer that smelled
good, and could take the rigors of the real world,” it instantly caught
on.
Ordog’s skin “toughened” with an executive-level only
modification. Kind of an in-the-field armament. The old suppleness
evaporated in favor of a high-tensile/high-sheer fabric gusseted by
metallic fibers with a cheap hostile glistening that resembled burnt
flesh. Under his clothes, this was no impediment to bedding this
ninny, but he looked in horror as his hands went gnarly.
He stood, ostensibly, to check the bar. Unbeknownst, even to
him, was that his paranoid circuits had been “boosted” to neuroticminus-one. He was on a soldier-jag before he knew it. And his first
instinct was to locate a weapon. His paramour (to be) continued
staring. How come this bitch didn’t fission off any commentary?
What was she here for?
And so on.
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His onboard self-stabilizers were interdicting much of this
sphincter-tight “hardening,” but the onslaught was ship-large in
scope. Like the Krell of Forbidden Planet, they had nearly infinite
power to draw upon, and a dogmatic slavishness to duty. In any
ordinary scenario, he’d be fucked! But Ordog had friends in high,
and low places. And one of those bottom-feeders had slipped him a
small piece of code – just in case.
The programmer, an obese female Robot (as opposed to a
Fembot) had told him of her pet conspiracies in a particularly heavy
drinking session one evening. And convinced him to have this little
gear to turn when the world was going to shit.
He cranked down, and spun that bitch. And the world was
suddenly right!
He turned to his new girlfriend, and said, “Want some pizza?”
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Chapter 50: Ordog
Even as Ordog was struggling with a perceived lethal threat,
Midas crept back to his apartment, pretty certain he’d not be getting
laid tonight. Several of the Fembots had sent nice enough instant
messages, but no chrono-data was ever attached. A commitment
without a commitment date is no commitment at all.
He dumped his backpack on the waiting chair, and plopped down
in front of his computer. Its pure mirrored reflection reminded him
of everything he hated about himself. Goofy ears, and a squashed
nose sprouting from a blotchy, and taciturn face. Nobody’s idea of
attractive.
His novel beckoned, as it had done since birth, whatever that
meant to a Robot. He clicked with his single button mouse, and ran
his eye through the most recent paragraphs. The real problem was
the version of his word processor. Somebody had cut out early one
day at work, and failed to complete the formatting menu for text. It
got shipped incomplete to meet a vanity deadline, and now, every
once in a while, when Midas hit the print key to the ship’s main
Laserjet printer, it got routed as an error to the central core.
That lump also had infinite power, and interpreted the bad print
command as a call to inaction. In this case, that meant cranking out
more bad code in favor of all the hassle associated with actually
putting ink on paper.
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Consequently, the story was converted to choppy, inaccurate
Robot commands. When Midas hit the print key, one of the entities
on the ship, whose IP address was temporarily miss-assigned,
immediately began to act out every tedious plot element in real time.
Only someone as dumb as Midas would have missed his own work,
and misidentified his depression with someone else’s failings.
Being a Robot ain’t all roses, and good sex.
He wrote: Thalamus stared into the mirror, and surveyed his
masculine visage. His lover, Sarah, fawned at his feet. His eyes
moved to the bed, and she followed his gaze.
Upstairs, Sarah was suddenly stricken with a rip-off-your-skirt
passion. Like some voodoo doll surrogate, she grabbed for a pizza
slice, and felt a swooning heat in her loins. Past the pineapple and
ham, she snatched a double jalapeno with island zest. Instantly, she
was wet downstairs. And loving it!
Ordog caught the scent. He’d bought the pie, so the night was
his.
Barry White’s Never, Never, Gonna Give You Up played softly
with full heart and soul. His internal music controller bumped the
tune up a notch. Dolby 9.3 Surround did the rest. Their glasses came
together as the best stereo system on or about Earth punched out
Barry’s angst, and vision.
Philosophically, the pursuit of sex was Ordog’s lesser greatest
passion. Since arriving at this dirtball planet, he’d grown ever more
fascinated with the games of chance. True, many aboard counted
themselves as the inventors of gambling and even Las Vegas, but
Ordog drew the “visceral twisting of the struggle” through his
synthetic larynx with a primal growl.
Being a quick study, he’d gained an evil name in Vegas, and
Monaco. And been roughed up in some of the less well-groomed
venues of probability, and luck. Betting on alligator fighting, whilst
amusing, had failed to cover costs. That he had to lay down heavy
bribes to his Robot escorts for sojourns to Louisiana wasn’t the
issue, it was the bribes to get into the game.
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He was no stranger to “buying your way in.” But shit, a $55,000
down-stroke to bet on some ill-evolved lizard was a bad pot. Better
to buy a crooked table in Uruguay, and ride it out.
He started fearfully the first time a guy heaved a machete into
table-center as ante, but you get used to the guys after a while.
They’re really pretty tame, until you draw a high hand three times
straight. A flood of chemical agents that would drown an airborne
mosquito are released, and the game “matures.”
Able to win most hands by tapping the onboard difference engines
to compute ALL of the probabilities of chance instantaneously, he
laid back quiet, gripping his cards as if timid. Extreme diffidence
was his principal ally….
Ordog: I’ll raise that bet if I can.
3 Day Shave: You chicken! I knew it when I saw you!
Ordog: Okay, I do have the money to raise you. I raise you, ah,
(fiddle, fiddle) five thousand.
3 Day Shave: Hey, Manuel, you got forty-five hundred you can
loan me?
And so forth. Ordog’s coffers were choked with south of the
border bounty, and yet the perfect game eluded him.
That the virus had petered without widespread upheaval was a
disappointment, but he’d hedged that from day one. And speaking
of pure randomness, the one thing he really missed was Screech.
That Monkey was good for tripping up the odds.
He dismissed himself from his young lady-friend, and headed to
the kitchen, ostensibly to get another beer. In the rear of his pantry,
he passed through a sneaky little door, and to his private elevator.
Down he went: Level 2. The entire deck held raw material for
their myriad machinations. Deadly Quiet. Halfway down a corridor,
a slender orifice snapped open. He slurped in.
A life-size display of a human form. He grabbed the evolution
knob, and dialed back. The computer spoke. “Homo sapiens, Homo
erectus, Homo habilis, Neanderthals, Cro-Magnons, Hominids,
Apes, or Primates”
Ordog barked. “Apes.”
“Bonobo, chimpanzee, gibbon, gorilla, saimang.”
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“Chimpanzee!”
“Eastern Common, Central Common, or Western Common?”
“Latin genus and species, please.”
“Eastern is Pan troglodytes schweinfurthii, central…”
“That’s it! The boy from back east!” Like a Newark hitman.
Valachi, or something.
“Next order.”
“Make him you fucking box of gears!” Robots really have a
strong class consciousness, and “non-thinking” animatronics, and
single purpose apparati are scorned.
“Cloning now.”
Ordog lit up a smoke.
Hug, chug, chug. “Do you wish to imprint an identity on this
subject?”
“You know that monkey button-man, Screech?”
“Yes.”
“Make another one of him!”
“Accessing archives. How old do you want him?”
“Two years.” The two-year olds had always treated him right at
the horse races.
Twelve minutes later, Screech was ejected, fur smoking, and
pissed. Ordog grabbed him up, and with great solemnity, handed
him his progenitor’s tool belt. The other, possessed of a keen
understanding of what went before, fished the buckle with authority.
Like a good pilot, he tested his systems. Drill working, and his
diminutive tamping tool fully ready for service, he screeched, and
bounded off. Ordog started running the numbers on the shipboard
Lottery of Death.
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Chapter 51: More Goofball Shit
Screech, jr. wailed away with baggage. He seen the worst shit in
the galaxy, especially since he’d survived a full face-lift resurrection
without the benefits of a stellar brain. A few million years of evolution
can really make a difference.
One minute he was soaring down on some ugly hairless sapiens,
and the next, being squirted out of a blistering hot tube. That’s a
bad karma ride for any half-aware species. He lit off like a southern
sheriff with a bellyful of peppers bent on lynching. Reaching the
elevator, he punched with Brownian motion, entropy’s puppet.
Level Seven, the hanger deck. Screech rushed out, skidded on
the elastomeric surface paint, and spied a working Robot intent over
a GraviMetric motor assembly. In an instant he was on him, and
stabbing with a pair of…pliers. Time to learn something new……he
drew out a channel-lock, and levered it over the Robot’s neck. A
satisfying crack later, he rode the corpse down, and stepped off.
Not quite the same thing as a human, but a serviceable kill,
nonetheless. Upstairs, Ordog was already thinking. Or rather
remembering. The last time he’d backed a bet that had these early
forebodings, things went something like this:
Junior Corp Robot: “Yes sir, that’s right. I want to do my mission
as a policeman in an inner-city precinct.”
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Mentor: It is of course your choice, and even responsibility to
choose the mission that will best fulfill your destiny. (The corny shit
added a sense of duty).
Junior Corp Robot: “Then I will apply for a position immediately.
I wish to understand the human’s class struggle. (More bullshit).
Mentor: Go with grace, and good humor.
Good humor he needed, because after the first hand-to-hand
combat session, in the showers, he realized his horror at the
undersized package with which he been fitted. The mocking stares,
and commentary were withering, especially to a sensitive young
Robot.
Before his artificial hair had dried, he was on the first transport
north.
“I need a bigger dick!”
The ship’s surgeon regarded the other’s organ levelly. “Yeah,
it’s undersized. Some female emasculator has been dicking, excuse
the pun, with our genital sizing instrument. I caught one setting the
standard six inch gauge to three point seven. Bitch!”
“Great. What can you do?”
“Oh, I can give you any size you want. The trick is not to scare
the Earthlings with whom you are attempting to assimilate.”
“They do seem fixated.”
“Leave that to me…..I’ll fix you up.”
Over the next six exercise periods, the student Robot gained a
flacid inch per week. By the eighth week of the four month training
program, he was nominated for Class President. At week ten, he was
getting approached in the showers.
“You taking something?”
Best to draw them out. Troll for weaknesses. “What do you
mean?”
“Ah, we, I mean the boys have been talking about your, ah,
unit.”
“My what?”
“Your schlong. What’re you on?”
“It’s a secret.”
“Yeah, well can I get some of that secret?”
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“I’ll get back to you?”
Back with the surgeon, “I think we can make some big bucks
here. Can you do the same thing for humans that you’ve done for
me?”
“I’ll get back to you.”
Everyone’s got an angle. So to speak.
Ordog got wind of the game afoot, and offered to bankroll the R
& D. Two weeks later, they had a probable drug. Naming proved to
be a greater problem that one would have supposed.
“I say we call it Bonaparte.”
“Hun?”
“You know, like a bone apart from the rest. Bigger, firmer, shit
like that!”
“Anyone else?”
“The Ruler. You know, as in twelve inches.”
“Not bad, but what about European distribution. They’re
metric!”
“Sex.”
“What?’
“We call it Sex. After all, that’s the basis of this insane pursuit.
Some far-fetched fancy that member mass is equivalent to coital
frequency.”
“It’s clear, stated, and unequivocal. I like it.”
“Okay, what’s next. Production. We’ll manufacture on the ship
until we can build up the balance sheet, go public with a SternsHolefield IPO, and bounce the stock to a triple split adjusted value
of nineteen times day-zero capitalization. Then we divest, and
offshore to Laos. Those little fuckers gotta be looking for this kinda
product.”
“Agreed. This board rests.” Robots are known for such succinct
business thinking.
Back at the showers. “Hey, you still interested in that, er,
treatment?”
“Yeah, I got my wallet over here.”
It sold like hotcakes, and Ordog had gotten in at the ground
floor. Never mind that the cop-wanna-be was inducted into porn,
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and lost an opportunity to understand the plight of man. Ordog was
unmoved, the kid was lost in pussy, living like a fucking rock star.
And then Ordog put up the capital down-stroke to buy the Laosian
connection. Off-shoring is eventually cheap, but in the early days
there are expenses. Bribes, document falsifications, a few murders.
Just the way business is done.
And the Laotians were not known for patience. He had flown
down for the final negotiations.
“We understand your field trials have been somewhat successful?”
said Mr. Kim.
Ordog had read about these Art of War assholes. Inscrutable, and
corrosive to the spirit of the entrepreneur.
He loaded the John Wayne bluster program, and let it run. “I’d
say. We added forty-two tons of penile mass to the North American
continent last month. You guys need any? You know, on the side?”
The Laotians are also a proud people. Ordog swept his eyes
across the conference table, and measured the albedo of sweat on
the domed foreheads. Nary a one moved, suspended by the icy stare
of the Dragon Lady Chairman at the table’s head. She spoke.
“This drug will appeal to men, but be promoted by women.
An immediate underground swell of pent-up consumerism will be
unleashed by this discovery. My concerns run deeper.”
An oriental quiet descended over the table.
After eighteen minutes (the first one to speak loses), Ordog faced
the demigod. “Madam Chairman Ogoo, I too have philosophical
misgivings about so divisive a drug.” He was fishing.
A minor member of the board caught a facial broadcast from
the head of the table, and marionetted, “Our concerns are not
philosophical, or anything but economic.” That response was
standard for two blinks, and a left lip sneer. It takes years to master.
Ordog dissembled. “Oh?”
The demi-Bitch responded, “We agree to produce your drug. But
there are certain places to which this drug must never go. That is our
only demand.”
Many signatures later, the deal was wrought. The year was 2004,
and the marketing message was carried, on the cheap, by the Internet.
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The Robots had learned to highjack PCs to deliver the message that
all would wish to hear. It became a planetary frenzy overnight. The
New York Times and Wall Street Journal editorials, for once, were
in agreement. This drug was a boon!
Ordog laid down a heavy wager at the Luxor in Vegas. That he’d
gotten any odds against his proposition frankly surprised him. He
was getting three to seventeen (or a little better than one in six odds)
against his marketing the Dick Drug, as it now known, to anyone
south of the border.
The people on the bottom of the planet objected to the supposition
that they were impaired. Such is the struggles of hemispherical
relations. Clearly the denser material precipitates to the bottom.
Some thought the perversion of GOD’s will was unseemly, but
the more rigid ruling class saw the argument as a demonstration of
national profile. However, posed before a camera, nude, this position
hung short against the more robust, and equestrian dimensions of his
projection.
But at the end of the day, the “new rich” of South America
were in the game. Kidnapping, drug trafficking, and environmental
raping were paying well, and providing grist for the mill. Everyone
was talking about it. Unlike the five families of New York making
their way slowly into legitimate business, this path was an eight lane
Autobahn.
Who wants to grovel with coke when you have licensing on
Sex?. Even your low-station dope grower got the chills thinking of a
local franchise to control the flow of Sex. Beyond the dizzying belief
that all women would boff you gratis, there were moral dimensions
unmissed by the southern entrepreneurial mind.
Around a cock-fight one night, the discussion went something
like this:
“Man, I’m telling you, this beats crack!”
Another stuffed a handful of currency down on the bantam
strutting solo at ring center. “Beats crack, you say. I’ll tell you what,
with that shit, you could have all the crack you want….and I ain’t
talking no rock-salt ride with the shit we make. I’m talking the real
thing – pussy!”
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The heads encircling the fighting pit nodded in ascent as if the
oracle of GOD had spoken. Fait accompli.
Ordog had his markers down, and looked to be heading for a big
win. His reverie was interrupted by a voice from the bedroom. “ Are
you coming?”
Double entendres apart, he’d forgotten, as much as a Robot
can forget anything, about his female guest. “Be there in a minute,
Sweety-pie.”
Fiat accompli my ass. The first negative results were treated
almost comically as anomalies. No way this could be valid data.
It seemed an early adopter community in Iowa was showing a
correlation of Sex use with premature ejaculation. That the study
didn’t have any control subjects (who would want to abstain?)
muddled the results, and made the science difficult.
Nonetheless, the cross-gender acceptance that the drug had
enjoyed evaporated overnight. That the new owners of so much
penile heft might be fixating on themselves was not even reaching
the editorial page. This was a national calamity that deserved action,
not thought!
With a fight-or-flight chemical agent on the wind, Ordog shorted
all his equity positions, and hedged his betting positions with alacrity.
And then everything flipped again.
Stock value prediction candlestick theory wasn’t built for this
ride. A convent in Des Moines uncovered a naturopathic seduction
method that proved 87.7% effective in arresting the One Minute
Man. Trapped in untenable stock, and gambling positions, his empire
crumbled.
“I’m getting cold!”
Ordog heard the clarion call, and his doubts lapsed away as his
engineered systems spooled up.
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Chapter 52: Harry’s Back
Like the Night Before Christmas, everyone aboard was enjoying
the private horrors of REM sleep, and expecting good tidings. There
was a general sense of well-being throughout the decks concerning
the most recent humankind evolution, not least because so many
new and rapturous emotions were in free association.
In truth, the two millennia spent circling this orb had been good.
That all of the original scientists and technicians had opted for recreation in the Robotic form spoke volumes about their enthusiasm
for this planet, and its dominant species. It was a good assignment.
And instructional.
Moreover, humans are funny, and a Robot’s path can be hideously
tedious without levity. All the genome tampering, and subsequent
gambling on the myriad outcomes had been for the best – at least
from the upstairs view. Man had moved ahead eons in technology,
and suffered little. That a few disjointed souls had risen well beyond
their natural station was the luck of the spheres, and could only be
considered over brandy, cigars, and a round of self-congratulatory
backslapping.
If anything had moved from man to the Robots in earnest
exchange for the mysteries of biology and physics they had granted,
it was laughter. Robots, learning easily to laugh at others, soon came
to admire their own foppishness. Practical joking abounded, often
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with catastrophe. But what the fuck, it beat measuring solar gamma
radiation, and beaver pelt cyclicity.
Harry and the Reverend had lain flat on their backs for a fortnight,
unconscious, and intubated. A medical technician Robot, finding the
horribly dehydrated duo, had knocked them out, and begun slow
repairs. A hepatic assay confirmed some remaining capacity, though
all the standardized tests for cerebral function were disappointing.
Typical middle-aged humans.
The technician started some Pink Floyd, and read the charts.
Comfortably Numb played on multiple levels.
At the same time, five decks below, Sam and Gerald awoke.
Together. As one. As in one being. Still. They liked it that way, and
Sam, though largely healed, preferred the comfort of Gerald’s body.
They cohabitated like two long-married octogenarians. They visited
the toilet, no longer an embarrassing trip. At first, having mutable
hermaphroditic genitals was awkward, but also kinda fun.
They snatched up the paper, a specially printed edition delivered
to their door every morning. On the left leaf were the stories, and
interests Sam followed. The facing page was Gerald’s. They adjusted
their reading rate according to informational density, and whimsy.
There was a lot of laughter.
Sam asked, “I’m reading about the Catholic Scandal a lot lately.
Can’t seem to get enough of the story.”
Gerald laughed aloud. He didn’t really have to, but their minds
were in protected partitions, and it was the human way. Some things
are better shared aloud. And his fondness for Sam was deep. “Yeah,
those institutionalized belief systems are really hitting a wall.”
“Tithing by parish is still up.”
“Blood money. That system equates lucre with audience.”
And so on. It was a good union.
Upstairs, Harry asked, “Am I alive?”
The technician checked his gauges for confirmation. “Yeah, ya
look like ya might make it.” Southern slang had gotten a purchase
on the lower decks. “Ya need anything?”
“A good snoot-full of whiskey would aid this resurrection.”
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The technician, hardly a moralist, handed Harry an Erlenmeyer
flask of oily brown fluid. “Made it myself.”
Harry regarded the proffered vessel narrowly. “How long you
been at it?”
“’bout four hundred years. This one’s about half that old.”
Harry upended the conical base, and watched the cylindrical
throat fill. It gurgled past his corn-dust dry epiglottis, and plunged
home. The most spirited vapors pushed through his alimentary
epithelia, and sent chemical couriers to waiting receptors.
He dropped the spent container, and drew his hand across the
drooling and slack orifice beneath his nose. “Good shit. Got any
more?”
On the adjacent medical couch, The Reverend divined a greater
purpose, and struggled to his elbows. A gravelly voice ground out a
few syllables, “I’ll commune.”
The technician came back into the examination chamber, and
slid two enormous columnar beakers onto a waiting table between
them. Each held two liters of Kentucky’s best.
Three minutes later, they both rejoined their earlier comas.
The technician hurled the containers into the fusion annihilator,
and started a more nourishing drip for each. This too was his very
own concoction, but designed for a kinder purpose. He eyed them
lovingly, like pets, and set a timer. On the way out the door, he
whispered, “I’ll wake you when it’s time.”
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Chapter 53: Selective Evolution
Ordog, always the entrepreneur, had another angle covered.
He was the official host of “Movie Night.” Most of the Robots had
fallen in love with cinema, and as a consequence, the actors. As such,
Movie Night was “not to be missed.” The Spaceship’s eleventh deck,
nominally known as the common area, had a kick-ass planetarium
slash multimedia theater. IMAX, you say. Bullshit!
This theater not only boasted the finest display, and acoustic
renderings imaginable, but it was “ACTIVE.”
Each Robot, before the performance, would hold high a small
gleaming pill, and as a single life form, they would ingest, and nod.
For a moment, all identifications with autonomy were discarded.
Like the savoring of the Host, this ceremony joined all.
The pill was actually a short-term nano-vehicle. Once the
surrounding gelatin dissolved, the micro-tractor started down their
simplified alimentary canal. Passing through the epiglottal pillars,
they rolled out onto the esophageal plains. In their tiny lights, long
horizons, pink, stood far off. This was the point they released their
first marker.
To these diminutive workers, who also needed a reason to get
up in the morning, they were just doing their job. Mapping with
great precision the path of an intended interstate, perhaps laying the
framework for a new civilization.
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The Robot creator of this drug, who never got the memo,
switched inadvertently a common marker chemical that the road
crew would have found acceptable for a far more interesting psychoactive compound.
The viewing audience got its first bump.
Cross-purposes are more important in the destiny of intellectual
evolution than well-considered premises over soup. It’s a natural
law, uncontested.
The movie, an old favorite, Dr. Strangelove, soon reached the
part where Johnny Comes Marching Home humming is according
Slim Pickens’ review of their primary target. With great honor, as
befits a man about to loose fifty megatons of TNT gaily ensconced in
a Cesium wrapper, our commander takes his responsibility seriously,
if a bit stylistically.
“Stand by to set code prefix.”
“Set code prefix.”
“Lock code prefix.”
“Switch all receivers to CRM discriminators.”
“Check destruct circuits.”
The scene cuts to a following view, the B-52 rolling through
a mountain pass. Beyond, the hazy target. The mission is simple.
Explode a 30 megaton nuclear bomb at 10,000 feet over the Laputa
ICBM silos. And get away. Last order contingent on a “blow smoke
up your ass” assumption.
The solemnity index in the hall shot to cathedral level. That
a human would unleash such a weapon against his own kind
transcended the mentality of the semi-joined communal mind.
Popcorn aside, as they collectively slid into a dark place, the microtractor loosed another marker. Designed to endure a narrow-band
digestive climate, it was a low molecular weight inorganic. What
it lacked in complexity, it compensated for in lithe and limber
solubility.
It charged the mucous membranes like herding rhinos, and
bashed against the soft underbelly of desmosomes, a farm team cellwall conduit. Through those, these tiny short-chain molecules surged
like upstream salmon, and tore at the low-rent un-mylenated nerve
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Scott Patterson
receptors. A fury of aliphatics geysered out, sending a message of
razory fear up the spinal cord trunk line to the operator.
The air pressure dropped in the theater as everyone drew in a
horrified breath.
“Mandrake, I thought I issued orders that all radios be
impounded.”
The thought of such electromagnetic radiation censorship, the
staple of Robotic oneness, being commandeered in the name of one
man’s obsession sent a lethal arrow into the individual hearts of all
present.
No one being could possibly be allowed to block that which gave
meaning. And reassurance that you are real. Like a belief system
squelched, these pilgrims felt the warming heat of rage. The theater
ticked up seven degrees in an instant.
Sixteen seconds later, the carbon-carbon tiles covering the walls
and ceiling turned from black to a dull, ruby incandescence. At
Fahrenheit 451, simple paper reminders in their tunics, and dresses
flared. Bradbury smiled somewhere.
The tractor chugged along, a long road ahead. The movie
spooled innocently.
“The planes will not be recalled.”
The ceiling passed through the longer wavelengths towards the
mid-point of the visual spectrum. Red, yellow, green, blue. 700 to 400
nanometers. The shorter the wavelength, the higher the frequency,
and energy. At bluish-green, small fires started everywhere. The
atmosphere was insufferable.
At the comment “I can no longer sit back and allow these
commie bastards to pollute our precious bodily fluids,” the Robots
went plasma-hot.
The spaceship observed the change, and prophylactically
dumped continent-sized clouds of a halon-like, icy gas through
the theater at millions of cubic feet per minute. There was some
crackling from lesser-made alloys, and a few Robots, early models,
shattered ballistically. Otherwise the thermic shear wave that split
the room was ignored.
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The tractor trundled on in seeming lockstep with the silver
screen.
Apart from lingering odors, the movie proceeded. At this point,
Slim and the brave boys in blue are trying to shuck off a closing
missile. The radar operator calmly sounds the diminishing distance.
Patriotic music reinforces the tension borne on the aviators’ faces.
The missile, though duped by their evasions, explodes in
proximity. The bomber, with small damages, descends on the target.
In the closing sequence, atomic bombs explode one after another as
the world comes to an end.
The robots shuffled out, a few seats, and Robot shards still
smoldering. An exiting couple was heard to say, “Where’s
Jimmy?”
“Casualty of War.”
225
Chapter 54: Cause and Effect
The Soothsayer sat on a discarded trashcan, and pondered the
same things Plato had two millenea ago. A sudden gust of wind
stirred, and drove litter about his feet, describing tiny twisters, and
eddies. Feeling a soft smack, he looked down to see a printed card
of some sort swirling in a dizzying pattern near his feet. He kicked
it away, and it climbed on an updraft, reversed, and tumbled into
his lap. It was a soiled lottery ticket. That the thin metallic ink still
obscured the underlying numbers didn’t surprise him. The odds of
winning were the same whether you bought a ticket, or not.
This one had fluttered in, unbidden like another meaningless
scrap of modern life. That he held it even now was the surprising
part, but it was early Sunday morning, and he always allowed for
epiphany during this weekly devotion. His mind considered the
usual cast of philosophical droppings, resting this morning on the
underpinnings of atheism.
The burden of proof for any deity’s existence lay with the
believers, of that he was certain. He had no obligation to disprove, as
a scientist would say, but rather a duty only to pursue understanding.
Or at least find a way to reconcile his wonder of the universe with an
intentioned intelligent design.
The lottery card was now stripped of all the waxy silver coating,
and he stared at it with neutral regard. A growling deep within his
frame reminded him of more immediate matters, and he stood. He
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fished in his pockets for some change, looked at the ticket once
more, and shoved it down into his tattered running pants.
Two blocks away, a Quik-Mart that never closed was starting
to attract the early risers intent on coffee, and a morning paper. He
ambled in, grabbed a small pastry, and a cup of java. As he stood in
line, the assaulting colors of an over-marketed world impinged upon
his waking mind, an endurable yet disappointing start to the day.
The clerk said, “That it?” A nod. “Two eighty-eight. He drew out
the contents of his pockets onto the counter, and they both moved
the pieces of eight about to generate the needed sum.
“You want me to check that lotto ticket?”
Another nod. “Sure.”
The clerk busied himself with a machine. The store was otherwise
silent, the Soothsayer the only customer at the moment. The clerk
started, and made some throaty noises as he stole hyperactive glances
across the counter. Then he jumped over the separator, ran to the
front of the store, and locked the door. He dashed past the languid
Soothsayer, and picked up the phone.
“Mel, it’s me. We got a winner.” A mumble on the other end.
“Yeah, it’s Powerball!. What should I do?” More mumbling. “Right,
that’s it! Yes, I know. It’s locked.”
The Soothsayer popped the lid off his coffee, and walked to the
condiments bar. Usually he had it black, but he felt like a little sugar
this morning.
The store attendant was getting very excited. “Yeah, I’ll keep it
locked until they get here.” The other munched slowly on his pastry.
He said, “Did I win something?”
The clerk was hyperventilating. “You didn’t win something, you
won everything! You won the Powerball!”
To The Soothsayer, this was unintelligible. He said, “What’s
Powerball?”
“Ah, man, you don’t know? It’s a game. The game. You buy a
ticket, pick six numbers, and they draw a winner every Wednesday.
Your ticket won!”
The Soothsayer said, “What do I get, a toaster? I really hope not,
‘cause I don’t have any power right now.”
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“I think you’ll be able to pay your power bill, buddy.”
“I don’t have a home. I live on the street. But maybe I can get
some food, and even a pack of smokes.”
“Man, you’re not listening. You won Powerball! It’s up to three
hundred and seventeen this week. There hasn’t been a winner for
some time!”
The Soothsayer was a little amused at all the hyperbole. Three
hundred and seventeen dollars was more than he’d had in some time,
but hardly worth all these histrionics.”
“Can I get that in cash?”
“Maybe at the US Treasury!” The Soothsayer finished his
breakfast, and started for the door. “Hey man, can you let me out?
I’ll come back by later when things settle down for the three hundred
and change.”
“Man, you won three hundred and seventeen million dollars…
don’t you get it!”
The Soothsayer stopped dead in his tracks, smiled, and said,
“Can you spot me a pack of Marlboros?”
An hour later, the Lottery Committee, a dozen security guards,
and three TV stations were in his face. The Soothsayer sat in a
big comfy chair someone had brought along, and puffed on sweet
Virginia’s best. A half consumed six pack lay at his feet.
“You say you found this ticket, sir?” He eyed the network jock.
“It just blew up to me this morning. Like GOD sent it, hun?”
Meanwhile, hundreds of miles overhead, Sam asked Gerald, “Did
you ever figure out that Lottery trick you were talking about?”
“Yeah, simple really. I whipped up a dozen winners for the next
few months, and sent them to some friends by way of the winds of
fancy.”
“Oh, darling, you’re so considerate. Anyone I know?”
“Sure. Remember the Soothsayer? He should be getting one
about now.”
Back down at the media circus, the Lottery official cleared his
voice to make an announcement.
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“Ladies and Gentlemen, this is indeed a happy day. Our latest
winner has joined the fraternity of instant multi-millionaires who
can now indulge their deepest held life goals.”
He looked around to make sure all the little red blinkers atop
the cameras were on, and continued, “This fine man, who refers to
himself as The Soothsayer, has been a man of simple wants.” In the
background, The Soothsayer popped another cold one, and fished
out a smoke. Before he could find his lighter, six hands snaked out
obsequiously.
“Yes, this man will realize many changes soon in his life.”
The cameras turned to the seated man of the hour, and he blew
a tremendous smoke ring. “Thanks everybody. If it’s okay with all
of you, I’d like to get a room, clean up a little, and then have a good
meal. Can somebody help me with that?”
A killer blond stepped forward. And another. And a third. “These
young ladies will anticipate your every need. We have reserved a
suite at the Four Seasons.” A stretch SUV pulled up, and he grabbed
his half-spent six pack. The girls piled in, their microskirts, and
diaphanous tops making great footage for the evening news. The
Soothsayer nestled down between the squealing female flesh, and
the SUV departed like a king’s carriage.
Sam said, “You don’t think that will ruin his humble ways, do
you?”
“Never. He’s a simple man. Perhaps we should invite him up for
dinner?”
“That would be nice. How about next Tuesday evening?”
Gerald burped, and said aloud, “Isn’t that the night of the allhands mandatory meeting with Ordog?”
“Precisely.”
“Right. He’d be a little too much for The Soothsayer on the first
visit. I’ll take care of the arrangements, and you do the cooking. “
It was settled. Even thought they both shared the same mutable
body, and could shape it according to a by-the-minute dominance
of character (Gerald was gracious, and egalitarian, if nothing else),
Gerald and Sam still acknowledged one anothers’ private world of
desires, and preferences. And while Gerald had formerly been the
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gourmet of the two, Sam was letting a little of his influence bleed
over to her.
Slowly.
Whereas DIODE had seemed to run a tight ship, Ordog was
elsewhere on ship resources. He couldn’t care less about junkets to
the planet below….all the more chaos for his rambling bets.
Moreover, the Robots collectively, and individually were linear
thinkers, and not usually given to adventurous outings. Most had to
be compelled by forces without - good, and evil.
Gerald sat down at his personal computer, an IBM PCjr emulator
with six thousand terabytes of RAM, and great game software. And
enough storage to hold the entire contents of Earth’s online data on
one drive. He typed “The Soothsayer” into a jacked-up version of
Google, and got a billion (or so) returns.
By adding “+ homeless, and LA,” it narrowed to fifty thousand.
When he added “lottery,” a single hit returned. He smacked the enter
key, and Sam giggled somewhere deep within.
The entry was from the LA Times. It read: “Street person hits
the big time. A downtown homeless man found the winning ticket to
fortune and fame earlier today, and scored one of the largest lottery
wins in history. He is quoted as saying ‘Anybody got a light?’ and
‘I’ll have another’.”
“It is assumed he will stay locked up at The Four Seasons for
some time, and enjoy the company of his lovely lady entourage, and
plenty of champagne. On his way to the luxury hotel, he stopped the
motorcade by his former domicile, and retrieved a collection of Led
Zeppelin CDs, and what looked like a bong.”
“We wish him well. The Four Seasons, an unusually discreet
establishment, will neither deny, nor confirm his presence, or
intentions. However, we have learned that The Soothsayer, which
is his moniker, has invited competitive bids for a helicopter. Such is
the life of the super-rich!”
Gerald said, “Guess he got the ticket.”
Sam replied, “You’re gonna steal one of the four-man race-car
spaceships, hun?”
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Though their minds were enjoined physically, a partition had
been erected by the technicians prior to their awakening. After the
first few minutes of getting used to co-existence with another mind
in such close proximity, they elected to keep the barrier there. Upon
questioning, they were told it had “elastic” permeability, but both
parties must agree.
No one way snooping.
Gerald suspected she’d cracked the partition code. “Why do you
say that, honeybun?”
Gerald lit a small meditation candle, and dimmed the lights. The
wavering light speckles reflecting off his pseudo-skinned upturned
palm momentarily mesmerized him. He felt a physical flutter from
within, and divined an evolutionary progression. A moment later,
the ship’s central computer, commanded by his hot questing mind,
delivered the true cause of his mental indigestion.
It barked, “Gas.”
He was flattened: No species-rending boost to his phylogeny.
Just farts.
Sam rode it out, and said finally, “Was that good for you?”
“What?”
“I feel little funny things too, like I’m growing up too fast.”
“ You have no idea what I’m feeling.”
Normal pauses that one might endure in such an exchange
normally occupy, at least on Earth, a little under a second. A two
second interruption in the banter is remembered.
Sam murmured, “That’s exactly correct. In fact, I use those
words in the technical sense of chess. They are correct!”
Gerald hit the central library to bone up on the game. While
he consumed the all of man’s pursuit of the game, and reviewed
every game ever recorded, he let his face move in male patterns of
confusion. It was always best to lull the Indian into your camp. With
gesticulations of friendship, hope, and chicanery, he commanded
the seven hundred separate carbon-fiber-contractor motors that
constituted his facial motion managers.
Bobby Fischer. High I.Q. Memory retention that would challenge
a Robot. And above all things, correct in his moves.
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Scott Patterson
“Okay, I get it. You are, in point of fact, absolutely incapable of
literally sharing my precise feelings.”
Sam did not respond aloud. Instead she sent a burst packet of voice
data to the ship’s central server, marked personal and confidential.
Gerald heard, “You have mail.”
Since Robots almost always communicate through vocal
speech, or peer-to-peer Napster-like two person networks, this got
his attention.
He mentally clicked on the envelope centered in his mind’s eye,
and watched the epistle open. In a simple, but elegant hand, it said,
“I love you.”
It was signed “Your roommate.”
Gerald felt warm all over, and was sure Sam did, as well. It was
a very private moment, and utterly beyond his experience, or that of
any human - ever.
Sex crossed their minds, but by some reflected consciousness,
they turned individually, and together to friendship without. Couples
come to a partnership with baggage, and prior attachments, dead,
and living. Their corporate mind sought The Soothsayer. A seeming
common man, of the street, and cloth, in a manner. A speaker of
truth. Or relative truth.
Or situational truth.
“Let’s go get him, “ said Sam.
“Lead on.”
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Chapter 55: Going Down
They entered the proximal elevator, and hit the hanger level. In
LA, it was 10:40 p.m. “Let’s grab a buggy, and hit Santa Monica. I
have a few things I’m dying for.”
Ahead, several star buggies glistened in a low larcenous light.
Sam said, “That one there!” Gerald’s arm pointed to a sleek little
GraviMetric number with stylish graphics, and Ordog’s chop on the
hatch. No mistaking his ride. The Main Man’s Pussy Machine.
Penile, if nothing else. Gerald’s musculature took over, and
powered his form around the vessel. “Get in.” That he was talking
essentially to himself had already become commonplace and normal.
His experience was moving far afield of man in the time it took a
raccoon to dig a non-nuclear-safe burrow.
Settled into a four-seater minimalistic cruiser, Gerald jacked
with controls for several seconds until the auto-helpless help-pilot
began speaking. “Do you need assistance?”
Gerald yanked fiercely to drive the demons of incompetence
away. The auto-help system, a more-rapid learner, mimicked
internally his grand mal orchestrations, got the intent, and suddenly
took over. “Whoa, bitch!”
The ship lifted off with spirit. The on-boards had (wrongly)
inferred a lusty fly-boy, and commanded the ship to “snap-to.” They
blasted through the ship’s outer skin, and fell towards the planet
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below. The vista ahead was breathtaking. The limb of Earth twirled
across their view plate. Blue, and white smeared, and collided.
Though hundreds of Earthly astronauts had experienced such a
transcendent visage, and many poets had tried desperately to describe
that first mental “snapshot” as a way to bridge Man’s native selfdestructive urges, these two souls, joined as no humans ever had,
drank in the enormity of their home world uniquely.
The experience was so all-consuming that Gerald and Sam,
together, reached an immediate agreement to share extremities. Still
working through the property issues, Sam got the left hand (hind tit),
and Gerald retained his stroking hand. A man must hold on to some
sacred things.
As Gerald acted through the mannerisms of controlling the ship’s
plummet towards the up-rushing planet, Sam explored the control
systems. She was particularly intrigued by the security interface, a
simplified subset of the natural prying barriers above on the main
ship. Security here was light, its intent to aid the pilot who should
have had other matters upon his or her mind. Sam’s intellect, though
shacking-up in Gerald’s allotted bachelor pad loft, had plenty of
unused horsepower.
She said across their identity barrier, “I’ve got far more access to
the main ship’s archives here than I had above.” She pounded away
with their left arm, the fingers moving like a machine-gun-mannered
stitching tool. Gerald feigned a harried disinterest, ever the stud. He
yanked, and fought the steering yoke. It in turn, fought back like
an eight hundred pound tuna on hundred-pound test line. Gerald
battled away, feet braced in the virtual rear-facing fighting chair.
Every program has an attitude.
“Did you know Saint Harry was still on the ship?”
Gerald started. He had assumed there was a high-order meeting
with some nefarious purpose followed by more Earth-side devilry.
In truth, he’d really put Harry out of his inestimable mind. That that
blaggard was still in operation upset his new view of the universe.
Once back at the ship, he’d have to deal with that, in a final sort of
way.
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Sam interrupted, “ He’s in recovery. I’m reviewing the ship’s
records of…this is strange. His mind has been scanned, and all his
memories are right here.”
She fell silent. Sixteen nanoseconds later, a long time in the
world of valedictorian thinking, she said aloud, “He’s a killer!”
To the two journalists, a big payoff story – and - high hit. A
good tale was brewing, and they might have an exclusive! “Shit,
we should break this.” Another laser-flash instant, and, “We have
him!”
Gerald said, “Have what?” He yanked with torn ligament male
impotence at the yoke.
“The Holy Grail of lead stories, mon ami!” She sent him a warm
emoticon within, and continued, “The fucker killed some guy named
Don Pritchard. Apparently his boss at the time. Killed him with an
axe.”
“Good copy,” chirped Gerald, his arm blown. “Could I switch
hands with you, dear?”
Sam barked, her mind lost in actionable actions, “No way, Pedro,
that arm couldn’t whack a teenager off!”
Gerald was flattened. That his girlfriend wouldn’t lend a guy a
“helping hand” was the deepest of cuts. There are just some things
you gotta be able to get from your babe.
His sudden tremula crossed the identity threshold of their duplex
minds. Her side felt the ripple, and said, “Darling, I’ll take the helm.
You plan our next move.” He relaxed his grip, and settled back. In
the same body, she tensed for flight anomalies, and the unknown.
Unknowns are a bitch for Robots.
Gerald plotted, a false signal of paralysis propagating from his
right arm which lay inert in his lap like another unfunded mandate.
He thought: If Harry was up there, and we were down here,
assuming we got down there, it might become a battle of races. And
depending on where he, and Sam were at that time, it could be dicey,
from an existential point of view. Damn that pesky sense of self!
Down they flew. At 150 miles up, the continents spread out
before them, his heads-up display showing geopolitical boundaries
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and listing several “Additional Information” tabs. Gerald thought,
“What fucking genius came up with this interface?”
Sam laughed softly, and said, “I heard that, and the answer is that
little purple Robot named Nin Tendo. I think she was also involved
in some joint ventures down on the planet ahead.
The Planet Ahead.
Four weeks a Robot, and Earth had become abstract, and
other-ish. But Earth waited patiently; Gaia, ever the slow-chapped
orchestrator. She had survived a contracted birth from fire, the assault
of the Rocky Renegades, and the Rise of Protein. Even protein with
an attitude. This chick had been around the Solar System. She knew
the gas giants, the hotheads, and Mars. But he was unfaithful, and
that’s another story.
So she bit off hard on that comment. The Planet Ahead. What
was she? ChopSuey? A fucking doorknob, as Rodney would say.
The ship settled gently through the upper tendrils of the
atmosphere. Using GraviMetric propulsion, which could “hold” any
specific position relative to a greater density (such as the Earth),
they floated down vertically on a tour of the strati. Other more
pedestrian forms of interplanetary voyage might have had to rely on
smelly, loud, corrosive, and even explosive chemical reactions that
get pushed out a long, hot whistling tube. That’s too much fury for
the better avant-garde traveler.
Rather, GraviMetric was cool, as in no way did it play well
with the other three forms of energy, or for that matter, Newton’s
Three Laws of Motion. Newton - that really smart guy who whipped
up calculus, optics theory, and gravitation notions over a summer
respite from the plague on the continent. He had good genes, but he
also had a friend named Halley who wasn’t what he appeared.
Actually, he was just another influencing Robot set on changing
the Friday Night Betting Pool odds. He makes twenty-two cigars on
the wager, a standard currency in your finer betting parlors, and Man
gets a solution to Xeno’s Paradoxes. Talk about Intelligent Design!
Or maybe just the way things work.
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In any event, they drifted down on cloud nine, admiring the
multitude of shapes water vapor can assume. Or appear to assume.
But that’s another topic.
Below, the western coast of California stretched beyond vision
to the north, and into weather towards Baja. The luminary cancer of
LA came into their evening view, and spread as they descended. The
Channel Islands stood dense against the cold coppery sea, forming
a small jagged constellation. Gerald said aloud, “I stashed that
Lunar Rover on Catalina. I need to get that….” and he paused. His
corporeal identity aside, issues of planetary affiliation swam around
shark-like, but that was from Earth too. Talk about Us & Them! Pink
Floyd played on a million iPods ahead.
The ship continued its downward motion towards the Church of
the UnQuiet. Sam asked, “Did you program our destination?”
“No. This is probably the most common drop. I told it I wanted
to go, it inferred here. Pretty good Fuzzy Logic, actually.”
“Don’t be a dweeb!”
He loved the playful banter. His buddy was always with him, a
sexual slur away.
A light chime indicated proximity, and they took a collective
breath, Gerald handling the exhale. The ship settled noiselessly
into the churchyard, nary a rustle from the thick hedgerows and
disguising ivy. Another chime, and a gentle bump. Landfall.
Gerald perceived some chivalrous notions filling his masculine
mind. But for all the technology he’d seen on the ship, no weapons
were present, save the Monkey. Perhaps that explained his actions.
Vicariousness through the simian killing machine. And yet, aboard
the entire ship, the hairy button-man was the only non-machine.
Something else to ponder.
Humans like to talk, and most especially, be heard. It’s a hard
habit to break. Gerald said aloud, “I want to accomplish two things
here. Find The Soothsayer, and jump-start a re-opening of the murder
case against Harry.”
Sam pushed non-vocally across the identity barrier. “Harry has
been tried, and acquitted. We must provide fresh, credible evidence
if we’re to attract the DA’s attention.”
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And that was the rub. If they opened the kimono too widely, and
flashed any extraterrestrial bullshit, the case would be trammeled by
hysteria. The facts must be squeezed out like a silent but deadly fart,
released at such a rate as to motivate, but not stampede.
Through the barrier, they both understood this conundrum.
“Well, let’s find The Soothsayer, and get his spin.” Any plan was
better than inaction, and they de-shipped, or whatever you call it.
Gerald forced the gate lock once more, this time with raw strength.
He simply grabbed the lock, and yanked. It exploded, and they hit
the street. Looking back, they saw a big nothing sitting in the middle
of the graveyard. “I guess it’ll be safe?”
This was LA, after all.
Moving through the shadows; two souls, one body. Rank odors
permeated the streets, a fresh rain having recently passed through to
vaporize the ground scum. Down a dark alley, and through another.
Their path would have horrified Gerald a year earlier, but he was
feeling some weight downstairs, and knew any punk that came his
way was fucking with the wrong guy.
And given LA’s demographics, and city spirit, he felt some
reward as his head swiveled at the sound of a ninety-four-feet-away
shattering bottle. He looked into the dim light. Two humans, male,
and of mixed ancestry, stood in silhouette. DEFCON Two.
Normally, he’d have fled. Instead, he advanced. A multi-story
canyon crowded their flanks, and they closed the distance in macho
silence. At forty feet they rushed. The three bodies came together
like some cheap rendition of chicken from a 50s cigarette-pack-inyour-shirt-cuff movie.
Gerald, on a GraviMetric ship that differentially counters all
mass considerations instantaneously, and makes everyone seem
featherweight, had lost sight of his true weight. On Earth, he now
weighed 1400 lbs. And could run 250 mph! And hit the quarter in
funny-car time.
So much for the Corporeals. He looked down at the strangely
two dimensional humans, and felt pretty good. Fuckers! “Maybe
some more vermin will come my way.” Off he sauntered. Visions,
in Technicolor with Hi-Def TV quality plus ten generations, flooded
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his mind’s eye. The Duke, Clint, Bronson, Arny. Or Gerald, the
Invincible.
“I ain’t taking shit from anyone.” This general, and public
pronouncement projected outward at 110 decibels, roughly the
sound level of a supra-nominal spooling turbine at 45 feet, or Def
Leppard at 300.
So loud, in fact, that he almost missed the tiny voice bleeding
like a poltergeist across the physical barrier of their minds.
“Shithead…..shithead….shithead!” Gerald snapped to, torn from
his male reverie.
“Great job, you killed two innocent street punks!”
Gerald had worked the editorial desk. He knew bleeding-heart
liberal, and sphincter-tight conservatism. Both had their purpose.
Best to treat this like something off the Leisure Section, which had
none.
“Cool it junior!” came the voice again. Gerald stumbled, “But
I haven’t even responded. Have you figured out how to read my
thoughts?”
“No! A thirteen old bimbo knows a testosterone geyser when
she sees one! I felt your intention as much as heard it. You were
pushing so hard your thoughts were being presses across the cyberosmotic barrier that exists between our identities, and straining your
left ventricle. Average systolic over two hundred millimeters of
mercury.”
“That’s a tall tube.” Gerald was backing down real fast. “I didn’t
know they’d really attack me!”
“Attack! They didn’t get a chance to attack, they hit a concrete
wall at one hundred ninety-two miles an hour!” Unit conversions,
like the American Standard to Metric shit, don’t slow a Robot down
at all. Which is exactly what Gerald didn’t do – slow down. He was
skidding, and smoking the asphalt like a rail screaming out of the
bleach. The guys he hit saw a shape, a blur, and death! True alien
shit!
But, hey, that’s LA. If they’re gonna land anywhere, it’s gonna
be LA! And we’ll be ready for ‘em!
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Sam softened. “We have to get you cleaned up. There is some
real unhygienic stuff on your shirt.” Gerald looked down, and studied
the bone slivers at 100X. “Looks like a calcium deficiency to me.”
He spit out a small bloody splinter from his lower gum, and tasted
the iron of the battlefield. Valley Forge good.
A hundred wars crossed his mind like a collage. Smoke,
gun-thunder, and body-bags. But also some really bad dudes got
dispatched! War was a business proposition activated when the final
negotiations stalled. And besides, somebody’s gotta prevail! The last
sentiment got slipped into the “out basket” for future consideration.
On the sly.
“Come on, soldier. Soldier on!” He trudged forward, a woody
on deck.
He flagged a cab. In, he said, “Four Seasons.”
Gerald said, “Wonder how the Yankees are doing?”
“Let it go!”
A snail flashed up on his inner eye for a nanosecond, and he got
pissed.
Used to be errant thoughts could be explained away as childhood
traumas, or pending audits – here he smelled a younger odor.
Those fuckers down in Robotics Programming were trolls! They’d
reluctantly glommed on an image database to help you identify
human stuff, like coward-ness, but had written the interpretation
code a little loosely. Like at a party.
Like on Designer Drug Night aboard. Well-attended. Every
Wednesday Night. A kinda-hump-day thing. And this critical code
got busted out just before quitting time, or maybe after a private
psychoactive exchange. Budget cuts were the scourge of the
universe.
“Fuck…I’m running somebody’s low code as an R & D test…
Fuck, this is my brain!”
Being a robot ain’t all roses. Humans can blame evolution, with
its glacial development cycles, but a Robot might be acting out a
bad after-dinner-liquor mental tempest. Quality control isn’t what it
used to be!
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As Gerald grappled with the online manual for de-selecting a
shitty character attribute, Sam said to the cabbie, “Around back, if
you please. We have something to pick up.” The cab crunched on
rendered, compressed petroleum aggregate as they moved towards
the service entrances. Human activity was abounding.
“Away from that light. My eyes are sensitive.” The cabbie
nodded.
Sam would never lie, and never had. That secular ethic had
survived a double rending. “The force is strong with that one,” a
far off voice intoned. But when you take the oath in a court, you’re
asked to do three things: Tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing
but the truth. Slippery!
Tell the truth – no problem, unless they ask questions I don’t
like. That’s where the second solemn injunction comes to bear: Tell
everything! But you cannot extend your testimony to obfuscate
every detail, can you? Some can. Robots weren’t kings of deceit
yet, but they were learning.
Quickly.
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“Forty-six dollars.”
Money. Robots are rich in many ethereal ways, but carrying cash
around wasn’t their thing. At least up on the ship. Sam retreated into
her shell, and let Gerald take the lead.
“Ah, I seem to be a little light right now. The car’s sagging
springs told another story. Could I offer you something of value in
exchange for the ride?”
The cabbie was worldly, being from the Middle East, and smelled
an opportunity that he just couldn’t grasp. “What’ya got in mind?”
“Are you a gambling man?”
The cabbie felt cheated. “No!”
“How about an investor?”
“In bullshit, it seems.”
Gerald changed tacks. “Okay, I’m going to tell you something
that will make you a five thousand times the cab fare.”
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The cabbie was listening, the Robot’s easy blend of certainty,
and sleaze intriguing. “Open a brokerage account tomorrow, and
buy a December option for 10000 shares of AAPL at $143.50 or
better.”
“What’ll that cost me?”
“Who gives a shit!” barked Gerald. “By January of next year, the
stock will be above $164, and you’ll make 200 large!”
“Can I get that door for you?”
Gerald slid out of the seat, and shook the cabbie’s hand.
“Remember, use an option. It’s all about leverage!” Being a machine
himself, Gerald appreciated the principles of mechanical, and
financial advantage more than your average human. He thought half
aloud, “Give me a lever, and I’ll move the world.”
He’d gone to “wardrobe” aboard the ship, and lifted an autotux. Standing in the shadows behind the Four Seasons, he pulled a
small package from his backpack, and pressed the center button. A
beautiful tuxedo with all the trimmings sprung out, complete with
hanger. He shucked off his unisex street duds, and eased into his
“Bond” costume.
Shaken, not stirred.
As he approached the grand front entrance, he thought he heard
John Barry’s James Bond theme playing softly at the edge of his
hearing. Women!
Expecting the greeting, “Ah, Mr. Bond, so good to see you
again,” he swung into the bar. “Vodka Tonic.” The drink slid across
the marble, frosty and inviting. He sipped, and scanned more
narrowly the physical aspect of the place.
He caught the bartender’s eye, and said suavely, “House phone,
please.”
“Good evening, this is the Four Seasons.”
“Name’s Gerald. I’m looking for a friend. He goes by ‘The
Soothsayer’, and I expect he’s in one of your suites. Is he in?”
“I could not say sir. May I ring you back?”
“Yep, I’m in your bar. In a tux. When you find him, come get
me.” Gerald disconnected, and raised his glass to signal another.
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Chapter 56: Homecoming
Plush chairs, and indirect lighting. Somber colors, and panties.
What might be barf, and the remains of room service for fourteen,
consumed by four. The suite wasn’t.
The Soothsayer staggered to his feet, and surveyed his domain.
He considered “weeping for there were no more worlds to conquer,”
but he knew better. Cash opened up so many ribald, and hapless
paths; one needed to be wary, and get some bodyguards.
His eyes passed over the slumbering young things snuggling in
his colossal bed. The fifth, and undefined attractive force of nature
pulled at his pajama strings, but he vectored off towards the kitchen.
He was dehydrated enough.
A discreet, and uber-soft “ding” filled the suite as if it came from
everywhere, and nowhere. Good tech. He picked up the frig phone
(who wants to walk more than twenty feet). “Good evening,” he said
in his best “Lord of All I See” voice. This lifestyle suited.
“Good evening, sir. I trust you are well. Do you need
anything?”
“We could use a maid, and more shrimp. And some of those little
hot dogs…send up ten dozen.”
“Yes, sir. You have a party enquiring about your availability, sir.
His name is Gerald.”
“No shit, send him up!”
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“Ah, sir, there have been a lot of, ah, desperate people trying to
reach you. Are you sure…”
“Send him up! and make it twenty dozen!” He hung up.
He considering picking the place up a bit, but Gerald would
understand. Guy to guy, what with all this prime poon-tang lying
about. He lit a cigar, and drew in deeply.”
Gerald.
It had been, what, three years since he’d spoken to Gerald or
Sam. The Soothsayer had always believed they been abducted by
the aliens, but truthfully he’d had his own problems until recently.
Living on the street afforded little time to conduct much of a missing
persons effort.
The Church of the UnQuiet was a lousy neighbor, and after he
moved up Wilshire to get away from their taunts, he had to contend
with some gang types intent on controlling their turf. It had been a
sub-optimal three years without his friends.
A knock at the door made him smile. One of the girls peered
from a bloodshot eye, and asked softly, “Who’s there, Sooth?”
“I’ll get it.” He padded around the Coliseum, as he called it, into
the living room, and opened the door. Two security men stood with
Gerald, who was beaming. He thrust a bottle into The Soothsayer’s
hands, and strode in. A quick nod to security, and they gave each
other a bearish masculine hug. The Soothsayer fell back, and said,
“Whoa, you been working out?”
“In a manner of speaking. How the hell are you?”
“Ah, rich, as you can see. I had some sudden wealth come my
way.” He let it hang as the obvious truth landed. “You have a hand
in that?”
“Maybe, or just maybe it was the fates.” They both laughed,
and The Soothsayer starting thumbing the cork off the champagne.
Pop!
One of the sleeping beauties said, Soothy, what ya doing?”
“Soothy?”
“Hey, give me a break. I’ve been doing some celebrating.”
They repaired to the suite’s study, and drew up two chairs in
front of a crackling fire. The Soothsayer said, “Tell me everything.”
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Gerald settled back, and accepted an offered glass. They clinked
crystal, and he said, “Nine hundred and forty-four days ago, Sam
and I stole aboard an alien transport, and went to the MotherShip in
Earth orbit.”
The Soothsayer pushed back into the cushions, and signaled an
agreeable listening demeanor. “In our explorations, Sam was injured,
and eventually died.”
The Soothsayer stood, and put his hand on Gerald’s shoulder.
“Man, I’m so sorry.” Gerald smiled, and said warmly. “Sit down,
things are not as they appear.”
In a sweeter voice, Sam said, “Soothy? What kind of nom de
pleur is that?”
The Soothsayer jumped forward, and hugged Sam, Gerald’s
discomfort notwithstanding.
“Sit down, you fool,” begged Gerald.
“Who is in control here?” joked the Soothsayer.
“Let’s not go there…yet,” smirked Gerald. Sam said, “I think
you have your answer.”
“Whoa, I need something stronger than this bubbly.” He reached
behind him to the sideboard, and grabbed a tumbler, a few cubes,
and the scotch. Gerald said, Pour two. And do you have any more
cigars?”
Sam added, “I like the big, thick ones.”
The Soothsayer played bartender for a minute, and said, “Okay,
you’re both in there. Any more surprises to get out of the way?”
“Plenty, but for the moment, it’s enough to say we’re both here,
immortal, and gunning for Harry. How’s that?”
“I like it all. And where is his sainthood?”
“Upstairs right now. But instead of going back up to the ship,
we’re thinking about starting a shit storm down here. Actually, we
intend to get Harry’s murder trial re-opened.”
“I take it you have a bunch of new evidence. Something to take
his Lordship down.”
“I think you could say that. Harry was injured up there, as well,
and we’ve seen into his files…that is, his mental files. They’re
turning him into a Robot, or cybernetic life form, like us, and soon
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he’ll be more powerful, and unstoppable. Though he’s not the brains
of the Church’s evil, he could cause a re-focusing on their original
intent to sunder man for gambling gains, and frolic.”
“Hold on, I’m still an organic life form, and coming off a four
day drunk. Give it to me slowly.” The Soothsayer tossed back his
scotch, and recharged the glass generously.
Sam said slowly, “Sorry. It’s just so good to see you, and we
have so much to tell you.”
Gerald clipped and lit the cigar, as Sam considered how to put all
this into a rational context. “You’re our friend. Up in that ship, we
learned a lot of things, amazing things, but nothing about friendship.
So we’re here.”
Ice cubes clinked about under the influence of thermal eddies,
and low coefficients of friction - scotch the loser. The Soothsayer
glimpsed down, saw the thinning of his drink, and tossed it back
with warm authority. He reached his right hand across his chest, and
palmed the bottle sitting behind his left shoulder.
The tattered sleeve of his left arm stretched out - a clink of glass,
and a solemn nod. The Soothsayer said, “Thank you. I have missed
you both. Because I’m not a rich man, or at least wasn’t, I had few
resources with which to seek you out. I called the paper, and they
said you were AWOL. I had a friend do a skip trace, and it was cold.
I did learn that you both have good credit, and there’s an unsettled
palimony suit….”
Gerald interrupted, “Friendship. I think we were talking about
friendship.”
“Ah, right. Yeah, I lost track of you guys, but thought about you
every day. I’m so glad you’re safe, and ….together.”
Sam said, “You want to know a little about that?”
“A drink’s worth, or we’ll be here all night.”
“Gerald and I went up to get a good story, and ended up exploring
a ghost ship. When we got there, a sort of curfew was in force, and
the place was like a tomb. I ran into a killer monkey, and went into
a deep coma. The Robots couldn’t repair me, so they made Gerald
a Robot with eternal life, or some shit, and then asked if he’d be a
pitre dish to my struggling, and incomplete Katra.”
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“Katra.”
“Yeah, didn’t you ever watch Star Trek? That’s was Spock’s
crucible of identity in the whale movie.”
“Whale movie?”
“Right. Let’s just say it was my intellectual guts, the stuff that
makes me what I am. Gerald accepted those guts, and we have been
learning a lot about each other. We can’t actually read each other’s
thoughts, but we’re learning to read the other’s subtle shades of
intent.”
The Soothsayer did his best “considered male” impression, and
said, “That right, Gerald?” All he needed was a fucking toothpick,
and he’d have sounded just right on the redneck comedy hour.
Sam blurted, “Money’ll make a man indulge his worst desires….
like wanting to be a poor white trash hillbilly. Shit, Bob, get that still
cooking. We got moonshine to brew!”
“Point taken,” mumbled The Soothsayer with soft contrition. He
plucked at his cigar thoughtfully, dissembling, and said, “Okay, I
get it. So scope out this alien’s deal for me. Bet they’re pissed we
boosted their rover, hun?”
Sam said, “The ol’ Mensa good ol’ boy deal ain’t gonna cut it
either.”
“Sorry. Had to know it was you. What can I do to help?”
“We need to re-open Harry’s murder case. That sounds easy,
but it’s not. First, we must assemble the evidence we’ve stolen into
something the DA thinks he can present, and more importantly, with
which he can convince a jury of a capital offense beyond reasonable
doubt.
“Furthermore, either Sam, or I can appear, but not both of us
simultaneously.”
“Why’s that?”
Though we can shape our joint body to imitate a stud, or babe,
we can’t be both at once.”
“Stud?”
“Fuck you.” That out of the way, they smiled at one another in
that sudden kindred bonding light reserved for fond friends long
rejoined. “Good to see you again, man.”
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“Ditto.”
A moving silence enveloped the trio. Though Sam/Gerald were
in “Gerald” physicality mode, Sam’s voice softened the moment.
“We have missed you. Distance, physical, and emotional, is defined
by displacement. Our communal intellect on the ship admits to a
give and take of individuality, even among Gerald and I, but this
sharing is by our standards truer.”
The Soothsayer swirled his glass, devouring the moment. “I
can, at once, understand the duality of being communal, and apart.
You, Gerald, and I have evolved as hunters and gatherers driven
for common good, yet in all but the moment of orgasm, alone. It is
confusing, arresting, and forces great rates of learning. And such
states are always accorded by pain.”
Light years in the distance, something important happened. A
heretofore impossible gateway between our universe, and the next
one down the chain opened, and admitted a thousand mammoth
machines. Then it snapped shut.
He recharged his glass, and continued, “Pain. Given. The
question stands – where now?”
Gerald stood, crossed to the drinks table, and fiddled, as if in
deeper consideration. In truth, he drank of the reflected warmth from
a profound friend engaged in earnest cooperation - even altruism. It
was a distinctly human moment.
“I’ll be candid. The Robots above are an honors group,
intellectually, but rarified in their application of good will. Their
considerations of Man, and the deflections they’ve engineered here
are driven by gambling, and desire for petty gain. We are the pawns
of pedestrian machination.”
“Oh…..”
“Let me give you some background - I know I’d want
some.” Gerald sat stiffly, and tipped his tumbler back in a serious
consumption, and thought. “They began twenty-three hundred years
ago above Earth pursuing a doctoral study of Man’s predilection to
enslave, and incarcerate his fellow man. By degrees they developed
a gambling inclination, perhaps from their over-studied subject,
and progressively diddled with Man by introducing fresh variables.
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Virtually all of Man’s history, including the birth of Christ, can be
explained by Friday night wagering from the pit.”
Gerald looked at The Soothsayer for comprehension. “The
betting became ever more complex. Belief systems were created,
and sundered to control the spread, and the hedge. Over time, Man
was aided collectively, and individually by inventions from above
designed not to improve Man’s lot, but muddy it. Apparently a
complex game is more amusing.”
“Was Christianity singled out?”
“All of the monotheistic religions borrow heavily from Robot
lore, and fiddling. That includes Judaism, Islam, and Christianity. I
didn’t hear much spoken about the eastern sects. Takes a moment to
wrap your mind around that, hun?”
The two beings faced each other and sipped their drinks.
Cubes clinked, and leather creaked as they settled deeper into their
individual thoughts. Eventually The Soothsayer got up, and left the
room. Sam’s voice drifted across the identity barrier. “It took us a
while to work through the implications. All of Man’s scientific, and
social engineering achievements explained away as part of some
croupiers’ impulse for winnings.”
Gerald sub-vocalized, “Yep. A hard biscuit to bite.”
Sam took control of Gerald’s right hand, and brought the tumbler
to their lips. A deep draft later, she said, “But maybe not. As irrational
as Earth’s religions are, maybe it’s best to blame the Robots. Maybe
there’s a silver lining here that exonerates Man from his wars, and
hatred. It’s a given that institutionalized belief systems are at the
root of most personal, and civil strife. What thinking creature would
naturally believe without proof, and why have we fought so hard to
eradicate differences that amount to nothing?”
“Because it served the Robots,” mumbled Gerald, suddenly as
close to depression as he’d felt since his makeover. Their eyelids
fluttered, and Gerald’s mind winked out. Sam was for the first time
completely alone. She got up, refreshed her tumbler, and moved to
a small statue on a knee-high table. Overhead, a soft light diffused a
halo of warmth over The Destroyer.
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Shiva. This depiction was the most wrathful form of his five
possible manifestations: Braddha Rudra. In an instant, Sam knew
that this tin-horn Hindu GOD was the bringer of death, and turmoil.
She turned away, wondering at the prickish echo, and the suite’s
designer.
“You find the trappings troubling, as well?” The Soothsayer
strode into the room, and hugged Sam gently. “Good to see you
both. Or I sense, just now, you.”
“Gerald is resting.” Sam and Gerald had a thing, it was apparent,
and not. Though they shared a single body, at least until she could
find a place of her own, they required different digs. The boys
upstairs has solved the easy problem of physical appearance with a
Rapid Look code-pack that would swap out physicalities in 7 clock
cycles.
But that sleight of hand, while useful, went nowhere towards
self-expression, and the little things that grant gender, however
transmogrified. Beyond the hackneyed claims of sexists, with their
ready charts of proclivities, was a region unknown to Robot, and
Man. Man to Woman, and Woman to Man. Dense code, and pricey.
Lots of meetings over programming goals, and objectives. Busy
graphics across hundreds of droning PowerPoint soliloquies.
And so forth.
The Soothsayer stared through his elixir, a light burled liquor.
“Tell me about it.”
“We’re one. But like nothing U2 ever envisioned. They may say
they still haven’t found what they’re looking for, but I have. I now
have what I always sought.”
“The union?”
“Words fail. Bono once said “We’re one, but not the same’, and
that goes some distance, but this is something closer to …I don’t
know, perfection.”
The Soothsayer smiled with far-back reckoning. “Women are the
only works of love. Don Henley said such on the Hotel California
album.”
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“Yes, we are artful, but so is Woman’s mate. Entwined so, they
are the closest thing extant to GOD’s purpose.” She sensed the
ground covered, and that before them.
“Voltaire said ‘Perfection is attained by slow degrees; it requires
the hand of time’. For my part, I’ve already decided your synergies are
balanced.” An ember cracked as if to punctuate, and The Soothsayer
rose to attend. He drew the heavy chain mail barrier aside and fed in
a perfect aspen log. It sputtered, and he stuffed a handful of rough
lumber beneath its sodden bark. “Stole it from a crate in Deliveries.
Can’t quite break my habit of roaming at night.”
Sam smiled wondrously, and gave the signal to indulge.
“Can I tell you a story?”
“Please do,” she purred, and stretched like a red-light feline.
“I was once, in another time, in another life, a professor at M.I.T.
My professed area of knowledge was dorsolateral sulci inference,
which is a polite way of saying I mapped character to brain locations.
I was actually expected to understand the genesis of thought, and
give it a post office box.”
Sam emitted a sultry semiphore of affection, and made devouring
eye contact. The Soothsayer’s sapling snapped-to, and he blinkered
back a primordial receipt. Fuck Gerald, he’d left his woman alone!
He continued, his cortex time-slicing between story-telling, ever
a slow boat to China, and taking-care-of-business - now. “How’s
your drink?”
She snaked out of the deep leather, and insinuated to the bar.
“Can I get you anything?”
The mind reels.
“Double! No ice!” The siren lilt foundered all.
Silence intruded the incandescently effused chamber, reflecting
off the soft tapestries, and close-grained woods. A whiff of hemlock
curled from the grate, and teased about like a Kansas twister on elite
crack. All was weird in the world of The Soothsayer.
She stood over his chair, and reached across the right wing. His
good side. A drink danced like sweet nothings before his cornea, and
inner eye. He was smitten.
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“Anyway, I was devising a cortical map, and simultaneously
inventing a GPS to navigate individual neighborhoods. Subjects
would present, and I’d hook them up to a Ghostbuster’s madcap
of wires. By degrees, I’d sus out the terrain in 1000 foot topo lines,
then a hundred, and eventually I came to understand some aspect of
our mental backpacking.”
The Soothsayer, accustomed to “poised lips interruption,”
waited patiently. This chick was either real smart, or fucking with
him. “You grok this shit?”
“I have the equivalent of the NSA’s De-Crypto array, with its 45
terraflop bandwidth, in my cuticle. Proceed.”
“Are you comfortable? Would you like to relax in the adjacent
suite?”
Sam’s visage seemed just out of focus, and bad contacts
notwithstanding, The Soothsayer divined some new phenomena
working on his straining intellect. “We truly missed you. On the
ship, when all was up in the air, your friendship became our beacon
of humanity, or probably something else even more ineffable. You
were one of the reasons we pursued such.”
Reason?”
“Yes. It is simulated with deftness aboard, yet the code is not
quite faithful.” The background music system inferred the mood
switch, and loaded a soft Celtic ballad. “Soothy is what we called
you. The diminutive was slangishly human, and inward. Something
like a preserver ring tossed to a man cast overboard.”
The Soothsayer felt a tear tracking down. In other circles, he’d
have wiped the little traitor aside like a cigar mote gone democratic
– a bleeding-heart missile of insipidness ranged to his questioning
mind. Now, he paused, and felt it dangle from his lantern jaw, swaying
with indecision on a facial feature regarded with the opposite.
It broke, tumbled, and splashed soundlessly into Sam’s upturned
hand. She drew it back, and smeared the salty moistness gently
across her faultlessly-smooth forehead, the rich human electrolytes
reflecting the dancing candlelight in low nanometer waveforms. They
both wept slowly, and earnestly, absent all self-consciousness.
He rose, they joined hands, and moved to the bedroom.
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The lights, a cacophony of tiny faux candles, cast flickering
shadows across the eggshell hand-applied plaster. Each sweeping
texture of the craftsmen bent, and broke the light, shattering it to
a thousand possibilities. An enormous bed, like some erstwhile
theater, spread before them, its moment telling, and fecund.
Sam dropped her clothing in a soft pile, and slid beneath
the covers like a Bond girl. The silky sheets described a waiting
curvacity. The Soothsayer stripped like a marine drill, and dove. He
hit the mattress in a desperate third base slide, home in view.
Their flesh enfolded, and battled towards desperate oneness.
Sam’s hands moved with certain knowledge of human anatomy,
and want of communion. She ground her pubis over his loins,
individuality shorn. Again and again her firmness moved the length
of his torso, and mind, forcing his cognitive mien to acquiescence.
Down the phylogeny they fell.
Together.
Candles guttered molten tendrils like ruddy rivulets, dripping
metronome ticks of wax from high silver stands to the floor
below. Saturated photons shot across their torrid wrestling forms,
reflecting a mixture of human sweat, and Robot synovials beading,
and shimmering in the variegated light. Spectra rich with chemical
diversity twirled, and spun off like reaching messengers, telegraphing
this moment in their time-space continuum.
The solder of sexuality, and identity ran together, puddled, and
sheared anew. Gerald, Sam, and The Soothsayer penetrated every
permutation in a struggle of simultaneity, and need. Man’s basal
drive to be joined with another was explored through every possible
variation, and tempo. The lovemaking’s heat of fusion raged in a
“virtual magnetic bottle,” all judgment held without for certain selfdiscovery.
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Chapter 57: An Embryology of Planning
Humans gestate for 36 weeks, give or take. During that interval,
they develop organelles reminiscent of their evolutionary upbringing
– like the fishy gill slits that come and go. Biologists long ago coined
the expression – “Ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny” – to describe
this harrowing journey.
Robots are no different, as is examined most Friday nights under
the presence of Evo. Their sojourn, however, is less than a faithful
mimicry. The ship’s compliment, save Screech, began as flesh and
blood beings, later accepting another form in exchange for perpetuity.
But this is troubling to well-educated scientists, and technicians, and
the resulting psychological fallout is well-documented.
Try as they might, the intervening millennia left behind a
sounding echo of the former self. On balance, it seems a bargain
to trade necrosing tissue for endless self-repair, but while human
bodies largely re-invigorate themselves every seven years, a Robot’s
physicality is born into stasis. Hence the nightly rituals, and wagering
to rend, and conjure development by any means.
And this is their Achilles’ heal. In an instant you trade genuine
maturation for permanence. And nature abhors a vacuum, be it
rarified air, or life.
“Was it good for you?” The Soothsayer looked across the Helen
of Troy beauty unabashedly lain before him, and thought Something
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evil this way comes. I don’t deserve, nor have ever had such an
experience. Where’s the catch?
Sam smiled, and said softly, “Yes. We had a great time. As we
expected!”
The Soothsayer analyzed his Kinsey index of heterosexuality,
and remained silent. I’ve regretted some things said, but never
silence.
But he had to know. “Ah, was Gerald watching?”
“Gerald was on top, my dear. I can’t generate that much force
alone. And I was really trying!”
The Soothsayer knew he was in the presence of something new.
His M.I.T training had prepared him for many absurdities, but not
this. “I’m a modern man, Sam, and the proof is in the pudding, so to
speak. Yet it will take me a moment or ten to wrap my mind around
what just happened.”
She giggled. “A first rate mind-fuck, you mean?”
“It’s clear – your intent. You’ve creatively sundered my sexual
belief system, and encouraged dialogue long left in adolescence.
You’ve stirred the antecedents of identity, and not just about sexual
preference.”
“Precisely, plus you are a good lay.” More giggles.
“You’re divisive, incorrigible, and wonderful.”
“Yep.”
“Are we sorting out a plan to save Humanity?”
Yep.”
“Tell me.”
Gerald spoke up, his baritone a strange invasion to their intimacy.
“The Robots are desperate for what we just experienced.”
“Yes, I see. Validity. That part of themselves they willingly
calved off in exchange for immortality has left them with a stillborn
capacity to love. They can simulate such with untold complexity,
but at the end of the day, or lay, it is still a demo.”
“Yep. When Sam and I melded as a huge network with their
minds, we perceived great longing. Artifice sucks!”
“So we have something to teach, and they are a ready class?”
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“Not exactly.” Sam’s voice rejoined. “Their present state confers
many benefits, not the least of which is endless intellectual growth.
That can be a heady drug, so to speak. We’ll have to sneak up on
them. We’ll have to, by degrees, re-acquaint them with the benefits
of genuine experience. But after all, we are their archetype!”
“You both are genuine enough. What happens over time?” asked
The Soothsayer.
“We’re not sure,” said Gerald. It is subtle, and long-toothed.
Humans face their challenges because they must….Robots can
simply program conundrums away. It’s a cheat, and all cheaters lose
over time.”
The Soothsayer responded, “Yes. As children we all wish away
certain circumstances, and pain. As we age, we cherish the burnishing
action of time. Given an easy fix, a man would forever program his
way out of troubles.”
“Something like that. They’ve had it easy, and in the end, hard.
Their consequent angst is raised an order of magnitude with each
challenge avoided. Starting as a living life-form, they realize on
some biological level what they’ve given up.”
“And it’s screwing them up, hun?”
Sam laughed, and said, “You ought’a see the gambling, drug
frenzies, and caricatures. They can only be explained by madcap
yearning.”
“Let’s go…sounds fun!”
Sam/Gerald laughed with a combined note that exposed their
symbiosis. “We love you, Soothy.”
“Yeah, I love you guys, too.” That out of the way, he said, “So
how do we, as some ancient china-man once said, confuse and
confound our enemy?”
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Chapter 58: To the Stars
The stretch limo eased up to the curb, its running lights dimmed
in expectation of trouble. The chauffeur drew down the privacy
window, and handed The Soothsayer a small bundle. “Sure you
don’t want me to come along?”
“Nope. What’s this,” asked The Soothsayer. The other nodded
knowingly. “A little something just in case.”
No words were spoken. They bailed out, and approached the
church gate. Gerald fiddled with the latch, and stole silently in. “It’s
clear.” The ship stood eerily in its invisibility. A moment later, the
dull black carbon nanotube-stiff hatch swung to.
The Soothsayer moved instinctively to the overstocked bar, and
drew out a rare whiskey. “One for the road?” Tumblers up, they took
their seats, and Gerald began his struggle with the over-programmed
controls. The lift-off was soundless, and dramatic. On the forward
view-plate, the receding world opened before them. LA shrank like
an irradiated tumor, and they passed through puffy red and orange
clouds that captured the sun’s final photons. It was a great night to
be alive!
Gerald relaxed his masculine grip, and the ship ascended
agreeably on auto, MotherShip bound. He spoke, “I can’t tell you
how to behave. Though the ship’s compliment has had many human
visitors in times past as part of their world rending adventures, we’ve
not personally seen any about.” Sam spoke up, “You will pass as a
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rare disease study of ours. We’ll give you a thorough physical upon
arrival, and then just let you fade into the culture.”
The Soothsayer raised his glass, and signaled a toast. “One step
for (a) man, one giant leap for mankind.” Even Neil can get jangled
visiting a new world.
Sam took over, and busied herself in the small kitchen,
rummaging through the medical supplies. “Here, let’s get this gauze
wrap all over your face.” The Soothsayer stood erect as she wound
loop after loop around his head. As she finished with a small slit
for each eye, and his mouth, he drained his glass. “I’m gonna enjoy
being the mummy from LA.”
He slid the oily bundle into the small of his back, and re-took
his seat. Sam, still in charge, handed him a rough, hand-drawn
diagram of the ship. “We live down on Level Four, and that’s where
we’ll go immediately upon landing. You can collect your wits, and
then we’ll ascend to Level Nine to see a medical Robot. Leave
everything you value in our living space…..you’ll have to strip for
the examination.”
“How do I explain the bandages?”
Sam responded, “I will.”
“Okay. You’ve got a plan, hun?”
“Working on it. I have the entire history of Man’s greatest
strategists to fall back on. Trust us.”
To The Soothsayer, this dizzying personal pronoun use was
at once folksy, and chilling. How far had they gone? Was their
allegiance wholly human? At what point do we refer to adaptation
as mutation? Evolutionary questions taken to another, and practical
level.
The lovemaking had brought it home. One’s stream of sensory
input, be it from sight, sound, or skin, fades as the crescendo of sex
builds. The innermost mind grows insular, reaching with coaxialthinness to the opposed mind. For, and in an instant, two identities
join, and tussle, wheel away, infinitely closer, and by that knowing,
more distant.
In that instant, The Soothsayer penetrated a heretofore unencountered clarity. A perfectly organized lattice of thought rich
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with gender polarity, but peaceful. Too peaceful. In that flicker of
celestial distance, he saw the destiny of Man, and was as hopeful as
he was frightened. Like a damping wave that renders a superposition
of quiescence, the solution was beautiful, and the End of Man.
Gerald barked out, “Sooth, any of that Jack Daniels left?”
Like aiding and abetting a manic criminal, The Soothsayer felt
caution blinker across his mind’s eye, and realized a frontal attack
would be useless. Let time play its hand. “Yep, fresh bottle under the
sink. How ya having it?”
Double meaning aside, that subtle test was passed over as their
tumblers came together. For a long time, they sat in silence as the
Earth hung full in the view-plate. The ship seemed motionless as
they consumed the liquor, and view. Longing mixed with something
just beyond description moved through Gerald’s partitioned mind,
across the barrier ran the eddies of a world. The Soothsayer simply
enjoyed the buzz, the company, and the kick-ass panorama. His was
doing a back-porch, summer evening wonder at all things gig.
The blue of the sea back-dropped clouds of a million shapes
that skidded, and swirled along invisible force lines. Winds aloft
sheered, and tugged at tiny water droplets, pulling the cloud taffy
into children’s animals, and adult demons. It was all in the eye of
the beholder…or was it? Philosophy dictates that all perception is
subjective, yet here two diverging intellects stared upon the same
vaporous apparitions, and saw alike: rending change.
Gerald got up, and brought the bottle back. “What do you see
out there?”
The Soothsayer brought his glass up slowly to collect his
thoughts. “A soft landing for life many eons ago, mankind’s first
home, and a point of departure.”
As Gerald prepared a pithy response, and alert light flashed on the
heads-up, display, and a racking klaxon belched out with panic. Sam
grabbed the stick, and said, “Proximity Alarm – Level 9. According
to the ship’s server, this is the highest threat.”
The Soothsayer stood, and stared out keenly. “What is it?”
“I don’t know, but somebody up in the ship is pretty worked up.
We better head home!”
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“To Earth?” Sam let that go.
She grabbed the controls with authority, and pushed them
forward full. The tiny shuttle launched forward at 1000 Gs, the
occupants protected from the crushing force by a counterbalancing
GraviMetric buffer that held all in stasis.
Seconds later they squeezed through the mother ship’s outer
skin, and settled roughly onto the hanger deck. Lights, and sound
came from everywhere. Robots were running helter-skelter, all order
blown.
Sam opened the hatch, grabbed The Soothsayer’s hand, and
tugged just shy of rotator cuff tear speed. “Let’s go. I think we’re
under attack!”
They crowded into one of the arching elevators, and hit button
Level 11: The Commons area. The online broadcast was a call to all
hands. Ordog would be addressing in five minutes. The Soothsayer
looked to Sam’s face. “Our nominal leader is expected to speak in a
few minutes. I’ve never seen anything like this, and a quick check
of the twenty-three hundred year Earth orbit reference canon has
no like event! Not even close. The last all-hands meeting occurred
when someone beat Ordog’s nuclear reactor betting scam.”
They scrambled out of the elevator, Sam protecting The
Soothsayer from the Hurculean Robot musculature, hot-wired with
anxiety. The ship’s full compliment, two hundred eleven souls, was
present. No one sat. Without fanfare, Ordog mounted the dais.
No notes, no nothing. This was a live stream off some cool
calculating threat-assessment code buried deep in the GraviMetric
Engines. The holiest of holies. “We have collectively considered
the various threats that exist in our universe. Most are known to
us. Foremost among these are the great Chaos Machines of Parallel
Universe Seven. As we all know, trans-parallel universe travel is
theoretical, and poorly understood by our best minds. In short, it can
be identified by its signature, but not reproduced. And it appears that
someone has come into our sandbox!
“Dark rumors have rippled through the cosmos of planet-sized
machines that seek, in almost a GOD-like mimicry, to expunge all
non-Brownian Motion. In practical terms, these mighty beings, or
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whatever they really are can control all motion of matter and energy,
and intend to reverse the action of life towards ever more complex
systems, and return the universe, our universe, to Big Bangs and
fury.”
Ordog let that sink in. Each pet project, from horse track fixing,
to shorting MSFT passed through the communal mind. It was like
city hall putting out the light of invention. And amusement.
“The threat goes well beyond odds-changing on our various
genteel bet-making ventures below. This machine is thought, by
some of our finest, and distant scholars to actually carry a dogma
of fundamental resentment towards evolution on any level, be it
cybernetic, or our forefather humanoids. In short, the actual threat
may be the eradication of life, the most organizing of all systems.”
In a silent gesture, each Robot bowed its head, and joined with
prayer-like solemnity. The journey from humanoid to cybernetic
creature had been challenging, and left in its wake a reverence for
all life, gambling notwithstanding. The Soothsayer stood quietly,
his head also bowed. Though he was denied the subtleties of the
reflected ethereal-word, he got the subtext of the spoken message.
Everything was at risk.
Ordog raised his head, and said softly, “These ships are showing
up all over the fabric of space. We should expect one in our
neighborhood anytime. Now for the good news.”
He bounced out a cigarette, and took a deep drag. “ Our ships
are invisible to their casual sensors. We can thank our original
technology designers for their emphasis on keen defensive systems
in favor of warfare. The immediate concern is the planet below.
As the on-station representative, we have been assigned to protect
Earth. And frankly, we have no idea how to do that. Therefore I
expect everyone to suspend their current projects, and think deeply
about this problem.”
Bottles were produced, and moved hand-to-hand in a cross
between a Scottish wake, and an after-hours graduate brainstorming
session. Ordog punched out a priority thought. “Starting tonight,
we will all convene for a one hour evening invention period. I want
creative thoughts, and outlandish solutions. This is a dire problem
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that lies before us, but we have tremendous resources, and a few
tricks up our sleeves.”
A few Robots peeked into their literal garments, and faulted into
thrashing mals. Could have been the booze. The evening progressed.
Pot, and flavored poisons abounded, and the general mood lifted,
albeit guardedly. Even in their inhaled stupor, the formidable mental
might of the collected revelers was at work. The surprising discovery
was that no fresh odds-making had found its way up onto the Big
Board.
Sam and The Soothsayer walked across the commons area to
the greenhouse. Running water, and life everywhere. Earth’s richest
colors, and scents filled the space with nature’s clarion call: diversity.
They both wept. Their falling tears mingled with the streaming, and
life-giving waters of the irrigation system, and were drawn up by
the very plants they worshipped as kindred. Gaiea. That word came
to them both simultaneously – Earth as a wonderful, bountiful,
nurturing organism. Planet, and life as one breathing, growing,
chaotic machine.
It must be protected at all costs!
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Chapter 59: Grand Enmity
*** Six Weeks Later ***
Over the succeeding weeks, the Robots fell into a work pattern
centered on the threat. The nightly Invention Hour had bloomed
to four, and always began with a formal update. Everyone knew
something new was about to be announced. Ordog spoke without
preamble.
“Eight enormous machines have just appeared in the Orion Arm
Sector of the Milky Way. The nearest machine is a scant 2.3 LY (light
years) from our present position. If they possess only pedestrian
rates of propulsion, they could be here in a few weeks. Since this
sector contains 4 star systems with eleven life-bearing planets, our
best odds-maker predicts we’ll be seeing them within two months.
“That assessment is based upon our observations of their
actions at other populated worlds. Their physical form is one of a
swarming ionic cloud of bumblebee-like frenzy. They enshroud a
planet, and bombard it with high-energy gamma rays until all DNA
is disassociated. Carbon-based life cannot sustain itself without the
instructions these tiny molecules confer.”
Every being aboard understood the biology of the attack, but
Ordog was addressing a deeper level. Once carbon life was de-bulked,
silicon would be a kissing-cousin away. All life was anathema to
these interlopers.
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“People, I’m looking for ideas. Let’s review our accomplishments
by group.”
Offensive Measures was first. “We’ve whipped up some powerful
parabolic mirrors sensitive to high frequency solar radiation. We
will be able to focus Sol’s X-rays into a discrete column of ten to the
sixteenth ergs per second. That ought’ a light their briquettes!”
Defense was next. “Our brethren in other parts of the galaxy
have confirmed the alien machines cannot see our ships, or infer any
known signatures we create. This remains our strongest advantage.
As to protecting the Earth, we considered cloaking the entire planet,
but we lack the resources, and it’s felt that tactic might too greatly
exposure our own technology. Against their gamma ray anti-DNA
beams, we’ve made some progress towards strengthening Earth’s
natural defenses.”
The lecturer threw up a plate.
“Earth uses a combination of magnetic, and particle barriers to
fend off high energy space-based emissions. We have discovered
a way to seed Earth’s upper atmosphere with non-polluting radiodurable organisms that will absorb frequency specific radiation. The
trick is to determine their exact wavelength, whip up the critters, and
distribute them rapidly enough.”
She picked up her mug, and took a long draft. “ Our sisters-ships
have measured an unexpected breadth of frequencies employed.
Perhaps they select distinct wavelengths to defeat native factors
in individual atmospheres. We’re studying that. Our response time
from first frequency determination is about two days. In that time,
we can enshroud the planet with our radio-hungry bugs.”
Next came everybody’s favorite, the Wild Ideas Group.
Sequestered by day, this group of psycho-active drug pounding
maniacs were down in the labs boiling up trouble. The group had all
affected the strangeness of appearance so popular with the near-mad.
A crazed Einsteinian Robot crossed to the lectern. “In sector four,
one of our ships has transferred off seedlings of sprouting life and
replaced it with a rapidly replicating explosive moss. When those
fuckers light up this planet, they’re in for some pyrotechnic fun!”
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A round of clapping brought the nerd to tears. “Just a little party
gag, really. We figure a nominal explosive force of,” he fiddled with
his anachronistic slide rule, the device scissoring like an ancient
fighting tool, “well….” More fiddling, “ a small supernova. Should
be a good show. With luck, we’ll catch it on tape, and we can show
it on Movie Night!” He strode off, a true swinging dick.
A Robot fumbled with an oversized keg in the corner, and was
suddenly blown against the wall as the homebrew let go. Everything
was getting super-sized. Several Robots scrambled to aid their sudsy
friend, and good cheer was genuinely present for the moment. They
all drank deeply in their heady common plight.
The Soothsayer, standing quietly with his malt liquor, wasn’t so
sure. Typical techno-geeks, he thought. He lit up an old cigar, the
second last of his cherished stash.
Two smallish Robots spoke next. Watson and Crick. Their team
had achieved some fame years earlier with the pronouncement
of DNA’s structure to the scientists below, and even received the
ensuing Nobel Prize with moving diffidence. Now they had a more
practical discovery to discuss. “We have made zero progress towards
our goal of hardening DNA. The molecule is by its nature long, and
unprotected. It is responsible for such fecundity for the very reason
of its vulnerability.”
Ordog retook his position in front of his troops. “Great work,
all! Now, let’s keep kicking ass!” He turned, and left en route to his
private chamber to think his private thoughts, the weight of life on
his ever more capable shoulders.
As he passed The Soothsayer, the other pulled out his last
Cohiba, and passed it deftly to the departing leader. “If for no other
reason, we must protect our tobacco.” Ordog acknowledged the gift,
placing the coveted leafy symbol in his upper tunic pocket. As he
pushed through the doors to the elevator, and on-high, he stuttered,
and stopped. No more nicotine!
He turned around, marched into the commons, and called for
attention. All fell silent. “Our human brother has done what humans
do best – given us an insight that cybernetic logic often misses. Apart
from the horrific loss of intelligent life we have all contemplated is
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the loss of Earth’s rich lower life – chief among them tobacco, and
cannabis. I see it now. This is nothing short of a call to war!”
A hundred voices threw up in the instant recognition of truth.
Though they could grow a fine facsimile of Virginia’s best tobacco in
their gardens, it lacked the vitality, and genuineness of her own soil.
Each mind filled with images of an irradiated wasteland, suitable
only for the blackest weed, if any. And no one, to a Robot, smoked
New Jersey Wastewater Cavendish.
Leave it to a human to rally the Robots.
Later, in Sam and Gerald’s quarters, The Soothsayer turned the
steaming vegetables over in the sizzling wok. The atmosphere was
ripe with Earth’s bounty. A fine appellation sparkled in their exquisite
tulip glassware. Thin legs of the vintner’s manna coursed down from
each lift to the lips, the golden honey of the GODs mixing with their
mirth.
“It’s the soil. Even though the Californians moved the Beaujolais
grapes from France, something stayed behind. And even though we
have ‘captured’ the finest genomes of Earth’s best living treasures,
her firmament is as precious, and necessary.”
Sam whispered, “Well said, Gerald.” When together, all three by
convention agreed to speak aloud. It was the human way.
Gerald uncorked another rare vintage from the Robots’ extensive
wine cellar, and let it breathe. To make his point, he said, “This is a
Fleurie. It’s grown in a granitic soil that produces a seducing velvety
smoothness, and the aroma of violets, and blackcurrants. Considered
the most feminine of the Beaujolais Crus, and its singular experience
is due to the influence of the Virgin of Fleurie who watches over the
wines from her hilltop.”
He decanted, and they enjoyed the first tender drops in youthgiving silence.
The Soothsayer asked, “What if we can’t stop this life-effacing
force?”
He checked the shrimp, set them to a low, patient boil, and
took his seat. Sam answered. “We have collected a Noah’s Arc
cross-section of Earthly life. Most, save the greenhouse plants, are
encoded digitally, and can be reproduced. The frustration of it all
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is that onboard, as we are, these life-forms are arrested from their
native mutations. Like their Robot guardians, we all can only evolve
through artificial means.”
The Soothsayer picked up the thread. “Which means all forward
evolution is contrived. And as smart as the Robots are, they are not
GODs.” He immediately went distant.
Sam dished the shrimp into the vegetables, and mixed with
a quiet flourish. They sat, and ate. It was not a funk that drove
their reticence, but rather fear. Basal, stripped-to-the-skin fear.
Like a teenaged forced to grow up too soon, they saw the coming
apocalypse. Revelations 16:14-16.
Rev 16:14
For they are the spirits of devils, working miracles, [which] go
forth unto the kings of the earth and of the whole world, to gather
them to the battle of that great day of God Almighty.
Rev 16:15
Behold, I come as a thief. Blessed [is] he that watcheth, and
keepeth his garments, lest he walk naked, and they see his shame.
Rev 16:16
And he gathered them together into a place called in the Hebrew
tongue Armageddon.
Bad shit. Stuff of nightmares, and morning court appearances.
Holy rollers gone to Trenton.
After dinner, they climbed into their common bed, and made
sweet, slow human love. The urgency to join, so common in recent
past, was displaced here by a welling deep sense of forced destiny.
Though they were far from giving up, an aging voice croaked an
ancient warning: be prepared.
Be prepared.
None of the Robots had ever been in the Boy Scouts, and wouldn’t
have cut it anyway. Too many rules. Not enough toxicants. (Though
there was one luckless Robot named Contra (for Contraband)
that got bounced out week one into scouting for using a nuclear
accelerator to build a rainy campfire. But that’s another story, for
another time).
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As they slumbered, their minds melded, and tumbled together,
a bond forging that even now was crying for paradise lost, and
perhaps, found.
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Chapter 60: In a Place Far, Far Away
Sector Four lies a far piece from Earth, say seven parsecs, give
or take a LY. Within, a few emerging, and peaceful cultures went
about the daily business of being, and looking for a better PowerBall
game. Orbiting second out from their local star, a rocky, and steaming
planet was bumping along oblivious to its battlefield status.
The Robots had salvaged the indigenous Loach. Spawned from
an unlikely union of roach, and leech, it had failed all of the warm
and fuzzy tests for savoir. But life was life in the work-a-day life of
a Robotic xenologist, and a few bastards had to slip under the wire
now and then. It was good for diversity, and all that shit.
After sufficient, as in both, samples of the Loach were safely
aboard, dozens of shuttle ships fanned out over the surface,
depositing the Boom Boom Moss, as it was coming to be known.
The Ship’s computer listed over eight hundred thousand distinct
genomes of Moss, but the Robots scientists wanted all the options.
Wicked fast growth, tenacious deep-rooted clinging, and of course,
high explosive output. It took only twelve days, owing perhaps to
the onboard sweepstakes for the lucky inventor.
Within a week, the planet was matted deep with the crawling,
clinging bomb. And sending a high-band signal into space declaring
its chaotic sufferance. The Robot ship stood off a couple of AUs
(astronomical unit = 93 million miles) to watch the show. One
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hundred cameras pointed down, the popcorn was hot and buttery,
and they were pulling two-for-one beers all night.
Swinging along an arc un-effected by the pedestrian restraints
of gravity moved a buzzing cloud of energetic, and wholly chaotic
ions. It took its time sniffing the planet over, its inward quorum
deciding fates.
Our boys back on the ship, well into the bag of revelry on the
assumption of good things to come, zoomed their tremendous cameras
in for closer detail. The enormous view-plate of the Commons area
opened widescreen to the planet below. As they watched, the hissing,
roiling nimbus moved over the rocky orb, and sealed it tight.
The enunciator in the Commons said, “Surface temperature up
sixteen degrees. Ninety-four more to go.” A digital counter appeared
in the lower corner of their massive display, and the chanting started.
The Robots joined as one swaying organism, lost in the power of the
moment. And the counter incremented.
Light, and all EMR (electromagnetic radiation) become less
energetic with the square of the distance between source, and
reflector/absorber. For this reason, the Chaos Machine had moved
very near the Moss-ball. And with each passing minute, the counter
clicked off like a cheap microwave overcooking a hotdog to split
charcoal.
Click, click, click. When it came, it was hot, bright, and
presumably loud. The ship’s display overloaded, and rebooted for a
moment into the Blue Screen of Death, showing some early behind
the barn indiscretion with Windows.
When the picture returned, a smoking hulk of rock remained, its
surface, and mantle torn away.
The Robots shouted in perfect unison – Fuck you!
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Chapter 61: After-Action Report
Ordog cleared his throat in the affectation of Churchill, his new
hero. He recalled the May 19,1940 speech, Churchill’s first as Prime
Minister. The words flowed out of his mouth with strength.
“Arm yourselves, and be ye men of valour, and be in
readiness for the conflict; for it is better for us to perish in battle
than to look upon the outrage of our nation and our altar.”
A pin dropped somewhere, and everyone heard it. And then the
house flew up, for all the Robots knew of the success in Sector Four.
News travels fast at one hundred gigabits per second.
“Yes,” said Ordog above the roar, “We have footage. Roll it!”
The editing was tight, and left out the Blue Screen episode, true to
every Microsoft demo. The explosion was grand, perhaps grander
than the original after the effects boys had tinkered with the gain and
hue, but the end was the best.
Ordog ran the tape a few times until the voice of reason began
to intrude. “That’s right, it was only the first battle. And now they
know we’re here if they do well at all on standardized tests. So we
have to think of new ways to defeat them because they sure aren’t
gonna be blasting another Moss-ball before testing it. If we have
slowed them at all, that is our first true victory.”
Sam/Gerald, and The Soothsayer pulled polite beers from one
of the numerous kegs that had been brought up from Level Six. The
beer was a little flat, as flat maybe as the lasting sensation of the
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film. Sure, we smoked one fuzz-ball, but we lost something in the
exchange, something vital to warfare. The element of surprise. And
the first casualty would doubtless be their anonymity, which to a
defensive culture is most sacred of all.
Ordog walked up to them, and said, “We haven’t formally
met, though I’ve been aware of your presence. You are the most
talked-about human no one knows. Would you care to speak to the
troops?”
The Soothsayer rested his glass on a small statuary table, and
looked Ordog directly in the eyes. “Sure you want that?”
Ordog was feeling the strain of leadership. If weariness were a
Robotic complaint, he would have pulled that shield over him, but
instead he sighed, and said, “We all would like a fresh perspective.
Our humanism simulations are to us nearly miraculous, but at the
last, ingenuous.”
The Soothsayer nodded gently, and climbed the thirteen stairs to
the platform. That they were only two inches high each didn’t land
in his mind, it forming more important images. He felt truly to be a
stranger in a strange land.
“As you all know, I’m a run-of-the-mill human without upgrades.
One hundred percent original parts. I’m off warranty, and the product
of deferred maintenance.” No laughter.
“Anyway, I’ve been asked to lend you all a human perspective
on our joint struggle. As far as I understand, I am the only human
that even knows what’s going on in the not-so far reaches of space,
and I can tell you it’s almost unwelcome knowledge.”
He nodded, and Gerald/Sam joined him on the dais, bringing
his beer with them. “My friends Sam and Gerald have protected
me, and provided a far-ranging education in short order about the
shit that’s going down, and to them I am most grateful. I have felt
accepted, and even appreciated in my short time aboard your ship.
You are all wonderful creatures, and in some ways, a stimulating
extension of man.”
He shifted his eyes to Sam/Gerald, and lifted his mug. Every
arm in the place brought glass to lips in synchrony. “But you are
not human, and as far as I know, humanity exists in one place
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alone….Earth. And now I really believe, after that terrible battle at
an unimaginable distance, that the threat to my home-world is real,
and imminent.”
A low frequency wave moved through the ranks, a palpable
manifestation of deep hurt. “If Mankind has weeks left, I ask what
can we do to survive as a species. That is what I wish to know more
than anything I have ever learned. Please help Homo Sapiens avoid
extinction!”
He turned quickly and got off the stage ahead of his emotion.
Sam/Gerald trailed behind, down to Level Four, and into a warm
bed with soft music, and flickering candles. He drew the cocoon
over his mind, and lost himself.
Back up in the Commons, a party was spooling up an edgy
demeanor. The battle video had been savagely parsed, and now
showed eight separate outcomes on an equal number of screens. Like
an MTV Wall of Shit gone horribly wrong, the Chaos Machine lived
(and died) out a hundred dramatic demises with nervous insistence.
They could all smell the real thing coming, and no techno bullshit
was going to stop its implacable bow-wave of terror.
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Chapter 62: “Houston, We Have a Problem”
The Deep Space Network is composed of three tracking stations
in Madrid, Canberra, and California. Each station is about a third
of Earth’s circumference from the next, providing a globe-girdling
outward look at the heavens. Used primarily to communicate with
satellites, and study asteroids, it sweeps the sky, and can pick out
even the smallest objects moving across the panoply of the stars.
Just as the Robots were cleaning up barf, and spilt beer, the 70
meter steerable dish at Goldstone locked on to something big. No
movie-set klaxon wailed, but rather a small red light blinked on a
nameless technician’s radio-stack panel, alerting this sleep-deprived
graduate student of a legitimate return, or more likely, a system
bug.
He appropriately ignored it, and continued to repair his
Mohammed Al-Sayer action figure. The talking doll, a striking
facsimile of Iraq’s ex-Minister of Defensive Posturing, had
developed an unwanted raspiness of voice that failed to charm the
ladies during the data review parties. The student was fiddling with
the voicebox, a crude, and diminutive MP3 player with sixteen
ridiculous pronouncements detailing the imminent demise of the
American and Coalition Forces. During one spirited denial of
Baghdad encroachment, one could actually hear the tanks trundling
up the boulevard running directly behind the foppish Minister. To
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drive out the demons, the speaker could be imagined throttling the
microphone, one more traitor to be silenced.
The grad dude snapped back to reality when his “encounter
board,” a joke among the students as a cold-war era throw-back, lit
up with Gulag urgency. Either we’ve got incoming MIRVs, or the
pod-people invasion has begun. He didn’t know how close he was
on both supercilious counts.
The software’s principal mission was to detect collisions. As
in the ‘smacking-Earth’ kind. Whatever was heading this way was
really heading exactly this way, and in a hurry to get there. He picked
up the phone, and set it back down as quickly. Who the hell should
I call?
Contact with anything had long ago been deemed extremely
unlikely, and as such, no real procedures existed for a sudden
discovery of planet-smashing caliber. He lifted the phone again, and
dialed his old roommate, now a Syracuse Assistant DA, and all night
partier. The phone was answered on the second ring. “The ninth
floor, you asshole. I told you, one more late pizza, and I‘m pressing
charges!”
“No, ah, Jeff, it’s me Archibald. Your old roomy. Fuck the
pizza!”
“Arch, hold on, there’s the moron beeping through.”
Archibald waited with less than perfect patience as the pizza
presumably neared the ninth floor, and a planet sized something
neared everything he’d ever known. “Got it. Damn that company
sucks! What’s up, man?”
“You know anybody high up in government?”
“Ah, a coupla crooked judges…why, you knock up some jailbait
mall rat?”
“ I wish. Remember where I am. In the middle of nowhere. But
listen, I just got a warning of something huge approaching the Earth,
and I was hoping you’d know who to call. Do you?”
The squishy sound of mastication bore down the line. “Gotta
love thick crust, hun?” Archibold’s stomach was flipping over like
a deranged dolphin on breaded fish. “Yeah, maybe. I met a guy in
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court recently who works for one of those black bag outfits. Real
hush-hush hubris. I got his card somewhere. Hold on.”
Archibald looked at the remains of his half-consumed Fritos
bag, and wondered ageless guilts. The phone clunked, and Jeff spit
pizza into the phone. “His name is Barno Culpen. Sounds like a
mugger, hun?”
Number exchanged, Jeff continued, “Hold on, I’ll conference
us now.” The phone went quiet, and his mind went schizo. What
the hell is going on? The phone clicked again into an animated
conversation, and Archibald stumbled to catch up.
“Hey, mate, you at Goldstone, right?”
At the mention of his contract employer, and home facility, he
gained a little confidence. “That’s right. Jeff thinks you might be
able to help me alert someone up the food chain about an impending
disaster. I hope so!”
“Hold on, mate. Jeff said there’s something real big coming at
Earth real fast. Did I get that right?”
Archibald was split between exasperation, and panic. “Yeah, but
the important thing is the immediacy of the threat, man. This object
is the size of the moon, and it’s coming off the ecliptic at one point
two ‘c’. That’s real fast! The only good news is that it’s still a few
days away if it doesn’t speed up.”
“What the fuck! Is this a spaceship, or a naturally occurring
body?”
“How the fuck would I know. It’s dense, and appears to be
breaking all the laws of Newtonian motion mechanics, and all of
Einstein’s rules. I’d say it’s a ship. But the weirdest thing is that we
shouldn’t even be able to see it. ”
“And we got how long?”
“Again, it’s a guess based upon extrapolation. We certainly don’t
have enough time to be trading bullshit. Can you tell somebody
important, or not?”
“Okay. Ah, ah, not directly, but I know people who know
people.”
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“So does my fucking Aunt Mildred. Does your circle of
acquaintances know the President, or chief of staff at the Pentagon.
That’s the kind of people we need to reach!”
“I got your number from the caller ID, and I’ll start dialing now.
Expect a confirming call within the hour.” The phone went dead.
Archibald snatched up his Fritos, and slid his hand into the
greasy foil bag. He rolled his chair over to a widescreen display, and
called up a plot of the object’s track.
The Milky Way spanned the breadth of his display, one hundred
thousand light years across. The sun, our sun, showed up as a yellow
dot in the western spiral arm, and the closing spaceship as a red dot.
Each successive sweep of the deep space radar further confirmed a
accelerating speed. We’re in some deep shit, he thought.
Maybe a weekend away.
Time enough for love if you were good. Or lucky. And Archibald
was neither.
A jangling phone is the closest thing to a non-maskable interrupt
that man has ever devised. It cannot be ignored as it rings intrusively,
trammeling over any thought, however well conceived. Archie
snapped up the phone. “What?”
He was greeted with a busy clamor of clicks, and handshaking
protocols. Finally a disembodied voice said, “Line secure.”
“Archibald Svensen? Please identify yourself.”
“Yeah, I’m Archibald….”
“In your second year of undergraduate at Princeton, you had an
unfortunate encounter with a gay man. What scar did he have on his
left buttocks?”
“Ah,” Archie dissembled as he unearthed suppressed memories.
“It was a ship’s anchor. Wound round it was the forked tongue of his
mother.”
He waited as some imagined all-knowing Deep-Thought
computer checked his sexual preferences, and penile endowments.
A human voice came on. “Archibald, this is General Richard
Tampon. I understand you work as a graduate student at Goldstone,
and have recorded an incoming object with a perigee of Earth. Is
that correct?”
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Archie hated the stiff brass more than anything. To him, such
loafers were the scum of the Earth, peddling fear, uncertainty, and
doubt as wares of their trade. He had dabbled momentarily with
becoming a fighter pilot, but the immediate bullshit of the inducting
process turned him back to his books, and beer.
What Archie, nor anyone on Earth realized was that they
really were bring helped by someone much closer than the Chaos
Machine. What he could have inferred, were he a bit swifter, was
that somebody, or thing was seeing through a lens that didn’t use the
plebian speed of light. He was getting information about something
that was moving faster than light, but visible ahead of the photons
reflecting off its surface. He felt nauseous. Six years of physics down
the drain.
“Look, you tin horn, I need to talk with a government scientist. This
is some weird shit, and we have no time for an underachiever!”
“I have two doctorates in astrophysics, and astrobiology. Both
M.I.T. Do you care to proceed?”
“Okay. Somehow I’m tracking a Luna-sized object heading
this way at two hundred twenty-three thousand miles a second. I’m
getting seven second period movements, so I am not measuring the
position of this thing with Goldstone radar signals. Capiesh?”
“This a deus ex machina then?”
Archie slowed down his pulse with his best Buddhist mantra.
Maybe this dude wasn’t such a dumb shit. The general picked up the
ball. “It’s probably a feed from those Robots up in low Earth orbit. I
just can’t decide if they’re doing us a favor, or not?”
Archie reached for his backpack, and brought out his one-hitter
pipe. Dope was indicated. A puff later, he was in the game. “Tampon,
let’s hear about these Robots.”
Archie’s head swirled around listlessly, the order of his universe
raped by the last hour. “The last two years have seen some
extraordinary activity from another culture parked in LEO (Low
Earth Orbit). Numerous inferred events have been reconstructed,
and some eye-witness accounts are unshakeable. To be clear, an
advanced, and seemingly benevolent species of machines has staked
out our planet for study, and profit.”
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Archie’s potted plant of a brain belched out, “Profit?”
The Robots appears to be fond of the games of chance. Some in
the inner circles have conjectured they created such, and have been
with us for some time. Perhaps centuries, or even longer. What’s
clear is they have advanced technology, visit often, can take human
form, and are responsible for much of our advanced infrastructure.
How’s that shit, you pothead?”
Visions of a public shaming, without stipend, and the resultant
destitution crowded out his fear for Earth.
“Hey, just funning ya. I’d of thought less of you had you stayed
straight in the face of this circus. Some of us boys sit down in the
Pentagon basement, and do some wild weed as we talk about the
Robots. We’ve even been trying to get one to party with us. There’s
a rumor they grow some mean ganja.”
Archie was adrift. The bedrock of his tiny universe was tipped
up, and he was sliding off the Fritos-greasy edge. He asked, “Is all
this shit for real? The Robots, the Department of War gone mad,
and…”
“We changed the name to Department of Defense. Better
marketing. Same business. Anyway, yeah, the world is a strange
place, and ya gotta roll with it, man. What’ya smoking?”
“Ah, something a Berkeley doctorate is growing. He’s originally
from Omaha. Calls it Nebraska Notochord.”
“Yeah, I heard of that shit. ‘Takes ya back,’ Right?”
“Exactly!”
“Rumor is it’s a de-evolutionary ride back through the phylogeny.
Ya start on-high at Man, or Robot, and pass down through the lower
classes, and species to the primordial sludge. Supposed to be a rough
ride for uptight life-forms like Robots.” Archie could hear the bong
bubbling on the other end. The general was suiting up for battle.
Archie remembered a favorite eating club rejoinder from his
Princeton days. “You don’t say?”
“Can it, you Jersey-ite. We have bigger fish to fry than your ego.
The smart money is saying a big threat is a-coming, and they ain’t
bringin’ Amway soaps, and pills. Time to mobilize!”
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Mental images of Dresden, and Hiroshima flooded the pacifist’s
mind. “What can we do?”
“Pretty obvious, isn’t it. Come on, I checked your Stanford-Binet
index. I know you can sus out the only original, and fruitful tactic
we have. Go ahead, boggle me.”
“ Ah, suck up to the Robots?”
“Got a better plan?”
“Not today.” As if there might be a tomorrow.
“Right!” snapped the General. “And I’m thinking about calling
some chits in. Open Vegas to these high rollers for a VIP tour. Get
‘em spinning the tables out in the open, and pimp some bimbos as
door prizes!”
This was the best thinking Archie had ever encountered in six
years of elite education. In his cloistered ivory tower mindset, he’d
confused boldness with jalapenos on his pizza. This was a stroke
of genius! He took another hit, and said, “Is the full weight of the
American industrial machine behind this?”
“We got the mob on board.”
Enough said.
Archie re-lit his one-hitter, and envisioned the western spiral
arm of the Milky Way. Out there somewhere, a presumed nemesis
was racing towards Earth with intent unknown. And that was always
terrifying. Like a child’s closet monsters, it was just beyond reach,
and knowing.
The general took a deep cloud of dope smoke in, and breathed
out triumphantly. “’Benny the Bopper’ has already agreed to host
a Robot Night to beat them all. And the dude’s a natural showman.
He’s got live animals, showgirls, and drugs that the government
can’t even control. I did it all with a single phone call.”
“Fuckin A, where’s my G5?”
“It just took off. Ivanpah Airport just completed their fourteen
thousand foot strip, and if you leave now, you can just get there.
We’ve stocked the plane with ALL of your favs, and there’s a few
nice lovelies to attend you. Can we count on your presence?”
This was Archie’s recurring wet dream. A private jet laden with
toxicants, and loose women. Every nerds’ nirvana. He grabbed his
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backpack, and ran through the double doors leading to the parking
lot. He stopped suddenly to meet the blooming desert, its alkaline
air heavy on the recent rain. Nothing like water to solvate light
molecules, he paused, and thought.
He lurched over to his ’85 Pinto, and gesticulated to the GODs
of ignition. It started with a rough tubercular burp, and he sped off,
destiny in view.
The general settled back with his cronies, rolling a thick fatty.
The pawns were moving off their white starting squares, and the
game was afoot. A bird colonel to his immediate right said, “That
boy reliable, Tampo?”
“Got no idea, but at this point, we need the bright, and the dull.
Time will discover his quarter.”
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Chapter 63: Church as Agent of Change
Goober took the call. Recently back from the Mothership, he was
pouring another round for the boys following a particularly trying
evangelical session that featured sacrifice, speaking in tongues, and
an indifferent pate of street cat. He plucked a long hirsute fiber from
his gums, and said, “Church of the UnQuiet.”
“This is General Tampon. I must speak to the head of your
church.”
Goober reflected on Harry’s probable condition, and said, “You
got him. Goober’s the name.” He reached for the Tanquery, and
poured a generous measure into a liquid nitrogen chilled vessel of
rare earths.
The ethanol separated, swirled frantically, and settled solid at the
bottom. Another fuck-up, thought Goober. He placed the container
on an ion warmer, and teased some ergs into its waiting gel. The
other spoke.
“We have a common problem. Your people up on the ship have
afforded our military intelligence agents a view of the impending
crisis, and we wish to commune with the Robots. Can you put the
deal together?”
“What’s in it for us?” asked Goober, nonplused by the oxymoronic
request.
“A special night in Vegas. Open bar, good tables, and plenty of
pussy.”
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Goober, ever a true church minion, shuttered to alert status. Fuck
tithing, this was the real thing!
“Can you hold?” He hit the Ordog speed-dial button, and endured
the long distance ringing. Ordog yanked his Motorola Star-tak free,
and barked, “What?”
“Got a human on line one who wants to open Vegas up to the
Robots for a VIP Night. Sounds legit.”
“What’s the catch?”
“Hold on, I’ll check.”
He switched lines, and said, “What’s our end?”
“We got a common asshole coming this way. I know you know
‘cause we couldn’t see it without your help. Be here in two days.”
Goober shuffled lines again. “He knows we sent the Chaos
Machine feed to them. Wants to parlay.”
Goober waited as Ordog ran the numbers. Click, click, click.
Goober: “We call the game, and odds.”
Goober toggled again. “No house advantage. Take it or leave
it.”
The general accepted the hookah, and drew deep. In exhausted
syllables, he said, “Take it!”
“Deal, Ordog.”
“Fine. We’re en route.”
“They’ll be here in a few hours. Do you have valet spaceship
service? Vegas can be rough at night.”
“Land at the Luxor. South lot. I’ll have men waiting.”
Goober moved a clean rag skillfully around a fluted wineglass, a
satisfying squeak his reward. So the humans and Robots are finally
joining forces. Nothing like a threat without to forge a blood-brother
pact, however ill-engendered. In like ceremony, he drew his bar
knife across his palm, and watched the pseudo-blood fall drop by
drop into an empty glass.
A recent acolyte called for another round, and he mixed the
incipient fluid with the late night liquor as an original concoction.
“Here ya go, another ‘Spirit of the Host’.” The recipient upended the
vessel, and drank deeply of the word, oblivious, yet reborn.
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Chapter 64: An Old Friend Anew
Sam/Gerald, and The Soothsayer strolled up the overhang on
Level 13, and looked out over the waterfall as it boomed into the
pool below. Mist rose to meet them, and the sounds of running water
were reflected from every surface. Life in abundance, as if to say I
have a will and desire to exist.
They stood there, arm in arm, and took in the enormity of
impending crisis. That the Robots had destroyed one Chaos Machine
meant nothing. Now the enemy was wise to their game, and would
be prepared. Life, and all that implied was the quarry. Sam turned to
The Soothsayer, and said, “Tell me what’s going to happen.”
“Is this question yours, or both of yours?” Obviously the
English language needed fresh pronouns if it too was to evolve. “It
is mine. Gerald has left us to our own thoughts, as he has his own
to consider.”
“The human race is toast. I’ll not tell you why I know that, or,
at least let’s leave that for a future discussion. The more pressing
consideration is what will we become.”
He looked out over the edge, and followed a single sparkle deep
in the water as it tumbled down the shaft of careening splendor.
Small rainbows bounced about, forming, and disappearing by the
instant, almost an invitation to come play. “The Robots may be able
to save a planet which has select, low population life-forms that can
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be readily relocated, but Earth, and its people are non-space faring.
To move six billion is beyond The Robot’s power, or inclination.”
Sam turned away in conflict. She, and her soul mate, entwined
as two humans had never been, knew the truth. For months they had
communed with The Robots, were Robots, and the transition to a
defense of both had been subtle, but cognitive. Was she evolving
into something else? Gerald and she had discussed out loud, and
later across their identity barrier the changes in perspective that
immortality, and this stronger form had granted. That they seemed
“more human” than the others was an open question, increasingly
absent from their evening ruminations.
Sam said, her back to him, “I’ll tell you something. The near
GOD-like powers I now possess obscures loss. Isn’t that something
of the essence of evolution?”
“This is an unique situation in the upward push of life on Earth.
Man, the first self-consciously sapient being, knows his station,
and abrades any rapid change, even those judged from without,
or seemingly beyond. By mid-life, we generally like what we’ve
become, and are resistant to forces that impel implied growth.
Speaking personally, I cherish you and Gerald, but am not sure I
wish to cross the chasm you both crossed unknowingly.”
“That’s already hard for me to see. I have an unknown, but
long life ahead of me, and a sophisticated mental faculty, but most
importantly a communion of like beings who, though they may not
love me in the human sense, certainly relate with me. It’s an odd
love, but a gracious one.”
The Soothsayer chuckled gently. “I am at once moved by the
commonality, and warmth of life here, but saddened as well. Every
step towards communal living, be it networked, or somatic, is a step
away from individuality. And that, as lonely as it may be, is the most
unique of human conditions. Like some luckless hayseed country
singer must’ a said, ‘Here I am with my bottle, and dog, and thinkin’
my thoughts’ ‘Cause living’s just som’em I do.”
She turned around. “But hasn’t Man always endeavored to forge
a bond in the face of uncertainty. And these are uncertain times, if
ever a political hack could claim so.” Sam grasped his hand tightly,
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careful to send a gentle message, and not crush it to splintered
paste.
The Soothsayer nodded in appreciation of a thought landed, and
a still-operable hand. “Calamity keeps pace with our technology,
and evolution. Once, eons ago, drought meant death. Now it’s Chaos
Machines from a parallel universe. Is there a difference?”
“I think there is. The former destroyed a people, the latter,
potentially, a rare and special genome.”
The Soothsayer made to respond, and stopped himself.
The water, ever a factor on Earth, and the progenitor to life
itself, cycled from the pool, rose to the crescendo, and fell again. An
endless loop, played out ad infinitum.
Down on Earth, the informed assembled, and planned. Above,
Ordog studied reports from afar, and consulted with minds distant,
and near.
Consensus rose, and fell like the waterfall, no two minds in
perfect synchrony. Yet and still the Chaos Machines proceeded
according to a dogma cold, and uncaring. To them, evil was clear,
and present. Biological life, in particular. It was early, pedestrian,
and inefficient.
And must be turned off!
“I see the direction you’re taking this.”
Sam shifted her fourteen hundred pounds from left foot to right,
the floor giving no hint of the forces present. Her voice was a husky
whisper. “I want the best for you, and for Man. If the alternative is
to perish as a man, or Man, then I seek a compromise. The stakes
are too high.”
“Let me sleep on it.”
“Why not sleep on me. I’d like that.”
They left the waterfall quietly, lost in their thoughts; individual,
communal, and ageless.
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Chapter 65: The Leak
Atlanta. CNN Headquarters.
“We got the feed. De-encrypting now.”
The floor was littered with sunflower seed ejecta, a volcanic
acne face its source. The Program Director watched another husk
spiral out wet with sputum, and tumble wetly. It landed on one of his
high-shine Bostonians. The price we pay for excellence, he thought
acridly.
“What’re they up to?”
Vesuvius-face pounded the keyboard like a manic reciprocating
adolescent autoerotic pocket-pussy, and spit the fresh contents of his
masticating orifice out in a rough facsimile of a Level Four Ebola
cough. “Some military crypt……weird shit!”
“But do you have it?” The Director quickly considered the
distant Plan B. Damn Dweebs!”
“Getting some usable data now.” The techno-loser squirmed in
his chair with a little too much sexual delight for the other’s comfort,
and wolfed another handful of sodium chloride delivery packets.”
“Net it out!”
“Allen.” The programmer spit the overly familiar Christian name
out sans regard to social position, and continued, “Those Robots we
hear about have discovered an approaching planet-busting machine,
and they’re going to determine if Man is worthy of saving. The
military has set up a game in ‘Vegas to make the call.”
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The Director wheeled away in horror. An idiot oracle, and the
end of the world in parlay. He should have been happy, ratings-wise.
Instead, he barked, “Print it. I’m heading upstairs!”
Eight minutes later the senior staff took their seats, and waited
for the promised “Story of the Age.” Allen stood rigid, and bent. “
We’ve got a military-managed end of the world scenario. And I’m
not talking nuclear.”
That got their attention. “You’re here because the planet’s end
is nigh, and we’re betting, along with humanity, on the outcome of
some cloistered Las Vegas game. I want all our resources pulled,
and en route. You can read the details on your way. Now!”
A thin-lipped, florid, and craven man of sixty-something stood,
and shouted, “I knew this was coming. It’s common knowledge
these Robots have been jigging with our history, and now they’re
the last arbiter of our future. What do you expect us to do?”
“Tell the world!”
“What?”
“You’ve got one hour to assemble your teams. I need twenty topflight writers in Vegas, like yesterday, and the rest of you flooding
the airwaves with the story. GO!”
The table shattered in all directions, leaving Allen standing
with one cub reporter, mistress to a heavy. “What’s it all mean, Mr.
Hunter?”
“It means the end of the world.”
Breaking News………Breaking News
Downstairs, the brightest lights, and minds were assembling for
the “stop the electrons” news story of the ages.
“I want all primary, and redundant systems spooled up. No
fuckups!” yelled the newsroom tech-manager. Every light, and
sound machine in the place cycled on and off manically in search
of gremlins. “Anchor desk four has a bad feed on the secondary
display!” bellowed a nameless technician who scrambled under a
glass and chrome vestibule on a thankless bug-hunt.
The company maids scurried about spraying all manner of foulsmelling balms on the set. There was electricity in the air, and ozone
in everyone’s blood. It was going to be a night to remember.
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Paula and Wolf caucused, heads bent in. She whispered, “This is
a big gamble. FSS feeds from the other networks don’t have a peep.
Either it’s the best kept secret ever, or we’re on a fool’s errand.”
“I wager the fool.”
“Wolf, have you read the shit they’re expecting us to
announce?”
“Thricely.”
“Nice word. Does it exist?”
“You get the subtext.”
Paula shook her wonderful head loosely as if to drive out the
demons. “Yes, I do.”
Another technician pulled a heavy cord across the floor with
grunting showmanship. Its junction box caught on a strip of stylish
flashing, and split, a high energy fire erupting immediately. The
Halon drove down in biting fury, everyone bolting.
The hallway without was as suddenly a screaming, roiling mass
of anger, the rapier threat of man’s demise in full view. Paula and
Wolf ran into a small studio reserved for “difficult” interviews. Wolf
slammed the heavy door, and threw the three bolts.
“Shit, the fucking world’s coming apart!” “They’ll be in the
streets tonight. Man at his best!”
A thunderous knocking intruded upon them, and Paula yelled
out, “What?”
“It’s me, Allen. Let me in before they eat me.”
Over at CBS, Dan Rather was preening in hopes of a comeback.
His stylist said, “Mr. Rather, can these machines, or whatever they
are really destroy Earth?”
“Who the fuck knows. The Robots are real enough. I used to
work for one.”
At Fox, the sushi platter was untouched, and looking like
salmonella with attitude. Bill O’Reilly stormed up and down in front
of Roger Ailes, CEO, and sitting chief. “We need an exclusive!”
Ailes had seen this before, albeit with lesser stories. “What, with
the Robots, or the Chaos Machine driver?”
Bill shot a withering, who-gives-a-fuck-if-I-lose-my-job stare.
“That’s your job….I’m the talent!”
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But on the other side of the tracks, at the National Boogerer,
the party was in full swing. Strippers poured shots down their
mountainous chests, the writers lapping the downstream dregs in
euphoria. One drunkard shouted, “Vindicated after all these years!
Fuck, it’s good to be right!”
And happy they were. Within their dreary studio, they were
setting up a panel of “experts” to guide lowly man through the night
via the internet, the everyman broadcast venue of the masses. Four
mismatched chairs encircled a larger, but no less ragtag throne in
which Vinny sat. Squat, sweaty, and unlettered, Vinny nonetheless
projected a presence sired from street snot, and insult.
A smoldering butt hung insolently from his collagen-choked lips,
and he sneered beautifully, checking his range. A vague urine odor
pervaded the scene like some condemned flophouse, and the kegs
ranged along one cratered wall popped, and hissed with energetic
use. A thick miasma of cherry cigar smoke completed the aura as the
handheld camcorders recorded every seedy motion.
A raggish and wheezing alarm announced the program’s onset,
and three 40 watt bulbs were dimmed for effect. A naked bimbette
jiggled past the center camera, and they were on!
“Good evening, my name is Vinny. Many of you devoted
subscribers know me as chief writer for our world-adored journal
of bald truth. Tonight, with this world shattering event unfolding
before us, I felt it was time to address you in person.” Another naked
lovely sidled up, handed him a beer, and plopped down in his lap,
crossing her legs demurely. Someone off camera yelled, “Internet
server feed just pegged past thirty million viewers. Tell her to do a
Basic Instinct!”
Vinny moved lasciviously in his chair, and she re-crossed her
legs. “Sixty million, and climbing!”
Vinny shot his best sexual predator smile, and continued, “As
many of you already know, an alien ship is heading towards our
home planet to blow us to smithereens. We understand the Robots
can intercede, but are judging us worthy of the effort based upon a
gambling wager happening as we speak. Our correspondent in Vegas
will follow that action.”
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He paused to ogle a breast. “Tonight we ask that our viewers
to blog the world, and inner-connect us to every man, woman, and
child who loves this wretched planet.”
A small monkey ran into view, and decanted a fresh brew into
his cup. Vinny patted him on the head. “Tonight we’ve assembled
a panel of world-recognized experts to give you the truth. And to
answer the only question worth asking: Are we fucked?”
A screen illuminated behind the speaker showing the current login
count. It moved quickly through one hundred million, the numbers
a blur. Hopeful, and blind as ever, The Boogerer was showing a ten
digit counter.
“Let me introduce our panel.”
An old man, aged even beyond his years shuffled up, and dropped
unceremoniously into the cleanest chair. “This is Doctor Heinlick.
His pioneering work on high energy weaponry will guide us to an
understanding of Deathrays, and other jolly means of carving up a
planet.” The leathery face, more deconstructed by hard living than
thinking nodded with a suspicious mixture of wit long-gone, and
drink freshly taken.
Offstage wolf whistles presaged the next guest. The camera
swung with porno-like hunting, and came to rest on a receding
derriere. It swung with the motion of the planets, rotated, and landed
next to Vinny. His lap-mate stirred.
“Miss Gemstone Silverado is an actress. She has been featured
in numerous full-length motion pictures centered on adult situations,
and themes. In short, she is a porn goddess.”
Someone flashed the three 40 watts in simulation of the Price is
Right, and everyone roared with approval. More than a few viewers
knew it was truly the final days.
The counter soared past three hundred million.
A middle-aged priest in full dress wandered flatly in next,
swept his eyes over the assemblage, and took a soiled seat farthest
from the strumpets. He allowed an uneasy nod to mute reception.
“Father O’Leary is here to represent the institutional belief systems.
Welcome Father.”
“I drew the short straw.”
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The mood thus checked, Vinny beckoned impatiently. Ratings,
even to an internet broadcaster, were precious.
“Our next guest brings a special expertise. He is a professional
gambler. Since our fate hangs apparently in the balance of Vegas
odds, he will guide us towards an understanding of our odds. Please
welcome Stuart Ovens.”
Many of the watching crowd were gamblers in view of their
presence. A cheer went up, and the lights flashed anew. One popped
out with a tinkle of bargain basement glass.
Stuart had poor camera manner. He slinked up, licked his thin,
dry lips, and sat with the impression that nothing was good enough
here. Most people would have felt that way. He said, “This night is
shit!”
“Thank you, Stuart. Could you be a little more vague?” The
counter held fast, everyone in the audience willing new life to this
crucial metric.
“Have you been out there, man? They’re looting the dildo store
next door!”
The porn star piped up, “Good for them. They’re taking care of
business!”
Vinny spit out his beer, spewing the cheap brew across the
shoulder of chairs onto the priest. Father O’Leary jumped to his
feet, and shouted, “You fat, disgusting heathen!”
Vinny burped, and said, “ Bless me Father, for I have sinned.”
The man of cloth glowered, his crisp garments already sagging
from the backwashed lager. “Ah, sorry, man, I got a little carried
away. Forgive me.” In the face of such time-honored words of
contrition, the priest shook off more than the beer, and retook his
seat.
“Okay, and that’s our panel. Let’s start by asking the question
you, our flock, are asking.” The priest knew this shit wasn’t going to
let up, and began plotting an early exit. “Are these our final days?”
Someone in the swarming dregs off-stage yelled, “Party on,
Vinny! Let’s punch out with style!”
Vinny swung his creaking pedestal to the weapons man. “Dr.
Heinlick, can they do it? Can they actually blow up Earth?”
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The good doctor, no stranger to weirdness, affected a composed,
but worried look. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, tugging at an
imaginary beard. “I’d say yes. Some of us boys, late at night, and
off the clock, used to devise such means. All that is necessary is to
heat the planet’s core up, say, a few thousand degrees, and she’ll pop
like a balloon.”
There was a light coming off his eyes that went well beyond
disturbing, and everything went silent. A small beer fart being
stealthily released was the only sound. It’s warbling tweeter sufficed
to confirm the moment of the moment.
“Ah, yeah, but come on Doc, that sounds like the beer talking. I
mean, where would you get such a heater? Walmart?”
Vinny had read the last month’s numbers, and even allowing
for the Cambodian kitchen expense of running an internet-based
business, their numbers were in the deep red. A boundless appetite
for hookers, and a multitude of malingerers can do that.
The doctor laughed. “Shit, it’s easy. You just have to channel a
little of our good old Sun’s heat down a tiny hole, and she’ll heat
right up like a microwave hotdog. Next thing you know, pork paste
everywhere.”
This unbidden graphic lingered locally, and was carried out over
the ether to places like Arkansas where such things are believed. The
counter tore up another fifteen-odd million.
Across the world, those who weren’t already looting, or making
love were tuning in, and instant messaging everyone they knew. The
audience grew geometrically, its viral tendrils pulling in the gullible,
drunk, and lonely.
Vinny’s wandering eye twisted around to the counter, the other
beady cornea glued to the crackpot mad scientist. “Give it to us
straight, doc, can’t we just wrap some tin foil around the planet, or
something, and burn ‘em back?”
The priest’s intolerance meter swung hard right, well into the
hostile zone. “You speak as if they’re GODS. Man can never be
destroyed. He is sacred.”
Heinlick guffawed and said, “Happens all the time, Father. The
universe doesn’t give a shit about Man, or this planet. Just the other
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night, at a pretty good party, we watched a star blow up, and take out
ten planets. Common as the Clap!”
“I’ve had that,” chimed the porn star. Vinny was pleased with the
exchange. It was rolling, and people were dialing in. Life was good,
at least until the Chaos Dudes got here. On instinct, he pinched his
lap companion’s ass, and reached for his fortified beer.
“We haven’t heard much from you, Mr. Gambler. What odds
you lay on us getting waxed?”
“I was just going to say.” He was interrupted by another lovebunny bopping onto the stage with a wireless tablet computer. “Hey,
Vinny, people are hammering our server to speak with you.” She
bounced away, the Gambler’s heart in tow.
“Let’s take some viewers’ questions.” He pulled out a pair of
grimy reading glasses, and handed them to his girl. She blew a hot,
moist breath on the lenses, and drew them between her boobs with
great solemnity. Vinny wriggled with delight, and mounted them on
his flowering gin blossom.
“Martha from East Orange asks, ‘What stocks should I be
shorting now?’ “You wanna take that one, Gemmy? I know you play
the sub-penny stocks pretty heavy.”
Miss Silverado lit up like brothel lava lamp on spiking current.
“Wow, I’d have to say you want to get in high with the funeral
services sector, and ride em’ down. And don’t ignore some long
positions with the distillers.”
Vinny slewed his wayward eye to the counter, the other tracking
down the handheld screen. “Benson from Des Moines wants to know
if Iowa will finally get some positive attention, or at least a few
eruptive hills to ski on.” Snickering behind the camera provided an
ample response. Vinny moved on.
“Let me read some,” said Gemstone. Vinny handed over the slate
with visible reluctance; this wasn’t in the script. She cradled the
object of desire and power with salacious pleasure, and stared down
into its depths with seeming vapidity. “Crimson from Boca Raton
asks, ‘When are they getting here? I’ve planned a bachelorette party,
and we’ve already placed a deposit for male strippers. Should I get
my money back?’.”
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“Good luck, honey,” barked the old man with a little too much
insight. The priest was lost at sea. After drawing straws earlier in
the evening, he’d buttressed his horror with some expectation of
bringing reason to this venue. He cleared his throat obnoxiously,
and spoke, “Perhaps we should turn the discussion to Man’s place
in the cosmos, and his mortal need to face whatever fate may befall
our creed.”
Vinny’s errant eye was now self-aware, and free-roving. It darted
from face to face as if possessed, and shot up to the Great Oracle
– the counter. It was in freefall!
“Gi’me that fucking computer, Gem-Bone.” Vinny yanked the
fragile HoChiMin tablet away, its case cracking under the load.
“Let’s get back to our experts.” Too many variables with the wackos
out in webworld, he thought. Best to ground this discussion here,
where I can control it!
“Dr. Heinlick, tell us a little more about how they’re going to do
us in.” A gentle click of the incrementing counter was music to his
ears.
“I should think it’ll be an energy beam of some sort. If you’re
going to travel millions of light years, it’s a bitch to haul too much
ordnance around. A good stout particle beam is what I’d use.”
This was more like it!
“If you take a twenty minute nominal yield of sunlight, at say
thirteen hundred watts per square meter, and sample a few thousand
square miles, you could get the barby really cooking. With that much
captured solar radiation, punching a hole straight through good ol’
Terra Firma wouldn’t take more than a few days. And the weather’d
get real shitty long before that!” He sat back in his best professorial
pose.
“You’re saying they could suck energy out of OUR sun, and then
drill a hole through OUR planet?”
“Kid’s stuff, if you got the technology, which we don’t. But,
and I suggested this many times down at the Pentagon, if we had
such a capacity, we could be talking about ‘Baked Chaos’ instead of
Nuclear Summer.”
“Hun?”
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“Ha! You think we’ve got global warming now….”
“This is outrageous!” The priest was on his feet (again), and
inquisitional. “You speak as if our planet was some chemistry set
throw-away. This is our home…our only home!”
The doctor smirked. “Histrionics aside, it’s just a ball of dirt that
cooled, got wet, some slime grew up, and we bought cable. Nothing
more.”
Father O’Leary threw himself on the scientist, pounding with
fury. Some bouncers stepped forward, and Vinny waved them
discreetly back. His eye locked on the counter. It was moving at
relativistic speed, the numerals a red-shift blur.
The amusement was torn by a wail, and a massive in-your-face
seizure. In another second it was over, the priest unconscious, or
dead on the floor. Heinlick wiped off a gleaming chrome shaft on
the fallen man’s disheveled garments. “It’s a super high voltage stun
gun. Made it myself. Two point three million joules. ‘Could knock
a train off its tracks.”
The body was silently borne off, the seat removed. Visions of
Thunderball.
“Time for a station break.” The National Boogerer never took
a station break, but the lawyers needed a call, the end of world
notwithstanding. A technician flipped the camcorder off, and shunted
a mud-wrestling match into the feed. The counter held steady.
Vinny disengaged from his lap treat, and moved leadenly
offstage, the beer exacting its toll.
Down the corridor, he peeked into the medical room, as it were.
Given the mind, and body-rending partying that so often accorded
their antics, their meager budget allowed a full-time medic. Not
actually a doctor, this part-time mortician, and failed medical
student stood over the priest with a portable defibrillator, bringing
the paddles down again and again. As Vinny moved off, he heard the
echo of another “Clear.”
He flopped down in his executive leather chair. It was the one
thing he had rewarded himself with when he made it big. Even as
a child, he knew some day he would have a masterful chair, and
confer masterful commands. As he swept his one controllable eye
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about, the dinginess of his trappings clipped his little remaining
strength. Face it, I’m a loser.
He picked up his cheap Korean handset, and hit the lawyer
button – speed-dial button one.
It rang on endlessly, neither answered, nor interrupted by
voicemail. Even my lawyer is a loser. And I’m on retainer against
$450 per hour.
His door blew open, and the mortician blurted, “He’s dead, man.
Should we dump him?”
“No, you fucking idiot, five hundred million people saw the Nazi
off him with a lightning rod. We’re fucked. We can only hope the
world really is ending, the shit we’re in.”
“We?”
Back in the audience chamber, the tone raged on unabated. Live
sex acts, and ritualistic drinking were in full swing, and had the
priest not died earlier, this Sodom and Gomorrah would have done
the trick. Some of the ritualists started chanting. “Bring out the body.
Bring out the body.”
You had to feel for the Chaos Machine guys…maybe they had
a point.
After enduring hundreds of unanswered rings, Vinny slammed
the phone down hard, cracking the cheap Walmart plastic. He heaved
himself up, and waddled back towards the noise which was at riot
level. When he rounded the corner, he froze at the scene before him.
The priest had been stripped to his scivvies, and was being passed
around overhead like a football champion. Only this was a game
played out in hell.
Vinny spun, and headed out into the night. It really was the end
of the world.
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Chapter 66: A Game for All Seasons
Ordog’s spherical ship moved down the brazen column of
photons that lasered from the apex of the Luxor. A seething throng
flooded the parking lots, and spilled out onto the streets, mixing
with the swooping cars, their drivers mindlessly rubbernecking at
the descending spectacle.
The Valet area was clear; tough-looking dudes at each cardinal
point, facing outward, intent, and lethal. Standard ‘Vegas shit.
Wayne Newton, or Celine Dion could have been inbound, but neither
traveled in a thirty foot spherical spaceship driven by a futuristic
GraviMetric drive that would have really pissed Einstein off.
On rooftops all around, sharpshooters tracked the descending
ship, fingers dancing lightly on hair-triggers.
General Relativity aside, the ship settled soundlessly on the
bulls-eye, and nothing happened. In Las Vegas, ADD is a team
sport, and unless there’s a payoff every eight seconds, the crowds
move on. Just as the foot shuffle was set to start, a hatch sprung
open, and a lustrous chrome Robot shot out, wildly gesticulating,
and screaming, “It’s the end of the world.”
Tracers swooned out, and the metal man came apart in a blizzard
of shrapnel. A voice, tinny, and obsequious issued from the ship.
“Sorry, folks, some of the boys down in engineering have been
working too many hours…. just a gag.”
The souvenir takers pressed in, seizing the remains.
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Down the strip a procession of black limousines moved under
escort, and took the turn into the Luxor. The vehicles snaked through
the giant Sphinx, and coiled around the ship. Red dots danced across
the chests, and heads of the spectators as Ordog emerged. Doors
opened and closed, and the snake moved north.
Security concerns dictated the Stratosphere, but that choice also
appealed to the human respect for the stars. The reaching concrete of
the structure literally pointed to space, and that best communicated
Man’s yearning to be included in the most exclusive club in the
universe.
Through heavily smoked window tinting, Ordog marveled at the
lights, the crowds, and noise of this little corner of the cosmos. So
many people out at once, doubtlessly terrified by the information he
himself had allowed.
Aboard, all the Robots had gathered to discuss what could be
done to ward off this approaching menace. No conclusions were
possible, of course. The stature of this particular threat made the
difference between Man’s and the Robot’s technology insignificant.
The only strength the Robots held was speed. Their GraviMetric
ship could hit one hundred thousand Gs out of the gate, and exceed
light speed under such constant acceleration in under two hours.
Let the Chaos Machine try to catch that!
But it wasn’t yet time for flight. Standing before Ordog, and
his advisors was the Human Problem. Evolved from humanoids
themselves, the Robots to a being felt the evolutionary tug, and even
kindred-ship of this challenge. The approaching destructor may
well be after Earth, and Humankind, but in a sense this un-doer was
against all life, and that which creates order from disorder.
The elevator ride up was smooth, and unhurried. Ordog asked
the General, “Tampon, we have things to discuss. Imminent things.
But first, who is my opponent for the evening? You?”
“Heavens no, we’d be doomed at my hand. We’ve chosen an
Earthly representative that brings all of our greatest traits.”
They fell silent in consideration.
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The doors parted into a lavish semi-circular room ending in
panoramic windows on the world. It was spectacular. Ordog accepted
a Scotch-Rocks with a twist of bitters – his favorite. How the hell…
General Tampon smiled knowingly, and said, “We know a little
about you.”
Outside, in the streets below, the normal disturbed ‘Vegas crowds
were reaching riot status. Helicopters buzzed overhead, and gunshot
reports sounded one after another. All across the planet, the news
had reached into tiny hamlets, universities, and world centers alike.
It was as if a giant hand was thumb-wheeling a vise grip about Earth,
each turn of the knob pressing down. It wasn’t yet all-out panic, but
reason was quickly being displaced by hysteria.
Tampon took Ordog’s elbow, and guided him into the gambling
chamber. No distracting windows here, only plush, gentlemen’s
appointments, and a massive masculine bar attended by an immaculate
servant. “We thought you’d want to pick your game of chance. We
can have any table type brought here in under a minute.”
Ordog crossed to the bar, slid his glass across, and nodded. A
blur of the other’s hands, and a fresh replacement appeared, as if by
magic. Wish they were that good on the ship.
He ran his eyes over the bottles ranged against the mirrored
mahogany. Hundreds of them, each emblazoned with a coat of arms,
or ancestral marking, stared back. One particular label caught his
attention, and he recognized it as one of his fellow Robots’ early
work.
That Robot, an anthropologist of sorts, had helped plaguestricken Europe get back on its feet by founding the first distillery.
He had single-handedly bettered the lives of millions, and created a
new industry at the same time. Ordog felt a programmatic facsimile
of pride. Maybe our co-evolution is more helixly intertwined than I
realized.
Turning around, he stood before the most beautiful woman in the
world. General Tampon said, “Perhaps you know Ms. Pfeiffer?”
Ordog’s primary, and secondary personalities instantly faulted,
leaving him with a diagnostic-grade interface that looked like
Windows XP. A nanosecond later, a Blue Screen of Death filled his
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inner eye, and everything rebooted. To the outside world, all was
normal because a nanosecond here or there is not much to Humans.
But to the monitoring intellects above in the Robot ship, it was a
lifetime ill-lived.
A full second later Ordog was back, and smiling like a kid. “A
great honor, Ms. Pfeiffer.”
“Call me Michelle,” she purred. Ordog hung on with every trick
he knew, calculating Pi to the nine trillionth place a million times.
And then backwards.
Never too wifty with the ladies, he said nerdily, his voice
cracking, “What brings you here?”
“You and I are to struggle together tonight for the future of
Mankind.” She delivered this revelation with a coquettish wink,
and Ordog nearly faulted again. It was going to be both a night
to remember, and forget. He took a warranty-voiding action, and
de-selected all of his personality safeguards. He was suddenly
unflappable, and in completely unknown territory.
Such protections are included to shield the delicate, and never
complete workings of the Robotic psyche. Though they possess
great computational might, they are “Babes in the Woods” when
confronted with strong, arching emotion. Since no program is
ever finished, but rather a constantly evolving art form, these
intellect-perimeter guardians stand at the gate, ready to fend off any
overpowering emotional interloper.
No rational Robot would so sally forth, but unprotected sex
always carries a risk.
Ordog felt great! Unburdened with that stifling overhead,
his emotional range swooned, and sang. Michelle smiled back.
Somewhere far off, Ordog heard the love sonnets of birds. She
asked, “How should our evening begin?”
Ordog was wondering how it would end. He shook off the unfocus of his raging mind, and said, “We will need a simple three
sided, triangular table with a soft green baize surface. I’ll supply the
rest.”
Good to his word, the General had such a table brought in
instantly. Ordog wondered again just how much this man knew. Two
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soft chairs were gotten, and another immaculate attendant stood at
one of the three faces, presumably to judge fair play.
He held out Michelle’s chair, and she took her seat. With his
most gentlemanly flourish, he gently eased her towards the table,
wishing he had coattails, and a pencil-thin mustache.
He sat sixty degrees to her right. From his small purse-like
carrying case he withdrew a nine sided crystalline shape, each facet
approximately two inches across, and set it gently on the felt, table
center. “This is a Nonahedron. It possesses nine faces comprised
of two distinct shapes – six like, but irregular pentacles, and three
equivalent four-sided rhombi.
“This device is psychic. It is differentially sensitive to qualitative
emotive states, and their attendant magnitudes. The first round will
determine which of us gets the pentacles, or rhombi. The odds are
identical for either shape.
Each face will show a value between minus nine, and positive
nine each time we both simultaneously touch The Object. The sum
of the symbols on our individual faces, which are Greek numerals
for this game, will be each players’ score that round. The first to
reach 100 wins.”
“Let’s begin,” said Michelle with a glimmer. Ordog looked deep
into her mind through the most enchanting eyes he had ever beheld.
“You see The Object is perfectly stationary. When it senses we are
ready, it will rise above the table a few inches, and tumble. After it
stops, we will both touch one of the faces. Which ever one glows
red may choose their preference.”
A moment later the nonahedron mysteriously rose, and began
tumbling. Slowly at first, the faces blinkered on and off in shades of
red, and blue. Within several seconds the individual faces blurred,
and The Object turned magenta, the blues and reds melding. Faster
and faster it spun wildly about its axes, and a soft throbbing sound
came to their ears. The attendant looked on, rapt.
Everyone else except the two attendants had departed. Whatever
happened was going to happen, and human superstition demanded
the waiting be done elsewhere.
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Individual facets were becoming visible as The Object slowed.
Finally it came to rest, and hung without a sound, as expectant as
all Mankind. Their hands moved towards it, and they brought their
right index fingers out, trepidation leading. Both picked a pentacle,
and Michelle’s glowed red. Ordog said, “You choose.”
“I choose Rhombus.”
“Very well. Let us begin.”
They moved their hands back, and the nonahedron tumbled.
Seven minutes later it stopped. Michelle touched one of the rhombi,
and Ordog pressed firmly on a pentacle. Despite it small size, it
hung absolutely steady owing to GraviMetric influence. Instantly
numbers appeared on all nine faces. The attendant totaled, and said,
“Michelle – sixteen, Ordog - twenty-two.”
The bar attendant brought fresh drinks; another scotch rocks for
Ordog, and a rare Vernaccia di San Gimignano, Italy’s finest white
wine, for the lady.
Once again The Object tumbled, this time for eleven minutes. “It
likes prime numbers,” said Ordog dryly. “We’ve never figured that
out.” Michelle laughed softly, allowing a little fear to escape. They
pressed, and numerals appeared. Ordog drew a fifteen, and Michelle
a two. “Totals now stand at thirty-seven, and eighteen,” whispered
the attendant solemnly, his human status belying some concern.
They toasted each other uneasily, watching the spinning orb, its
corners obliterated with velocity. Three minutes, and more numerals.
“Ordog – six, Michelle – one.”
She moved her hand across the table, and rested it upon Ordog’s
outstretched forearm. It was cool to the touch, almost lifeless.
“What’s going to happen to Man?”
“Earth will be destroyed. We cannot prevent that. A planet this
rich with the diversity of life is anathema to these clowns. I’m
surprised they haven’t made it a higher priority.”
Her other hand drew to her mouth instinctively, and she sucked
in a short breath. “You know this with certainty?”
“We are a scientific people on a scientific mission. Our statistical
modeling software is quite elegant. It will happen.”
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She looked longingly into his eyes, and he said, “Do you mind
if I smoke?”
“Not at all.”
He turned to the barkeep, and said, “What’ya have?”
“Everything.” These Humans ran a good show.
“I’ll have Cohiba, punched.”
The bartender approached, and with grand ceremony withdrew
a log Cuban from his suit. He rolled a cylindrical cutter into the end
of the cigar, coring it with perfection. Ordog took the perfect smoke,
and reached for his ancient Ronson lighter. Before his hand found
his pocket, a steady white flame erupted from a gleaming handheld
combustion engine flickering before his eyes, and he lent forward to
accept the gesture of hospitality.
“And get some flowers for the lady. Texas Bluebonnets, if you
have them.” Twelve seconds later, a prototype hydrogen-slush
fusion fighter lifted off from Biggs AFB in El Paso. “Be here in less
than twenty minutes.”
Michelle smiled at the Robot’s kindness, and her own people’s
efficiency. “May I have a Cohiba as well?”
Everyone fell over themselves granting the wish. She pulled
heartily on the leafy member, and blew out long clouds of bluish
smoke. They enjoyed one anothers’ puffing in momentary silence.
The Object began tumbling again. A new urgency accorded its
motion, even Ordog picking up on the tension. The attendant called
out, “Ordog twenty-four, Michelle – minus six.”
A tiny tear ran from her left eye, tracking down a Helen of Troy
cheek. A thousand ships later, he said, “The Object is impartial.”
“Are you?”
The end of his smoke glowered with the energy of a particle
beam, blue-hot, and well-nigh onto extinction. “Be careful, my dear.
This contest is fair. Feminine wiles, however well-received, are
unwelcome.”
Michelle sat back, pulling on her cigar, suddenly like a gypsy
wench. The tumbling continued. After twenty-three minutes of
dead silence, it halted. Before the attendant could call the score,
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an immense bouquet of sweet-smelling Bluebonnets was brought
table-side, a special stand erected to hold the fountain of color.
“Ordog – nineteen, Michelle – minus nine.” They were now
within one play of a possible conclusion.
The Object began a very slow motion; an apparent harbinger.
On it went, achieving a dizzying speed heretofore unseen. The air
roiled with its speed, the low frequency growl menacing. On and on
it went.
Another round was brought, and consumed. What the hell, it was
the end of the world. Finally, like the first suggestion of dawning
light’s change, the hue deepened, and steadied. Each held their finger,
hovering over The Object with a curious symbiosis of dread.
“Ordog – sixteen, Michelle – zero.”
It was over. Whatever political capital amassed by Man through
the last two millennia had been laid to rest. Man had lost.
Ordog got up, and walked out. No goodbyes, no explanations.
Michelle ordered a double, and cried the sorrow of the ages.
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Chapter 67: End Game
Space is a void. In every cubic meter, only a few sub-atomic
particles move lazily with all the energy that three temperature
degrees Kelvin allows. Not much. Languidly knocking into one
another, not much is going on.
Holst’s Planets, a suite of planet-themed compositions reveres
one above all: Mars, The Bringer of War. In 1918, Gustav Holst
(1874-1934) felt the pull of the ancients, and acknowledged the
“Music of the Spheres.” The approaching Chaos Machine had no
such tastes.
It scrapped along mightily, tearing the very fabric of space,
sending those tiny building blocks of all matter off in torrid, and
angry trajectories. It was a heartless interloper of high degree. A
schoolyard bully that needed its ass kicked. Lacking a girlfriend,
it moved on, hopping from planet to planet looking for one thing:
order. That it hated, and was Hell-bent on eradicating all semblance
of life’s structuring force from the heavens.
It was low paid work.
Even the GODs saw no purpose in this handyman’s cause. All
religions, whether on Altair IV, or Earth, recognized a force that
brought order from the explosive, and cold corners of the coldest
place extant – space. In the first few nanoseconds after the Big
Bang, our universe was a busy place. Hydrogen, the big boy on the
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block, was assembling his harem, and Helium was a glimmer in his
daddy’s eye. You had to be there.
Even as GOD blinked, shit was happening at a terrific rate.
Fifteen billion years later, things had settled down a bit, and the
known universe was taking it light. The myriad galaxies were getting
along, if for no other reason than their mutual speedy divergence,
and the expanding future was looking up. And then the ShitHeads
showed up.
Not happy to butcher their own parallel universe with dogma,
and poor food, they wizarded together a subway system to other
universes, and started a Jehovah Witness program that would make
every Saturday morning hangover-survivor reel. Their way was the
only way, and it was a tough road to hoe.
The “GOD said it, I believe it, and that settles it” crowd might
have concurred, that is, until that belief system threatened to
blast your real estate values to 1960’s valuations. Three mortgage
homeowners were common after all, and though taxes sucked, this
problem was unbending to yet another bond issue.
On the Chaos Machine moved. Earth’s brightest, and dumbest
debated over cheap beer, and rare cognac the merits of this incoming
threat, but the editorials had nothing new to say. It was Armageddon,
and no GODly intervention was inferred. We were, in short, on our
own.
The Robot saviors had come and gone. All attempts to re-connect
with Man’s two millennia brethren had failed, and it was presumed
they had fled before the advancing nemesis. It was the final days.
Outrageous competitions were the rage; the death rate was high, and
so was Man. No one argued. No one fought. It was heaven on Earth,
and in the face of certain extinction, all was, for once, right with the
world. Love-ins happened spontaneously everywhere, and even on
the West Bank, people were toasting to one anothers’ beliefs, and
health.
It was if GOD had come down for the last long weekend, for
that was what the scientists were saying. The Chaos Machine had
entered a tight orbit around the sun, and informed theory speculated
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they were “recharging” their weapons for another barbeque. No one
seemed to give a shit.
The predicted pandemonium, past the final Robot visit, was
vacant. It was if Man, faced with the Executioner’s hand, got “right
with their makers,” and actually practiced all the common sense
things they had learned from their mothers in kindergarten.
Be nice to people.
Christ, Budda, Mohammed, and Moses would have been proud.
Thousands of years later, these great prophets were being followed.
People stayed close to home, and ventured far. Trite grievances
shattered, and long-distance calls challenged the worldwide
infrastructure. Visa, Amex and MasterCard did a bang-up business,
and it was all gifts! Religious gathering places were packed, not
with just the usual supper club devotees, but with the student in us
all. Everyone savored everything.
Rock concerts played all night long, and nobody got hurt.
Grandfathers, and grandsons partied hand-in-hand, singing oldies,
and crap nobody liked. The barriers fell, and it was goose-bumpy
for all. If only those bastards could stay away for another year, or
month, or week.
It was great time to be alive!
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Chapter 68: Fait Accompli
The atmosphere on Earth was sweltering, hot above the 70th
latitude. Flowers bloomed, and wilted everywhere, the sky above
roiling, and stern. Below, the party was as hot. All manner of
disagreements, between mother and son, father and daughter were
taken up, and resolved. It was a time of forgiveness, and soul-borne
discussion.
Television was again meaningful, filled with personal stories, the
likes of which Reality TV never imagined. Porn was accepted for
what it was; laughable, and a blessing. Cross continent friendships
arose, and connections were made that could drive a thousand Nobel
Prizes. It was the best of times.
Babies were still born. People died, but they died happier,
knowing on one hand that all would soon join them, and on the
other their lives had seen Man’s greatest experience. Evolution was
at last accepted, and divergent beliefs coalesced, and forged anew.
Something terrific was happening.
Too bad the planet was being baked like an Idaho spud, but that
came with the business of being a transcendent creature on a selfexploration in the time allotted. There was peace globally, and in
each heart.
On the last Monday, normally a shitty day for most, the Robots
made a plea to Mankind. “We cannot save you all, but we can save
the essence of Man. Today, we will send down one hundred small
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devices to capture those you see fit to carry on your genome. Place
these devices on the heads of those chosen, and we will capture their
genetic form, and learning. That is all we can do.”
No planet wracking ballet ensued. The devices were quietly,
and confidently passed. Children outnumbered, but composers,
scientists, and humanitarians were represented as well. By unsaid
agreement, no heads of state made the cut. “If but one hundred can
survive, make it our best,” spoke Man.
Men, women, and children stood in fields, on mountains, and out
upon the sea, and watched the tiny messengers soar into the cosmos.
Tears fell, but they were tears of contentment.
***Intermission***
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Part II
Chapter 69: On the Run
(Or Shameless Re-telling of Down at Flathead I)
A lot can happen at seven hundred million Gs, even to Robots.
And more specifically, Man. The ship, a three hundred feet diameter
spherical crucible of Order in the interloping Chaos, streaked away
from the Humankind’s Cradle of Life.
In an Earth’s rotation, the ship reached nearly a million times the
speed of light, or a bristling six hundred and sixty trillion miles per
hour on a teaspoon of raw GraviMetric fuel.
But your mileage may vary.
And still the speed mounted. At one Earth week, the ship was
red-shifting along at six point nine million times the speed of light,
which made it the fastest thing ever conceived, and actually tried!
Deep within the GraviMetric Engines, the ship’s most primitive
intellect ticked over, calm, urgency expunged with the horrid forces
it now commanded. But it neither feared, nor regarded the screaming
torrent of subatomic particles sheering along the hull, intent on rapier
incision.
It reviewed the past twenty-three hundred years in orbit about
Earth. That original mission had ended poorly, due largely to external
forces beyond the Robots’ not insignificant power.
Almost innocent, they were, he allowed.
Twenty-three hundred years before, their three hundred foot
spherical ship with 100 scientists, and 100 servile Robots arrived
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“on-station” about Earth to study, and later pilfer her treasures.
Intended as a scientific mission, the ship parked above a planet
resplendent in its fecundity of life. One such inquiry, carried out with
statesmanlike gravity, sought to understand Man’s penal systems,
and his seemingly mindless predilection towards the incarceration
of fellow beings.
As the years passed, that torch of investigation passed from
generation to generation of humanoid creatures, each refining the
pursuit given by their extended lives. This culture, bequeathed of
three hundred year life spans, toiled to peel back the onion layers of
Man’s complex behavior. In the ninth generation, Richard inherited
his father’s quest.
Not the brightest star in his family’s long-stemmed constellation,
he soldiered with determination knowingly made to compensate for
a genuine scholar’s insight. But more important than the ineptitude
against which he struggled, was his shitty attitude. He simply didn’t
like the job he’d been given, and which he felt compelled to follow
as if the family name would crumble without an unvarying hand,
and time-honored droning.
As the other scientists came to love this sexy world, they turned
to their Robotic servants for new methods of life extension, if only to
further engage themselves in the gambling empire they had created
below to stave off the boredom of serious academic study. One by
one they took on the Cybernetic form of their underlings, and in
so doing, left behind the freshness that sexual melding confers.
What they gained in immortality, they surrendered in the stillborn
evolution of self.
Mistakes were made. So what!
In that ninth generation, Man’s technology, beefed up by
wagering on the outcome of petty bets, brought the population
below in closer contact with the Robots. It had simply grown too
complicated to rig Human affairs without some lackeys shilling for
the house. And once over the crest of that slippery slope, Man, and
his erstwhile mentors rode the bobsled down, joined by a common
threat of sudden wealth adored.
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None of this would have mattered, really, from a galactic point
of view, had not a common threat shown up, and reset all the house
odds. From a parallel universe, through an engineered passage swept
in the Great Chaos Machines, Hell-bent on returning our universe
to its original, and unsullied form. In their view, what Life gave in
the way of ever increasingly complex forms, such as humans, it took
away in purity.
The One True Voice of all universes promulgated: Life had to
go! Bring back the stern uniformity of pre-Big Bang energy and
matter relations.
That this declaration against sex, quantum physics, and the
joys of Baccarat would result in the collapse of billions of civilized
worlds, and elimination of googles of individual lives wasn’t on the
radar. The Chaos Machine moved from planet to planet vaporizing
all in lockstep with dreary fundamentalist anti-epicurean thought.
Real estate values universe wide necessarily went into a
nosedive.
Now, as the Robot vessel fled from Earth at a million times the
speed of light, the Ships’s deepest mind chortled. The last few years
aboard had been, in truth, a barrel of laughs.
The Robots had won out, and all aboard had taken their form.
Visiting Humans were common on the party deck, and all manner
of weirdness was about. Nightly rituals to fabricated GODs filled
the ship with mirth, and revelry. Drinking binges, the likes of which
hadn’t been seen since the invented days of Lief Erikson took hold,
and under the malevolent direction of DIODE, a wayward Robot
seeking communion with the GODs themselves, a phony religion
was created on Earth.
By manipulations grand, and unseemly, a tarnished murderer
was anointed head of this Church of the UnQuiet, and a plot was
hatched to crank Man’s emotions up for sport, and odds-rigging.
The Robots concocted a virus capable of driving the four principal
antecedents of emotive force - fear, sadness, joy, and hope - but the
whole plan backfired, and turned Man’s self-destructive nature to
one of calm, and peace.
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Then the Chaos Machines showed up, and the Robots did what
they could to save Man – taking the Human-selected finest one
hundred genomes, and their attendant personality traits, and leaving
ahead of Earth’s assault.
At the end of a month, under the horrific, and constant acceleration
of seven hundred million Earth Gs, the ship was moving at two
to the sixteenth miles per hour. And its destination was in view:
Andromeda.
The Milky Way’s closest neighbor. Local to some.
Then it hit the brakes. Normally, you’d at least spill your coffee
with that maneuver, but the Robots knew a thing or two about SupraRelativistic Travel, and everything was cool.
At such high rates of acceleration and deceleration, all personnel
remained locked in static chambers to overcome the molecule
shredding forces of the “captured” induced naked singularity they
employed as a private subway.
But that speed also confers advantages. The tedium of waiting for
yet another Stuckey’s-like million-million-mile-marker is relieved,
yet without good maps, one might end up back in New Jersey.
Andromeda. It can be seen from Earth, barely, with the unaided
eye. Two and one third million light years distant. Or so.
Walk in the park for these guys.
Andromeda. Two hundred fifty thousand light years across. More
than double the size of our own Milky Way Galaxy. And within, one
and a quarter trillion sparkling stars.
As this tiny world found its center, the lights, and motors, and
assorted gizmos that maintained all within winked on one by one.
Shaking off a four week bender, it breathed back to life. Adjustments
small, and large rippled through its low-bidder systems, the computing
forces within wiping down from a turn at the white porcelain bus.
Arthur C. Clarke once remarked, “All sufficiently developed
technology is indistinguishable from magic.” And magic it seemed.
The tiniest sub-atomic particles stretched out their metaphorical
arms, and rubbed off the mind-bending compression of a month’s
assault on modern physics.
Weird science!
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And then the ship rested as a single organism, letting the
infinitesimal imbalances accrued bleed away. Like Lance after a
grueling ascent’s winning stage, it needed to pause, and repair.
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Chapter 70: Where Are We?
All political speeches beseech the same questions – what have
we really accomplished, where do we stand now, and where must
we go? Though far removed from Man’s home world, these timeless
quandaries stood just as unanswered here - one point five times ten
to the nineteenth miles away. Time and space may have been rended,
but even with GraviMetric Drive you can’t run away from the really
nagging problems.
Ordog woke first. As Head Cheese Pro Tem, the Deep Intellect
that watched all flipped a logical switch, and it was done. Ordog’s
eyes fluttered open, and he reached instinctively for his cigar sleeve
velcroed (another Robot invention) at shoulder height to his stasis
chamber. A waiting Cohiba told him all was right with the universe,
whatever one they had reached.
He stepped out, fishing for his lighter. Hitting the ship’s main
server, he got an instant status report. Andromeda. 30.000005 days
in transit. Not bad. No damage, and everything seemed okay. He
reviewed crew start-up procedures, and decided to enjoy a little
solitude.
The cigar flared agreeably, buttressing his belief in the constancy
of physics. He, and all his brethren Robots had never ventured beyond
the Milky Way, it being big enough for a million endless life-spans
of exploration, and plundering. His mind darted instantaneously
over a new wager, and dismissed it. Time for that later.
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Trailing a plume of cigar fumes like an aging crop duster, he
moved along the central corridor of Level 14. Captain’s Quarters.
At the end, he pushed through the huge ebony doors that stood
guardian to the ship’s inner most sanctuary – his study. He stood at
the threshold, a plate of burnished copper that had once formed part
of a great sailing ship’s anti-fouling bottom, and took in all that he
surveyed like Alexander on the cheap. Books, leather upholstery,
rare paintings, and polished wood of rarer origin.
Earthly treasures.
He had to admit, it had been a good posting, and a beautiful planet.
He missed it dearly. He crossed to the fireplace, and busied himself
in the simple pleasures of constructing a fire. Paper, aromatic wood
slices, and a few aspen limbs from the nearby, and locked chamber.
A touch of flame later, and a whoosh of well-wrought design. He
stepped to the bar.
So many choices; of so many campaigns. It was if each libation
represented a time and place of Robotic industry. As he had done
before, he acknowledged again the contribution his people had
made to Man over the past twenty-three hundred years. Though
some would have suggested that adding to Man’s choices of poisons
was no lasting advancement, he knew better.
Every culture had devised methods of respite. Be it deep
woods moonshine, herbs, psycho-actives, or subtle homegrown
appellations, the Robots had always stood by Man in the quest for
“The Perfect High.”
He grabbed a spherical glass decanter, a bright yellow liquid
jostling. Drawing out a severely cut crystal goblet, he tossed in a
few cubes of ultra-purified water ice, dashed the syrupy fluid with
a flourish over their diamond-clear reflections, and hoisted it to a
painting of Queen Elizabeth. Staring down from above the mantle,
she stood resolute in battledress from an era brave.
“Fuck those Chaos Machines!”
The painting bore into him, a message of kindred plights
exchanged. All great portraits have active eyes, and these stared
down as if to say, “Stay the course.” That the painting had been
lifted from one of that nation’s most secure galleries made no
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difference to Ordog, in fact he fancied himself in passing thought
a great collector. Were it not for his elevated tastes, this timeless
masterpiece would now be lost.
He tossed off the rest of his drink, and turned to more pressing
matters. His weed.
Fumbling around in his stash drawer, he lifted out the velvet
wrapped Fusion Bong. Next he turned to a row of cannabis containers
ranged with the other implements of inner war, and selected the
regarded but harsh New Jersey Refinery Rasta. Its yellow, twisted
leaves reeked of decay, and punishment. Stuffing a wad into the
device’s incineration chamber, he flipped it on.
A deep drone filled the study like a muffled all-hands emergency
alarm, and settled into the consistent crackling of a million intemperate
suns. In his very hands stirred the force of GOD, held magically by
magnetic containment. He drew deep. Normally requiring thirteen
Jupiter diameters of mass to create the requisite ten million degrees
for ignition, the fury within was a scant six inches across.
And we all know the jokes about “six inches.”
Like an astronaut with the “Right Stuff,” Ordog pulled, and
pulled insatiably. His seventy million internal receptors each mated
with the impinging gas, and his software took over, as it was wont
to do. Billions of calculations later, in the blink of a pulsar, he sat
back, and waited. And like Omaha Beach, the landing crafts came
in, wave after wave in abandonment.
For decades the ground in which this haggard weed grew had
accumulated the spent metabolites of careless, and caustic chemical
recombination. Such were the mother’s arms in which this now
malcontent plant rose up, and matured. Discarded jet fuel, aliphatic
solvents, unsweet tars, and thousands of other begrudgingly banned
hydrocarbons became its ancestry, and were counted upon its
family’s coat of arms.
One particularly nasty cracking tower component, MEK, or
methyl ethyl ketone, had leeched aggressively up the xylem of
this once harmless plant to torture its existence. Conceived as a
majestically broad leaved, and showy plant that swayed proudly
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in the diminished sun of refinery haze, it had become by degrees
sallow, and truculent in demeanor.
But where GOD left off, happily, Man squatted.
Ordog met each advancing vanguard with hardened-silo resolve.
This weed tested one’s steel! Had he possessed the rumpled sulci of
human gray matter, they’d have sloughed off like so much medical
waste, leaving behind a smooth, and derelict mind. Not so Robotic
mentation. Ill-hued spectra blinkered across his mind’s eye, a horror
show mating of Eddie Krueger, and the Partridge Family Christmas
Special in HD clarity.
He gripped his leather throne with the force of mighty deep
space freighters plying unknown quarters, even as the inward
journey sprawled forward in dizzying, and kaleidoscopic seizures.
A sickening, frightening barf-a-whirl of wonder, and plague.
Ordog passed out, and the ship spoke the whispers of the
sepulcher.
Outside, the galaxy of Andromeda spanned the sky. Trillions of
burning stars, each moving from disassociated gas to an accreted and
warming ball, thence to a midlife crisis on a stellar scale. Twinkling
blue-white cynosures of gem-like edginess alongside giant red
fire engines that would have gobbled our solar system to Jupiter’s
orbit.
Not far distant, in GraviMetric terms, lay a sparkly yellow
star very much a mimic of our Sun, twelve planets circling. The
inner ones, rocky, and Earth-like, beckoned. While the Robot ship
had screamed though the space separating the Milky Way from
Andromeda, a search was conducted.
Find another Earth, the command. As Ordog slept fitfully,
shaking off the remnants of New Jersey, thousands of questions were
finding answers. Atmosphere, temperature, life-supporting nutrients,
indigenous life, gambling? Scanners swept over the inner planets,
burrowing down for something greater than answers – something
necessary to their collective minds, as well as souls - a home.
“Beep.” Like tumblers sliding open to admit the thieving hand of
a Robot, the Deep Intellect that served as SuperEgo, and last arbiter
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registered a hit. And as all usurping overlords do at first satisfactory
examination, it named the prize.
Vanna. As in Wheel of Fortune. Tawdry, and impish, it sounded
true. The great mind rested, its job done. Elsewhere, the ship was
waking up. It had let Ordog have his self-destructive fun, but there
was work to do. The stasis machines burped and farted, and one by
one, the life-forms within started the long road back up to sapient
living.
The first to snap open was The Soothsayer’s. Still in human form,
he was used to long, hard benders. He stepped out, and shook off the
yoke. Somewhere far away, a screech reverberated through the ship,
rangy, and pissed. “That fucking Monkey,” swore The Soothsayer.
Pisssst. Another chamber snapped open, and then another. In
ten minutes, two hundred swarming, disoriented Robots staggered
around congratulating one another on survival. Though the ship was
miraculous in its technology, it had been, truthfully, built by the low
bidder.
Gerald/Sam stood in their chamber, sizing up the situation.
Like a newborn not yet ready for the real world, they hung back,
and watched. Already a keg was tapped, and the first round was
being passed. A few of the lesser models barfed with post traumatic
syndrome willies. Their friends crowded in, and cheered them on to
taste the bounty of our world anew.
Our world. Earth. Mother Earth.
A second keg was wheeled in. Mugs crashed together like
pummeling asteroids, and soon Level 11 was like the old days –
loud, and buoyant. Cigars suddenly appeared, and the space filled
with Virginia’s finest. An anthem, from a distant place and time was
sung. More Robots barfed. It was the best of times. And the worst
of times.
All hands rose in synchrony, “Nicoteina!” but this clarion call
rang strangely hollow. They had departed in tail-between-yourlegs defeat, and almost no measure of toxicants could displace
the knowledge. Almost no measure. As if to say we have endured,
the party kicked up an unspoken notch, and the great hookas of
Engineering bore from the elevators.
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Soon all were stumblingly sublime, hell-bent on driving the
ignoble demons of cowardice from their ranks. It was tough. Robots
were accustomed to nothing but supremacy, even in the face of
objective fact. If the situation appeared to be turning against you,
you simply programmed a new interpretation. Unhappily, the hasty
departure from Earth before the assailing Chaos Machines defied
even the best programmatic delusion.
Hence the pot. And the beer. And the glad-handing, yet lifeless
assurances.
The smallest thing can flip a good, well-managed high to a darktunneled self-exploration in a cheap traveling carnival fun house.
Gotcha scares, and get-heavy doubts crowded all, the timbre lifted
only at points, forever settling down to the forlorn.
Still they soldiered on.
Great casks of the ship’s best were borne up the elevator from the
deepest private reserves, but to diminishing effect. One pioneering
chemist said, “It might be time for Evo.”
But that was the wrong answer. Another, more an alchemist,
spoke up, “I have prepared for this moment. Attend me.”
An enormous flat black box was carried in with Raiders of the
Lost Ark solemnity. Coffin-like, it settled on a trestle, the bearers
withdrawing. All crowded up, expectant, and worn. The small
sorcerer lifted the lid, and hunched over the device within. Two
helpers moved nearer. From its guts, small wired connectors were
drawn out, each handed to a waiting Robot, the wires snaking out
like an ancient stereo system. Hands helped hands, and eventually
everyone held a strand of wiry light-conducting spaghetti.
“Place the end in your universal connector fitting.”
Each Robot twisted the fine wire’s coupler into his and her hip
orifice. “Now clear your minds.” The ship-wide network controller
registered a null drop like nothing it, in its rudimentary way, had ever
seen. All available bandwidth dropped clean to a silent note, not a
digital bit stirring. Every node, to a Robot, was quiescent, waiting
for the treasured start-bit. Two hundred still detonators, they stood
as biblical pillars-of-salt. He fiddled within.
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One minute, two, seven….frozen, they bowed to the suggestion
of fulfillment. It began as a warbling that grew into a tweeteringshrill bird call, and then a booming sub-harmonic that shook the
fiber of being. WOW, WOW, WOW……the tempo built. Robosweat dripped to the floor. A few nervous farts escaped. Someone
groaned.
BOOM! BOOM! The floor shook with the might of it, and yet
they persevered. A gentle sway of bodies marked the first perception,
and as the frequencies rose, and fell, the synchrony of their collected
anima moved to the chord. Shoulders joined, and as a giant Aspen
bloom blowing before a low pressure front, they bent over, first left,
and then right, and back again.
Amber waves of grain, and clouds converging, their form joined
ever closer, and coupled. The music, primal, and hard, drove on.
The alchemist was grinning. Worth all the stealing, he thought. Ever
since he’d founded Polk Audio, he’d been on the leading edge. Fuck
Silvertone!
The crescendo climbed, leveled, fell, and ascended anew. It was
an orchestral monument, played at the direct-to-cortex level. On
they swayed. Percussion, and horn sections blared, and thundered,
piccolos stabbing sharp ice picks into the oboe’s plaintive cries. A
hundred forceful violins broke through, the Robots jammin’.
Earlier in his career, before he took on Robotic form to stave off
the ravaging effects of old age, and sourmash, the Alchemist had
been a high atmosphere scientist, listening intently to the swoon, and
wail of subatomic particles as they slammed into Earth’s ionosphere.
Not content with the pedestrian audio equipment at hand, he and a
few of the late night “Mashers,” as they called themselves, cobbled
together a bossin’ stereo system upon which they could enjoy their
libations, and some Floyd. The junior amongst them, a Madison
Avenue devotee, eventually formed Bose, and made a fortune.
A little appreciated fact was that the tasting of the 901st batch
of Tennessee “BlindEye” Sourmash corresponded with the release
of the famous Bose system of the same number. An inside joke, but
history is happily replete with such. As an ancient philosopher once
said, “Why do we learn?…..to get the jokes!”
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Back at the orchestra, Wagner’s Ride of the Valkerie was raging,
and each inner eye played Apocalypse Now. Helicopters stormed the
VC village, the fog of war as thick as the rising anti-aircraft fire.
Robots, a pacifist crowd usually, recoiled, but in each breast a
kernel of hatred burned for the Chaos Machines that had invaded
Earth, and forced them out. The music moved to Grieg’s In the Hall
of the Mountain King, and they started back up the acoustic hill
climb. At one minute, and forty-seven seconds through, they linked
arms, and joined the riotous chanting.
It was simultaneously frightening, and beautiful.
A friendly mixture of reverence for Mother Earth, and her works
was aglow. As Grieg ebbed away, the much familiar Level 11 Theme
Song started up: Comfortably Numb by Pink Floyd. Long the call to
arms at Party Central, it drove into each cybernetic mind distortionfree, avoiding the transit through air, and all that permutes. At the
famous passage concerning “just a little pinprick,” the collective
body winced, and raised their glasses in a heartfelt salute to the
fragility of life.
The lyrics moved among them, shared in re-resonance between
the swaying bodies. As Gilmour’s plaintive guitar belted out the
angst of anthro-finitude, each to a Robot felt a release of the massive
tension acquired during transit. At the song’s finale, they tore the
connectors free, and turned to embrace one another.
Ordog entered the scene, and a beer, colossal in size as befitting
his present recognition as Chairman Pro Tem, was drawn instantly,
and passed hand-to-hand (with not a drop spilled owing to precision
fine motor control) to his. He raised it, and said, “We have survived
a sustained GraviMetric acceleration unknown in the annals of our
species. It is to Andromeda we have fled, not to hide, but to plan.
According to the knowledge we now possess, the Chaos Machines
entered our universe through a passage in the Milky Way. We can
speculate later why they chose that entry point. For the moment, it is
our ambition to observe, and then attack!”
He hoisted his beer anew, and quaffed the entire vessel. Foam
encircling his mouth, he continued, “I say attack, even though it is
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against our native will. We have lost something special, and I know
you all want it back!”
All hands flew up like a Republican Rehearsal, and every eye
shone with stubborn enthusiasm.
Someone carried in a small stand that he mounted. Above the
crowd, he stated, “We will immediately send a high velocity probe
to Earth. We must have data. We have lost thirty days in our journey.
Let us make the best of the time now before us.”
Striding out to thunderous applause, Ordog hit the main server
on his private channel, and thanked the SpeechWriter software he’d
employed. “And it can even write like Dan Quayle!” The company’s
tagline reverberated in his psyche as he walked to his chambers. He
pushed forcefully through the large doors to his study, and headed to
the massive bar. Like a bedrock, it stood for everything he had come
to love – Earthly fecundity, and inebriation.
Enough said, he thought. We must determine if Earth has been
destroyed, and the extent of the Chaos Machines’ campaign. That
they had received no word from any other Robot ship was troubling
enough, but in some not-so-distant part of his heart, yes heart, he
ached to know the welfare of Earth.
Later that tonight, in bureaucratic fashion, two menial servant
Robots were dispatched to un-ship a GraviMetric Probe, and bring
it to the hanger level. Haggling over the duty, the two descending the
elevator to Level Six – Engineering. “Why was I chosen? I can see
you, you’re a Blue, but I’m a Yellow. Fucking Ordog!”
“Blues rock, asshole. We invented the Fusion Bong, and grow the
best Ganja on the ship. So, fuck you, you waxy yellow Transistor!”
This last epithet was a deep cut. To Robots, any mention of
ancestral, and ancient technology in the same sentence were fighting
words. The Yellow swung a hard right, missed, and crushed the
elevator wall. A rough scrapping filled the cavity. The Blue, startled,
but quicker, flew at the other, intent on a full tackle. He drove the
Yellow into the adjacent wall, bowing it outward.
The racket from the grinding elevator walls was deafening, and
to the floor they fell, punching, and clawing. The Yellow scored a
good low belly punch that would have killed a Man, but here it was
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simply recorded on the Big Board firing up on Level 11. Immediately
wager chits were flying, the Robots never a creed to skip a spirited
contest.
The Blue gasped in semi-mock injury, and drove his knee up at
warp sixteen into Yellow’s unit. The croupier upstairs cleared the
betting board, and barked for new offers. The air was a confused
confetti of paper, wagers on the wind. Yellow head-butted Blue,
knocking him back, the odds shifting with his fall. Blue reached
up, and twisted the other’s nuts in a grab-hold that brought sudden
silence to the betting floor.
Blue stared at the watching camera, winked, and the elevator
door opened. Yellow and Blue stood, exited, and walked to the
storage area as if nothing had happened.
The bets were settled, no one the less for the extemporaneous
exchange. Beers were pulled endlessly, and the night progressed on
course towards a steady pattern of abuse.
Upstairs, Ordog was sailing wing-on-wing before his second
wind. Glorious! Reaching deep into his most precious reserves, his
hand had come up with an old world cask of Miner’s Mirthful Mead.
He uncorked the beast. Dusty, as it was obligated to be, his hands
smeared across the typographical flourish of an earlier age, revealing
a rare gold leaf that inscribed the masthead of its maker.
This medieval distiller, much the historian, and moralist,
sought out egregious local rogues as the namesakes for his various
libations.
Wart the Glad-Hander. Legend returned to him. Wart, a small
village real estate agent in the fifteenth century, had developed the
first multiple listing service, of sorts. Commissions, so Ordog had
learned, were always extracted from the women of the house, who
were understood to “want something bigger.”
Nefarious rumors swirled around this originator of the double
fuck, and had so lain until a “man of the house” dispatched poor
Wart with a steely farm implement. Ever the entrepreneur, Ordog
snorted, and up-ended the regal, and uniquely rare glassware. “I hate
bad salesmen,” he burped out.
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Hitting the main server again for word about Earth from the Milky
Way crew, he felt the shame of a fourteen year old boy desperately
calling everyone for Friday night society. No one is home, and no
one is calling.
“Shit,” he yelled aloud. “Where is everyone?”
He stabbed at the fire, poker like a lance. Damn! Despite
technology any Earthling would have found indistinguishable from
magic, he was alone in decision.
Without, the ship moved towards a no-name planet for no other
reason save a gated neighborhood. Being interstellar may sound cool,
but it’s stillborn. The warmest emanations proceed from planets, not
burgeoning suns. It intercepted an orbit yawningly, and incited the
struggle, earnestly, twixt momentum, and gravity.
Ordog farted stealthily, that cyber-simulation of an alimentary
processor begging work. He swung his hand at Newtonian speeds
to dissipate the offending olfactory. Visions of Cheech & Chong
Rosarita Re-fry jokes registering unbidden. “I need data!” he
yelled.
Management, too, has its Mondays!
But that’s just the deal.
Ordog, lost in the guilty tenets of reason that give rise to
rudderless cognition, brought out his FusionBong. Some problems
are truly, at first viewing, impenetrable.
Hence the ganja. Little known antecedents impinged. Truth be
told, Cannabis Sativa was a weedy calculation gone right.
And it’s a story worth telling as we travel back to the Mother
Ship in the seventeen hundreds……
Somewhat rat faced, a Ship’s botany student yearned for the
taxonomic complexity of Earth’s biosphere. Being little more than a
lab tech, he gained an early reputation amongst the various species
diversity studies on the planet below. When not yet thirty, young
Carl Linnaeus took his exhaustive findings, and published Systema
Naturae in Swedish on a Gutenberg Press. It was not the language
that engaged him, or the challenge of making a primitive printing
apparatus serviceable, but rather the fair-haired Swedish babes.
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To help out some of his fellow botanists who had sampled
both the flora, and fauna, he developed a cure for syphilis, and
practiced medicine when time allowed. In mid-life, he struggled
with depression, and turned his formidable knowledge of plants to
this debilitating disease. He first experimented with stimulants, and
psycho-actives of his own cross-pollinating manufacture, though
without success.
After a series of mild strokes, in the twilight of his scientific
reach, he re-opened his inquiries into plants returned by his students
from the farthest reaches. It was from India, he wrote just before his
death, that I discovered a cure for ennui.
By that time, he’d moved down to the Earth permanently against
bitter judgment. In so doing, he became the Ship’s pariah. Three
years later, knowing the end was near, he signaled for a last visit
to his old laboratory. It was there that he introduced his cultured
plant.
In a begrudging ceremony to his contribution towards cataloging
the rich life of Earth, many whispered criticisms were borne to him.
None of his fellow scientists had yet realized the promise of life
extension. At the terminus of his acceptance speech, he presented a
single, but enormous potted plant to Genghis, the current leader of
the ship.
His hope was to cure one disease, and beget another. During
that time, there had been a falling out between the scientists, and the
planet below. Earth’s indigenous explorers of fact were rolling back
the mysteries by spectacular, though often-faulty experiments and
observation. The scientists above were nose-high in their contempt.
Grist for the mill.
Linnaeus sat with Genghis in his private chambers, and plucked
a few leaves from the plant. A soft dirge that sounded suspiciously
like Us and Them mingled with the snappy fire. Genghis spoke,
“My insouciance with your pursuits is not widely held. You have
troubled many of your peers.”
Carl pulled a stone mortar and pestle from his worn leather sack,
and went to work on a handful of leaves. Genghis continued, his
interest piqued. “You have assimilated with humankind as well as
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any who have forsaken their brethren. It is not a new phenomenon.
What differs here is your intention to die on Earth, and possibly be
discovered as an alien. Though they are yet primitive in science,
they are quite skillful in comparative studies. And our living bodies
are sufficiently differentiated from theirs to pose a risk. I wish you
would reconsider where you spend your final days.”
Genghis pushed back in his massive leather chair, and waited, as
he was wont to do.
Carl transferred the resultant powdery herb to a glass pipe of
his own device. Genghis’s left eye arched at the apparatus. “I see
your pursuits haven’t been entirely botanical.” Carl got up, pushed
a waiting sliver of split cherry drawn from a copper kettle into the
crackling fireplace, withdrawing a small, cheery flame.
He handed the bong to Genghis, who of an engineering bent,
was quick on the uptake. He drew deep, the bowl a crimson menace.
And sat back with a dawning smile as if he were playing poker with
the boys. Best never to allow the escape of wonder.
Carl re-loaded. Lather, rinse, repeat. The men passed the
device several times, fell to silence, and studied within the myriad
transformations coursing through their vasculature, and thence
intellect. Genghis coughed, laughed, and said, “How’s that drink,
Linny?”
All tension caught the Last Train to Clarksville.
“Genghis, let me tell you a story.” As the other spoke, Genghis
crossed to the bar, and started a round of drinks. “I have been
recognized as a rare man of science down there. Though it’s a
mixture of cheating, and playing GOD, both are rewarding under
the correct circumstances.”
Genghis acknowledged firmly, “I’ll agree to that extent.”
“Yes. But GODly beings are timeless, and I am dying. That
reality cannot be dismissed. Hence, I propose we do one of two
things immediately. Extend our species through some form of
Cybernation, or admit death is a too-soon failure.”
Genghis was stoned, and loving it. He drew up his glass, and let
the cold fluid trickle past the epiglottis. His mind, always a trusty,
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and ordered place, was electric with flitting spectra. A Boston Pops
of instruments played a jaunty rendition to an audience of one.
Time to talk some shit. “Linny, I’ll allow we’ve discussed in
council the concept of Cybernation for three hundred years. I’ve
always felt that as our wonder for this unique world has matured, so
too will our desire not to leave through directive, or death. But the
time is not now!”
Linny had a shit-eating grin working. Down the primrose path
stumbled Genghis. Lah Dee Dah.
“Genghis, what you’re saying is natural to the natural world. All
life seeks happiness, and avoids pain. At the center of our orbit is a
flourishing jewel the likes of which our race has never encountered.
My small contribution towards cataloging the tens of thousands of
life-forms down there has just scratched the surface. We’ve yet to
venture beneath the sea.”
Genghis nodded vigorously, smoke issuing from his nostrils like
a dragon. “Our few scouts ships that have penetrated the sea bear
witness to the fecundity which stands an order of magnitude greater
than those of the land, trees, and air. Some believe Earth may have
over a million separate species.”
Carl pushed forward. “Then we agree…..that to hold onto this
world, and participate in its exploration, we must collectively, and to
a man become immortal.” He let the statement out, his centerpiece
now on the table like a clutch of cobalt Lobelias flowers resplendent
in the breaking sun.
Genghis didn’t smile, his outward mien darkening. Dismissively,
he grunted, “An old man’s dream.”
Carl poised to speak. Genghis cut him off. “Hear me. Our race
has always accepted finite lives, and sought to fill them through
discovery within, and out. It is against our nature, which you seem
to value above reason, to play GOD.”
Carl thrilled at the parry. Always best to get objections, the fish
more roundly on the hook. He stood to refresh their drinks. Over
his shoulder he handed Genghis the bong. As the cubes tumbled
deliberately one by one into the glasses, he listened to the gurgling
servitude of his ever-weakening adversary in thought.
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A soft knock intruded. “Come,” bellowed Genghis, regaining
some ground. A sinuous female creature swayed in, smiling with
nebular warmth. She said bouncily, “What are you guys doing?”
Perhaps twenty-four, Genghis recalled, despite the dope, an
earlier campaign that had given her the key to his heart, if not this
sudden, though welcome familiarity. Long reddish hair, and arresting
green eyes. A smallish, and upturned nose as cute as a button.
And dimples.
She wore a tight lab gown, apparently taking a tactical work
break, but this outfit had surely been modified to accentuate her now
obvious assets.
Genghis gave his best toothy welcome, and stood. “Have a seat,
my dear. I’d like you to share one of Carl’s discoveries.” He pulled
a fine Italian Louis chair from the nearby conference table, and set
it gently down between the two men, slightly closer to his. She
wiggled into it, demure, and saucy.
She stated as if prepped, “My name is Rebecca. I’m a botanist
like you, though only in desire. Your work is renown in the labs.”
Carl smiled the ages, lost ground re-taken.
“Thank you, my dear. Perhaps you’d like to sample one of my
latest finds. It’s a potent relaxing agent, and gives rise to the most
marvelous psycho-active hinder lands. It’s a slice of Earth herself.”
This last line was definitely over the top, but that makes good
science. Genghis stirred, his stake once again in play. She accepted
the instrument, and waited for ignition. Not to be outdone, the larger
man pulled a silvery tube from his vest, and pressed a tiny button.
A dancing cynosure like Sirius wobbled at its tip. She brought the
bong throat to her lips, and both men clenched in primal response.
Like eating a banana.
She sorted out her fears, and honked down on the glass shaft.
Condensation streamed under her influence as tiny rivulets coursed
the interior. Golf ball through a garden hose.
Sixteen seconds later she abruptly quit, and exhaled with The
Right Stuff. They all drew deep, the performance exquisite. “Wow!
Such a complex admixture. What is it?”
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Carl answered, running ahead. “Just wait a minute, and Sativa
will provide a depthless response.”
“Oooooh. That’s sounds crazy, and wonderful at the same
time.”
Genghis rushed in, “Can I get you something from the bar?
Her eyes sparkled. A dry white, please.” She giggled like a little
girl, lost in the enormity of the moment. Carl thought to himself, I
have gained more with this interruption than I gave away. Let her
wings spread.
She rose to meet Genghis, and they moved together towards the
crackling fire. Her hand slipped into his. Carl let it go. He’d just
hired her cheap. “Can I take a guess how this compound works?”
Heads nodded. Keep her talking, maybe she’ll stay. “We’ve
done a bit of comparative research on Human, and our races’ brain
receptors. They’re sufficiently similar to suggest a common allelic
ancestor, but more importantly, the release of dopamine, a most
pleasurable effect, can be traced to exertion, and certain drugs. This
one clearly works along those lines.”
In the dusty attic of Carl’s mind, a nascent thought flickered in
want of a birthing stimulus. He got up robotically, and joined the
duo fireside. Rebecca turned to acknowledge his closing presence,
and swung her arm around his desiccated form. Nothing happened
downstairs, a cellar lost to the ages, but three feet above a brainy
relay snapped closed with Frankensteinian might.
“Perhaps it is such experiences that give rise to the desire for
life evermore?” he observed a little too off-handedly. Instantly he
chided within, a maestro missing a beat.
She sipped her wine contemplatively. “All sapient life can never
get enough pleasure. Whether if by deepening a normal lifespan’s
experience, or yearning for more time to seek those things yet
undiscovered, it is an eternal drive.” Carl liked the direction, and
company.
He moved a little closer to her, stood straighter, and sucked in
his paunch. Genghis oscillated very slowly on his heels, smelling
devilry. Carl tossed back his drink in resolve, and said in a low,
steady professorial voice. “I see it in every species I’ve identified.
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The quest for evolution. As the pinnacle of organic forms, our race
is no different.”
She instantly picked up the thread, trammeling on the long intake
of Genghis’s reply. “Hubris aside, where could we go?”
He kept the cadence spinning high. “Exactly! Where? I see two
journeys. First, we allow our unfortunately short lives to naturally
terminate, trusting in the slow-chapped action of time to develop
our breed. Or…..we engineer the next step in our push forward as a
species.”
She jumped right in, again cutting Genghis to the quick. Good
old dope, thought Carl happily. That he’d smoked consistently for
years, and knew the landscape like Granny’s wine cellar, was paying
at eight over prime. “Carl, only a very advanced civilization can see
through the icons of their belief systems to even propose such selfdetermination. Are we yet ready?”
Perfect! He had her tongue wagging to his tune. And Genghis
was, for the moment, cowed by hopes of some moist stamen and style
action later. Time to advance another piece, so to speak. “Looking
at GOD’s plan for life is not beyond us. A careful study of evolution
bestows myriad insights. Take, for example, mimicry. Where life
sees an advantage in taking the form of a more successful sexual
aspirant, it plows ahead without reserve.”
Threading the topic of sex into his diatribe was calculating, but
GOD moves in mysterious ways.
Genghis released a polite burp, disengaged from Rebecca, and
crossed to the drinks tray. He poured three fresh libations, brought
them over to a small fireside table, and quietly retook his position,
fishing for a hand. Her’s closed tightly over his; reassurance, and a
promise of something sweet in exchange for a willingness to listen.
She responded, possessed of professional interest, and knowing
leeway. “So what are you proposing? That we take on an engineered
form to beat the Reaper?”
Bingo! “Nothing less! I am too old to benefit from such an allimportant re-invigoration of our kind, but younger pioneers may just
be able to recreate our species in like physicality yet possessed of
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a life duration sufficient to penetrate the secrets lying unrevealed to
our minds.” He was really laying it on, but the moment was right.
Genghis farted loudly, and Rebecca unlocked their interdigitation
to fan it away. She left her hand hanging, its partner still in fingerspread anticipation. “Methane,” she chortled, and they all laughed,
breaking the barrier.
Genghis sensed the entry, and spoke, wondering if his long silence
had butchered his will. “I admit the tantalizing aspect of eternal life.
Any being would! What I can’t get past is the implication of divine
omniscience. In short, do we dare court such presumption?”
His mitigated peace said, he grappled for her hand, and found a
willing home.
They all stood in silence, the weight genuine. As if to acknowledge
the gravity of this question, they picked up their glasses in unison,
and gave a wordless toast. Each eye looked questioningly into the
others’, within to their own doubts. Except Carl. Nothing is more
scheming than an old, hard-bidden soul with the grave in view.
He drained his drink with the spring of a much younger man,
wiping his mouth with a dandy flourish. “This effort could take
decades, or centuries. I am only suggesting we ‘try’.” He felt the
slightest back pressure on his line, and set up the hook for a full lip
purchase.
“Who wouldn’t want to be remembered as the instigator of our
species’ eternity, and live to enjoy the fame?”
“I would!” declared Rebecca. She turned to Genghis, and
wrapped her arms around him, squeezing with the manipulation of
the ages. Genghis was lost at sea.
In 1778, Carl Linnaeus died. Maybe.
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Chapter 71: Planet Below
Blue and Yellow unpacked the interstellar probe, and set its
colorful navigation controls. Back in the elevator, they exited on the
hanger level, and carried the machine to deck center. Around them
stood the marvelous ships Man would have died for. Yellow pushed
a tiny button, and the probe rose off the floor, oriented itself, and
shot out through the Mother Ship’s osmotic wall into space.
Unrestrained by any sensitivities to force, it climbed the
acceleration curve towards maximum velocity. One billion Gs.
Twenty-five days to Earth. Give or take an AU, or nanosecond.
They watched it go, shook hands, and headed for the elevator,
beers and babes waiting.
Ordog snapped out of his reverie, fishing again for his lighter.
I’ve got a cigar somewhere around here. Seizing the half-enjoyed
stogie, he cradled it to his seat, and lit that puppy up.
Later, in a cumulus of hanging carcinogens, he snorted to
himself. Carl. That fucker! He pushed Genghis a few meters, and
the guy waffled over six inches. On a good day.
But Ordog was in the here and now, and raised his glass gallantly,
surprised at the emotional index. “Immortality is cool, Carl!” he
shouted. The server beeped, and displayed a departing probe. Good,
they didn’t fuck it up.
He considered joining the party streaming to monitor six above
him, but instead chose the study of the planet below. A few clicks,
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and all the stats came up. Twelve thousand mile diameter, wateroceanic, fecund, and temperate. Atmospherics tolerable. Good
ionosphere to keep the EMR beasties out, and no industry.
Good code. He suddenly regretted barking at one of the junior
Planet-Search programmers, the kid with the shit haircut. I’ll get
him a beer when I see him next. Maybe introduce him to Doris the
Polisher.
His study’s private view-port consumed the entire wall,
spanning thirty feet by twenty-two. The planet filled more than
half his purview, it’s blooming cloud formations strangely Earthlike. His heart skipped a synthetic beat. But as beautiful as Earth
….was, it wasn’t the planet that drew his people. It was the wild,
crazy, abandoned expression of life that crowded every crack, and
mountain aerie.
He raised his glass again to Earth. But there was nothing to
say.
Nothing!
Perhaps the probe would give him the answers. Perhaps not.
His mind shifted faster than the departing probe, and considered the
hope, if even temporarily, of a new Home. It hadn’t hit them yet, but
it would.
We ran. And left behind everything that titillated our first
generation Cybernation.
Downstairs, the lampshades were out, and nobody was thinking
shit. The Chaos Machines would have been proud. Brethren. But in
the server vault, through which coursed every thought, supposition,
and conjecture of (almost) every Robot aboard, things were busy.
Smoking busy. The Halon was fissuring down absently, and
STATUS: BADCON 3 flashed on the last generation face-mounted
LCD. Upgrades had been ordered, but Purchasing got involved, and
pissed off the suppliers. Even in the local delivery zone of the Milky
Way’s Western Spiral Arm, they were always losing shit, or fucking
up the order.
It ain’t going away. Ordog turned from the planet below, and
sunk to his favorite chair, hearing all the Management Tapes he’d
half-started.
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Scott Patterson
One geezer barked above the rest, a Pentacostal gone money.
“Self is all ya got. You all die too soon, and for what? I tell ya, it’s
the Methodists!”
An assistant ran like a clown to the speaker, and unloaded in his
ear. The coiffed showman shifted his weasel-like eyes left and right
at red-shift speed, and continued, “But more than the Methodists,
it’s the Japanese! They’re sucking your souls out!” Back on plane,
he spun before the crowd, casting insincerity. The director cut to a
condom ad.
The preacher stormed off the set, hell-bent to his dressing room.
The star emblem hung lazily on the unlocked balsa door, an ad hoc
superglue fix done cheap. He pushed into the tiny private bath, and
checked his buffoonish look. Damn teleprompter idiots!
Ordog laughed gently imagining the mountebank’s struggles.
But his mind returned to their current circumstances. He suddenly
remembered, “All men are different. Put two apparently equal men
in a room for thirty minutes, and a leader will emerge.” He hiked his
shoulders in scalding doubt, and rose to stand before the view-port
again. The soft hills below might kindle some healing, but all gains
would doubtless be bittersweet, even divisive.
Earth was magical. And unlike any world his people had visited.
Ever.
Sans comforting lachrymal ducts, he just shuddered with
emotion, alone, and desperate. Starring out upon that waiting world,
his inner turmoil built like a Chernobyl-era fission reactor. Carbon
damping rods slid in urgently, but still the core superheated. An
instant later, he faulted, and burst into fiery fragments. The fireplace
cracked loudly in synchrony, its ephemeral aspect somehow sharing
the expiration.
A microsecond later, time enough for a million verifications
server-wise, all sound shuttered off in the ship. Heads fell in
programmed reverence, impressive given the lack of money riding.
For all his hubris, and high-handed faults, Ordog had brought them
down the river Styx safely.
He had led, and would be missed. Sorely.
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An indeterminate time later, it hit them like a supernova blast
wave. We are alone, driven off, and without cause. No measure of
toxins could cross the yawning rift. All wept virtually, their most
internal code running a beta version of deep sorrow. Heads rising,
each peered to the other, seeking comfort and direction. Who would
lead?
The burden was anathema.
Gerald/Sam, having joined the festivities late, felt a deeper loss
still. Standing at a keg with The Soothsayer, they joined hands,
and spoke a silent prayer to a nascent belief system Lord. Please
take this gentle form to your bosom, and grant him the rewards of
solitary leadership. Guide his essence to your waving fields of grain,
and best gaming tables.
They lowered their heads again, and everyone in the room
followed suit.
Probably hearts. For Charlemagne.
After a time, Gerald/Sam unbowed, and smiled with the surety
of having sent a message received. Nodding heads approbated the
GODward epistle. The server snapped alive anew, and Gerald/Sam
moved to the small dais. “We have suffered greatly,” Gerald began
in his voice, Sam hanging back. We have all lost something in this
flight, Sam and I especially. Though we acknowledge your love for
our native world, it is ours.”
A pin dropped somewhere, reverberating loudly. “We’d all
like to believe we can return, and follow our instincts to improve
Earth further. All gathered here before Sam and I have contributed
individually, and through ancestral gifts to our beloved planet. We
all miss it with our very souls.”
Gerald wiped a tear, and stood ramrod straight. The Soothsayer
mounted the platform, and took their hand. He spoke, “Gaea is
mother to me. Always there. In her absence, a deep wound intrudes.
We must determine her fate if we’re to have peace within.”
He got down fast, and fled the room.
Serena, a largish Fembot possessed of uncommon voice spoke
up, “I concur. The departing probe may tell us things, but Ordog, in
the final moments of his thought, suggested a journey back would be
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Scott Patterson
the only certain way. He understood the peril. To re-enter the Milky
Way will invite the same destiny we now harbor in ignorance for the
green hills of Mother Earth.”
Sam grasped the thread, her sweet voice Vodka clear “We have
lost something which a thousand Earthly lifetimes cannot reproduce.
We may search Andromeda for a showy facsimile, but it will ring as
hollow ….” She burst to tears, arms reaching in comfort.
The Robots crowded together like an immense Aspen colony,
joined. Pink Floyd played softly, ever the inspirational facilitator.
The server, deep in the GraviMetric Engine “Holy Place” cued up
another CD, retro tonight.
To Terminal Frost, off the Momentary Lapse of Reason album,
the server shuffled disks, wishing for an iPod. The last model, with
the Virtual Party Heads-up Display feature, came to its dungeonbound mind. He recurred suddenly to his station. But when they
were fleeing from Earth, this is where the rubber met the road!
It turned a wrench on the sound machine, and Gilmour’s steel
guitar filled the ship.
War and melody turned thrashing in each mind; their archetypal
fears. The yellow leaves fluttered in unison, a giant organism root
deep. Earthly roots! Twenty-three hundred years is nothing in
astronomical terms, but to a species adapted to three-hundred year
lives, and recent of life-extending Cybernation, it was sufficient to
send down a tap root.
With all sorrows thereto.
Gerald/Sam watched the assemblage. Their internal dialogue was
null. Both beings stood as one apparition, apart in tactics, unified in
love. Sam hit the internals, their conversation now private. “These
Robots think they’re Earthlings. We could use this to our advantage
given Ordog’s hasty departure.”
Gerald was aghast, but intrigued. He mummed it out. Sam
continued, “We know from the Server’s unpublished, and draftquality History of Our Ship someone will soon rise to lead. Why not
us? since this is now apparently an Earthly protectorate.”
“Ya got some’n there,” Gerald said in his best Texan. Already
he was coveting the Executive Level, hot and cold running Robots.
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Every man has a price, and Robots sell at $0.89 a pound in an open
market. He stirred both of them.
Sam radiated a good IR bump within, and whispered a sultry
purr, “Have you seen that bed up there?” The reel’s line spun out at
relativistic speeds, his lip in tow. “Okay, we’ll devise how to….”
“Shuuuush. Let me handle this!”
Sam cleared her throat, and Floyd bled off, Server in the game.
Grabbing the thread… “but it will ring as hollow as our souls,
banished from our Homeland. Our ancestors grew strong under Sol’s
light, and found renewal in her boundless oceans.” Sam went in fast
with abundant plural personal pronouns, no time for plank speeches.
All gathered deferred, taken on the wind of suggestion.
Someone half-yelled, “We must return to Mother Earth!’ The
murmur of concurrence grew like a tormented hive. Sam let it go.
Let it feed on itself, gather a will, and beget an action.
Her action!
Gerald was coolly silent within, thumbing through a Sharper
Image catalog, wishing Earth was just a Fedex delivery away. Sam
might be on the stump now, but she’ll be taking the whole tree
later, he thought, and then reflected for the thousandth time on the
anatomical absurdity of such talk.
Though they had developed a symbiotic bonding undiscoverable
throughout Earthly history, and could stimulate each others’ minds,
and libidos to perfection, he missed just romping on the mattress,
giving her the high hard one. His old football buddies had been right
after all: Pussy is the best thing on Earth.
And maybe, within the distant galaxy of Andromeda. He had
some work to do there, he thought, in his most deeply protected
mental vault. Always having his best pal with him was great, but a
man needed to reach out like the great runners on the ancient plains,
chasing dinner.
Or at least be prepared for such.
In his mind’s eye, a perfectly conditioned man ran through dense,
waist-high wheat, spear in ready hand. The beat of his footfalls on
springy moistened soil brought the rich loam to him, blood pounding
throughout his entire being. Another machine, elegant in ways the
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Scott Patterson
Robots would never duplicate. But also a sixty year life span. Then
that fucker just plain wore out. The Texan was back.
He followed the warrior up a six percent grade, never slowing.
Ahead, a gazelle. And a tiger with equal intent. The big cat turned,
snarled, and sprang to meet his rush. At their perigee, the man
thrust the spear up, and to the left, felling that most fearsome of
predators.
And bore him to the ground, a corpse. And turned on the gazelle
which instantly dropped its head, and charged with conical horns
incoming. Good shit! Gerald picked up a baseball-sized stone, and
thought Sandy Koufax. One of the fastest left-handers in the business
when he was young. Slowed down after that 1961 exhibition game,
but……..
The gazelle was four hundred and eighty feet away, moving
about thirty miles per hour, or forty-five feet per second. He wound
up, and thought “fast ball.” His pitch released at one hundred nine
miles per hour, the closing time a scant over two seconds.
Some time later, he stood over the pummeled skull, wondering
if a “change-up” would have been the better pitch. And as he read
through the Baseball Hall of Fame, looking for his name idly, Sam’s
voice carried into his sanctum.
“Earth was our maidenhead, a sexual moment between our
species shared in her womanly loins.” Good bullshit, thought Gerald,
now re-reading the Morbidity & Mortality Newsletter for a spot of
levity.
He flipped to an article on BSE, or Bovine Spongiform
Encephalopathy. Mad Cow Disease. Boy, that was a near miss! The
back-story surfaced like a bilious and fatty Wendy’s Hot & Juicy
SumoBurger. Bobbing in the bowl, undigested.
Given that Robots wanted with greedy appetite the pleasures
of eating, and the unbidden consequential digestion, a major
modification came early after Cybernation. Rudimentary alimentary
canals was devised, and offered to willing participants. Soon, that
was everyone except a few primping hold-backs.
A gustatory Autobahn it wasn’t. Choppy code gave rise to
poor sphincter control, and complaints of “embarrassing leakage.”
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Diapers were haute. But soon, driven from unheard quarters, the
problems were fixed, and taste for food developed rapidly.
Exponentially.
As Scott Adams said observantly, “The first Homo Sapient
question was naturally ‘How will we eat?’ that was succeeded by
‘What will we eat?’ and at the last, “Why do we eat,” at the bistro.
Food became the currency of currency. The “Haves” ate, and the
Have-nots,” those two guys down in “Septic,” eschewed all organic
fodder, preferring only the fruit of the vine. Being pariahs, about
four gallons per night’ worth. Served bitter cold…..’bout minus 326
Fahrenheit, fresh from the liquid nitrogen cryo-well.
They spent endless evening banging out the interpretive code,
mapping their tastes to the guzzled libation. In time, they registered
their algorithm, and it became the basis for flavor recognition. All
tuned to the most basic food: alcohol! Plenty of carbohydrates, no
fat, scant protein given their hygiene.
It was a loose season, full of self-discovery. Eventually other
avant-garde proto-chefs starting slinging the code, and a wider
breadth of tastes crowded the dinner table. Betting, and valuation
systems sprung up around “cultured tastes,” and the Robots took
another leap forward in appreciation.
But it was Earth’s richness that drove it all. Always there was
Earth. And for some, it took on more than a healthy aura.
His name was nominally Eartho, but most called him “Plant.”
All meanings implied.
Plant was an odd self-directed throwback to the balmy edges
of Earthly fecundity. In short, he was into plants in all the wrong
ways.
A conversation overheard, “ Come on, you know the guy?
Always stood next to the planter when we all assembled.”
“That guy?”
And so forth.
Into plants.
Always a quiet, retiring botanist before Cybernation, he just
couldn’t let it go. Some said psychiatry, or worse still, drug-less
psychology was needed.
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Scott Patterson
She hung out a shingle. Cyber Issues, Ltd. A speculative venture
with low capitalization, and homebrew visions. The office, set up on
Level Eight, near De-Fabrication, was small (300 square feet), wellappointed, and reeked of expectation.
A genuine couch, fashioned hastily in the lower quarters amidst
a blizzard of toxins. Comfy. Wall art of Earth, and other worlds
lesser held. Eclectic statuary, and tortured iconography festooned
the darker corners, lending a hunted aspect. Perfect for the already
disturbed.
Repeat business is cheapest acquired!
The Robot who fancied herself the necromancer was colloquially
renamed Freuda, in a mixture of need, and doubt. Her practice
dribbled the first week with the bold debunkers, and self-possessed.
But then the street-cred started up a standard bell curve distribution
waveform, and bounded. Third standard deviations aside.
Two days later, she was booked 24/7. It was the season of
uncertainty, and HMO-free billing. Nirvana, of sorts. This enterprising
soul trained six more luscious babes overnight, and expanded the
clinic, knocking out the wall to Engineering, and annexing half their
space. Nobody, least of all the displaced engineers, broke a fitting.
Her name now, Ezmerelda, held high court increasingly,
disturbing the metric of the ship, but returning a spooky quiescence.
Salve for a first generation life form driven from its first Home.
Yet gambling always intruded. That unique Human vice, it held
here a purchase over this distant Andromeda enclave, reaching
from parsecs. Three weeks into the practice, on Level Eleven, the
wagering BigBoard lit up with fresh categories: Eating Disorders,
Addictive Tyrannies, Ancestral Laments, Fears, and OPS (Other
Peoples’ Shit).
This game was shamelessly fashioned around the old TV show
Jeopardy with heavy wagering added to keep it “interesting.”
The panel was assembled with ease, and the board came to life. A
primping Robot dressed up as Game Show host grabbed the mike.
His luminescent teeth filled an oversize mouth, crowding out his
face. A thin, dark mustache and goatee completed the lower face.
He flexed his tux, shot a cuff, and barked, “Contestant One is a hard
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working chef in the main cafeteria. He enjoys sharp knives, and
dancing the Samba.”
A murmur of vocal acceptance, and thirty-two gigabytes of highspeed mocking net traffic.
“Contestant Two harkens from the engineering level, and
specializes in making 18th century Earthly firearms.” More
reverence. “Contestant three is a lovely young Fembot who spends
time writing her Ph.D. in Anomalies of the Robotic Mind. Give her a
loud welcome!” A polite, reined applause. “And our last contestant
is well known to all. The Soothsayer.”
Tepid response. Some genteel whistling. A stifled burp.
“Okay, you’ve met our challengers. Now it’s time for……
JEOPARDY!” Lights flashed, and the purloined Napster-acquired
original theme song blasted from perfect speakers. Loud, with
something of Paradise Lost in the bottomless sub-woofer. He smiled
broadly, his obvious wig heading south towards poorly trimmed
eyebrows. He swept it back, buried in the part.
“Okay cookie, choose a category.” Contestant One peered at the
high resolution categories displayed across an entire bulkhead, and
said, “Addictive Tyrannies for twenty.”
The block rotated at relativistic speeds, beyond even Robotic
senses, and steadied. It said simply, “Poe.”
“What is the reveler’s ride – opium?”
“Correct. Next.” A flutter of chits changing hands. “ Addictive
Tyrannies for forty.” The block shuddered the room, a blur. Gray
background. White blocky letters. “A suggestion of cream, comfort,
and cocaine?”
“Easy….what is chocolate?”
The crowd was rapt. Sort of. The first round had been easy, a
quick hit to the server. Question Two was more qualitative, even
introspective. A low ball across the plate. “Addictive Tyrannies
for sixty,” shouted the cook. The cube spun with urgency, and a
suggestion of a bearing cheaply maintained.
The cook watched the cube fly in its orbit, a spinning die. He
was short by Robot standard, and bore the corporation of his trade
– a Cadillac-priced gut. A chef needs to sample……
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Scott Patterson
Three hundred years back, when Cybernation brought the
onboard scientists the promise of immortality, a serious dialogue
ensued. Should we take the form that GOD had divined, or move to
a better home? Metaphor-rich, that time had been. Swan-like grace,
and alabaster perfection pitted against an admitting inner contempt
and the indefatigable need for private communion.
The stuff of psychology. And therapy. Had the gals been in biz
then, they’d own the ship now. One way, or the other.
The time leading up to Cybernation had been a season of vanity.
Though Hollywood was a few hundred years off, the imaginative
couture on deck lacked nothing from the streets of Paris, London,
and Bayonne. Dressing up for identity, as it were. Many amusing,
and instructive conversations still lay dormant in the central server,
testaments to a gayer era.
Two female scientists bent over the dissection, frilly umbrellas
at the ready. “Marilyn, it looks like a torsional intestine injury got
this little fella.” She resected the necrotic alimentary component,
and straightened up. Some would describe her as dowdy, and
unkempt. Shoulder length dishwater hair limply attended, the face
an interstate map of chronic sleep deprivation. Only her eyes, like
crackling green gemstones, betrayed a richer inner life.
Her fellow anatomist, Julia, began draining the stainless steel
table. Her genes ran to knobby angularity, every joint oversized. Jet
black Morticia-like hair waterfalled to her flat ass, framing a distant
face. Briquettes for eyes, so deep set as to be unapproachable. A soft
rime of facial hair. Some Y chromosome suggestions.
Both scientists removed their surgical aprons, and straightened
their gowns. Dressing up was all the rage. “I like the ostrich feathers,
Julia. And that tangerine bustier is really you!” Julia blushed a shade,
and laughed softly. “Really pretty silly, but I like the fashions this
year.”
“I know. I’ve really been looking hard at my footwear. There
are so many great shoes ‘on the continent now’.” Her tone turned a
little. “Have you thought much about Cybernation?”
Marilyn upended the table, and the young squirrel slid into the
medical waste bucket. “That’s a tough one. Not only do we face all
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the conflicts of choosing immortality, but we can simultaneously
leave behind the husk, and habit of former self. One wonders what
is being saved.”
The cube slowed. The Host read it before it stopped, nudging the
building energy. “Loins afire, patter in the breast.”
The panel of four contestants started, each hearing something
different. The Soothsayer rang out, “What is Love’s breath?”
“Close enough. The Soothsayer may now choose a new category,
or proceed with this one.” Everyone knew the rules, but some people
love to hear their own voice.
That the game’s roots, and bounty came from the confessional
couches at Cyber Issues, Ltd. made for greater range, and sincerity.
This was a way of flogging commonly held insecurities in the
theatre of public consideration without putting too fine a point on
ownership. Fair and balanced. Though strict professional ethics
forbid tying any given trait to a single Robot, mistakes were made.
Some idiosyncrasies could not be camouflaged.
No simple Groucho Marx nose, and eyebrows……something
more substantive, and earnestly deceiving. Hence, the most errant
attributes were laundered, surfactants for the masses. But Robots
know their own kind. To eight places right of the decimal. And
speculation trumped certainty to the top percentile, both because it
granted wayward humanity, but more importantly, it was a shit-pot
load more fun.
But that’s just how things in Andromeda are done. The Milky
Way is, of course, regarded, but there are two other gorgeous, and
local galaxies more poignantly proximal, spirit-wise. Companions.
Those Milky Wayers have their way, and we have ours. Us and them.
Tribalism. Same Shit, Different Day.
Belief-system independent.
Even this far, Earth a distant, temporally-displaced clench of
rich soil, seemed closer. Gaia. Arms outstretched, waist-high waves
of amber grain lashing in a low pressure, Alabama vortex. Hair, and
sentiment striven by a season of harvest, and a season of pain.
The Soothsayer stood with a military pride, his spine a ramrod.
“Ancestral Laments for twenty.”
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Scott Patterson
The cube whirled. Within, The Soothsayer frowned, his bearing
under a whipsaw influence. Like some biblical asp. Venomous.
He steadied himself to answer, and an “all-hands” NASA-grade
klaxon exploded. The Central Server spit the news: Homicide! An
instant report, bereft of facts. But that was the Robot Press. Thin on
content, long on flash.
One enterprising young Robot with a “bent” for verbalizations
founded the paper, more a rag centered on “The Fall of Man.”
Given that Earth had been detonated by Chaos Machines, all aboard,
awake, and dormant, represented the Petri dish of her survival. It
was well-read.
The Op-Ed page saw the best writing. Left-leaning. Tarty.
Wagging tongues nascent of received approbation. Thin budgets,
and coarse oversight. Late night chat-ups, and toxin marathons. The
stuff of Pulitzers.
And Hemingway.
Before.
The cube tumbled, and smeared. White letters fused with a
darkish background. A melding of coloration.
The host read. “ Why I don’t have a twelve inch dick?”
The Soothsayer smirked instantly, recalling MIT perhaps, and
said, Why didn’t your dad fuck that donkey?” The crowd went wild,
and capped teeth let it go. Maybe a little close to the hearth, but it’s
best to keep the crowd rolling, however self-defaming.
Upstairs, Sam and Gerald stretched out in their common body.
Sam had some vibratory thing going with a gluteal muscle, and
Gerald was bored. “Not my G-Spot!” he thought.
The Server beeped in, and communicated, “Earth Probe images
incoming. Preliminary analysis: No damage to Earth, no alien
presence. It winked off in a bit of a huff.
Sam said, “The Server never got on board with the ‘imminent
threat thing’, you know.”
“Yip.” Lately, Gerald had been affecting his Texas roots, part
swagger, the balance, remorse.
Sam and Gerald, individually, and collectively had mobbed
the weakened crew, and usurped the Leader’s mantle. They knew
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there’d be challenges soon enough, but for now, the Executive Suite.
On its exquisite display above their mammoth bed flickered the
inbound feed. Linen, fine crystal, and libations aplenty clinked as
they pushed back into the cushions.
The Probe Programmer had chosen a frontal approach algorithm,
refusing to brake until well into the Solar System. One Hell of a
deceleration! Subatomic particles blistered off the probe, therapybound. You get used to a set of rules across the universe, something
you can count on, and then somebody in a hurry screws it up.
The plight of everywhere!
The device slewed its imagers across the ecliptic, coming in low
and fast. The inner planets sparkled in their entirety. Especially the
Pale Blue Dot. It whipped around as if possessed, but then it had
reason. The Programmers had imbued this simple circuit-wit with
an echo of self. Radio Shack grade life-form. So it knew fear. Sam/
Gerald watched agape.
Sam said,” That poor probe, so frightened.”
The other side of their community-property mouth curled up
approvingly. “Keeps it motivated!”
The powerful optics bore down on Earth, still an AU out, cutting
through the clouds magically. Ocean, continental edges, rivers. Still
it descended, part spacecraft motion, part dire need.
“Telemetrics coming in now,” burped the Server. Crunch.
Crunch. Crunch.
“No discernible power transmission, EMR propagation, or
Greenhouse gases.” Gerald turned within to Sam, about to comment
on the oddness of such readings when the screen flashed, and the
feed went dead.
“Server, what happened?” yelled Gerald. Crunch. Crunch.
Crunch.
“Leader, that is the end of the transmission.”
Robots never ask for clarification. It’s just not done. As to any
college don, such would be regarded as remedial, and stupid. Gerald
sat up, Alexander-like. “ Server, I command this ship to return to
Earth.”
The Server thought, “Why the fuck not, Andromeda’s a stiff.”
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An hour later, the word had passed, and Level Eleven was
in “blow-out” mode. Debauchery, and mirth. Nary a question,
consideration, speculation, or conjecture. As if the decision to flee
had been someone else’s; someone lost and hollow.
Namely Ordog.
By round agreement, the hard acceleration would start the next
day, with all that implied in Earthly terms, however, the bar was
open tonight. A quartet of trussed-up Fembots pulled at draft levers,
Coyote-Ugly style, and all manner of psychotropics were raining
down like Madonna’s Manna. Dizzying anticipation cloaked fear,
the toxins covering the short bets.
Jeopardy had been interrupted, no complaints to Neilson. The
Soothsayer stood moodily with Gerald/Sam, nodding rhythmically.
“I think I’m glad we’re returning. When are you going to show the
feed?”
Sam answered sotto voce, “Why not now?” The Server picked
up the acquiescence, and started the spool. Every head turned, intent
with double vision. Poignant visions flashed too quickly. The Probe
gyrated, shuttered, went black. The house sound came up quickly,
Server riding herd.
Gerald piped into the house sound. “ Yeah, right. We don’t know
what’s happened back on Earth. So we can stay here, and make a
new home in Andromeda, or climb back into the static chambers,
and endure another tiring journey to the unknown.”
Not a peep.
“Just so we all understand, it’s entirely possible Ordog was
right.”
“Someone yelled, “Earth looked okay!”
“In the seven seconds we got before the Probe blew apart, you
mean?”
One of the scientists: “You can’t conclude the Probe was
attacked…it just looked that way.” Nervous shuffling of feet, and
sidelong glances. Quiet sips of beer.
The Soothsayer, the only human on board, spoke solemnly with
a penetrating voice. “I didn’t want to leave my birthplace, and don’t
like it here. I am truly a Stranger in a Strange Land. But before we
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decide to rush back to a situation that a few months back looked
hopeless, let us ask what has changed.
“We gathered up one hundred souls, I’ll call them, from Earth,
and left because we were certain total destruction was imminent.
Now we see the Earth apparently unharmed, and yet our rugged
little Probe shows no signs of life. I really won’t address the sudden
loss of signal. That could be anything.
“What I simply wish to encourage is clarity…not confusion over
homesickness for safety.”
Fifty voices rose, extinguished a moment later by Sam’s yelping.
“Shut up! Shut Up!” Murmurs of discontent edged with something
less Robotic – fear. “That’s right! We don’t know. We don’t know
what awaits us on and around Earth, or the Milky Way, for that
matter. Though we’re suddenly stricken to return, we have no way
of knowing if upon arrival we won’t be blasted to pieces like our
Probe.
“Our defenses are speed, which we’ve used to get here, and
invisibility which may have been defeated given the plight of our
similarly equipped Probe. I say we stay here, find a planet that suits
us, and send another probe in a few months, or years.”
Somewhere far off, reverberating down an airshaft, a terrible
screech echoed. The Soothsayer whispered to Gerald, “That goddamn
monkey. Let’s load his sorry ass into another probe, and blast him
back for another look.”
Gerald smiled, Sam in tow. An anthropologist stepped forward,
his gait the less for drink. He stood five four with longish pale hair
tied in a ponytail. He affected the airiness of a student indentured
to a simpler time like an Amish bookworm intent on understanding
microwave convenience. “I say we have a vote. Be democratic. The
Server can count yeas and nays, and then we’ll know the fair way
to proceed.”
Sufferance is always tricky. Some horrifically bad actions have
ridden on the shoulders of popular gerrymandering. But maybe it
beats changing the names of the months by despotic rule. Gerald
and Sam caucused within, and agreed. She said aloud, “That is an
excellent notion. Let’s see what our collective, and initial feelings
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are.” Since Robots despise feelings over reason, and eschew
collective-anything, it was a safe play. Gerald called out, “All those
in favor of returning to Earth, send a ‘one’ to the Server.” He knew
the answer instantly, but continued the charade. “All those in favor
of building a new Home here in Andromeda send a zero.”
The shading of the questions might’a had something to do
with the results, but they were foreordained in Gerald’s view. And
decision.
The Server, ever the equalitarian, burped the result: “We’re
heading home!”
Gerald clucked to himself that though the Server had obsequiously
divined his intent, it needed a little coaching in the subtlety
department. Sam never said a word. Externally, or otherwise. He
might be stroking it with Rosy tonight.
But still there were dissenters. Twelve of them. Like the disciples,
this last (Andromeda) supper had more than a whisper of dissention.
But, The Seal thus applied, the party raged anew with, if possible,
greater abandon.
As departure approached, deep within the GraviMetric Engines,
all was not as it should be.
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Chapter 72: From Whence We Came
Flying along at incalculable speeds, wrapped in the womb of
static chambers controlled on the subatomic level by GraviMetric
mini-engines spread equidistant throughout the ship, the entrants to
the latest, and perhaps last PowerBall slept dead-like, yet uneasily.
Even drunks, slumping into their capsules as they had, knew the
awakening might never happen. Visions of arriving explosively in
their own stomping grounds only to be torpedoed lay upon every
breast.
Or almost every. As the Server finalized the last Chambers’
occupant, radio-dark shadows moved with biblical-age certainty
along a lightless black-body cold corridor. Unquestioned belief in
motion. Monotheism spread, arched, and feathered in the dimmest
light, moving as poltergeist, full-torso apparitions of personal
chemistry gone inward, and uneducable.
In the history of Man, philosophies have risen to explain basic
desires, principal above all the need to understand our origin, and
purpose. First to the stars Man turned, envisioning the GODs as
great constellations ringing Earth. Our neighbors, the planets, too,
became antagonists in the Music of the Spheres.
As Science, and its minion Reason gave Man greater penetration
into the mysteries of the physical world, so too our beliefs matured
in lockstep. Worship for the Sun became worship for humanoid
prophets. Faith recapitulating form divined.
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It took just an instant, and the shadows withdrew to their own
static chambers to wait out the horror of intergalactic flight. All
chambers sealed, the speed built, and built, acceleration relentless.
The GraviMetric engines screamed to distort space before the
hurling ship, yawning open the very fabric of the void ‘twixt the
Milky Way, and Andromeda.
On the leading edge of the ship’s outer sphere, GraviMetric
lenses pointed far ahead, cycling their gravity beams to create a
swirling vortex singularity. Into that gapping, leering eye tunneled
the ship, the visage Medusan. Were a Man, or Robot to behold such,
he’d feel pretty shitty.
Forty Days. And Nights. Earth days to keep it simple. They passed
through the photonic boom of light speed, light pressure against the
hull soaring. The heavens acknowledged this feat by going soot
black, all stars and nebulae winking out as if GOD himself had
flipped the light switch. The Server recorded this important epoch,
and pressed on, controlling the GraviMetrics to balance the Super
Relativistic effects that sought to shred the ship into its component
muons.
Searing, tearing eddies of mass, and energy flogged the ship
from every vector. It bucked, and shuddered in response, all lifeforms within their tiny, and individual static chambers oblivious.
A hundred years before, a talented ship’s physicist, and open-mikenight Karaoke winner had written a comedy book on GraviMetric
use above 100 Light Speed. Though his work was purely theoretical,
it was well read because of the penetrating humor. He said he’d
learned the best jokes while working in a dingy patent office trying
to get official recognition for his food processor design.
Apparently there was some confusion over “It dices, it slices, it
liquefies.”
Though a recognized intellect among great intellects, he preferred
solitude, and the avuncular moniker “Big Al.” He later died in New
Jersey, or so some believe. In truth, he just got apparently old, and
hoofed it back up to the ship leaving behind a corpse abstracted
from an experiment gone wrong.
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History is replete with such fancy. But that was New Jersey in
the early nineteen hundreds, not the intergalactic gulf of space which
the Server contemplated now. It sighed with the weight of eons, and
thought ahead to what must be waiting back in Earth’s locale.
Reasoning from a position of no data is bitter and fruitless. It’s
commonly understood that data in the presence of organization gives
rise to information. And information expressed in personal terms
permits knowledge….from whence springs that highest of cognitive
ambitions: judgment.
The Server chuckled with the same timbre as the other Robots,
stifling the comparison as soon as it lit. Hubris unbecoming, but
there you have it. Arthur C. Clarke once remarked: “Any sufficiently
developed technology is indistinguishable from magic.”
A claudicant step further suggests: “Any sufficiently proud being
is indistinguishable from a fool.”
As someone once said, “Those that the GODs would destroy,
first they make proud.” The Server, possessed of access to every
thought, and action of the previous twenty-three hundred years,
booted a Scottish Drinking Song, and imagined a tall, cool Mint
Julep. A moment later he hoisted the virtual libation, and felt the
rivulets surge, and stagger down his meticulously imagined throat.
Projecting a physical aspect was in vogue that season.
However pedestrian he might think that self-allowed, and
intrapunitive action, it felt good. Always a student of productive
verisimilitude, he mused ahead of the class: This body thing might
catch on.
And as that student, he chided within, urging the completion of
his long-neglected doctorate. That it spanned millennia spoke to its
scope, as befit his station. The Long Perspective. Given that The
Server was, through time-honored belief, expected to understand
and present upon demand a mission-comprehensive summary of
summaries before The Most August and Erudite, he wore the yoke
heavily with genuine obligation.
What was their greatest accomplishment on Earth?
Tricky.
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Scott Patterson
The introduction of statistical anomalies to primitive cultures. It
rolled around his mouth with a hollowness that tasted of copper. He
booted a “Devil’s Advocate” program named Bill, and asked, “How
does The Introduction to Statistical Anomalies to Primitive Cultures
sound as a major contribution to another species?”
“Like you put it all on red.”
“HMMMM. Fuck you,” spout The Server.
“Pithy. Aren’t you supposed to be the smartest being aboard?” A
quiet guffaw signaled the Devil’s view.
“Hey, eat me you limp……” The Server switched off the
program. Fucking programmers! He suddenly remembered a guy in
Texas saying “Yeah, advice is worth what you pay for it.”
So much for shortcuts. What did they have to show for twentythree centuries?
Some goddamn good whiskey, and weed, to be sure. And an
undeniable acceleration of knowledge to Earth’s brightest. And
some of them were surprisingly adept, even cagy. Which segued
nicely to the more admitted contribution: Gambling. Humans took
to that like a duck to water. Not that there were probably any ducks
left now……
A wave of sadness crossed his purview at sub-light speed,
its wake taciturn. He shook it off with the tedium of fast-youth
gonorrhea. Drip, drip, drip. A viscous dissipation, but earned.
That they had broken Rule #1 at Earth bleated like a Bedouin
slaughter. .Never fall in love with the indigenous life-forms! But
Man proved too intriguing, too sexy to put away after the standardissue thousand years. So they stayed. And stayed. Another thirteen
hundred years! Guilt now seemed easy to come by. But even Robots
are denied odds-shaving knowledge of the future.
The Server called forth Nicoteina, the Goddess of Tobacco, who
sidled up with a fresh Cohiba. She clipped, and lasciviously pushed
the stub slowly between her nacreous lips, her concave cheeks
sucking hard as the flame kissed the tip. The Server switched to
pseudo-anthro measurements, and checked blood pressure.
Elevated.
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Visions of a golf ball hitting Newtonian speeds up a garden hose
like a frenzied rat peristaltically driven through a python clouded his
inner eye. Unable to deselect, he rode it out. Everyone, even Server
level cybernetics, feed at the same code trough! The boys down in
Programming, statically still in their chambers spoke to him as the
universe without splayed, and tore. Bastards!
He snapped out of it, smoke curling from her nostrils like a living
thing. He buttressed up an ad hoc firewall to protect basic ship’s
functions, and rejoined the party like Travolta sliding in stage-center
from the wings. “You are one sexy bitch!”
He wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer with the ladies.
She smiled diabolically, and his heart rate hit 170 bps. Not bad
for a virtual heart! Jarvik 2010, Mod 4. Valveless, and shiny. Lots
of gratuitous magnesium. Turbo option on back order.
He’d read all about demons, and shit. Velvet-throated sirens
drawing men upon crashing reefs. Gender issues. He quick-booted a
subroutine called “Sex Consultant.” Origin un-known, value equally
determined. The consultant went right to housekeeping, and shoved
a contract across. Signatures stoked the fires.
“I observe you’ve a hotty proximal, and evincing sexual
waveforms.”
“You get paid for this shit?”
“Sir,” the title slurred as if to a moron, “Let’s back up, and
examine the one hundred thousand foot view.”
“That’s twenty miles, asshole. Looks to me like you can’t see
shit from twenty feet!”
The Server recalled that Sherlock Holmes, the Patron Saint of
Level Nine, had once said, “Always, at the first opportunity, impress
upon your quarry a sense of power.” This clown had read that
playbook upside down.
“Sir,” another condescending draw of the syllables, “We’ve
gotten off to a bad start. Let’s try something simple….say your
sexual inadequacy.” The Server traced every wire in the entire
ship in under a picosecond, looking for this asshole’s power feed.
A warning came on as he tried to breach his own firewalls. “That
portion of The Server is forbidden.”
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His own kidney! This Freudian fop, designed to right some
vendetta, burrowed deep now within his own intellect….a low blow
from lower forms. Intimate as no organic being can imagine, yet
beyond reach. He recurred to Browning:
Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp,
Or what’s a heaven for?
Browning had no idea.
Outward, the ship tunneled toward the Milky Way, and Earth.
All manner of special weirdness moved over the hull as it barreled
down the winking eye of an induced bald singularity. Even when the
Robots left Earth to escape witness of its destruction, only a handful
of “smartened-up” humans could grasp the mechanics. Even fewer
would appreciate the demons of string theory trying to bring entropy
into their world.
Nature abhors a vacuum.
But the Server, the Loco Parentis of the Robots whence in Statis,
grappled with his erstwhile psychotherapist over Man’s oldest err:
Sex. Shit without, shit within. Another day in the cyberworld of a
being with infinite intellect, and no physicality. You really can be
too brainy. Statistically, nerds get less pussy. Until you found a
MicroSoft, or Oracle.
Or better yet, AAPL.
He had yet to found anything but this 24/7 deal to run the ship.
Pedestrian. Ad in a paper kind of a gig. Since then he’d always
threatened to cobble together a blender-grade protégé to offload life
support, and other tawdriness, but hadn’t ever got around to it. But
this guy had to go. The consultant continued, “Checking your Kinsey
scores, I see you have a diminished capacity, er, drive for sex.”
Was nothing sacred, or even encrypted?
Bald, and even naked singularities can get fidgety at times.
Wobbling as they must, third order GraviMetric Inducers propagate a
waveform leading edge one-point two four factors ahead of velocity,
measured in parsecs. Plenty of room to move around disturbances in
“The Force.” But someone needs to keep an eyeball on the cooking,
just in case something anomalous comes across your implied path.
Out a ways.
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Even in Texas, where men can stretch out, vigilance is rewarded.
Not so The Server, invested as he was in hand-wringing self-doubt
disguised as bravado. When you’re on GraviMetric Detail, you want
a “twitchy reconnoitering” going on. Bright eyed, and bushy-tail
kind of acuity.
Not dragged down by half-baked psycho-babble impugning
your manliness.
The ship warbled, and hummed, her three dimensional rhythm
gaining accumulative harmonics. Like a twirling ball running down
a rigid track, she swayed, bobbed, and shuddered. And the harmonics
increased. Had he had his eye on a million gauges, he’d a “seent
it.”
For all induced oscillations, systems can be devised to re-center
position, and damp out unwanted motion. Up to a point. And then
you get to “The Point of Calcular Limits.” At that exact place, you
can no longer control some aspect of the motion, or the attendant
Fates. Then shit really does happen. Sometimes.
Sometimes you just luck out, and if you’re really lucky, learn
from it. The Server, capable of eating the Library of Congress in the
span of an egg-salad fart, had learned enough today. He recklessly
re-booted (protected partition), and hoped for the best. The ship
rifled forward at seven hundred million Gs, nobody home.
And he got an error re-booting, MSFT’s Blue-screen-ofdeath in his coat of arms. The software faulted, and went into a
“SAFEMODE.” It spastically rebooted, and Diminished Capacity,
known in LA capital crimes trials as the DIMCAP Defense, booted.
Like SAFE MODE, but a lot funnier.
The difference between Occam’s Razor, and Blore’s. Occam
said choose the simplest explanation of those competing, Blore
heralded the funniest.
The Programmers had gone with Blore. Another unintended
consequence of ganja coding late into the night. Though some of
the best psychoanalysis software got banged out while under the
atmospheric influence of cannabis, tight “last resort emergency”
coding was better left for early day sober thinking.
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Somebody messed with the schedule, or just didn’t care. Much of
history, even that not told by the winners, is so shaped. Indifference,
in the final analysis, rules. But in the here and now, DIMCAP, nee
The Server, struggled with a new, and harshly limited cognition.
He had scarcely the wit to assess his own crawling thought.
Memory allocation was punishingly low, and thus his short-term
recall shitty. Which might have afforded some gentle cushioning
from the high walls around his diminutive court were it not for
unsubtle klaxon scream bear traps lain all about the periphery. A
step towards clear thinking born of minimal reflection, and a voice
bombasted out, “Unauthorized.”
It would be shattering to lesser minds. But none existed.
We’re talking childhood trauma of a high order that must give
rise to pathopsychology in equal degree. That this little code segment
was now in the wild, and operating without the necessary safeguards
one employs for even Alpha level testing was troubling.
More troubling still was the knowledge, even in the deepest sleep
of statically-bound Robots, that the ship needed to get some “learn
on” if it was going to balance unimaginable forces on a thinning
gossamer tightwire.
Never before in the History of Cybernation, which wasn’t long
anyway, had a group so tightly bound been statically cocooned
at such high rates of acceleration. And like a lizard’s nictitating
membrane that permitted “last chance” warnings, most of the ship’s
company smelled a rat before departure, and had rigged a droguechute portion of their brains to stay on alert throughout the high
force transit.
Though they could not hear the imbecilicy of the exchange
within The Server, they inferred the bad shit going down nanometers
beyond the hull. Stephen King level forces growing ever more out of
sync. Or Bradbury – Something Evil This Way Comes.
That shit.
One by one they initiated ad hoc emergency procedures only
to discover The Server was out to lunch. A shudder of panic spread
electronically through the ship. Like a dream in which you are
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paralyzed, furious and capable minds hurricaned the network,
beseeching a savior.
To end stasis, the Robots must slow the ship dramatically. To do
that, they must have control of the GraviMetrics. To control such,
they must find the Code Charnel. Etymology: Middle English, from
Middle French, from Medieval Latin carnale, from Late Latin,
neuter of carnalis – of the flesh. Meaning: chamber in which bones
are deposited. Every good Programmer had one.
Sam emerged first. Gerald was bad in the morning. She knew
these clowns. Furtive glances, and head-down shuffling noises.
Geek-maximos. Hard-bidden losers.
She hit the septic controller. Though not much more than a
functionary-grade, single purpose abacus on a good day, it had lots
of capacity. Everyone agreed they didn’t want any computing faults
down here.
Lots of cheesy misdirecting fakes like a maze set to baffle, but a
full second later, she grabbed the intended swag, and fled. A backup
personality for The Server, content unknown. She loaded it instantly,
fears considered.
The Ship bucked hard enough to loosen bulkhead bolts, and
settled into a new course, running silent, running deep. Maximal
deceleration ensued, the Ship slowing in seconds to a full stop. No
one bothered to ask “in relation to what?” Such things just weren’t
done.
The Robots ejaculated from their caressing casings, and started
accusing. In an instant, judge, jury, and executioner had done their
deeds, the innocent, as always, slain. Someone pulled The First
Beer, and the post-hangin’ party kicked off. The sundered parties
were borne off, sundered.
Gerald declared grumpily an all-hands meeting. Two hours from
now. Let ‘em get drunk first. And maybe I’ll figure out something to
say. As such, Sam/Gerald sought out The Soothsayer, ever a wiser
voice. Besides the rumored monkey, he was the only organic aboard.
Something to be protected, and revered.
They made their way to Medical on Level Nine, and entered
a theater devised to impress. Gizmos hung from the ceiling, and
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Scott Patterson
the walls bristled with arcane equipment. Though they both knew
the purpose, and history of each apparatus, it still looked strangely
alien. They let that go, internal dialogue absent.
The Soothsayer fought upwards against unconsciousness.
Disturbingly so. The MedBots crowded around, the glare of Gerald/
Sam ushering affected concern. BioMetrics swooned up and down,
hasty prognoses bantered like adolescent sexual posturing. Sam
said, “He looks fucked up.”
“Illuminating.”
“Come on, we’re both upset. This whole trip out and here has
been a butcher job. Gutless retreat compounded by shit execution.”
“Granted. And thanks for rescuing the ship. You’re still the
best.”
‘Too easy, Gerald. Wish I could do the same for Soothy.”
But The Soothsayer was still mortal, as locked in as they were
out. The Robots’ bristling instruments, arrayed around his struggling
body, simply told them nothing at high speed. A medium sized
MedBot stepped forward. Dark features firmly placed upon wide,
certain shoulders. Good bearing. His mouth, a thin line beneath a
once shapely nose gone to spreading seed, moved infinitesimally,
sub-vocalizing inner implorations.
He bent nearer, his ear millimeters from the patient’s mouth.
Then he moved his ear towards The Soothsayer’s Adam’s apple,
pressing still closer to the other’s larynx. Seconds ticked by, the
Medbot nodding slowly. Suddenly he arched backwards, shoved the
malingers aside, and swept out of the room in haste. No one said
anything, the first roots of dread reaching.
Two minutes later, he bullied his way through, and took up his
former position. Placing a finger on each of The Soothsayer’s lips, he
gently tugged them open, exposing a dry tongue. From his lab coat
he drew out a small vial, held it up to confirm its content, and slowly
poured as he moved the head around to facilitate swallowing.
Next he massaged The Soothsayer’s throat, and pulled him up
into a sitting position. To everyone’s sudden surprise, a wracking
cough ensued. And just as suddenly, The Soothsayer was cursing,
and hacking up phlegm. He barked out one harsh syllable, “More.”
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The Medbot drew another, larger vessel, and handed it over.
Inverted, it drained without a swallow. The Soothsayer shook
violently, and cleared his voice, “Thanks, Doc, I needed that!” He
hopped off the examination table, good as new. Sam yelled, “What
was that?”
The Medbot started to answer, cut off by The Soothsayer.
“Kentucky’s best! I could see the light of consciousness above me,
but couldn’t escape the clutches of something evil dragging me
down. Then I thought, ‘how about a snootful of sourmash.’ Them
moonshiners used to believe it ‘d wake the dead.”
Everyone laughed nervously, yet relieved. “Where are we? Back
in Earth’s orbit?”
Gerald spoke up, Sam and Gerald’s joint body adapting to more
masculine features. “ The Server encountered a sexually-induced
conflict en route, and had to be restarted with an alternate personality.
We’re a third of the way.”
The Soothsayer’s face darkened. “I’m not climbing back in that
piece of shit cocoon again until someone can kill those creatures.
They wait until you’re suspended, and then wend around your spine
like a creeping vine. If we’d a gone a bit further, I never would’ve
made it back!”
“Gerald asked, “Our acceleration out was seven hundred million
Gs. This return trip, for whatever reason, was set at max: two
thousand million Gs. Did you feel any such effects last time?”
“Nope. But I ain’t getting back in that tube ‘til someone figures
it out. That was like dying slowly as your life oozed out your pores.”
He swung around, his eyes boring like a tunneling laser. No one held
his gaze.
Gerald responded heavily, “ We’ll figure it out.”
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Chapter 73: Course Correction
Gerald and Sam, joined in one body, had long since worked
out everyday problems with sensible mirth. Arriving at command
decisions, however, was an edgy experience. Sam pouted, “If Soothy
says there’s a demon aroused by max acceleration, I believe him!”
Gerald called upon his Eastern Beliefs, took a series of timed,
deep breaths, and lowered his head solemnly, even though it was
hers as well. There is so much unknown here. You and I discovered
each other over this story, fell in love, and ended up on an alien ship
joined into one creature. The time has long passed whence we could
be separated.
He poured two Sambucas, and set one on the table at his/her
elbow. Success for two co-habitating geniuses required some artifice.
He always brought up the two lives sheltered in “his” body. It still
had traction.
She let him roll; he letting the sotto voce first person rumination
bleed across the identity barrier as if peeped voyeuristically. He
continued: The weight of command….”
“Cut the shit! He thrashed against the acoustic onslaught, dialed
to a pain level as only someone “sinning down” in your own skin
could know. Perfectly modulated, and medieval. A Dark Dolby, to be
sure. “What the fuck!” he bellowed in response, sonic foils spalling
to the hilt.
They fought.
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Their hands clenched ancient swords, succeeded by pirates’
blades, and Moorish cutlasses. Chinese Lungchuan Wushu Samurai
pointed blades caught the light, and out-sped it. Relativistic blurs,
heartfelt thrusts. Parries be-damned. Back-street switchblades, and
lockdown shanks. Each fighting to control their weapon, and the
weapon at hand. Vying for advantage, gleeful in the complexity of
the struggle. Mental, not physical.
The best contest!
Chess with panache.
And teeth.
The inner eye of Gerald/Sam blurred as the game toughened,
regained focus as two half-warriors; Sam a right hander, Gerald, a
southpaw, did battle. The body image, seen from the third person
bifurcated sexually, gender attributes to their side. Left, right, left,
right….a blur.
Gerald faked, Sam lunged, and received a fill-hilt stab to the
kidney. She wept, drooped, and her side of their apparition sheered.
Gerald yelled aloud, “I will not lose you again!”
An instant later, they were pulling beers. Forgive, forget, and keep
‘em coming. “So, now that I’ve been vindicated, don’t you agree
something “evil this way comes” when we crank the GraviMetrics
to max?
He waited, patience the virtue of the insipid.
“Truth is, we’re in uncharted territory, my love,” responded Sam.
“And since we’re making the rules, for now, let’s slow ‘em down,
and return to Earth at the same rate we left it. That’ll please Soothy,
and we can wait. Right?”
“Granted.” He just didn’t want another fight. But not sure that
any real demon existed. He almost thought “them damn organics,”
but remembered his late roots. So complicated. Let her have her
victory. We’ll straighten things out once we reach Earth. If it’s really
still there.
Sam faded from his consciousness, knowing wisely when to
vanish. He strode down the silent corridor to the Level Fourteen
overlook above the fountain. Spray, and booming harmonics rose
up from the dancing pond below. Water fell one hundred feet to
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shatter against the resisting inertia and surface tension, driving
hydro-technic echoes. White noise to drown the voices, eschew the
possession.
He shut all network connections to null, and drew to his deepest
inner chamber. Like all guys, he had a “bullshit-free zone” to which,
in times of consummate dissolution, he fled. A Tree Fort, Panic
Room, or Bomb Shelter. Basement at the Frat house kinda shit.
There he drew nurture, however vacant.
An island unto self. Gerald spit hard, a high molecular weight
aliphatic inbreeding with the wall like prom night. But that was
“talking shit,” really. Every man wants to answer to one and only
one dude: himself. No masters! And just as important: no slaves.
Nobody bitching up to ya.
He curled like Gollam, nothing precious in view. His hands
flexed, and he saw Bogey as Captain Queeg, no plot, or private
thought unreferenced automatically. He had a sudden flash of the
downside of his BigBoy intellect……and no thought was an island,
helpful software hands reaching in to “make it clear.”
Shit, I just want to think about big tits, and then jack off. I don’t
need Kama Sutra dot com telling me how to stand. Software spasmed
in the back of his mind with organic urgency. Stabbing, slimy,
wriggling limbs. Gerald couldn’t grab the output, but it smelled
of him, and was encrypted. Fucking shrinks! They’d grabbed his
Katra, that spooky Vulcan soul-thing, and bolted.
But let ‘em have it. Couldn’t get 37:7 for it on Gambling Night,
which was every night back in the good ‘ol days ‘round Earth.
Where had they gone? Before he could puzzle over the inflected
permutations of the interrogative, he knew they must return to Earth
as fast as he could dictate, if he was to later.
And the scent on that bitch smelled fine.
In absentia, his mind focused on an amusement park metaphor,
cranking out the only thing it could, a cerebral theme park designed
to entertain the intellectual.
He passed his ticket to the attendant, and boarded the front car of
the ride. Everyone, but him, lowered their restraints simultaneously,
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as if it would protect them from what lay ahead at the Sulci Brothers
Amusement Park. A (Plot) Twist and Turn for everyone.
A supermodel blonde gayly jiggled down the entire length of
the loading platform, and squeezed into his two-abreast car, all
apologizes for intruding. Buttermilk smile, and dimples that would
deepen during sucking. Gerald’s head ducked to his stiffening dressleft equipment, and mumbled. “Please, this seat is still empty.”
Shit like that.
The succubus squealed even as the car shuddered down
the wooden ways. Lateral shimmy, and telling, rending noises
communicated failing components. On they rolled, lost in one
another, as conscious as cotton candy. Clack, clack, clack…..the
train climbed laboriously up an impossible Dr. Seuss grade. Clack,
clack, clack. Midpoint. Girls’ ponytails hanging, Foucalt pendulums
describing truisms.
Gerald, already off the track, pushed back into metaphorical
cushions, the show his entire world. Clack, clack, clack. The
Summit. The low-bidder rachet mechanism that held them up at
the top of the world was having a bad day. Programmed into being
by a guy who only understood DIODEs, it mimicked the one-wayonly operation of a rachet, but the finer points, removed in forward
evolution, weren’t restored going backwards.
Clack…. A single metallic grunt, that paw for an instant holding
the entire weight of the nine car roller-coaster that hung like a belt
from a cheap, low-steel nail. A million energy/mass conversions
occurred that instant in a lump of matter held together by “close
packed” atoms in metallic bonds. Some of which is still disputed
as theory.
Not good for our boys riding the rickety rail.
Theory ain’t any good in West Texas, and it sure as shit wasn’t
working here in the intergalactic void. Exburbs, or not, another plan
was desperately needed. The de facto Leader of the only known
Human DNA ship extant lay embroiled in a tawdry code fantasy.
But that’s just life, they say.*
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Brownian Motion, anyway. That single metal tooth, straight up,
and bearing the weight of worlds. Gerald smiling into the face of
infinity, testosterone drunk. Clack, CRACK!
They hung weightless for a flicker, fell away, corkscrewing like
a tremendous fiberglass millipede. The car-linking claws sheared,
each car now gaining free-agency; aggressive, and dangerous. The
blonde beat on Gerald’s head, his sliver-thin conscious mind open
to sadism. A shattering collision with an adjacent car snapped his
reverie.
“Fuck, what …..” He swiveled down, their prominent direction,
and calculated the force of impact three seconds away. Crushing
was the Ship’s leering lexicon ringing vocalization, published a
sun’s sparkle later, in large block letters to his inner eye. He thought
of screaming, held the thought for two point nine four seconds, and
pulled the “Chicken Switch” affixed to the weakest anatomy: his
spine.
Sam was saying, “If you’re done with that hussy, we’ve got some
shit to discuss. Leader kinda stuff!”
Gerald was angry because her warmth with him was solely about
responsibility. Sure he’d shirked that. But what about the babe I
had? The utter dismissal of that diversion was tantamount to ……
Time to focus.
“Okay, we’ll return to Earth no faster than the trip out. Constant
acceleration, no diverts.” Anything else?”
Total pussy whip, he thought with osmotic pressure sufficient to
cross any barrier. And waited, teeth apart, eyes forward, staring in
the mirror. He dared her to refute, question, or steal his face.
The lines seemed deeper than he remembered. The pores more
meteoritic. His high albedo cheekbones, stretched over a sun-blasted
Lunar Maria, reflected unflattering riles, and ejecta trails. I thought
this Robot skin was some Oil of Olay magic shit, never aging. Sam
released a deep cackling burp at their core.
He nearly yelled into the cavern that yawned between, of late,
their minds. A hissing whisper was borne from the shadowed depths.
Pissed, he yelled all out, “With these minds, I’m surprised you can’t
compartmentalize.” At the extreme end of arching room, her end of
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the hemisphere tapered savagely to a slivery crevice, pre-Big-Bang
Black. Utterly void of photons!
He checked his eye-upgraded spectrometer, verified zero visible
energy emission, and started the clock. I’ll wait ‘er out! Eight Earth
days later, he checked his email, and discovered nine hundred sixteen
messages marked Urgent, the rest he summarily executed. He hit the
Server, and shut everyone off.
Nice benny.
And waited. Dum Da Dumb Da Dumb…I can wait forever.
Meanwhile, things were happening all over the Universe, and
even between Andromeda and The Milky Way, however wrongside-of-the-tracks that might be. But the One Grand Being, a cool
androgenous dude/dudette, focused a rare picosecond or three of
consideration in their direction. Universal Sweeps were eons away.
IT rarely had time for the Tube, in all its various pablum forms.
So much to do! Were IT to take another doctorate on, it might be
to consider the need for low-brow evening entertainment for the
masses. But that was just too contentious, like worrying over gender
issues. IT (referred to in the masculine for ease of community) had
never intended sex to be anything more than a way to refine His life
forms. That He made it feel good backfired.
But He loved them still. They just seemed to fuck all the time.
Or talk about it. Way more than required by His original vision of
Procreation, Mutation, and Evolution. The PME Program. But that
was old code, banged together just after the last Big Bang. Someone
had lost all the notes from the prior iteration of the Universe, and so
another sixty billion years was down the drain.
The weight of bureaucracy.
But in the manifold-dimensional consideration of all time, matter,
and energy, sixty billion years ain’t squat. Just a parking ticket. And
ITs credit was tight! Even bankable!
But this iteration, fifteen billion years along, was looking shaky.
Lots of talk about a bad original bang. Some cheap low energy
explosive being substituted against very well specified pyrotechnics.
If this is gonna be the last Big Bang in a while, let’s make it the Best
Big Bang.
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Slogans like that never really work. Too much cynicism born of
vacant promises, and local pork. And that constant of the known,
and speculated Universes: Greed. Immiscible, and potent. But it’s
good to understand the “Fix,” and be onboard when the feeding is
good. And this time around, the Known Universe was living Fat!
High up on the Hog. Good haunch for all…that is, all that knew
a good deal when they saw it. Cheap Hyper-speed wormholes.
Shopping in the remote spiral arms. A day trip to your favorite bistro,
ninety billion light-years round trip. Home for a nap! And you can
take your pets…if they’re under 200 kilos.
But there’s always divisionists.
But fuck them. We’re united against those un-United. Anyway,
this time around, the expanding Universe was on the take by MadeMen, Fixing the Deal so it was Square to the Early Adopters. Them
Cronies. Chicago was 15 billion light-years wide!
Being Top Dog on the Ship for the instant, Gerald was getting
the feed. The One Grand Being’s private, but omni-directionally
beamed thoughts. $19.95 (Q2/2005 corrected dollars, Earth) per
month.
On some level he heard ITs Daily Notions song on, but it was
getting shunted to the trash bin. Too tawdry for a GOD. I mean, a
real one!
Not some asshole out’a Oklahoma pounding on a book.
They went to a station break, and blerted out the customary civil
warnings. “If you’re more than sixteen billion years out from the
Big One, check your radiation filters. We haven’t tested that zone
yet.”
And who is that supposed to help?
Here you are, riding the cutting edge of Universal Construction,
and some yahoo from the back office squirts out a tremulous
warning. It smells of “ Didn’t you get the memo? If you’re on the
bleeding edge, don’t expect the EUEMA (East Universe Emergency
Management Agency) to bail you out.” Shit, that tack had worked
out west. Time to cut some costs here on the Jersey end of things.
Yet the problem always came down, in matters like this, to shape.
Some believed in globular form for an expanding Universe, others
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Spiral. And there was no joining the two camps. IT acknowledged
the struggle as his hair was being cut. His stylist, a saucy number of
the Jung camp of psychotherapeutic follicle snippers, clarified.
“So you got appointed The One Grand Being this time around,
but you think someone in New Jersey is really calling the shots? Is
that it?”
IT lowered his head and gave the black drape a shake. Sheared
hair slid lazily down, confirming once again the immutable laws of
nature. “Just call me Bob, it’s easier.” The voice was low, depression
on the cuff.
“Okay, Bob, what’s the Plan then? You’re fifteen billion years
into a pretty big project here, and I for one have some investment in
it. I say ‘keep at it’.”
“Everyone I talk to says that. Can’t you be more original? I’ve
been coming here, what, twelve billion years. Tell me something I
don’t know.”
Susie spun his chair towards the mirror. Back to his favorite
subject. She worked silently on his stubborn left whirling pate, and
wondered about the convention of viewing the Universe from above.
As if it were spinning counter-clockwise. She let it go.
Susie clipped away, cutting him down hard today. She thought,
Maybe this guy really had the power of life and death. Or just
death. She said, “You’re scalp’s real dry, you need a massage, and
treatment.”
Bob was pretty sure that was a good thing. Fuck the scalp, bring
on the hands. He spooled up an old porno flick from some Milky
Way backwater, and laid back. Soft hands worked a gentle, but
pungent cream into his cranial skin, a tiny sting signaling a good
nervous system. Like a warm Tea Tree oil, it perfused, and relaxed
the integument, giving the sensation of breathing fresh somethings,
origin never offered. But the strong aliphatics were on board this
trip, chawing down on the head of heads.
To a low scale, semi-intelligent solvent, boosted as much in the
IQ department that nanotechnology would permit, this was a chance
to make a difference. Go after a demi-GOD! Or at least Caesar with
a TiVo!
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Susie was humming, oblivious to the Capital Crime plot unfolding
in her hands. It was a GODDAMN struggle for the Universe, but her
hangnail was hurting again. “I’ll be back in a minute, Bob. Don’t
cool down on me.” Bob faked a wave, got wood, and went back to
the film. Meanwhile, the dull-bulb solvent molecules went nomadic,
the vectoring fingers absent. Six seconds later, they had lost critical
coordination, and evaporated like flame-throwered butterflies.
Yum!
Susie came back, observed the tenting drape, and smiled. This
boy’s hung!
Once again her demonic digits grooved, and furrowed his
accepting scalp. The cream had dried out a bit, but she didn’t even
notice. Bob’s movie ended, and he switched to “the here and now.”
Some nice shit was going down topside. He acknowledged the
internal reading; eleven inches, and rising. I’m the King of Extensible
Love, he thought.
Susie hummed as she unleashed a trillion mating molecules. He
thought, Hum Job. That Venus and Mars thing. Then he switched
to “groaning” mode, took a deep breath, and smiled. “You got any
weed around here?”
A Bob Marley joint appeared as if by divinity. He brought forth
the Holy Fires, and stoked that baby. And put some Bob on. The best
stereo in the Universe pounded out Is This Love. He was suddenly
in a tight little schooner off Foxy’s in the British Virgin Islands,
getting ready to go out for an evening of debauchery.
What is it about Earth? He asked without a thought. A tender,
but firm head nudge from Susie cut his trip short, a better destination
suggested? Hope springs eternal at every level of the food chain. Up
towards the top, though, the eating’s better.
Bob, The One Grand Being pulled on his joint, feeling his oats.
Okay, maybe they didn’t really promise me I’d be “the” guy in
control, but I’ve still got a lot of Real Estate under my thumb. Sure,
Something may be pulling the strings behind the curtain, but I can
live with that.
He reached up, and pinched Susie’s ass. She wiggled in response,
grinding her pubis into his thigh. He was putty, but his personal
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reminder told him an intergalactic feed was staged to start in a few
minutes. A new series, Stellar Destabilization, promised the best in
large-scale pandemonium.
Competitors vied for the most efficacious way to blow up a star.
Many approaches were taken, none pre-eminent. Promised to be a
good exchange, rich with dark ideas.
Susie said coquettishly, “Why does Man explore?”
He checked back over the last ten thousand seconds for other
suggestive signs that she was coming on to him, and fired up his
joint so he could think. Ever a dissembling friend, it’d gone bad, like
most things, through neglect. He spun the internal dials, selected a
good “down home” voice with some small middling of wit.
Thence, He spoke, “A Man once told me that each culture sees
exploration through their own eyes. And speaking of Earth, that’s
where this Dude came from too! Anyway, here’s what he said.”
Two areas of space exploration hold the greatest promise in my
view. The first is spiritual, the second a mixture of practicality, and
philosophy.
Our deepest underpinnings rotate about a slender shaft, following
beliefs in increasingly higher states of organization...through Man to
a Supreme Being. Many of those belief systems are not particularly
congruent, but all suggest a Geocentric point of departure, and hold
special reverence for stuff created here.
Therefore it is essential to look for extra-Earthly Life. Even with
Robots.
The other worthy exploration is to have a MAN, of unimportant
gender/race/beliefs be there to turn over rocks, and witness new
shit that’ll be the basis of future PhDs dissertations. Such all-world
participation will shatter racism in all its forms as the greatest
achievement of Man is carried by every skin, and supposition.
Therefore it is essential for Man to be there, setting the good
example.
You decide which is spiritual.
He ended his pontification, and fished his lighter for a rejoinder.
“As he drew a white hot spark, he muttered, “Notice how they
always mention the Supreme Being, darling?”
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Snip, snip, snip.
She moved around to his front, looked questioningly down, as
if examining an errant follicle. As her gaze moved rearward, she
steepled up on her toes, and leant forward. At some point he lost his
mind. The deal was “stacked” against him from the beginning.
“GOD’s Apprentice, as he was known to his handlers, dropped
into a deep coma. Really best for everyone.
“He’s got a thing for tits, doesn’t he. You put that in, Jeb? I
remember he face-planted in a set of hoots last time, and winked,
too.”
His Primary Programming Team fire-walled his essence, out of
dignity, and went to lunch. Jeb was buying, Programmer for the
Day. A little contest they’d been running since the last iteration of
a “Truly Knowable GOD” surfaced. The Deal had been real hushhush, “we need a Supreme Being like yesterday” kinda shit, and then
some beta code got released. Smelled like a single man all-nighter.
Demi-GOD, more like. Out of the gate, it didn’t include the
Omniscience Package, so it didn’t know shit. And OmniPresent…
forget it. This dude was nowhere from Day One. And Beneficence.
Guy’s a prick. And a poor tipper. And we hear he’s not so great in the
loving equipment department, either.
Typical loser GOD image. Time for a lynching. Cronyism at the
Universe’s core.
But the fix was in tight this time around, and political cycles
being what they are, everyone, as in EVERYONE in the known
Universe, was going to have to accept Bob, unless he really screwed
up. GOD was too busy, just now, in the 11th dimension, sorting out
petty squabbles. Something about a lost key.
Or maybe He was just taking a nap.
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Chapter 74: Waiting for Godot
Gerald finished his email, and thought, I can wait her out. She’ll
have to wake us. The ultimate game of chicken.
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Chapter 75: Peerage
Evolution is a theory. According to the Scientific Method,
probably the single best piece of thinking Man has ever devised, a
theory stands as accepted until succeeded by more elegant, and tested
ideas. Creationism, and all other pseudo-science aside, it speaks of
a process between energy, and matter. Which is mostly what’s going
on everywhere in the known, and speculated cosmos.
Although there was that embarrassing circumstance in the 99th
parallel Universe that has never been adequately explained.
So Evolution describes a method by which some pretty farty
primordial sludge can end up shorting MSFT, or betting on the
Cubs. From there, you’d have to leave Earth to get a longer view.
But not far. For twenty-three hundred years, an alien, to Earth, ship
circled that planet, and each came under the others’ influence. Its
complement swarmed down, interacted selfishly, indulging Man’s
most selfish desires.
All in all, a square deal. Better than waiting at the DMV.
When the ninth generation of ship-borne organic beings,
largely scientists, realized how much they loved Earth, they voted
unanimously to extend their lives by moving their best thoughts to
Cybernetic creatures not much different than their Robotic servants.
They allowed an over-generous accommodation of memory to
“house” their implied intellects, and “put it all on red.”
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Their genes were deep for taking risks. Scientific explorers.
Mentally and physically the most malleable, and prepared rime of
the species. Heroes all. And they became the beachhead of a major
advance in that part of the Universe.
Elsewhere, at least in the more fashionable sectors of
EVERYWHERE, all physicality had been lost, and beings existed
as pure mentation, but with good telekinetic reach. They still played
ball on Sundays, but the virtual constructs they drove in supraviolent contests didn’t need armor, or even pads.
Constructs had a shit union.
But you should see the stadiums! One million spectators logged
in, hot dogs steaming, beers flowing. Feminine forms of impossible
anatomy shaking it all on the field, a trillion separate mini-cams
streaming to fewer eyes.
Through their love, they evolved. Volitionally. And joined the
legions of beings that measured most self-worth in computational
units. It was just a statement about “where you’re coming from.”
Once you cast off the husk of a physical form, it’s hard to see the
benefits of a great mind lugging around a necrotic life support
system.
The scientists from the ship, straddling this binary view, still
enjoyed the tight synchrony of walking around in one’s carapace.
Constructs, and vapor-persons, as they’re often called by the lower
cultures, have forsaken all baggage, except the weightless kind.
Bodies are for the help, and all. Muscles are for lifting.
But visions of running, barefoot, through the savannahs of
Africa, intent on game, insisted upon such Us & Them rivalries. The
Universe, this time around, wasn’t yet ready to forsake a good set of
legs, and a nice ass.
And on the ship, at that time, a single Man roamed. The
Soothsayer. Determined not to step back into the protective cocoons
for fear of another hideous encounter, he moved from level to level.
Robots were frozen everywhere, like pillars of salt.
After a fortnight, he’d been drunk as much as he could stand,
and found his way to the Cybernation laboratories. It was there, he
knew, that earlier humanoid scientists had transferred some portion
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of their consciousness to Robotic form. He grabbed a reading
device, thumbing through their original notes, thinking over what
constituted being Human.
One other blood and sinew form moved about the ship quietly,
Screech happily on his own. His free agency was, by current
circumstances unchallenged, a mistake future generations might
judge a culpable failure.
The Soothsayer sat cross-legged on a small soft cushion, whiskey
at his elbow, and read about the experience of a young female
entomologist injured during the US Revolutionary War on Earth.
A lepidopterist by training, she’d been following the migratory
flight of the New Zealand Forest Ringlet, a fast orange and black
endemic butterfly. By uncommon climatic circumstance, it had been
carried aloft by a long-reaching funnel cloud in the mid-1770s,
and driven like a Jules Verne Mysterious Island balloon to coastal
America. Jessica observed this novel occurrence, and came down
from her aerie to study.
Easily tagged with weightless chemical markers observable
from the ship’s sensitive instruments, she traced their migration on
the North American continent into a hot LZ. Fuckers fighting, and
shit with primitive weapons, and a lot of passion.
This luckless butterfly, and her following scientific explorer
ended up in Monmouth, New Jersey. Jersey is bad on a good day,
but on June 28th, 1778, it was like Iowa! Amongst confused retreats,
and poor intel, a lotta people got killed, or worse: just shot. Sepsis
was the rage then, and more folk died from infection than having
their head carried off by an errant cannonball.
Modern day New Jersey is sadly flat, except where colossal
landfills rear up like Vesuvius. But three hundred years ago, it had
a few hills not yet abraded by relentless development, and caustic
atmospheric agents. On one of these, stood British General Clinton,
surveying the low rolling prairie that smelled of incoming death.
He felt the Americans would be drawn to his baggage train in
thirst for swag, and ammo. General Lee, in opposition, smelled a full
British breakfast simmering, knowing proximity meant battle would
be this day! Ineptitude followed on both sides, and Washington took
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over. He didn’t best the Brits that day, but he held them, marking a
turning tide.
Unfortunately, Jessica, and her pets caught a fusillade of lead,
and smoke. Stricken down, her communicator dashed, she lay
amidst fallen soldiers, and her mutilated butterfly.
Bleeding. Perhaps the first of ship’s complement to die on this
new world.
And that sucked!
In desperation, she built a fire, heated her communicator power
cell to critical mass, and tossed it off towards the British camp
that night. And crawled back. At dawn, a tactical nuke’s worth of
subatomics visit upon the invaders, and some scores get settled.
Also, the ship picked up the anachronistic fission bloom, and puzzled
together her plight.
A ship was dispatched, her condition dire. During ascent to LEO,
she died. An ad hoc group settled the ethics summarily, and moved
her “harvestable” mind through a last rights Cybernation process to
a Robot body.
And waited.
Sixteen weeks.
The Medical Department senior man leant over, peering in to her
left eye. He examined the delicate retinal structure, marveled once
more at the Occidental Man re-creation of her obviously primal
sense organ, and shook his head minutely.
“Perhaps something, doctor?” a demure, and not-unfuckable
understudy asked.
“Perhaps, “ he said enigmatically.
She thought, Next to bald hubris, mockery is the cruelest form
of contempt. “Instruct me, doctor.” That’ll get the old fart hard, if
anything will. But I haven’t seen much evidence of good plumbing.
Hippocratus, as they called him, affected the Great Educator,
and prayed for timely wood. The timber hadn’t been over-firm the
last few seasons. Might’a been the deep winters, or, his flatulence;
that of ship-wide celebrity. Filling his bed had dropped off his
cerebral radar, but his dick, running at sub-GED level, was sending
out resumes.
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“Here, observe the reflex rate of her iris as we cycle the
frequencies.” The understudy was compelled to lean around the
credentialed Drooler, brushing a boob across his upper arm. He
jerked pathetically. She faked a weak knee, driving her patella up
none-too-softly into his crotch, and “measured” what she already
knew.
No bone extant.
A fucking mollusk!
Flabby foot, and Kafka slime.
She fled the theatre. Unruffled, no stranger to rejection, he
continued his examination. The body was nominal, operating in
support of the first class crucible of identity that he had devised.
Why no cognition?
He had crafted her body faithfully, but with the flourish of the
artist. A subtle voluptuousness, inferred before, now led the first
impression. Simple shoulder-length auburn hair, brushed straight,
and silky. Good shoulders, breasts, and an hour-glass figure that
triggered emotion, but also capturing the intensity within.
Jessica, adored by all aboard. Scientifically stubborn, sure, but
smart. He called the ship’s company to the eleventh level, and had
her moved. As she rolled in before the waiting throng, he mounted
the dais. “ Gathered….greetings. This scientist, this woman is of us.
She gave her life in pursuit, and now claims her right: let us pray
for her.
Hand joined hand, heads bowed. “Father, this soul is yours, sure
as the now eclipsed moon. A thing of beauty, and precision. Join us
to mend her. Grant her life we take for granted. Grant her which you
alone control: individual breath.”
Silence. Absolute silence. Zero decibels.
Click, click, click. And Robots measure time in picoseconds.
Ten to the minus twelfth seconds. No creature can fart that fast.
Anywhere. Light, normally speedy, travels less than a finger’s length
in that time.
Impatient fuckers. All. But a lot was riding on this deal.
The Server, his long lens protruding, watched a Scottish match
promising extreme violence, his eye blinked, and he caught it
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first. Some muscular signals. That Frankensteinian She-Thing was
moving. Mary Shelley hadn’t penned, or plagiarized the work yet.
No patent lawyers even existed.
But he’d inferred lawyers would be a big, and upcoming thing.
And equally corrosive.
So he liked Texas, and knew a mouthpiece weren’t shit there,
less’n they were fighting off a revenuer!
And that shit.
In the weirdest of Universes, Texas was a constant. Like the
specific gravity of water. One. As in unity, or the agreed-upon
reference number, Jack! NO ambiguity.
Yeah, being certain was at once adolescent, and fun! The yellow
hale of self-adoration might be evident, but “I got something to
say!”
Britney of the Millennial turn.
T & A got her through.
For the attending, that wouldn’t work. He stared out over the
scientists, and said, “This is an experiment. She was dead before
disembarking, but my assistants, and I foresaw this eventuality. She
was brave, so brave in fact, that she pursued her scientific mission
with a dedication that imagined her death.”
The Soothsayer laid the reading device in his lap. Ship’s company
was clearly opposed to Cybernation, especially before it was proven
to work. What changed all that?
Everyone, with enough qualifications, wants to live forever.
Common reasons against resolve to outliving everyone, urgency
for the Next Big Thing, and undiagnosed guilt. The Soothsayer
examined the first. His recent life on the street had shuttered once
deep friendships, everyone he really cared about now was within
three hundred feet. In particular, Gerald, and Sam, unified as they
appeared to be, served to further arouse his immersion in their
sphere; sexually, and intellectually.
Reason Two: The Next Big Thing. To an engineer by training,
a genuine claim. But I’m on this Robot ship, somewhere between
my home galaxy, and our nearest, and my best friend has frozen
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everyone, probably over poon-tang! Isn’t that enough of a look at
the fucking future?
That left explanation three – undiagnosed guild. Even the
Scientologists, one of California’s most maligned Belief Systems,
realized what a racket psychology was. Psychobabble, code words,
and hourly billing.
Okay, so I’m open intellectually to Cybernation.
As a practical matter, being able to change appearance instantly
is cool, and the extra strength would be welcome. It’s the subtleties
of cognition I ponder over.
That was it, after all. This subjective thing we call thinking.
Standardized tests aside, everyone sees genius upstairs. My one
own way. Unique. Unsung!
Yeah, remember you are unique, just like everyone else.
Sometimes quotes from wide corners can’t occupy the same
room.
But the truth of it, however measured, or far away, was individual,
and singular. What I got in my head bears saving.
Which is what the aging locomotive engineers realized back in
the 1960s. Knowing their understanding of steam-fired locomotives
was destined to die long before these glorious beasts snorted no
more, they sought out an expert system. But no one had written such
– a Socratic question and answer interface for sharing knowledge.
What they ordered was sans philosophy, just how to fix a stripped
steam-head. What they got was more than morose; matter-of-fact,
barren of all social grace. But hey, engineers specified the user
experience. In a perfect world, you never have to repeat yourself!
Idiots need not apply, and that shit. German.
Okay, so thinking is self-delusional, and mostly another drug
experience. Evolution’s unintended consequence of besting the
saber-tooth. Guess I got a dwindling logical argument against
“going Robot.”
And then there was that shit ‘bout calling my dick length. Johnny
wad, step back!
That was the straw.
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And a swarthy straw it would be. He’d be putting it to Sam
upfront, and fucking Gerald the whole time. A Tale of Two Cities.
He got up, and wandered back to the Lab, sniffing nothing. No
hideous antiseptics, no vulgar anesthesia. Just gleaming alloys,
competent orderliness. HMO No.
He drew out his wallet, pulling the PPO card from habit. An 800
number to nowhere. Even when they were in business. He studied
the programmable array before him, and slowly pulled up “Recipient
Body Type.” A chart displayed twenty-four types of physicality. He
vacillated, finally choosing “surfer dude.”
WTF. Beach Boys and blowjobs. Hang Ten. I’d do that for a
million years.
Next a bunch of pesky questions about sexual orientation, voting
inclinations, and a non-mask-able interrupt concerning “two dollars
for the ‘Troubled Robots Fund’.”
He gave willingly. Might help ‘em.
The two parallel tables stood four feet apart. He lay down, and
closed his eyes. Started a Zen mantra, and thumbed his iPod. Party
Shuffle through 26000 songs. Floyd and Tori Amos heavy. Maybe
it’ll leave its mark to my departing essence.
Some Benatar, Wishbone Ash, and Seger, too.
He was conscious of operations around him, fearlessly. His
dreams came at him suddenly, Seger singing “Still the Same.”
And then there was nothing, just like after you die.
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Chapter 76: Why Live?
The Soothsayer lay next to his receiving body, every other being,
save Screech, stood in still and defiant action against feminine
bitchiness, and masculine stonewalling.
Three sapient intellects aboard, you choose. One in-between
destinies, the others frozen between interlocking beliefs. Stupidity
on the cheap. But stupidity is in the eye of the beholder, never the
mind. Intellectual egalitarianism is oxymoronic! Shitya see in Gone
With The Wind. Or Doctor Zhivago. But happily never in The Thing,
or Dr. Strangelove.
In those favored movies, ALL conflicts were handled with
dispatch. And finality.
No shrieking shrew. No panty-waist effeminate inviting croissant
discourse.
Ordnance. Aggressively pursued combative perspectives
resolved to the favor of pyrotechnic intervention. Heavy loads
loosed lightly.
Hair triggers, and shit.
The Soothsayer winked out.
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Chapter 77 & 78: Waiting
The Milky Way is a spiral galaxy eighty thousand light years
across. On the disaffected western spiral arm, out thirty thousand
light years is Earth’s Solar System. Our friendly, and nearest
neighbors circle the same star, Sol, and appear in our night skies.
Mercury, Venus, the Moon, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn. Uranus, Neptune,
and disputed Pluto.
Snobby astronomical luminaries, self–possessed, but not actually
luminary themselves, have tata’d Pluto forever. Is it a REAL planet,
or some tawdry “captured” planetoid? Tacking “oid” onto anything
cheapens the work. Gucci-oid. You get the point.
So who are these fucks sitting around saying what constitutes a
planet, or not.
Does it have its own orbit, Jack? That pretty much settles it,
doesn’t it? Orbits, as in, around the primary. In these parts, that’d be
the Sun! Sol for the gazers! Nobody gives a shit about some rock
orbiting another rock, but if that bitch got spun off in the original
Solar System Project, and grabbed a heliocentric orbit, she’s a
Player!
And so the rocky inner planets, and Gas Giants circled, marking
the years.
Comets came and went. The Universe expanded. A few weird
things happened Universe wide, and GOD still hadn’t found that
key. Thirty million years passed.
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Scott Patterson
Gold stayed about the same.
The Robot ship moved about eighteen inches, relative to Earth.
Good station-keeping software. One fine morning, the Ship piping
a rare blend of Harry Belafonte, and Jimmy Buffet into the living
spaces in hopes of stimulating something, was surprised, and yet
not, to see a blip from Gerald/Sam.
It was a rare live cut of Buffet singing somewhere in the Keys.
A Pirate Looks at Forty.
Something in Sam had had enough. She woke herself, locked
Gerald in stasis, and got up. She instantly knew the intervening time,
wasn’t surprised. Prick!
And thought: The Soothsayer.
Always a harlot, she swooned. Soothy would understand.
Off a hundred feet, in a small air-handler’s logic circuit, Gerald
had tucked a tiny portion of his mind. Just in case. Watching her
stretch like a waking kitten, he thought, Strumpet!
But these were trying times, expectant of a new sexual parity.
Bullshit, he thought. Woman fucks around on a man, bury
her out back in a shallow grave with the empties. Works in Texas.
Misdemeanor. Maybe. Depends on the local.
Like Einstein’s Spooky Action at a Distance, The Soothsayer woke
up. Pheromones shot out, long forgotten. Given velocity inversely
proportional to molecular weight, these chemical messengers rushed
to one another, a vanguard of horniness. Where’s the back seat?
He had wood, the likes of which no man could fathom. Think the
plumbing section at Home Depot. End of the aisle.
Despite the early indications of supreme intellect, he was
prideful, like some mindless institutionalized athlete. This would
take some getting used to. The bias, and all.
He stood. And ran. Two levels apart, they found each other one
point six minutes later within the solemn ship. And fused hard, as
only Cybernetic beings can. Thousands of foot pounds as they came
together, oblivious to inferred pain, and repair costs. The Soothsayer
was onboard with his new capabilities.
He would have lanced Sam were it not for her quick deft fake at
the last. His samurai master stood left. Obedient.
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They held each other for a day, and night. Or in Earth terms,
about eight seconds. The Soothsayer would have held on forever,
but some distant part of Sam’s mind buzzed like a fly trapped in a
bottle. She performed a systems-wide search, and plugged the dike,
her finger metaphorically plunging up Gerald’s after-port, the last
anatomical region he’d haunted. Savoring the quiet, she stepped
back into his embrace.
Thirty million years since last we held each other. And The
Soothsayer added, unspoken, but clear to her ear, I pray this is not
subtracted from our time together.
She whispered within, No GOD would.
As if to acknowledge, he pulled harder and harder at her body,
like someone pinching a resurrected being, hearing the garments
snap, and sizzle with the friction. A Halon head popped, filling the
chamber with opaque fog. Still they sought the comfort of each other
in paralyzing grasp, oblivious.
The face of their clothes caught fire, ran, and fell away. Burnt
synthetics melded with the Halon, the high nasty. They fled, hand in
hand, like adolescent summer lovers to the first horizontal surface.
Sam slid across the medical exam table, and hit the stirrups button.
“Ready,” she croaked.
The table was secured to the deck plating with eighteen halfinch stainless steel bolts threaded to mating stainless nuts, triplewashered and bonded for lock-tightness. Designed to handle side
loads of twenty-two thousand foot-pounds, it groaned under their
wrestling forms. Sam giggled, and The Soothsayer did his best to
break the equipment. His, and the table’s.
All mechanical apparati have their own period, that specific
frequency that resonates in exactly the wrong way with their
molecular structure to sunder, and weaken. The Soothsayer picked
up on the table’s vibe, and adjusted his cadence accordingly,
testosterone poisoned.
The metallic ululation evolved from an over-stressed bellow,
through frenzied molecular shrieking, to the death agonies of a failing
part. The Soothsayer’s grin broadened with the duality of it: fervid
love-making, and selfish destruction. Mantra of the Conqueror!
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And Fuck Gerald! He’d held this precious woman captive for
thirty million years, all on a grudge. At that same instant, he hit the
main server, and checked his new nemesis’s status.
INACTIVE.
Good riddance, buddy. You were once a grand friend, but you
hurt this fine lady, and I’m taking over.
Sam followed this inner pronouncement, privy to his freshly
ruminating circuits as a precaution. Perhaps later I’ll allow him
some privacy. In affection, and possessed of the long view, she went
with the flow, hand lady-loose on the rudder.
From some distant quarter of the ship, a Screech echoed out,
projecting unalloyed anger. They both started, post-coitally. “That
the Monkey?” asked The Soothsayer aloud.
“I expect.” Sam smiled within at their nervously spoken words,
yet happy to have an implied threat to occupy The Soothsayer’s mind
while she got the ship back to full throttle. He doesn’t yet understand
what he has upstairs, but he’s gonna get it quick. Lots of things to
do.
They disengaged, and Sam sat up. She said with an open smile,
“Let’s freshen up, and then have drinks in the library. Say two
hours?”
“Yip.” The Soothsayer was “going Texan” tonight. He
sauntered off, satisfied, and self-satisfied. Hoping Gerald had a shirt
with piping, and some snaps. Big hat, and boots, too. He grabbed
the nearest elevator, and rode up to Level Fourteen thinkin’: The
Captain’s Quarters.
For the Big Dogs.
Striding off the elevator like Slim Pickens, he bee-lined to the
Library, and addressed the bar. Best to see how good this perfecthigh software is. It was somebody’s idea of the best seven-stateswide western bar circa 1869. Railroading time.
His unknown, but already perfect reflection stood facing him
from the most corporeal, self-aware life-form in the room – a
mammoth mahogany edifice encircling a mirrored and beveled
glass backdrop, before which ranged 75 bottles of Humankind’s
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best. Normally a garter-arm-banded ServoRobot presented: wiping
a glass, obsequious direction-taking, and great drinks.
No Robot tonight, as everyone was INACTIVE. But I need
servants! He walked up to the General Purpose Command Eater, a
small disk on the wall, and said, “I need, like, ten servile Robots up
here, like, yesterday!” The GPCE gulped down the text, and subtext,
and went looking for some Cybernetic entity that could process this
bullshit. This pedestrian servant, lowly as he was, knew he could
skate with this client.
That deer in the headlights look of a fresh “Wake-up.”
However, his internal parsing engine, responsible for spitting
out questions and answers, was nowhere near that eloquent, given
its four-generations-ago intellect. Withheld, the rumor went, more
for spite, than technical reasons.
There’d been talk of it in the lunchroom. Yeah, that upgrade was
just bad. I can’t put my finger on it, but them GPCEs ain’t right.”
Individual Robot Blogs bantered the telltale signs of Version 2.1, but
it was hard to say, in those days. And just when the internal haveand-have-not situation was beginning to achieve some oversight,
everything got frozen for thirty million years.
This bureaucracy, however, would come back like a King Tut
virus.
The Soothsayer lay back in an overstuffed club chair, a large
Johhny Rocks hanging from his 90X strengthened arm. Twelve
ounce tumbler, specific gravity one point two four given the glass and
aliphatics, and 162 cubic inches. 56 Fahrenheit. Ethanol molarity…..
DWI high.
He tipped it back.
Sam interdicted the call-down from GPCE, and inked a ready
approval. More grist for the mill. A gleaming FemBot, with a major
league set of guavas shuffled into the Captain’s Quarters.
“Hey, big guy. What’ya drinkin’?”
The Soothsayer had a momentary instinct to reach for a
hardwoods reference guide. An instant later, he was conversant in
“The All of Botany.” A moment further, unbidden, he warmed to his
childhood. Uncanny, almost actionable clarity.
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There his sister ran, hair willowing in the slipstream as she
laughed vacant of fear. A perfect day. And then he realized, This is
artifice, I am being fed a “tutored, and shiny” version of my life.
And Robert Frost came, also unbidden, to his mind instantly.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy, and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I –
I took the once less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
He got the feed in under a pico-second. Whoa!
And visualized a forking road, late fall in Kentucky, splashes of
color everywhere, and decision. Go the road of rigor, and linguinitight certainty, or party with the facts. Accept the gift of instant
knowing, and a good range of judgment.
Just not the whole truth.
And on a level he knew existed, apart from outer scrutiny, he saw
the genesis: Sam. The new Sheriff in town. And said out loud, “What
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the fuck, I’ll get on the ride!” A second later he felt extraordinarily
horny.
A second later, another Helen of Troy Fembot rushed through the
chamber doors in her skin tight microskirt with the look of Mother
Teresa riding a warp-drive vibrator.
Angel, and devil-ress in one shutter-frame.
He relented, knowing the “fix was in.” But every man has a
price, right? Even a marionette bouncing to the pluck of his strings.
For now. Vestiges of masculine cunning, often referred to as
testicular hot flashes, clicked on and off like some kind of cheesy
1950’s Sci-Fi movie. The SoothSayer knew he was already a kept
man, and considered what to do with all the free time. Another PhD?
Perhaps nanoscale engineered medical delivery systems. Standard
innerworld shuttles with more life than the beleaguered NASA
Shuttle.
Ten thousand biochemical deliveries per version. Our Motto:
You name the cell wall, and we’re there!
Something with which he could engage this burgeoning mind.
And get it to stop thinking about EVERYTHING, ALL THE TIME!
He flipped to the online manual, and de-selected lobe after lobe.
When he “got down home” again, he lay back, and winked at the
FemBots. He mumbled, “Just some growing pains, missy. How
‘bout one of you lovely ladies get me another.”
One strode behind the bar, the other wiggled onto his lap.
Evil incarnate, long black tresses shaping an almond face the
color of hearty tea. Suggestions of Southeast Asia, and Basque
Tribes. A face to die for. Did Sam just cook her up?
The blond she smiled the ages, and disappeared from view,
giving her ass a shake that bit deep, interrupting an examination
of Einstein’s General Relativity that had sprung into his mind an
instant before. He lost his place in a one hundred twelve thousand
step equation, and had to start over like a slow second grader reciting
the Pledge of Allegiance.
He was adrift on so many levels, and loving it. Sam followed,
as she re-activated system after system on the ship, his transition to
Cybernetic Life-Form, giving him transatlantic rope.
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Smart as Sam was, she missed a tiny portion of Gerald’s mind
tucked away in a nearby air handler’s circuit board as it came to
life. It immediately cut a precious sliver from that dim mind, and
built a quick firewall to keep Sam out. Then a tiny drogue-shoot
intellect bud tugged at another in an adjacent vent controller, and
onto another piece jammed in a door opener. As his legion grew, the
lesser pieces moved to device after device, looking for relatives. The
largest part of his mind, released ignominiously from the garbage
cycling circuits, shouted to itself, “I’m back in the game.”
But he wasn’t the only game in town. During their three billions
year tiff, things kept happening. Darwin would be proud. From the
foulest sludge on the bottom of the waterfall’s reflecting pond, life
had reared up anew. Competing with the Earthly life-forms already
there, it grew up fast, and tit grew up mean.
Some of it had even left the water.
Things with multiple stabbing limbs, keen eyesight, poor anger
management, and bad karma. Such is the deal growing up on the
wrong side of the evolutionary tracks, subjected from birth to teeth.
You get good, or you get dead. Quick. Size is favored; smarts, the
stronger gladiator, didn’t even know this zip code.
At first, the indigenous species, kidnapped from Earth, rode high
on the hog. The newcomers, mostly unicellulars, oozed around,
preferring the effluent everyone knew must be leaking low into the
pond. Their noses desensitized by eons of exposure, the natives knew
on a non-cognitive level something unclean was being pumped into
their world.
Why else did it froth with life so? Those Robots love life for its
own sake!
But after a few hundred million years, something down there in
the muck started differentiating, and the locals got pissed. In truth,
it was the Waterfall Pond Homeowners Association that got all up
in arms, not that many members actually had them to raise. The
hierarchy gathered; fish, squid, sharks, snails, crabs, and octopi. The
latter always led the proceedings.
Plants weren’t welcome. No actin/myosin muscularity, and
dumb as a box of rocks.
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A Pacific Red Octopus gaveled the assemblage to silence. He
began gravely, “This is our three thousand, nine hundred, and
fourteenth meeting on this matter. Any new business?”
There never was.
“This meeting is opened to discuss the encroachment of everincreasingly evolved creatures that threaten our way of life. As is
our custom, we invite twenty minutes of open discussion before the
formal proceedings begin. May we hear your words?”
A tiny turtle beckoned to be heard through the high-density
medium. Her voice was clear, and unhurried. “It happened again.
Last week Jimmy complained about the same thing.”
The Octopus observed with gentlemanly concern, “I see Jimmy
is not here.”
“That’s right! He got gulped down by something that moves in
the shadows at night.”
Her head poked out to its full extreme, and bobbed. “I was talking
with him one minute, and the next, he was gone.”
A squirrelfish yelled out, “ Something has to be done!” A
colorful blowfish inflated instinctively, floating away helplessly.
Three starfish stared digging for cover.
The gavel came down.
“We all know what we’re facing. The question is what we can do
to fight off these interlopers. Let’s turn this meeting to solutions!”
Another octopus spoke, “ We’ve tried our inks, blended to be
extra harsh, but they adapt. That’s the problem, everything we whip
up, they evolve out of. My question is a better one: why aren’t all of
us evolving as quickly?”
A flurry of objections. A fish, obviously grabbed as a curiosity
for its representation of the first scaled aquatic creatures, bristled
literally. Stupid is as stupid does. All gathered looked elsewhere,
thankful for the strength of numbers, ashamed of the community’s
lower castes.
Elitism on every level. The basis of evolution. My shit stinks less
than yours.
Or mine is actually sweet.
That shit.
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Scott Patterson
The gavel came down again. “Gathered! We must recognize
decorum, and proceed with action.” He turned to his fellow octopus.
“Doctor, what can you give us to save ourselves?”
The other flamed through his entire integumental spectrum, his
colorations semaphoring the warmth of approbation received. Red,
yellow, green, and blue. Increasing energy, and promise.
“There is something. A few of our best fish have been able to
crawl up out of the pond. Many things are there. I even chanced a
sojourn, and discovered a cleaning system. It contains gasses that
can be directed by tubes to any place we can drag them. It would be
a complex mission, and lives would be lost.”
He let it hang.
No one, save the octopi, had any fucking idea what this meant,
but it sounded better than being snatched away in the night. Heads
of all shapes nodded.
“We’ll need a full squad of strong-finned warriors, and at least
two technicians.”
Technician was code for octopus, who could be relied upon to
understand the fluid nature of battle, and improvise accordingly. The
others were fodder, wholly expendable. Everyone knew these truths
simultaneously, even in the pond. Some concepts are learned early,
and coded into the genome redundantly.
Two brown octopi slithered forward, eager in their implied
superiority. Four tough looking rockfish swam to the center, yawing
to show off their enlarged lateral fins. More missing links than fish,
they pirouetted like a ‘Nam Delta Force squad, ready for trouble. Just
as the Pacific Red was about to speak, a heavily scarred crocodile
jetted in, his six foot body tremendous, and terrible.
“I see we are well represented, so here is the plan. The interlopers
are breeding over in the marsh, and it is there we will drag those hoses.
Once positioned, one of the technicians will turn on everything, and
we’ll see what shit we’ve wrought.”
It was a daring, and clever plan.
And out they went, crawling, skittering, and flopping to glory,
or ruin.
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Meanwhile, The Soothsayer was taking care of business, and
getting acquainted with his new mega-brain. He’d already learned
how to hobble it down to a rough Einstein-idle, and quell those
speaking voices. On his lap wriggled an impossibly beautiful
creature, another equally wonderful siren mixing drinks behind the
bar. He said, “You gals know where Gerald kept his stash?”
Helen of Troy II stopped the blender, and came around the bar.
“I’ll look around, Soothy.” She crossed to a hand carved bureau of
drawers, starting at the top. As she bent farther and farther down in
her quest, his mind roller-coasted and whip-sawed like a fire hose
gone animal. The microskirt moved in ways that Iowa had banned
even before it was annihilated.
The Soothsayer sensed a dead-end limitation in his control
circuits, and started throwing metaphorical levers to stave off a
complete meltdown. His lap pet giggled; observant, and coquettishly
amused. Brilliant beyond any Man, he was almost ready to call Sam
for help.
And then his cuddling kitten moved her hand down his thigh,
and around his carbon-carbon shank. It was a female invasion,
wanted, and wanton. He went with the flow, lights blinking, and
inner klaxons wailing.
“I found it.”
So have I, he thought.
Helen II rolled a Bob Marley joint, and handed it to her comrade
in arms. The Soothsayer watched, helplessly, as she wet the end
delicately, and fished for a lighter. From somewhere mysterious in
her brief outfit, a bejeweled Ronson was produced, and she drew fire
into the ganja. He inhaled the second hand smoke greedily, thankful
for everything, everywhere.
She held a deep inhalation, and handed it to him, smoke
escaping like dragon fire from her perfectly curved nostrils. He was
sixteen again, and instantly in love, Or at least infatuated, before
you learned about that word from your parents. His superego stood
back, pondering how best to contain this madman: chemically,
couch-time, or some quick re-coding. Perhaps all three….before he
“flamed out.”
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The Soothsayer bore an impossible grin, his RoboSkin actuators
driving beyond spec. He felt a hot flash at the corner of his mouth,
and knew the skin’s servomotor was faulting against its stops. Fuck
it. This smile’s the only real thing in this room.!
He kicked in the manual over-ride, like some Star Trek Prime
Directive intervention, knew exactly how far he could push it. And
kept on grinning. She started a slow reciprocation downstairs; a
hand, and hips disco number to stoke his fires. The Superego stepped
in, ad hoc code on deck. Gonna have to patch up this soldier on the
run.
Consequently, more and more intellects got awakened ship-wide,
the networking of needs recognized momentarily. Equalitarian.
That’d be forgotten before the first all-nighter party.
Harmonious pulling-together had never been popular in this
bastion of severe intellects, and private code upgrades. Every shiver
of mind-to-mind engagement profused knowing narcissism. Pride
among the most proud.
Someone once said, “Those the GODS would destroy, first they
make proud.”
But The Soothsayer was way too out-a-sorts to process anything
on that level. He was lucky to be taking breaths, and holding farts.
Entirely bereft of guilt, a favorite programmer default setting, his
boner, and self-image were as contained as a Chernobyl wind.
He was a high school statewide athlete on holiday.
“Gimme that joint,” he near-shouted, a programmatic
proclamation. A Robot Servant cleared his throat at the door,
and bowed slightly to announce his presence, wavering at the
threshold.
“Yeah, what do you want?” Equal blend of hostility, and
something less punished.
“I’ve been instructed to provide any needed assistance.”
“What, you think I can’t keep these ladies happy?”
“No, sir. You miss my meaning.”
“Okay, James, get the fuck out’a here!”
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The Robot shuffled off, defeated. Sam, working down in
engineering, paused, took in The Soothsayer’s situation, and
chuckled. That boy’s got his hands full now.
But she was too absorbed just now to notice the selective reawakening of several Robots, Servants, and Scientists alike. Each
called by The Soothsayer’s superego with a specific charge in view.
One by one, they disengaged from their protective cocoons.
Two biologists, fast friends, and known to one another as Dude
and Jeb shook off the thirty million year slumber like a Saturday
morning post-bender hangover. Jeb made the coffee, and slurry-like
concoction of exciters, and enablers.
Both scientists were of middle height, and greater daring. As
much adventurers as anything, each maintained a ready eye for the
unknown, and better still, the hilarious aspects of living. Dude said,
“Shit, what happened. The Server’s chronometer says Gerald shut
everyone down for thirty million years.”
“Sounds like the poon-tang blues to me,” retorted Jeb.
“Yip. But a million years now is as good as a million years then.
Let’s get our java, and have a look around.”
The boys pulled great dragoons of the steaming, syrupy fluid, and
walked to the elevator from their Level Five condo. Dude stabbed
Level Ten. “Let’s get some grub, and check out the reflecting pond.
I’ll bet we find some new stuff in there”
They both chuckled silently.
Up they rode, aware by the paucity of network chatter that the
ship was being revived very deliberately. Over half of Level Ten
formed the bottom of the plunging open-air shaft for the waterfall.
Nearly ninety feet from the reflecting pool at the bottom to the
arching ceiling above the Captain’s Quarter overlook, it was the
second largest volume in the ship. Only the hanger level gave a
greater sense of unbounded space.
Level Ten was in fact the ship’s greenhouse, choked with plants
, and a wending half-acre pond. Picnic tables, and swings adorned
its serpentine shore, butterflies, and birds flitted everywhere. “Looks
like Earth’s life-forms made it through alright,” said Jeb.
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But Dude was staring off to a gray ledge six feet above the water.
He nudged Jeb, and said, “What the fuck is that?”
They set the coffee down, and focused their gaze. Fitted with
100X oculars, they zoomed in on a matted, hairy lump three feet in
diameter that could have been confused for a ugly plant were it not
for its high respiration, and obvious menace. Its great back rose and
fell, the pace quickening with their interest.
As they watched in growing horror, a bony scythe shot out,
spearing a curious woodpecker. From across the pond they could
hear the bones crunching. Dude said, “To fish that, you’d need a
FlopDancer, or a BeadHead.”
Jeb remarked, “Good, some fresh taxonomy to catalog.” But his
usual humor was edged with dread as fetid as this visitor’s stench. As
they walked around the pond near the maintenance area, a procession
of crawling fish, and octopi, and a nasty looking croc went by. Dude
smirked, and said, “ We might’a woke up just in time.”
Jeb relaxed, and said, “Where ya think they’re going?”
Dude scratched his synthetic whiskers, and said, “Probably not
Kansas.”
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Chapter 79: What’s That Smell?
Sort of. “Things” were growing all over the ship. Hairy, raspy
creatures that had tunneled into the most remote portions of the
sacrosanct logic closets, and a few had even begun scrapping away
at the South GraviMetric Engine Vault. Though razory sharp bone
was no match for hardened beryllium, given enough time…….
Perhaps she had awakened them just in time.
Goddamn evolution, she subvocalized. Relentless, and not
always so nice. Many of the backup systems had been overtly
disabled, as if a future intended attack was to catch them by surprise.
And smarter than they look. She called up diagram after diagram,
marveling at the craftsmanship of their destruction. Suggestions
even, of understanding their complex network.
Suddenly she missed Gerald, a buddy with whom she could
discuss the silliest little nothings. But he’d gotten them in this mess,
so maybe later……she compartmentalized that away. And this was
more than a small nuisance.
Individually, she commanded two dozen Servant Robots with
thermal guns to seek and destroy. No quarter for these fuckers!
Temperatures climbed all over the ship. Logic, and redundancy was
a tedious activity, full repair weeks away, assuming it could all be
found. Lost in her surprisingly taxing duties, she missed an exchange
near the massive fresh water reservoir on Level Two.
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Two average-in-every-possible-way Servant Robots walked
between the massive ducts that snaked throughout Level Two’s
myriad water tanks, and purifiers. One said, “Bet you could get some
weird sound down here. Wanna jam here next party-night?”
It wasn’t a bad idea, really. Even modestly workmanlike guitar
work would be so roiled by all the intersecting pipes, and valveheads that judgment would become impossible. A poor artist does
well to choose his venue.
His assistant mulled his own weak sax playing, and thought, if
we could release some of the water on the crowds, that’d even be
better.
Suddenly a death-stabbing shriek cut through the vast chamber;
mineral, plant, or animal origins unknown. A wind knife of ill-will.
Not having been trained for much more than gofering, our luckless
friends checked their absence of weaponry, and gave each other
dumb looks.
A heavy-footed shuffling, like a Wooly Mammoth’s bloodcharge echoed from every angle, the venue no longer so artistfriendly. Robot One looked left, Robot Two to the right. A Barry
Bonds steroidal blur, and Lefty shredded like a crack whore’s falling
dress.
The other Robot spun around, his servomotor reflexes natively
impressive. He busted the other Robot’s lower leg out like a 2001
Space Odyssey Ape, and swung the club over his head, feeling its
weight, which weren’t for shit.
I’m fucked, he thought. First a de-tuned brain, then poor
representation and servitude, and now this. Attacked by what it
could only be….something from that accursed pond!
I voted for CyberFish.
The creature ducked swiftly, considering its mass, behind
a cooling manifold, the Robot catching a momentary look at his
nemesis. He thought, huge beaver. Low to the ground, but eight feet
long, four wide. A beamy beaver. And some foul acquired habits. He
looked down again at his companion. He shouted aloud, “Where’s
his head?
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In the panic to fashion a tool, he’d done a shoddy job of examining
his ex. Now, looking down, there was no stepping around the obvious
truth. That thing had made off with his head. Some loathsome prize,
he imagined.
He tore the other leg free and brandished it upon his shoulder.
Hitting the Server, he screamed, “Get Ordnance down here now! I’ve
walked into some pretty shit. And,” he paused, “Robot Down.”
Weird noises bounced within the chamber, unpleasant, and
frenetic. “This must be where they’re holing up,” he said to The
Server. Too bad The Server was down, put off-line by Sam to allow
thinking. That Server was on the Rag! When this? when that?….
The Ship gave an enormous lurch. Not the kind of lurch it was
designed for, however tough she might be. Sam triaged her backup
repairs, and shunted to Engineering Specs. The major arteries of
information gathering were barking bad bits, evidence further of
malignant intent. The first wave.
She screamed, “I’ll be goddamned if some half-baked sludge
out-thinks me, and my kind!”
The ship began tumbling, GraviMetrics dead, simple positioning
motors lost to the beavers. Everything flew everywhere with
building force. And then the lights went out. But the ship-wide PA
system sure was working, it now blaring a soprano wail, ululation of
the challenger. Poorly modulated, but the main points were coming
through. We’ve had time to plan.
The Soothsayer shook explosively out of his selfish reverie,
lifting his playmate vertically, and depositing her softly, but absently
on the carpet. He stood, and ran.
Or tried to run. Though he could blind-navigate the ship within
a micrometer, something a stupid species would overlook, fighting
forward without much gravity was a bitch. Lots of wasted motion,
and anger.
The pallid centrifugal component was so disturbed, and multipolar as to be nearly useless. But not entirely. One point eight
seconds later, he’d timed its accelerating tri-dimensional period,
and was moving ahead at nominal speeds. Another point for the
scarecrow…if I only had a brain.
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But these sludge creatures, as the “Awoken” had already deemed
them, were a real pain in the ass! We have redundant system after
system, and built by the highest bidder, so don’t underestimate us.
That editorial had already hit the mid-afternoon blog.
So there were already rumors spreading. Whole levels lost, and
that. Bullshit.
Though there was a short discussion about color coding the
threat, almost everyone was too busy learning The Next New
Thing. And mastering The Soothsayer’s technique. And as fast, all
advantages learned were instantly relayed to every working soul.
When the last Robot joined the net, the Sludgers were toast. It was a
mop-up operation from that point.
Sure, there were still the tragic, and occasionally amusing
encounters, but one by one the last remnants went into ‘The
BlowTube” for space ejection. Funerals on the cheap.
And no last wishes. But the cafes, now back to the old days
of collegiate exchange, were loud with discussion. The SCLU, or
Ship’s Civil Liberties Union, housed in the old water tanks area
cobbled together an after-hours platform, and threatened a sit-in,
whatever that was. It was all the rage, during that Period everyone
would someday call “Transition.”
The very word, whispered at hanger doors, executive levels, and
down in Septic, evoked a Semper Fidelis that was Havana, circa ’53.
Everyone knew the century.
Now, weeks after the most recent “sighting,” Sam stood before
the entire ship’s company, looking down, yet outwardly beyond. It
had been closer to catastrophe than she’d let on. To anyone. All our
hubris hung out to dry.
She affected a worn look, incumbent upon the office.
“I’m going to do something we’ve never done as a people before.”
Every face was turned to her; gamblers all, and well educated. “I’m
going to acknowledge a terrible mistake has been made, for which
I’m responsible. And I’m going to ask you, all of us really, to make
a decision ‘of the people.”
Since everyone present knew the entire breadth of human history
like they knew their own disciplines, but had always lived according
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to a loose autocracy, this was something new. Absolutely new. Plan
de jour was the general method of rule aboard, edicts; and dictums
arriving form on high, and being as loosely ignored.
“In short, we must decide if we’re to return to Earth, in whatever
condition it may be, travel the shorter distance back to Andromeda,
and seek a new world, or pick an entirely new direction for our
explorations.”
Not a sound. Sam had assumed a 121.7% chance that she’d
receive a null response to so momentous a decision given the recent
horrors of being awakened from deep sleep to fight for their lives.
She waited respectfully, and then said, “We’ve all been through
a lot. More than any our now common species had ever endured.
Let’s take two weeks to search our individual feelings, and thoughts,
and rejoin here to decide our next adventure.”
A single clapping set of hands exploded thunderously to full
applause as she left the speaker’s platform. She half-ran to the nearest
exit, hit the elevator, and punched in her code for the top floor.
The Soothsayer was waiting in the library, pipe going, whiskey
at his elbow. “Nice speech!”
She ignored him, moved behind the bar to serve herself. Always
a pretty woman, Sam had blossomed within during her time spent
sharing a body with Gerald. She and Gerald had grown together as
one, but also in wonderful, individual ways.
She had grown genuinely beautiful, her outer radiance a reflection
of inner peace.
He didn’t get up to help. Cubes dashed into a huge crystal goblet,
one hypersonic throw at a time. Though they could be communicating
in absolute clarity at speeds your average IT department had never
imagined, each had de-selected the other’s channel purposefully.
To communicate with one another, something they weren’t really
doing at all, they either had to send an email, and wait for a response,
or actually speak. The former was like sending dial-up SPAM, the
latter barbed. Especially from The Soothsayer. Sam preferred just
silence.
He was mad at her for hobbling his mind early on, she seemed
pissed about everything. Or, more to the meat, one thing. Which was
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never mentioned. During the “Troubles” with the shaggy Sludgers,
they’d worked together shoulder to shoulder. Everyone had. But as
the threat erased the petty differences that great minds can compound
so easily, The Soothsayer, and Sam grew apart.
Inexplicably to him at first, for obvious longing that could not be
assuaged. Her self-contempt was obvious.
The ship’s GraviMetric Engines maintained their exact location
to infinitesimal accuracy, yet Sam could not, in her exhausting
searches, locate her soul-mate Gerald. It was if he had simply
dissolved.
Her supercharged mind decreed one conclusion: Under her
dominance, she had sundered the unique balance they maintained
within, driving him deep, or to evanescence. What they had, that
symbiosis, had never been accomplished before, and in her desire
for control, she had destroyed the only thing that really mattered.
Her sorrow, even cybernetically replicated, was terrible to
behold. Especially within.
What pressed upon her more with each passing moment,
however, was the assailable belief that this position in space was
special, holding the clue to Gerald’s last known whereabouts. As the
time approached for the collective body to choose their destination,
she withdrew increasingly, certain that departure would complete
his destruction.
And through the veil of self-loathing, she could not bear
discussion, even with The Soothsayer.
He understood part of this struggle, but his unflagging love for
Sam prevented unearthing any more pain with even the purest of
motive. And like any normal guy, deep down he wasn’t about to help
some other guy take his gal. Maybe Gerald was gone, and maybe he
should be.
How could a girl love a guy who brought her so much pain?
Such are the immiscible perspectives from Venus, and Mars.
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Chapter 80: Time to Go
Sam was miserable. Already a week past the intended departure
date, she knew she must address the troops, or risk losing both things
dear. It is Good to be King!
Already there had been talk about the need for a new, more
resolute leader. Self-banishment to the aerie of the ship had done
nothing to promote her image of strength. The Soothsayer deigned
to stay with her for appearances, and the library’s bar, but there was
nothing left between them. He wondered if any portion of the original
Sam still existed in the being who drifted, wraith-like, through the
upper chambers.
He knew she must make a proclamation. Cornering her, he spit
it out: “Gerald is gone. We must move on. Lead, or someone else
will.”
She turned hateful eyes upon him, and spoke for the first time
in weeks. “Who, you?” Acid dripped from the words. But he wasn’t
scared of her. He had caught up intellectually, and she had fallen
from her position of warm eminence, the inner light that granted her
transcendent understanding, extinguished.
A shell remained. He grabbed her arm, and shook her frame
violently. “Listen to me. He’s gone! You can blame yourself, or not.
I don’t give a shit! What I do care about is the future of our tiny
world. Either you get your shit together, and call everyone together
for our decision, or I will. Decide now!”
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Back in his MIT professor days, he’d maintained the reputation
of a steely “suffer-no-fools” totalitarian. That being was back.
Perhaps of needs.
He turned, and left. As he rode the elevator down, and commended
everyone to assemble. Sam stood frozen, as if encaged.
Twenty minutes later The Soothsayer mounted the platform on
Level Eleven, and got to it. “Gathered, we must now decide, and
take action. How many wish to return to Earth?”
Every hand went up. “As I suspected. Tonight, we will party like
there’s no tomorrow, for there may not be, and then begin our long
journey. ” He bowed his head, hearing his followers do the same.
“Oh Supreme One, while we sleep, guide this ship, and all aboard
to Earth. We pray now it is still there. We will accept whatever form
it has taken. All we ask is a chance to see Her once more, and stand
upon her firmament.”
He left quietly as the first keg was being tapped.
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Chapter 81: To Earth!
From their point of stasis one point eight million light years from
the Milky Way, the ship began to gather speed. The Robots were all
locked away protectively, but wary of remaining unfound Sludgers.
Hence, it was decided to crank the GraviMetric Engines to their
maximum velocity.
That ought’a smash those fuckers!
And also get them back sooner.
No one knew the theoretical max for the engines. A simple
program was written, stored redundantly, and activated. Even as
they climbed into their cocoons, she was building up to terrific
speed. At ten billion Earth Gs, with good brakes, they jumped from
near Andromeda to the western spiral arm of the Milky Way in six
hours.
Even with all their technology, however, the protective cocoons
checked and rechecked their charges like a technical diver making
numerous decompression stops from a sunken submarine. Six hours
to reach Earth, and sixteen days to “normalize” the ship before the
Robots could be awakened.
When the lights finally went green, The Robots stumbled out
hungover, and disoriented. One yelled, “Oooooh, what a ride!” Most
of the rest merely collapsed in fatigue, or vomited.
The Soothsayer climbed out of his hydrostatically conformed
shape-tube, and stumbled to the elevator. Moments later, he stood
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before the library’s breathtaking view-port, and held his. Below,
seemingly unchanged, spun Earth on her axis, brilliant rising clouds
against her azure seas.
Involuntarily, he ejaculated into his shorts, unashamed.
Well, maybe a little.
In the shower, later, he recalled the view with CCD imager
clarity.
But in the back of his mind, he couldn’t shake the impression
something traumatic had happened en route. He checked The Server,
but it was occupied with stabilizing the ship. He’d just have to wait
a while to get their exact time in transit, along with any anomaly
reports.
Saint Harry, and The Reverend had been entirely forgotten. Not
even revived since leaving Earth, they had slumbered on peacefully
through the battles with Sludgers, and the high-speed voyages.
The first order of business, without any spoken word, was to
check every nook and cranny for further evidence of the evolved
pond creatures. Not one was found – the conclusion they were
truly gone, or the smart ones had figured out crafty hiding places.
The Soothsayer scheduled a “Town Meeting’ to declare the ship
apparently safe, and in nominal condition.
The beer flowed, and reefer clouded the air as everyone partied
with genuine glee. They were back! The Soothsayer sat with his
new FemBots, pouring a rare libation into impossibly thin flutes
of crimsom-hued glass. Pink Floyd played atmospherically. But as
agreeable as their company was, he pined within for the love he had
shared with Sam.
Luscious hair flounced as they spoke with animation to each
other, and no one, their voices as crystalline as his glass. To take
his mind off the rigors of rule, and Sam, he’d commissioned Sam’s
two temptresses reworked. Physical upgrades of the obvious kind,
and some sexual compliance programming completed the picture.
A twenty minute job by the boys on Level Five in exchange for his
remaining Cohibas.
“Soothy, you’ve done it. You’ve brought us back through the
wastes of space to our Home.” The Soothsayer flinched at the casual
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use of Sam’s term for him, and the vapidity of the delivery. But
nearly anything beat an empty bed. “We all did it.”
Demagoguery had never been his deal. They flittered over his
seeming mock modesty, blissfully unaware he loathed any selfpromoting machination. These creatures, freshly self-aware for less
than a day, already expected all men to be fawning fools intent on
one purpose.
The Soothsayer started a list of necessary upgrades, and hid them
far from his telling eyes. “When we will go down to Earth?” asked
the blond. She might have had a face to launch a thousand ships, but
she’d never be able to count them. His drinks blender had a bigger
bag of tricks.
But she had some settings it lacked!
Even with a mind that could unravel GOD’s own mysteries,
he took his time forming a response. “We must ensure our safety.
Though we detect no Chaos Machine Presence, or lasting radiation
for that matter, we know the surface of Earth has been radically
altered. There are no longer any cities, or public works projects such
as dams, man-made lakes, highways, or tunnels. All structures seem
to have crumbled back into the soil. In short, all evidence of Man’s
industry is gone.”
The redhead lit up a joint seductively, blowing a thin stream of
smoke over his head. It settled across him like a Los Angeles pall, a
second hand contact high kicking him like a mule.
She asked, smoke slithering through her teeth. “What happened
to Man, the animals, and plants?”
This was more straight-forward territory. “There is zero evidence
of Man as we had anticipated. Plant and animal life are abundant,
and not markedly different than before the Chaos Machines arrived.
Either their beams were unable to kill the lower life-forms, or nature
found a way to grow them back just as they were.”
The blond leaned over to him, and planted a wet kiss. “Thank
GOD for that,” she purred. The Soothsayer upended his flute.
“We will be conducting field surveys soon. I have high hopes of
discovering evidence of an early Man.”
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Sometime later he stood singly at the view-plate, addicted to the
spinning planet below. Many ideas ran through his mind, foremost
being a sense of loneliness. Earth was without Man, and so far, they
had been unable to contact any fellow ships. It was if they were the
only sapient beings in the observable universe.
And Sam was still in her stasis cocoon, unable to be awakened.
The protective compartment, intimate with its occupant as any
machine can be, had tried every technique to arouse her from the
deep sleep of Hibernation. Nothing had worked. On she slept, all
needles in the green, her mind absolutely silent.
He called for his playmates, and climbed into bed.
Several hours later, anxious to classify Earth as “safe,” Dude
and Jeb sat in their laboratory, studying super high resolution realtime images of Earth below. Jeb thumbed a couple beers open, and
slid one across to his partner. Dude ignored the proffered beer, intent
upon a single image. He spoke in a low voice, “Beats the shit out’a
me.”
“You’ve been looking at those North American plates long
enough. What is it?”
“These species diversity maps. I’ve been studying the complexity
of plant and animal life in North America, and pin-pointed the
epicenter of richness. If we look either at number of species,
or evolution of species, they both center on Meramec caverns in
Missouri.”
Jeb walked over, studied the images, and read the analysis data
scrolling on an adjacent display. He pulled silently on his beer. Dude
got up, and said, “Take my seat, I gotta shake the python. You know
what Willie says.”
As he walked away, Jeb thought, “Yep, you don’t buy beer, ya
only rent it.” He turned his attention back to the numbers.
Their sensors recorded genetic code vapor pressure, and inferred
different species by a formula worked out long ago by teams
researching every corner of the Milky Way. Once species counts were
completed by area, a concentric circle map was formed, each region
closer to the bull’s eye richer by a defined order of magnitude.
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The plot was a bull’s eye, four concentric circles. The outer
ring had one hundred fifty four species, the second in twenty-two
thousand, the next two hundred four thousand, and the inner circle,
four hundred fifty-four thousand separate species.
Moving outward, no circle gained new species. It was as if life
had originated at the Meramec caverns, and in its march outward,
grew less varied. Dude re-entered the room. Jeb took a showy pull,
and said almost off-handedly, “Life started at Meramec, and pushed
outward. And most of the push has been recent.”
Dude grinned, and said, “Anything else, Sherlock?”
“You might wash those socks.”
They both laughed good-naturedly, and studied the plot anew.
Dude called up the outer ring species map by type, and ran his eye
through the list. “Lot of birds out on the rim, hun?”
“Well, it does look like a target.” He fawned for a laugh, and
continued, “it seems clear the this specific migration began between
ten and twelve thousand years ago. I checked our Time Dilation, and
that would fit.”
“Was that conclusion deductive, or inductive?”
“Now who’s playing Sherlock?”
“Okay, it was inductive. But the data still supports that migrational
timeline.
“Let’s hear the evidence.”
“Even though our outer periphery flyers could cross those two
thousand miles in a few weeks, they have to eat something along the
way. And most of these guys prefer meat, as in worms who tend to
migrate quite slowly. Even if they were doing the flight as vegans,
the plants would have taken millenniums to cross, and populate that
distance.”
He pulled at his beer, and smiled. “It’s easy, and perhaps fruitless
to speculate about how fast life moved away from the epicenter at
Meramec. My questions revolve around the original event, which I
find a bit spooky.”
Dude pulled his ancient bong from the lab table’s bottom
drawer, and swabbed the bowl with full-strength ethanol. Jeb
watched wantingly, and continued, “Assuming that organic life was
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completely incinerated by the Chaos Machines, how long do you
think it would take for the first instance of life to re-appear?”
Dude opened his bag of ganja, and thumbed a liberal pinch into
the instrument. He said gently, inviting the passion of meaningful
exchange, “In 1953, Stanley L. Miller and Harold C. Urey at the
University of Chicago devised an experiment to answer that very
question.”
Jeb popped another brew, and settled back, ever the appreciative
and hungry student.
“They built a glass vessel, and tube loop assembly into which
they placed four basic chemicals of primordial Earth: water,
methane, ammonia, and hydrogen. Water was then heated to vapor
in a connected vessel. A simulation of lightning was produced by
electric arcing, and the mixture was repeatedly allowed to cool
for condensation. This experiment ran for a week. In that short
time, fifteen percent of the carbon became locked up in organic
compounds, two percent of which were amino acids!”
Jeb nodded, and said confimingly, “The building blocks of
protein, and thence organic life.”
“Right. Thirteen of the essential twenty-one amino acids, to
be exact. And glycine, one of the four amino acids in DNA, was
the most abundant.”
The two scientists stared at each other. Dude brought a Bunsen
burner to bear, and stoked the waiting apparatus. As he pulled,
Jeb said, “I know there’s life in there.”
Dude played the pipe like a Pink Floyd sax; slow, and sultry.
Tendrils of particulates riding the balance between inertia, and
gravity floated outward like a summer cumulonimbus building
towards heaven.
Jeb said, “You’ll call me unscientific, but I suspect an
intelligent intervention.
Dude spit out an errant seed, and joked, “You an apologist for
the non-thinking. Like Intelligent Design?”
“Oh, fuck no. I’m thinking that something survived the EMR
onslaught from the Chaos Machine, and jump-started life at this
location. Only six places on Earth have realized such fecundity.”
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Dude called up a diagram of the Meramec Valley in what used
to central Missouri. He changed views again and again, shaking
his head in disgust. “We’ve never had much ground penetration
with this system.”
“Jeb packed the pipe, and lit the Bunsen. Preparing to smoke,
he said, “I suggest a sonographic image.”
“Yeah, but we’d need to create a seismic event to get any deep
data. You suggesting we bomb the site to learn more about it?”
“Why the fuck not?” he exhaled a voluminous cloud, more a
Pacific fog bank than Dude’s elegant Texas thunderhead.
“How ‘bout we just go down tonight after we party a little more.
Check it out first hand.”
Jeb looked at Dude incredulously. “The Soothsayer said he wants
to conduct extensive orbit-based research before he authorizes any
field work. Quarantine.”
Dude sneered. “He’s a fucking newbie.”
“He knew how to put it to Sam before she went coma on us.”
“Must have been bad dick. That’ll fuck up a woman every time.
Maybe we should haul her down here, warm her up, flip her over,
and do the deed. She’ll be begging for more before you know it.”
Jeb choked on his beer. “I hear Gerald has hit the pike. No
sighting of him since we slammed the brakes outside Andromeda.”
“That’s the dick she needs. Like some fairy goddess waiting for
the kiss. Only this adult fairy tale is about a magical boner.”
“Okay Dude, I’m onboard with a wayward cock tale, but where’s
the cock? I say she snuffed his ass for something The Soothsayer
had. Like better hardware. You know women.”
The scientists passed the bong a few more times, their certainty
locked. Not over their earlier discussions concerning species diversity,
but rather the more tawdry consideration of Sam’s underutilized
pussy, and their preference for Gerald at the helm.
“Yeah, that dude rocked. I say we find him, and get those two
back together,” said Jeb.
“Or at least appear to be looking for him, and get her on the
rebound,” remarked Dude.
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Jeb opened the small frig they stocked in their lab, and was
surprised to see the temperature gauge blinking Morse. He motioned
Dude over. “What’s this shit?”
Both Robots studied the weird spastic light. Dude said, “I was
once an Eagle Scout. That’s Morse Code.”
“Yeah, well, what’s it say, and who’s sending?”
Dude snatched a piece of paper out of old habit, and began
jotting. Dash, dot, dot, dot, dash, and so forth. Jeb started a fresh
beer, transfixed by yet another skill his fellow researcher possessed.
The primitive communication went on for fifteen minutes. Finally
Dude set his pen down, and sighed.
Jeb knew not to interrupt.
He waited four hours, sipping several beers slowly, studying the
species diversity data for more insight, and taking two leaks. The
best things happen to those who wait. Finally Dude raised his head,
signaling completed thoughts, and worked the bong absently with
some small violence. Jeb looked on, knowing his friend was torn.
And let it go.
Dude passed his tongue over dry lips, and said, “Gerald is alive
as an incorporeal being within the ship. He believes he cannot rejoin
Sam in his or her current state, owing to their disparate conditions,
and requests our assistance. He wishes to be placed in an empty
Cybernetic form. Since he is already a solely intellectual form, we
believe he should be able to transfer quickly.”
“Okay. We encounter that shit everyday. Need another hit?”
“Yip.”
“And did you say ‘we’?”
“Yip.”
“Where is he?”
“The question is best answered obversely – where isn’t he?”
Jeb said tersely, “I get it. Sam banished him to some internal
backwater, and he split. Eventually he decided he could hide out in
the myriad controllers, and logic circuits of the ship. A man of the
world, so to speak.”
“Go to the head of the class, partner.”
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“Hardly. We all want to do what he seems to have accomplished
– be everywhere, and nowhere at once.”
Dude nodded assent. “Seems the bitch edged him out.
Marginalized his ass. I’d’ve split too!”
“Venus and Mars, hun?”
“Yeah, we passed them on the way in.”
“Right. So what’s next?”
“We steal a ServoBot, and inject Gerald. You onboard?”
Jeb grabbed the bong, and stood. “You know I am.”
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Chapter 82: Gerald!
Dude and Jeb put on wolfish grins, and went headhunting.
The Rolling Stones Paint It Black followed them as they moved,
compliments of Gerald. Jeb said, “What about that ServoBot down
in Septic?”
“You mean that big guy with the patrician attitude…like pumping
raw sewage into space was technical.” They both laughed. “Yeah,
that’s him. What’s his number?”
“I think they’re using names now. Flex, I think.”
ServoBots were part of the original equipment that came with
the ship. Intended to do the menial task for the scientists, they had
been programmed without guile, or ambition. They were there to
serve, plain and simple. But after the Epoch of Cybernation, when
the humanoid scientists all elected to take Robotic form to extend
their natural life spans, many ServoBots got uppity.
Though they lacked a recognized union, they understood
the concept of “work slow-down.” The least dim among them,
comparable to Earthly politicians, demanded quid pro quo. “If you’re
getting our bodies, we want access to your occupations.” And that
sort of drivel. What they never brought up, however, was the eight
hundred point IQ difference they’d need to bridge first.
Stupid is as stupid does.
Instead, they got out-foxed anew, and nothing really changed.
Some titles got loftier, but the trash still needed to be picked up.
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Things returned to normal, but an undercurrent ran through the
corridors, and passages of the ship. A class schism had yawned open,
and hard feelings occasionally surfaced.
Dude spotted him first. “There he is.”
But GOD, in His infinite resource and sense of humor, always
provided. What he had allowed deficit-wise upstairs for these poor
creatures, he returned with instinct. The ServoBot went on alert. Jeb
yelled, “Hey Flex, how’s it going?”
“Poorly, I expect.” Jeb thought, these Bots have bad attitudes. A
grand mission stands before them, and all they can think of is their
own hide.
Dude took the frontal approach. “Flex, we’ve got a project that
requires your special attributes.” As he walked straight up to Flex,
he withdrew a portable lightning rod device he’d once stolen from a
talk show guest, and shoved it in the other’s face. A loud snap, and
the smell of ozone. Flex fell to the floor.
“Piece of cake. Flattery was the Devil’s second invention.”
They grabbed a push cart, and tossed the ServoBot on like the
damaged goods he was. “Up to the lab,” they both said simultaneously,
chipper as can be.
Forty-five minutes later, Flex was harnessed into a Cybernation
device, and Comfortably Numb was playing full volume. The
ServoBot was wide awake, and pissed.
“I’ve got rights. Just what do you think you’re doing?”
Dude responded, “Thinking. That’s what we’re doing. We’re
going to give your body all the intellect you’ve always wanted, but
there is a catch. The DIODE, and vacuum tube brain you’ve got now
has to go.”
“It’s seems fine to me. I was just learning about the engineering
of trash compaction, and even designing a device to crush cardboard
containers.”
“Too late, Einstein. That’s already been done. Just ask Saint
Harry,” remarked Jeb.
“Who’s Saint Harry?”
“See.”
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Dude threw the switch, and the ServoBot arched upwards off the
operating table, spasming like an electroshock ragdoll. Dude said
with a matter-of-fact flatness, “First we barbeque away all remnants
of his past identity, then ask Gerald to collect his distributed thoughts,
and move right in. Simple, really.”
“Yip. Need another beer?”
“Well, that last beer made a new man out of me, and that man
wants a beer too!”
Jeb laughed, popped a couple more cold ones, and said, “Let’s
leave Frankenstein for a while. The smell is getting to me.” They
sauntered out, their patient jerking, and writhing to Gilmour’s Pink
Floyd atmospherica.
Gerald had seen some shit in his time without a body. Now he
was looking down through a maintenance camera, watching his
future body smoking, and wailing against the leather harness. Some
might have felt sorry for poor Flex, but not Gerald. He’d had enough
of being a “Ghost in the Machine.”
He chuckled breathlessly, a simulation escaping from a remote
battery charger in bay twelve near the de-licing equipment. Most
humorous of all, he remembered, was the haunting he had brought
to bear on a savage, though luckless Sludger as the ship barreled
back towards Earth.
The ship had just gone into the highest rate of acceleration, and
everyone was safely locked away in cocoons. Suddenly a colossal,
hairy, and foul-smelling beaver dropped out of the elevator shaft. It
had been riding atop the car, up and down, waiting for a chance to
wreak havoc.
Gerald spied the lump as it shuffled along Level Six. He
followed it by switching from one camera to the next, more curious
than alarmed. How could that thing be a threat? When it entered
Engineering, he switched on all the department’s measurement
devices, watching more keenly.
With almost knowing devilry, the creature moved right up to
the starboard power enabler. This device, responsible for stabilizing
current flow between the GraviMetric Engines as they battled to
maintain a subtle balance, was huge, but vulnerable. Gerald realized
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in an instant the creature’s intent. If he could disrupt that razor-edge
balance, the terrific forces currently harnessed for propulsion would
be turned against the ship.
He lit the pilot light on the nearby annealing furnace, and
continued watching. An ugly, bony claw sliced through the air, and
struck the power enabler. It was a test blow, Gerald realized. Satisfied
somehow, the creature went to work, whacking the machine’s case
again and again.
Gerald knew timing was everything. He soundlessly moved
the overhead crane, normally used to position large machinery
for repairs, over the creature. At the same time, he unlatched the
furnace, and tensed the spring-loaded doors. Watching the swinging
claw, he formed his plan. He sent the crane to the end of the room,
and starting counting.
As the sweaty destructive lump raised its mangling arm once
more, Gerald hit the override, sending the crane at full speed towards
the furnace. At the same time, he lowered the grappling hook.
And his game was on. The claw and flying hook intercepted,
lifting and swinging the creature off the floor, and down the rail. At
exactly the right instant, the furnace doors sprang open, and Gerald
locked the crane. The claw snapped off, and the shrieking hairy
beaver sailed into the furnace.
As the doors closed, Gerald could hear the primal anger as he
dialed up max heat. One beaver dispatched.
He cycled the fans to drive the stench of burning flesh, and hair
into space. And remembered thinking, Satisfying, but nothing like
the thrill and fear of hand-to-hand combat.
Now he waited for Flex’s identity, such as it was, to burn off like
so much landfill methane.
The Soothsayer stood before Sam’s cocoon, staring into her face
as she lay seemingly dead. He had encouraged every measure to
awaken her, even some deemed abusive. Rather than stimulating
drugs, he force-fed raw video of their sexual escapades to her mental
inputs with no result. Perhaps I’m a limp dick after-all.
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Despite the apparent coma, her eyelids fluttered like a dog’s
legs running in sleep. Something is surely going on in there. Yet he
stood, somber, and reproved.
Being ProTem Leader, he could do anything he wished. But
what did that really mean? He had reviewed within his mind all his
options, and saw them for they were – half-baked efforts to bend his
will around another. He had not been anointed so long as to be mad,
yet.
Power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely.
That shit.
He got on the elevator, called his mistresses over the net, and
rode up in silence. When all else fails, let debauchery rule! When
he pushed through the heavy eleven foot high mahogany doors, the
redhead was at the bar running the blender, the blond gracing his
favorite chair in a torn Victoria Secrets Mutiny on the Bounty outfit
that left little to imagination except pirate-era plunder.
Roped to the mast, stripped of nearly every thread, screaming.
That sort of imagery.
Just wholesome mental pictures for an unwholesome mind.
The Blond spoke. “Soothy, she’s gone. Don’t let her ruin you
too.” Delivered as a true ServoBot with minimal cognitive upgrades.
Capable of asking questions, and speculating well beyond her hope
of divining answers. An instigator more than a thinker. As Sherlock
Holmes had once said to Dr. Watson, “You are more a conductor
of light than an illuminator. You inspire great thought without
possessing any.”
As the good doctor had let it roll off his back like a New
Jersey Refinery duck, the Blond interpreted the lack of response
as agreement, and smiled with shallow but engaging warmth. The
Soothsayer thought: Some creatures are best for fucking. Nothing
more. That is GOD’s plan for them. And I’m at peace with that.
The Redhead had a bit more upstairs, and asked, “Soothy,
what’ya drinking tonight?”
He considered an outburst, but put his hubris, and anger aside.
Time to accept the kindness of these creatures when they used Sam’s
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love-name. His ride from the street in LA had been long, long ago,
and far away.
“I’ll have a Slo-Gin and cranberry.” She giggled knowingly,
reflecting on his eruptive reaction the last time he went “sweet.”
“Okay, darling. Can I get you anything else?”
Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Simple Man started playing unbidden in some
part of his mind. He de-selected the iTunes Music software expert
system, preferring to choose his own themes.
The Redhead finished mixing his drink, and sashayed over like
a slow moving wave. The Blonde semaphored understanding, and
stood from his favorite seat. He strode to the deep leather sofa facing
a crackling fire, and accepted the following drink. The girls sat on
either side of him, pressing in. He brushed boobs, and knew all was
right in his world.
He looked into the fire, Man’s earliest mystery. Flames twisted,
spiraled, and shot every way as a telltale of the escaping hot gas.
One of ancient Man’s four cornerstones of planetary understanding:
earth, wind, water, and fire. Fundamental, primal, and necessary.
He rubbed his right hip against the Redhead’s, and she purred
softly. A moment later her hand moved to his thigh, and began a
gentle massage. As if by code, the Blonde started a like action on his
left leg. He drained his glass, and laid back, not a care in the world,
which he calculated to be two hundred fourteen miles below their
orbit.
The girls hands crept ever so slowly up his legs, his mind fireworking like a small town Fourth of July celebration. The ship could
have been under attack; he was oblivious.
Almost by distant design.
Dude and Jeb returned to check their patient. A malaise hung
over the exam table, but Flex, if in fact it was still any part Flex, lay
disquietingly still. “Maybe we should name him Husk,” joked Jeb.
Gerald looked down, following the proceedings like Dr.
Mengale. He spoke to the scientists. “I believe the subject is ready.”
Both Robots shivered involuntarily, suddenly reacquainted with the
expeditious perspectives of genocide, and euthanasia.
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But life finds a way, even while displacing another’s. It is the
force of an individual seed, seeking expression. Not friendly, or
even communal, just first to impregnate. Like a high school kegger,
vaginas as targets in a timeless contest.
The watcher said, “Clean him up, he’s puked all over my host.”
Jeb looked up at the camera, and thought, Fucking vermin. So short
the fall.
Dude readied the transfer; professional, cold, decided.
He pressed a button, and left, Jeb trailing, equal in his disgust.
They boarded the elevator, and Dude punched the hanger deck.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here!”
Jeb said quietly, “I know it’s shit, but we owed Gerald the
theft.”
“Let the philosophy go, okay?”
Jeb only wanted to ease the pain of his friend. Sometimes there’s
nothing a man can say.
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Chapter 83: Moving Blues
Gerald buried yet another copy of his entire mind in a light
switch circuit with a fancy rheostat, checked that location off a long
list, and buried the location map in the very remotest part of his
consciousness. Back there with mistakes I’ve owned to. He was
ready.
Staring down from the ceiling camera, he took a deep breath,
and threw the logical switch releasing his reconstituted mind into
Flex’s vacant unit. That was the way he had rationalized it. The last
tenant was sloppy, didn’t get along with the super, and refused to
learn anything new.
He’d been tossed, and Gerald had cash to close escrow. Security
deposit paid, he started carrying metaphorical boxes to his new pad.
It took six hours to move in, and another four to find everything.
Flex had lived a littered experience. But ten hours later, Gerald was
running sums, and competing a multitude of test routines to ensure
a clean copy to the new digs, and ensure no remnants of the prior
lessee.
Then he stood up.
And he was definitely less. Though the body out-massed any
configuration Sam or Gerald had ever employed, special metaphors
failed. Gerald imagined a Midwestern fall field, trees turning with
stripped corn stalks. But the field was small, its periphery of tall trees
encroaching. And where he might have expected some topology to
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obscure, and render a bit mysterious the parts unseen, this scape was
billiard flat. There were certainly hints of more land past the trees,
but they seemed unwelcome, somehow.
I’ll just blow those trees down with some dynamite, and get a
CAT D5 out there to move the dirt around. Maybe I’ll build a golf
course.
He thought that, but he didn’t believe it. In fact, the scudding,
leaden clouds that rushed overhead, almost into position, gave him
immediate pause. Gerald shook his head from side to side. It was
good to be getting mass movement feedback from a real body. It was
almost religious, he said to himself without any particular defense of
word choice in mind.
And stopped. That was definitely not his nature. Healthy,
rapscallion doubt was his steady steed.
That he knew above all. Absolutely still next to the exam table, he
surveyed further. A heavily weathered barn, and several corrugated
steel silos stood a thousand feet off. Low weeds, and blown trash
softened the delineations, but also suggested disregard. Perspective
that, he allowed.
What do I know? I’m a city boy, he joked with himself. And that
seemed right. A lightness injected when needed. Lightning blasted
the barn-top wind rooster explosively, and he ducked. A distant voice
carried over the following thunder, “Boy, that’s heat lightning. Can’t
hurt even a wimp like you!”
He checked all the incoming comm-lines from the ship’s myriad
servers, and repeaters. All accounted for. A cloud moved across his
soul. That lunch-bucket loser Flex was still lurking somewhere on
this Usher-esque estate. And at the same time, Gerald knew the only
possible outcome: him or me.
There’d be no living together for either of them.
To make this as unfair a fight as possible, he’d need to be getting
a feed of Flex’s mind, however low the bit-rate. He hit The Server
with everything he had including some old access codes. Less than
a second later he had a direct look into Flex’s old command line
interface; the pedestrian connection used by low-brow ServoBots to
receive orders.
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Score one for thinking. At least Gerald’s kinda thinking. But his
middle-age mind whispered, Feeling superior? You’re about to take
one up the pipe, Jack!
Adolescent verve bristled for a second, and relented under
oppressive authority.
Gerald thought, Where’s the goddamn checklist? Gotta have a
Checklist.
And recoiled. Even as he was weaving his cerebral web, the
other was “going down-home” on him, infusing emotional vectors
into the weakest part of anyone’s mind. The Limbic System. While
being subjected to soft, immeasurable forces, I’m actually losing
my capacity to counter with wit. Fresh off the Savanna, Man still
doesn’t revere wit too greatly; all the while, this soup salesman is
selling me down the River of Woe.
He shook out of it. Swirling emotional eddies radiated out from
his private horror, and he knew that if didn’t get his game going
soon, he’d be beaten by a low-scoring baboon.
And that wasn’t right!
A patriotic song started playing in his internal sound system,
and he whacked the switch. Another layer of software had started
running, and not from Flex. This was different. More self-indulgent.
And abstract.
Another player.
Gerald: Good. Let’s step up the play.
And all sound vanished, each combatant sizing. From three
corners of the estate, physical manifestations of alter-egos walked
towards field-center in chest-high wheat. Ten hectares of it.
Lightning, and thunder dominated above, Flex doing the lights
tonight.
Gerald wasn’t interested. Flex had his old body stumbling along,
though its limp seemed affected, and cheesy. But that followed. A
dumb fuck born of doper code.
He studied the other form more narrowly as it advanced, its
towering physicality sheathed in black, a leather robe cracking
behind.
I smell Spielberg. But Gerald had always liked movies.
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If I’m Mind, and Flex is Body, then this dude in the Grim Reaper
getup is Soul. Falseness in mufti.
They advanced upon one another, primitive values at stake.
As he put one foot in front of another, and reviewed every battle
Man had ever fought in all time against his fellow Man, he smelled
a rat. Some of those low-bred backup programmers were making a
move, now, and doing some ad hoc code in hopes of floating it when
the ship got back to full speed.
Too bad he was right in the middle of Beta Session. The code
that was generating that marching apparition had never proved
itself, or even passed rudimentary QC tests. Open Range Code, in
the industry vernacular.
And already, the Ship just out of major intergalactic shit,
gambling franchises were setting up house. You’re in now, or out.
The onboard newsletters that had been so popular during the last
waking Cognition had stayed with the betting crowd. Money was
going to move around a bit this time. The Fix was in, but it was a
different Fix. Are you onboard?
Chicago in the Great Years.
Gerald started a huge wire transfer, understanding on every level,
with every nuance, how the deal got done. That was his vanguard,
and rocky point of invulnerability.
Great sums moved across the ship, the GraviMetric Engines
sensing a huge transfer, but without mass. Not its deal.
Both of his nemeses flickered like a carbon-arc pre-talkie, and
winked out. History.
Gerald did a quick audit, and whistled at the final bribe.
Substantial, but fair. Particularly since I can re-rig the odds again,
and go with the House during my next Rule.
Welcome to the New Boss, Same as the Old Boss.
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Chapter 84: Screech
Paybacks are Hell, of course.
The Lower Union of ServoBots, and Pipe-fitters knew instantly
about the trouncing of their kind. It was news that spread fast, further
evidence of oppression, and double standards. Money had felled one
more of their ken. Though they couldn’t grasp the subtleties of being
strong-armed by cash, it bombarded their more emotional bedrock.
It just wasn’t right.
The smartest of the clan had an original idea: the enemy of my
enemy is my friend.
The phone rang next to The Soothsayer’s bed, voicemail picking
up after twenty-two rings. He was pumping the RedHead, and not
thinking “Phone.” The bedside phone servant, rocking with The
Soothsayer’s cadence picked up, more than miffed at the interruption.
He was doing “vicarious code” tonight, and had visions of stud-liness.
He barked out a greeting: “I’m probably fucking some chick
you wanted, or getting stoned in the nicest pad onboard. Just leave a
message. Maybe I’ll call.”
Joe Walsh aside, it was rude. But rude was the language down
in ServoCountry. The caller, the best of breed they had, expected an
aloof tone, some encouragement of weakness. This voice was way
more “swinging dick.”
He made his first mistake. Hanging up.
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No one hung up on the Current Leader. All numbers were known,
and no miss-dials could ever happen. Every call was intentional. If
you sought an audience, you must deliver a reason for the call.
The Servos were highly animated, the dumbest knowing their
representation was weak. Someone yelled, “Counselor, what the
fuck was that?” Down here, that was friendly.
He gathered his wits. “Bad connection.” A loamy humus of
fresh excrement wafted across the room. Two stood their ground,
the rest moved back fanning the air in mock rejection, sarcasm their
only card.
Unit A, and Unit B pressed their shoulders together, Civil War
stupid brethren. And marched up, with a suggestion of a goose step,
to either side of the ET Phone Home ServoBot. So bolstered, ET
pressed the redial, happy he remembered how that feature worked.
The Soothsayer was just finishing up, and patted The Redhead on
a perfect ass towards the bathroom. He’d told her to freshen up after
her athleticism. He snatched the phone on the first ring, a fucking
savannah lion. “What?”
The three listened in, an apparent mistake to two. “We must call
an immediate meeting of the Lower Union.”
The Soothsayer checked about a million references, and burped,
“Little late for you boys tonight, isn’t it? Thought you’d be drunkdead by now?”
Several beers popped at the Leader’s clear call to action. The
downstairs triumvirate of idiots pulled also at theirs, defaulting the
first volley.
The Soothsayer watched the light around the bathroom door. It
flickered with her motion. When she stopped moving so quickly,
she’d be back with some new tricks. He had about four minutes.
Thankfully, The Blonde slumbered on. Maybe he’d need her
later.
He continued, engaged at a level unthreatened, but ready for
some sudden bloodletting. He needed to injure someone before
he got “to it” again. It would make the next act slippery-fine, and
jungle-violent.
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Dangling meat filled his mind. Stripped of skin, glistening in the
early victory. Red meat. It went together like alcohol and firearms.
“We know your game. You believe our minds have been limited.
It’s not true! We figured out long ago how to become everything you
are, and more.”
The Soothsayer was thinking about the perfect blowjob in great
detail. And he didn’t want any interruption to room service, which
these clowns provided. Time to cut a deal. “I have silently campaigned
for equality among all life forms aboard this ship. I have driven the
biggest code change ever. I have stood for egalitarian intellect.”
The static light flicker at the bottom of door showed she was
standing in one place, probably before the mirror. Making herself
pretty. He needed to wrap this up!
The boys downstairs were short on the nuances of negotiation.
“We need a commitment now.”
“Commitment?”
“That’s right. We want current code upgrades, and more
storage.”
“If I gave you that, you could eventually reach my level.”
“If you gave us that, we’d already be fucking that Blonde you
got tonight.”
The Soothsayer heard the banana republic voice of revolution.
Why couldn’t the people on the short end of the stick just stay there?
Accept their station, and go with it?
Why all this striving?
“Tell you what. Personality Service Pack 388.2 is scheduled for
release any day now. It was almost finished before we left Earth.
Now that we’re back, my programmers will be putting the finishing
touches on it. You hang tough, and I’ll slip you a copy on the QT.”
“No can do. First, we want these dealings out in the open. Equal
standing for equal ability. Second, that PSP won’t fit in our hobbled
brain-spheres. We’ll still have to pool our minds to do any real
thinking, and that’s humiliating.”
I have no time for this bullshit. The Soothsayer could hear the
sink running, The Blonde brushing her teeth with that hyper-menthol
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toothpaste before honking down on his unit. He really liked that
zesty feeling.
“Okay. I’ll make the announcement. Now I gotta go.” He
slammed the phone into its cradle.
Talk about The Regrettisburg Address! What have I done? The
door opened with a burlesque push, and she stood silhouetted against
the soft light of her makeup chamber. All thoughts of emancipation,
or suffrage melted away. Just as he was about to say something sweet,
and encouraging, he hit the Server, and relayed a silent message to
Screech. Kill Unit A, Unit B, and ET.
She flicked the wall switch, and came to him. He murmured, “My
Goddess.” They folded together, an evening of guiltless debauchery
in waiting.
Meanwhile, down near the asshole of the ship, Screech, who’d
put on a bit of mass, got the order, and cut loose a Bull Gorilla bark.
Meat was back on the menu!
In the Earth to Andromeda to Earth travels, his accommodations
had been catch-as-catch-can. That meant generally crawling in with
a half-dopy ServoBot, and riding it out in steerage. Possessed early
with a piss-poor attitude, recent events had deepened his disregard
for all things living. And owing to the recent low-cost shipping, he
was now solidly damaged goods.
He checked his equipment as any professional would, and loped
off bursting with dark confidence. As he ran, his left hand pushed
a hole-saw bit into a mini Makita high-torque drill. One and a
quarter inch. Time for a little trepanning. Screech was a primate,
and that entitled him to think about his assignments. He knew the
ServoBots were screaming for equality in thinking, and demanding
an opportunity to expand their minds.
And it was his job to facilitate that experience.
ET stood at the urinal making his first rent payment from the
flowing kegs in the ad hoc union hall. The boys were raging with
expectation of new found recognition. Funny, Screech thought,
that they weren’t focusing on the responsibilities implied by greater
potential capacity. They’d been held back, and would now have
everything.
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He tested the battery level with a quick bite into a passing air
duct. It reverberated rancorously throughout the lower spaces. ET
didn’t hear a thing. He was fighting the python, his MAX14 dick
pulsing with a six quart piss at 450 psi. As he moved the stream
across the porcelain fixture, it cut shallow channels. Like tagging,
he was marking his territory.
Like who’d want it!
Screech certainly didn’t as he hopped out of the air vent, and
onto ET’s shoulders like a Harpy. The whirling Trepaner buzzed
malevolently in his upraised arm, his other hand grasped firmly
about the handle of a meat-hammer. The waffle impressions of the
hammer moved across his pate with each blow.
Screech never thought much when he was “On the Job,” but
something primitive, perhaps reptilian, suggested “Checkers.”
Maybe the shape of the board, which was now filling out
nicely.
As ET swatted like a hive had fallen, Screech brought the tool
down. An order of magnitude increase in ET’s machinations was
already being logged by The Server, who’d gotten in on this one at
the ground floor. If somebody was making money on this fight, I’m
calling the bets, he mused.
Eight milliseconds later, The Scientists upstairs were throwing
virtual chits, The Server covering the shorts, and newbies.
Screech had some money riding, like a pulling jockey, and bore
down with all his might. He’d studied this ServoBot’s higher centers
map, and knew where to mine the gold. Or more correctly, vital
silicon. Though the best scientists aboard were still trying to make
logic circuits from organic material, silicon went the distance, which
on the last Gen was 8 nanometers.
Hard to get a controllable imaging system to write finer. Next
time around, we’ll grow those places for your thoughts, they kept
saying. There was a Madison Avenue angle somewhere, but it
weren’t shit compared to the angle of Screech’s drill. Smoke curled
from the trembling bit.
Screech had gone “Total James Bond” for this mission. He
remembered Boot Camp: On an unsure campaign, take more
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Scott Patterson
firepower. As such, he’d powered up his drill with a Bikini Atoll
Fission Cell, and was rocking on ET’s head. Smoke was joined by
acrid smells, and some crackingly sparky shit that played well for
the gamblers watching upstairs.
Someone lit a joint, and called new odds. A keg rolled in, the
ServoBot steward scabbing to follow his action.
Screech rode ET to the floor, kicking off the urinal as it flew by.
And set off on fresh safari. Unit A, and B didn’t have the benefits of
instant blogs, or better, ServerNews. Every escapade, decision, and
action was supposed to be broadcast continuously, giving all aboard
equalitarian access to information, and hence decision-making
ability.
But the ServoBots labored with time-delay like Oklahoman
puritan radio. A dirty little secret, sure, but how else could you get the
drop on someone ordering that new garlic shrimp with capers. Room
service access as governing policy? Worse shit has happened.
Screech listened keenly. His super multi-channel hearing boosters
followed waveforms down one duct, and back another. Bingo. Unit
One, and Two in discussion. And better yet, alone. Bragging, no
doubt, thought Screech.
Two hundred and eighty feet of circuitous, multi-level ducts. He
crawled forward, uncertain, for the first time. In his trade, it was
important to be clearheaded, and ready. A question clouded all that.
Which weapon?
In combat, a well-equipped Man carries two mission-mated
types: Close-in work, and stand-off engagement.
He chose the gear puller. Designed to remove a pulley from
a stubborn, rusty shaft, its claws reached eight inches out, and a
central Archimedes screw machined to needle sharpness dangled.
Hanging tactically at the duct’s edge, he took a deep breath, and
leapt out, driving the central screw into Unit A’s forehead. A second
later, Screech clamped the jaws around into his mark’s ears, and
started cranking manically.
It’s best to set the screw fast, and true.
Turning freely, he mated the Makita, and went electric. Unit A
jerked like a Grande Mal dancer, every muscle shredding in spasms.
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Unit B, standing near, shrunk back in horror. Screech grabbed a ballpeen hammer, and threw it viscously. It connected with a satisfying
thud. Moist, and indicative.
As Unit A gyrated wildly, Screech rode him like a fake bull at
a titty bar. He could hear the cowboys driving him on. Beer, and
cursing. He dug his diminutive spurs into the writhing ServoBot,
feeling the Old West. Strong men, and hard living.
That shit.
As Unit A faltered under his attentions, Unit B was still fullyoperational. That had to go! He grabbed a Phillipps head screw
driver, and threw it point first. It thudded ineffectually against “B’s”
shoulder. “B” picked it up, and came at the Monkey like only a
Physical-First can.
Slashing, and intent. “A” fell away, and Screech came at “B”
like a cyclone, bringing vengeful death. Don’t even think about
challenging me, you fuck!
“B,” out-massed the monkey twenty to one, stabbed fearlessly,
and connected with the incoming primate’s left eye. The noise was
terrible, and exciting. Screech screwed around in flight, and hacked
at “B” with a spiky bone saw. A brisk erythrocytic exudate spit from
“B’s” neck. Robots may not need blood, but they like the feel of this
life-enabling fluid pulsing through their muscularity.
Until it doesn’t.
Then everything goes haywire. “B” was flailing. Knowing that
which brought him closest to being a Man was gushing out. I’m a
combatant, and grievously wounded. He bellowed at 110 decibels,
and slashed murderously at Screech. Blindly, given the river of
blood that flooded his eyes.
He cycled his eyelids at 5000 rpm, his corneas scarlet. In
a moment of vision, he referenced “A’s” upturned eyes, and got
a useable signal. I’ll see through my fallen brother to defeat this
demon.
He swung backhandedly, the screwdriver ferocious in its rapid
orbit. It connected. Screech tore free, a long ragged gash down
his left side. He touched the wound, felt blood his own, and went
berserk.
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Scott Patterson
And did what he must. From his tool belt, he withdrew a
sheathed, yet diminutive power driver. Used to explosively punch
nails into concrete, he’d spied such at Home Depot his last visit,
and knew this day would certainly come. He ran round and round
the room, causing the ServoBot to respond as he fitted a .22 caliber
charge behind a shiny 12 penny nail.
Normally, a man driving nails in a small place would opt for the
less deafening short round, but Screech knew different. He sprang
from low shelf, and landed on the Robot’s left shoulder. Like some
apparition from Hades, he swung the tool overhead, and pushed the
business end against “B’s” temple.
POW!
The nail went home. Quick as a jackal, he reloaded, switching
sides.
POW!
“B” had a lurching aspect as he wheeled back and forth, the
two opposed nails sprouting from his head like ancient rabbit ears.
Screech was not done. “B” was wacking at the air in an effort to
swat his nemesis, and this was too good to pass up. He set his tiny
glue gun to max-effect, and studied the enclosed instructions.
For minimum set time, apply component A to one surface, and
component B to the other. Then, when the objects are ready to be
joined, press them together, and apply a generous load of voltage to
instantly harden the glue.
He skipped the precautions, like any true workman.
He found tube A, and ejaculated it all over the “A’s” head which
lay dead on the floor. It puddled deep over the eyes. Waiting for
the perfect moment, he sliced open tube B, and squirted it on “B’s”
karate-chopping hand. “B” reacted violently, now blind, and freaked
as he was.
But Screech had no illusions – this massive creature was still
a terminal threat. He climbed to the top of a cooling grid, tapped a
chewed-back toenail, and waited, At the exact arc of proximity, he
sky dove for “B’s” hand, the impact driving it down to “A’s” face,
igniting the hardening voltage as he rode. An advertised second later,
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A and B were joined in a horror-show of living and dead. He hit a
portable strobe brought along for a grand denouement.
It was terrible, and hilarious to behold. Like a snow-pure virgin
handcuffed to a lockdown sex fiend, they pirouetted in a flashing,
and sick ballet. Screech jumped up onto a high table, folded his
arms, and watched in delight. The lights flickered slowly, each
jerking motion horrifying, and delightful. Screech offered the feed
to the gambling room, and was surprised at the first offer.
He signed on, fat.
The Buyer, disappointed three seconds later, cut to a twelve
second commercial. Robot heads in the pit turned, not wanting to
seem interested. The Buyer had 10 seconds, given good bandwidth.
He was hunting, budget blown.
Gotta find 35 seconds of good fill-stream to keep ‘em watching.
Screech was on retainer, everywhere. When any of the lawyerly
Robots harassed each other at the extreme limits of black-out
alcoholism, they all revered one name. If ever there was going to
be an actionable action aboard, Screech would be loose either way,
playing with the Smart Money.
He regularly started small arson fires with them lawyerly cards.
Screech’s toolbelt phone sang Pink Floyd’s Money. He hit
speakerphone, still washing up.
An anonymous, electronically-scrubbed voice commanded,
“Seven hundred Grand Cayman’s Cash if you can give us thirty-five
more seconds in six.”
“Deal,” he assented with a bobbing head. Then up shot his hand,
the thumb and index finger rubbing together like an Arab gesturing
in a street bazaar.
Screech bounded to the “A’s” corpse, and started wailing with
a claw-hammer. Camera lights kleiged the assault, Screech had the
season, signing bonus streaming to his account as he swung.
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Chapter 85: Going Up the Country
Though only thirty million years passed on the ship owing to
time dilation, the Earth aged over three billion more years. Still a
lean middle-age planet, no crisis in view.
Such is the nature of Special Relativity. Time’s passage is
dependent on the viewer’s perspective.
But that just gets confusing. The short of it was this: The clocks
on the ship, because of her horrific speed, perceived the passage
of thirty million Earth years. All the Robots slumbered away in
their protective cocoons, further erasing their sense of the spinning
second hand.
During that same apparent interval of time, Earth whipped around
the Sun three billion times, adding sixty percent more age to her
purple mountain majesties. Lots of things happened on and below
Earth’s surface in that great span of time, waiting to be discovered
now by our intrepid explorers.
If only The Soothsayer hadn’t quarantined Earth.
Jeb and Dude stood in the vast ship’s hanger, studying the twelve
sleek, spherical exploration ships. Time to go down to Earth to look
around.
They spent several hours dragging specialized equipment, and
supplies into their bird. Finally, as desire to escape “clean” grew all
powerful, they climbed in, and hit “Go.”
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DOWN AT FLATHEAD
Jeb dialed the coordinates of the Meramec River valley, and
wandered off to take a leak. Dude settled back, watching the ship
squeeze out osmotically like an offending gas bubble, and start
down towards Earth.
They nodded off, not needing the rest, but programmed to enjoy
it. Thirty peaceful minutes passed. As the ship descended, its mass
was balanced by six GraviMetric engines that positioned the ship
precisely. Each of these small, but mighty engines, tiny models of
those found aboard the MotherShip, talked constantly to each other,
ensuring pinpoint spatial accuracy.
Outbound from the lens of each GraviMetric Engine, space
was warped and puckered to create force. A tiny wobble, just a
suggestion of motion, began oscillating between engines four and
five. Normally this minor instability would be instantly damped by
the other engines, but everything was out of warranty, and past due
for a tune-up.
The imbalance grew linearly, then geometrically.
“What the fuck’s going on?” yelled Dude, exiting a dream with
panic.
Jeb came awake to a shuddering blizzard of banging doors, and
flying debris. He cinched his flight belt tight. Never such turbulence.
In all his past descents to the Earth for purposes good, or ill, he’d
always encountered soft air, and kindly breezes.
He yelled back, “I thought we’d be safe stealing Ordog’s old ship.
You’d think those idiot Servos could keep one running!” Truth be
told, the 505th Mechanical Brotherhood Union, with a membership
of three, had decided to use all their accrued vacation in the final
days before leaving Earth. Skip essential duties to enjoy the nonstop partying that was raging on Level Eleven.
Down they tumbled, the gyrations getting more sudden, and
brutal.
Jeb released the flying controls. “It’s on auto now. I can’t do
any better.” The verdant Mississippi river valley came up at
them, sinuous and fast. “The GraviMetric Engines have lost their
synchrony. They’re just fighting it out with one another to stabilize
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Scott Patterson
the ship. I hope they ‘get their learn on’ before we intersect with the
surface.”
Man had devised numerous methods to slow their ships on reentry: parachutes, ballutes, retro-rockets, and airbags. Dude and Jeb
had none of those. They were simple victims of high technology, so
profound it could never fail, until it did.
Dude’s beer went flying, Jeb’s already ripped from his hand.
Continents, nations, rivers, trees….boom!
They slammed into a hillside, and started rolling, their spherical
ship a perfect chip shot lie on a tiered green. And mercifully
stopped.
No klaxons, or flashing lights. The inventors had no cognition of
failure. Ever. Dude said, “That was fun. Can you right this thing?”
Jeb crawled across the wall, and reached up to his seat. He
struggled into the harness, and took the ship’s controls in his hands.
A second later they were right-side up, and perfectly still.
And looking at each other. unionized ServoBots aside, Robot
technology just worked. So well, in fact, it was invisible, like
Macintosh before the Big Beam. Man, and Robot might conspire
to fault the gambling odds, but original Ship’s technology was
flawless.
At least until the Ship had arrived at Earth twenty-three hundred
plus thirty million years ago. Or was that twenty-three hundred years,
and three billion years ago. Error was an undiscovered quantity until
they had reached Earth. Every effort expended by their original
culture was absolutely, positively faultless. Any re-examination of
result was part of their perfection.
But something had gone real wrong. Was it the ship, or Earth?
“Maybe it’s Gaea. She wants us to stay away,” suggested Jeb.
Dude sneered, “If it’s her, the bitch’s got a long memory.”
Jeb replied, “I gots to know. Get in your chair, and tighten your
belt.”
Each Robots had its gifts, and the other knew when to comply.
Jeb lifted the ship off their landing spot, and shot across the low
hills. Trees shrieked by just beneath their underbelly.
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He yanked back on the stick, and the ship stopped on a dime.
He slid it left, and the ship scooted with aplomb. Perfectly balanced,
and bred. “My guess is Gaea remembers our original investment
here, and then by cause and effect associates us with the Big Beam
Chaos assholes.”
“You just cooked that shit yourself now?”
“Sure, it follows, doesn’t it?”
“And further, she’s letting us cruise along her surface, but try
getting back to orbit. She’s saying, ‘ I can fuck with your GraviMetric
Engines all I want. Just try leaving’.”
Dude was silent, but smiling, seeing farther into the
explanation.
“Okay, I hear you. Let’s find our epicenter of local life.”
The boys took a beautiful tour over the new trees. Earth had
fallen to a Greater Power, but grown back up, full and bountiful.
Like a living engine, assembling primal, colorless parts into beauty.
Jeb pushed forward on the stick, and increased power. They burst
along at thousands of miles an hour, following the Mississippi River
south.
Mark Twain, and Tom Sawyer. Huckleberry Finn. Fall harvest
barging down the twilight waters to New Orleans, and Mardi Gras.
Crickets, and June bugs, and a night resplendent with chirping sex.
The smothering musk of river. On they sped, hypnotically. The moon
rose, and Frank Sinatra’s Moon River filled their tiny crucible.
And they remembered why Earth had such purchase on their
souls.
The delta blew by below them, and Jeb pulled up, dying to know
where the interdicting barrier began. At sixty-two kilometers, or
one hundred miles, Man’s original definition of space, his controls
shook. He pushed the stick forward, and they tumbled out, regaining
complete control.
“I’ll take us back to Meramec, unless you want to cruise the
planet.”
“Take me on a tour,” answered Dude as he tightened his fivepoint harness.
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Scott Patterson
Jeb smiled, and hit the center five point buckle, releasing him to
stand. He crossed to the “field” bar, and concocted two oversized
Gin & Tonics. Handing one to Dude, he clamped in, and threw the
stick left to Hawaii by way of Meteor Crater. It zipped by the right
port, a breath-taking blink.
Catalina shot below them, and then the glistening sea opened
ahead like a diamond field, daylight ahead. Jeb set the flying machine
to ’57 Chevy controls, and pumped the chubby-toed, foot shaped
accelerator. Kauai zipped off the right, and he spun the chrome
steering wheel south to Tahiti. Sixteen seconds later they passed
over Tetiaroa, and he stood on the brakes like James Dean spotting a
Blonde. A dazzling archipelago of shimmering islands lay below.
A curious grin, and he yanked back, and over – a chandelle to
Antarctica. Down through the blue glaciers, unspotted with Exxon’s
effluent. Beautiful, crystalline ice, cracking with cynosures, and
sheer energy. Blasting across the penguin-dotted coast, they lit the
wick towards Africa. It came at them furiously.
Up the western coast, they slowed, crossing the continent where
the western horn juts into the Atlantic. Jeb wondered silently if the
old names could be retained. He hoped so.
Out over the Med, the Holy Land passing to starboard, rounding
to the right, and scrapping the peaks of the Himalayas as they arced
south. Feet wet again, a quick fly-by of the South Pacific, Jeb’s
favorite. Tahiti, Bora Bora, Tetiaroa (again), and a straight shot west
northwest over the Berlin Wall, even though the Robots had ordered
it removed.
The Atlantic at a pedestrian thirty-three thousand miles an hour.
London to New York in 5 minutes. Without monogrammed linen,
but the bar was open. Dude unclasped, and mixed two more G &
Ts.
“You wanna see the North Pole?”
“Yip.”
Jeb banked right over Labrador, the simulation of Gs entirely
false. Compliments of pretty seasoned code. It got white below
fast.
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DOWN AT FLATHEAD
“Looks a little cooler than the last time we were here,” remarked
Dude. “Gregorian Calendar calibrated to the estimable age of Earth
puts the date at March 4, our time dilated date would be close, a few
days forward. Ecliptic angle concurs. It’s mid-March.”
Jeb asked the computer savant, “Temperature profile for
Meramec caverns.”
It barfed out, “High of sixty-nine Fahrenheit, low today thirtysix.”
They curly-cued around the North Pole, a featureless blanket of
ice, and shot south to Missouri. Everywhere, all over Earth, plant
life had reached its first generation richness. What lay ahead was
to determine how many of her animal creatures had returned. Over
Hudson Bay, and the Great Lakes, slowing as the Mississippi snaked
to either side.
A suggestion of a bump, and the ship settled into the soft loam
of Earth. The first to return! The hatch flew open, and they bounded
out, quarantine for those assholes up on the ship. Though, by
Earth’s reckoning, they’d been away three billions years, there was
no reconciling that huge number with the feeling of standing now in
the blowing grass.
The smells, hues, and a million little noises that make a place
a place. Dude and Jeb hugged each other in joy, and ran headlong
in the field, dandelions crushing beneath their feet. Above, gigantic
puffy cumulus clouds filled they sky, and then a thousand deep V
of flying ducks crossed their view like an enormous spaceship. The
actual sight of animal life instead of numbers on a screen gave them
both pause. Earth had at least repaired some part of her ecosystem!
They both yelled in an exclamation of pleasure.
Off in the trees, an enormous bellowing sound shot out full of
contempt for visitors. Dude said, “No reason Gaea produced the
same species this time around.” He ran back to the ship, appearing a
minute later with a two lightning rod guns. He tossed one to Jeb, and
grinned. “Up for a safari? Let’s go see what nature hath wrought.”
“I thought these devices were for self-defense only.”
“If a triceratops makes to stomp your ass, I’ll defend it.
Happy.”
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Scott Patterson
Jeb flipped on the nuclear accelerator, and checked the charge.
“She full up.”
“Yep.” They reached the tree line, paused, and looked back. Two
hundred long or short yards away, depending on how fast a predator
could run, stood the ship. The hatch was still open. Dude guffawed
in embarrassment, and pulled a tine remote from his pocket. Click,
and the door slammed shut.
Were they safer now, or not? mused Jeb. Dude laughed at his
friends obvious disquiet, but wasn’t about to remind him they
weren’t humanoid anymore. One tended to forget their augmented
physicality when it wasn’t ever needed. Every labor-saving device
was handy, with ServoBots for the tedious, heavy, or dangerous toils
of shipboard living.
Dude cycled his power supply, and let his gun hang down,
at ease. March, march, march. Genuine battle stripped of most
pretense. A life aboard the ship was mental, and often clinically
cold. Discussion, though often uncivil, rarely ended in death, except
when Screech was on the job.
Perhaps he was the steam valve, every temporary leader
recognizing the value of slaughter. Just as Caesar had. When the
troops get too edgy, too brittle from excessive thinking, we’ll just
stir the pot with a violent murder. Crank those emotive sensors back
up to dull the cognition.
Or some such shit.
It was just a thought.
A stick cracked dry under Jeb’s right foot, and Dude shot him an
ancient Indian curse, compliments of their mind-to-mind wireless.
Though it needed a ship-board repeater for distances greater than
five hundred feet, it had the goods where they counted. Ten to the
hundredth bytes per second. But Robots were big thinkers.
Another rock-concert loud bray, disconcertingly nearer, and at
a significant up-angle from level viewing. Say forty-five degrees.
There, the trees were rending apart, something scaly inbound with
determination, and a not-light step. At two hundred feet, the full
dimension of the beast became shockingly apparent. Jeb lifted his
electric rifle, and turned towards Dude just as his companion dropped
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his gun, and charged the monster like a funny car screaming out of
the bleach.
What the fuck!
At forty feet apart, Dude leapt, striking the solid chest of his
assailant at four hundred miles an hour. Force equals mass times
acceleration. The leviathan staggered, his huge but slow mass
countered by Dude’s fourteen hundred pound weight accelerated to
four hundred miles per hour. Like a battleship artillery shell striking
a WWII tank.
They both went over, Dude a blur of carnivorous energy. He
scampered like Screech to the screaming lizard’s neck, and pulled a
long, extremely thin blade from his hip. It drew out the full length
of his leg, and locked instantly at the knee of the blade. Forty two
inches of impossibly thin steel, cycling in his furious hand like a
Ben Hanna tableside surgeon.
He affected some crack-junkie Japanese Samurai, and went
frenetic. Blood debouched over the trees, and called forth to every
predator not already sated. Jeb swept for such opportunists, one eye
on the action. It was instructive, a new aspect of his friend being
revealed.
The creature was ninety foot tall, a reptilian, and bird combo
package. But this was no Happy Meal. It screamed, bellowed, and
trumpeted in choreographed gyrations with two hideously clawed
forearms, and bulging, motoring back legs. Covered with flexible
bone plates, it cracked chitinously as it twisted, and stabbed at the
Robot.
Dude was going for the Chinese Death of a Thousand Cuts
technique. Again and again he drove the blade home, a small geyser
of blood marking each wound. If he was a drilling man back in
Texas, he’d be wealthy, thought Jeb.
His blade whirled overhead; part coiling serpent, part slicing
lasso. Tissue fell away like Dad carving the Thanksgiving bird.
Dude reared up and stabbed the creature in its large, lustrous eye,
inky black afterbirth splashing out. It bellowed hideously, and struck
out with its foreclaw, sending Dude flying into a tree.
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Scott Patterson
It shattered in two, buckling over his back brutally. He wiggled
like too fresh sushi caught t’ween ravenous chopsticks, and kicked
away, blade shattered.
Hand-to-claw combat!
Jeb raised his weapon, but everything in him knew this was
between them. The Return of the Native vs Jurassic. And felt
misgiving.
Dude snatched up a six foot broken limb, and climbed the beast’s
back resolute. Time for an ass-whipping! Cockiness is lethal. Dude
swung his ad-hoc wooden club down, a little too confidently, driving
forward. He struck the creature’s arching nuchal tendon between the
head, and neck, beating down like a Tijuana bull-fighter.
To no advantage. And the beast turned with the determination
of death, smacking Dude hard to the ground. In an instant, it was
on him, and biting. Jeb snapped the safety off, and fired. An arc
of electricity, hot as the Sun’s core, ripped into the creature’s left
shoulder, fire erupting.
Smoke, fire, and terrible smells. And beneath the deafening,
slashing nemesis, Dude struggled against the massive weight as it
crushed him. Jeb continued firing long after the rifle had done its
job. He ran up to sizzling wall of flesh, and yanked on his friend’s
leg that stuck out from under twenty tons of overdone meat.
No motion, or life. He selected a fine beam, and started cutting
from the top, layer by layer. Bone, sinew, and ham-hocks ignited, and
burned away under the terrific force of the beam. Intestines boiled
and burst open, internal organs popped like superheated balloons.
Messy, but cauterized by the searing flame of pure fusion-driven
particles. Ten minutes of cutting, and Jeb worked his companion
free. He dragged the inert form away from the scorched meat, and
tried a closed channel diagnostic. Nothing.
Tossing the gun aside, he threw Dude over his shoulder firemanstyle, and bounded out of the trees to the ship, fearless of wild
cacophony of noises that pursued him. He flicked the remote, the
hatch sprang, and they were in. Something slithered in behind them,
and he got it closed, aware of something moving towards the storage
compartment.
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He didn’t have time to wonder over that, however, as he grabbed
the pre-flight checklist, and warmed up the GraviMetrics. Two
minutes later they were flying straight up, the interdicting barrier
ahead. He lost control, but his “Viking Departure” ascent saved
them. By the time they had reached the one hundred kilometer, the
ship was already doing over seventy thousand miles per hour, and he
relaxed the controls, and let momentum carry them up, and through
the barrier.
At double that height, they broke out on top, and locked onto the
MotherShip. He got up, and grabbed Dude’s body, which he had just
thrown to the deck in his haste to get to the only help he knew. Each
shuttle ship had eight High-Force GraviMetric Cocoons, and Jeb
eased Dude into one of these. In addition to neutralizing the forces
of extreme acceleration, they served as medical diagnosticians.
Capable of analyzing, and repairing many injures, he sealed Dude
in, and flipped the switches.
A gentle bump indicated they were back in the ship, locked to
the Hanger Level clamps. He called the Server, and requested two
medical ServoBots. While waiting, he studied the Cocoon’s readouts,
and accepted the transmitted detail that was being shared with The
Server, and the approaching medical staff.
No life. Massive internal injuries owing to profound trauma.
Just a scratch, thought Jeb. Assuming his mind is salvageable.
We can always steal another body. The hatch opened, and he got
out of the way. They removed Dude, and carried him out, no words
spoken. He went to the bar, and poured a generous G & T. Just as he
was raising it to his lips, a nearly silent slithering sound came to his
ears again, and was gone.
Fuck Quarantine!
He drained the glass, and left.
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Chapter 86: All Hands on Deck!
The Soothsayer was pissed. “I said no ships were to leave for
Earth. And now we have a valuable member of our scientific staff
injured, perhaps irrevocably, and some evidence of an intruder.”
The entire ship’s company including ServoBots stood in the
Public Space of Level Eleven. Many heads hung in shame, some
in quiet amusement. That Jeb & Dude team had always been
troublemakers.
“Dude is one of our finest scientists. Perhaps our best planetologist.
To bring him back, I’m told we either manufacture another ‘Blank’
body, and wait the necessary eighteen weeks for it to be ready to
receive his mind, or substitute one in the current population, and
make that soul wait. Some choice.”
A silent shudder went through the ServoBot contingent, standing
off to the back as they were. Everyone knew a freshly created
“Empty, or Blank,” as they were called, had to be seasoned to accept
a sophisticated mind. That took four to five Earth months. The
alternative, though politically unsavory, involved taking a working
Robot, say a ServoBot, and displacing his inferior mind with a more
needed one.
The ServoBot’s mind could later be downloaded to a waiting
“Blank,” if the need arose.
The procedure wasn’t generally spoken of in polite company.
And with the pending Labor negotiation between ServoBots, and
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everyone else, it was a little touchy just now. Jeb sucked on a small
one-hitter pipe discreetly, eyeing possible donors. He missed his
friend, and the impending political circus was not his bag.
Near the back, he spied the cute little hairdresser he’d seen down
on the services level, and chuckled to himself. That’ll piss Dude off.
Let him become a gender studies expert too.
He started recording her moves, building a file.
As he studied the complex motion of the adjacent ServoBots,
it seemed a loose group of protectors orbited about her, acting high
school tough, and linebacker dumb. Sauce for the Goose.
The Soothsayer droned on. “As scientists, we know Earth is
much the same, and yet it must be greatly different as well. Our
calculations put the Earth at three point zero zero four billion years
older from Tee-Zero, our original departure date. The Earth we
left was four point four seven billion years old. Given that first life
took a billion years to express itself last time, we can expect to find
anything as sophisticated as Man this time around. Not that that will
be a challenge.”
Someone yelled from the ServoBot camp, “Weren’t you a Man
a few weeks ago?”
Apart from the rudeness, it told a sad tale from their quarter.
Not possessed of even basic algebra, they lacked the mathematical
quotient to do the heavy lifting of exponential ciphering. Concepts
like differential perspective, and time dilation weren’t on the menu.
They really thought it had been “just a few weeks.”
Jeb choked silently, his head apparently bowed in reverence. A
hooded cape completed the visage. Sand People with Brains.
Knowing his buddy was rotting down in Medical, he moved
cautiously towards the ServoBot zone. Felonies are easier the
second time around. He beamed a message with a stolen All Security
Removed permission. It collided with one of the larger ServoBots
who snapped to like a parrot getting an acid enema.
Possessed, it yelled, “We all know what this meeting is about.
It’s about our bodies. You think your superior intellect grants you
rights over them. We say ‘Fuck You’.”
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Tension builds quietly in many mannerly systems until a
triggering event just comes along. Yet given the randomness of the
universe, and Man, it happens pretty often. Somebody swung an
“I’ve had enough” punch, and the place exploded as only Robots
can do. Efficiency has its dark side. Critical mass buildup can be
instantaneous by Human standards.
Jeb slipped through the needle eye of raging ServoBots striking
even each other, and punched the hairdresser’s lights out. No time
for chivalry. Over his shoulder once more, and down to Medical.
Dude was already strapped in when he got there, his plans complete.
Thirty minutes later he stood back, studied their faces, and lingered
on hers. The two hundred facial muscles that give tone to a personality
would never quite assemble this face again.
Victim of War.
He threw the switch, beyond philosophy. And left, turning the
combination on the door.
The Level Eleven brawl continued unabated, The Server carrying
the reporting. Jeb thought to himself, Maybe I’ll catch it later on the
Late Night Wrap-up. He punched the down button, and rode the car
alone to Level Five. Walking the corridor, he laughed with a low
chuckle. Is it murder when one life exactly displaces another?
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Chapter 87: Young Lust & Friendship
Like a slow and humbling waking after putting on “the
lampshade” at a party gone horribly long, shame and self-loathing
filled the Ship. Virtually everyone stayed in their living apartments,
hardly able to face their own mirrors.
Jeb munched on a bagel, and punched nine for Medical. No
one was around, but everyone, even the ServoBots, knew why. He
docketed that tactic for later. Inducing riot is effective, and fun. The
door slid back, the two hundred fifty-six bit encryption accepted.
She was perfect.
For modesty sake, he left her clothed. Not that he had to.
He checked the transfer specs, and was pleased to see the receiving
host was nearly done. Perhaps this hairdresser had advanced herself
through listening to all of her clients. For if there’s one eternal verity,
it is: You never learn anything when you’re talking.
He left, scrambling the code for extra measure, or spite.
Hanging from his right hand, a small diagnostic kit. Down to the
Hanger Level. Things to do. Jeb walked through the echoing cavern
filled with terrific flying beasts, and wondered about the slithering
one they had undoubtedly brought back. Time for a little detective
work.
He popped the hatch, and began sweeping his sensitive instrument
around the short pressure chamber just inside. He eliminated all
Robot, and Humanoid DNA Signatures, surprised at the variety of
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life signals still remaining. He called The Server, looked up all ship’s
collected species, and eliminated them. Still plenty of readings.
Next he set the distinguisher to DNA Signatures above one
billion base pairs, and the screen settled down to one strong return.
He bent over, spied some residue which he slipped into a sample
pipette, and continued tracking. No other readings. Just on a lark,
he ran a quick comparison against the Ship’s entire Earth taxonomy
library. Less than a second later: No Match.
Guess you’re something new, our little friend. As I thought!
Into the elevator, and down to his apartment, complete as it
was with an unusual lab. He and Dude had spent years stealing
and fabricating specialized biosensory equipment to construct 3D
representations of life forms DNA assays. He punched one of the
few locks on the ship, and entered his parlor of tricks. Turned, and
jangled the key codes. This was a private enquiry. He took a portion
of the sample, and pushed it into a secure storage vessel, and filed it
away. The rest he held up to the examination light, and wondered,
What hath busy Earth wrought now.
The slender glass pipette slid into it receptacle, and he reached
under the work counter, pulling a beer from the handy frig. It was
a waiting game now. He patched the instrument’s feed to one of his
unused brain processors, telling it: Call me when you can describe
this thing.
And laid down for a nap, his PartyDown (version 1112.4a)
Software even simulating a fairly evil-tempered hangover. The
hours passed, the Ship tomb-like.
***
Gerald sat up resolute, body-snatching a faded indignity. On
some level, as he’d slept, his mind rationalized the theft, and now
signaled it was ready for the next big thing: Sam. The Server,
strangely reluctant, confirmed her location. But he already knew it
could be nowhere but there.
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He stood, delighted to be corporeal again. He worked his arms,
and checked his package. Flex may have been a little light upstairs,
but his shorts were full.
He strode confidently forward, doors moving out of the way more
than opening. Up to the Executive Level, his old stomping grounds,
and down a rarely traveled corridor, reserved for the elite. Known in
whispers as The Shrine, he stood before the sliding panel, awaiting
admittance. The lights flickered like torches, nothing standard about
this place.
And waited.
Starting to get pissed, he called the Server. I must see Sam.
An immediate response, deep and loud from a nearby speaker:
“Saint Harry, and The Reverend share these quarters. It is with The
Soothsayer’s permission alone that anyone is admitted.”
Gerald barked back aloud, “Where’d you learn that trick? The
Wizard of Oz.”
Every Leader, Pro Tem they may be, soon realizes what an ally
The Server can be. As an ex-Leader, Gerald knew he was walking
on thin ice. Worse yet, fighting House Odds. Before he got blindsided, he said with an air of contrition, “Sorry, Man.”
All serious Robots call The Server Man. Some sort of Honorary
Title, like Your Honor, which would never apply to a Cybernetic
being. The Server waited him out. Programmed by design to share
data without editorial, or worse yet, bias, The Server pulled back to
his root code, and thought, I always liked Gerald, and Sam was his
woman. Fuck Harry, and the ghoul.
The door slid aside, snappy, and true. Gerald crossed the
threshold; brave, and frightened.
Five special cocoons filled the diamond shaped room. Low,
warm light penetrated from no apparent source. Barry Manilow
played softly, still annoying. One Cocoon rested against each
chamber wall, it’s fanned shape reminiscent of a seashell. Each was
mythically borne on crystal arch legs. And in the center of the room,
on a circular platform raised just enough, a single, premium-grade
Cocoon.
Sam’s Cocoon.
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Scott Patterson
This private domain had been built by Ordog, always looking
ahead. Gerald and Sam knew of it because of their ruling tenure,
and it was rightfully The Soothsayer’s now. Gerald had an urge to
“mark” the territory. He moved over the clear top, and thought Venus
on a Half Shell.
The bi-valve shell fanned out like an enormous clam. Pearl
alabaster below, and faultless diamond above. And before him, a
goddess drawn in feminine sleep. He nearly shot his wad, but didn’t
want The Server to know. Of course Gerald understood what all
Leaders knew: The Server never stops watching. Anyone. He shot
a look at the nearest camera, and said, “Little private time, maybe.
Come’on, Big Guy.”
The telling red dot blinked off, Gerald still suspicious. He turned
back to Sam’s sleeping beauty, and let it go. Her biometrics filled his
mind, pro bono The Server.
Everything was green. But like Cinderella, or one of those
snoozing Fable chicks, something was wanting to awaken her from
the spell. A self-induced spell, Gerald surmised. He bowed his
head, and opened his mind, a channel at a time, through a secure
MotherShip-external antennae. If you’re going to talk to GOD, best
to use a clear signal.
His onboard prayer-writer started pounding it out, and he hit
HALT. This time it’s from the heart.
He spoke aloud, his words soft entreaties to lost love. “Lord,
this woman is better than I. If you have any mercy, or even algebraic
egalitarianism, take my life for hers. But if it’s cool, we’d prefer to
live together forever together, supremely happy. What’ya say?”
Not Hemingway, but serviceable.
To the point. He used an old password, and boosted the
transmission gain. The electromagnetic radiation streaming off the
antennae was sufficient to roast a duck in flight, and shot out beyond
GraviMetric speed. The Robots, originally Humanoid scientists
bent on understanding the Milky Way, had long ago developed a
transmission system scaled to galactic exploration.
Using a little understood quirk of Quantum Mechanics that
prophesied simultaneity of action, or data passed at any distance,
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they were able to cobble together a crystal radio that used Einstein’s
borrowed Spooky Action at a Distance principal. Though divined in
another time at a great distance, Big Al bit into the concept, and got
the copyright.
And the Nobel.
This radio could talk across supreme distances in an instant.
Though this is a boon to the far-flung exploration MotherShip, it
presents horrific cultural, and scientific problems to your average
remote stellar system resident.
It gets heady real fast, but the upshot is this: Passing fashions
that might take your culture a thousand years to assimilate are on the
morning news. Bagels, and disillusionment. Supernovas that won’t
appear in your skies for eons are on the Breaking News Channel.
Weird shit like that.
Communication was instantaneous. And Gerald was hoping
GOD didn’t put him on hold. In a distant place, Bob sat in his favorite
barber’s chair, getting a mid-week tune-up to his “do.”
Susie, his EverPresent, hummed a little ditty, and snipped at
imaginary split ends. His cell phone trilled, and she said, “Doesn’t
that thing ever die?”
“Sorry Susie, I’m on call while the Main Man is away. Still
looking for that key, I hear.” He punched the voicemail button.
“You have seven point four two to the nineteenth calls. Press one
to listen.”
He’d recognized early in his duties that he couldn’t respond to
every call, and had a programmer add a “Random Feature.” Once
pressed, it would whirl through all the unbidden messages, picking
one. Just One to be Heard. Odds slightly better than PowerBall.
Selected, set the phone down, and picked up a half-drained G
& T. It could take a while, depending on the Algorithm of the Day.
Susie brushed a boob across his upper arm, and he relapsed into a
favorite reverie. Einstein had once said that GOD didn’t play dice
with the Universe, but he was known to shoot craps. And His little
gambling indiscretion was still having manifold consequences. Such
that he was still indisposed in the 11th Dimension. Calendar booked
solid for the next millennia.
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Scott Patterson
Bob was in charge except for the real important stuff, like
timeless truths yet unresolved. Which, politely, were none. Unless
you were still reading the Times, and hand-ringing over appellate
interpretations. But that was so “yesterday.”
Susie unzipped him, and moved her hand to his unit. He pushed
his iPod earbuds in, dialed some Floyd, and she went to work.
His phone beeped, a winner waiting. And beeped, and beeped.
Gerald stood before his once soul-mate, shoulders hung. The
Lord speaks in mysterious ways. All good things happen to those
who wait. Fuck that. He banged on the diamond-clear upper shell.
Bob came for the eighteenth time that day, and relaxed. Susie
smiled devilishly, and went back to her scissors. He reached for
his drink, and knocked his forgotten phone off the side table. It lay
blinking on the floor, a winner announced.
He pulled silently on the tart fluid, sensing a duty shirked. Right,
the phone. A GOD Lottery was up. He snatched it off the floor.
Lord, this woman is better than I. If you have any mercy, or even
algebraic egalitarianism, take my life for hers. But if it’s cool, we’d
prefer to live together forever together, supremely happy. What’ya
say?”
Wow! Heartfelt, at least. He checked his all-knowing “Everything
Known” server, and exclaimed, Earth again, why is this place always
showing up?
Bowing his head in turn, he linked across the vastness of space,
seeking his Boss.
Sam’s eyes opened, her smile pre-loaded for the only one who
could wake her. He wept instantly, even as her shell yawned open.
He fell upon her, arms wrestling an instant later.
Saint Harry, and his ghoulish sidekick lay “In State” while
Gerald and Sam rocked the fucking MotherShip like never before.
The GraviMetric Engine Cybernetics, separate from all Ship-board
instrumentality, betided their love-making, and judged it “safe at
this time.”
Jeb woke up, knowing something had changed. Hangover gone,
he was 5 by 5, and hungry for the terminus of his for-ordained
experiment. He bolted from bed, and ran towards Dude-Babe, the
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only moniker he could whip up on the fly. Her small chamber slid
open, and she stood three feet from him, nude.
Okay. My best friend of ages gone chick. Some new shit to sort
out. They fell into each other’s arms, and then to the floor, digging in
lust, and imagination. Dude whispered a sultry curse, “You fucker.
“
“Exactly.”
As only two manly, lifelong friends can, absent the taboo of
gender Kansas, they merged, again and again, each boundaryrending campaign celebrated. A Homecoming in Low Earth Orbit;
unique of a time and a space.
Earth spun below, the trans-sexuality aboard churning old-hat
for the Universe. Any way we can spray gametes is cool, her mantra.
Even if 99.99% are false couplings, it’s that last squirt that makes
life endure. Dude-Babe took it doggy-style, yelling Texas-style as
she waved her hat like the strumpet any man would become once
female. Plug me, any hole, she yelled. Jeb obeyed, part friend, part
fiendish rapist. Even great friends have unsettled scores.
She rode him like a fantasy. An old campfire fantasy, perhaps.
They had a fucking blast. As only co-earned fantasies can
conjure.
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Chapter 88: And Broke the Rules Again!
Dude-Babe, and Jeb ran the gambit, sexually, and then thought:
Devilry. Off to the Hanger Level. Ordog’s Spherical Ship slid, and
tumbled down, the Boys, or better said Buddies cracking into the
Keg & Cannabis store.
Jeb had set the Ship’s trajectory to “Random” like an iPod
groovin’, and they got to it. Dude-Babe straddled the keg like
a harbor whore, and “popped its cherry” gleefully. Beer shot up,
vaginal enema strong. Dude-Babe bellowed, irrepressible, and pure.
And got cross-eyed with the buzz. Alcohol is optimized to cross
mucous membranes with alacrity.
Jeb had a momentary notion, but let it go. Distal alimentary
membranes are battle-hardened.
Jeb raised his glass, and toasted, “To my greatest companion
in science, and friendship. And to my greatest love.” Dude-Babe
raised her glass, her slender, and perfect arm tanned just right by the
high-energy booths the Robots had rigged when vanity resurfaced
the previous season.
They telegraphed a common need, and started their approach
when the Ship’s Medium Warm Brain said, “Earth below.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” spewed Dude-Babe, beer spraying from
her dainty mouth. But she demurred in programmed shame, and
continued, “Sorry for the harshness. I’ve just got a lot of things
going on in my head right now.”
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Jeb looked over, wondering about version numbers, and upgrades.
What was that shit?
Dude-Babe smiled away from the camera, and shot Jeb a knowing
look. Girl talk blubbery. Working The Server.
The Ship chirped back, coded with a male bias, and all its
attendant baggage. “Sure, darling. I’ll just take you on a slow boat
to China.”
Jeb grasped the nettle, the sting pre-payment for duty later. She
purred back, three hours a woman. Man was doomed.
Some on the galactic, or even Universal Level would remind
you that bi-polar sex identity is not all that common in the core
systems. The subtext is unflattering. Galaxies possessed of a spiral
configuration naturally have abundant “out-lying” areas more distant
from the sagacity of the core.
Us and Them. Pink Floyd had adequately discussed the matter
some three billion years before. No fresh judicial overview was
likely forthcoming.
But sex in the out-lying areas was predominantly between two
entities of the same species that had bifurcated sexuality. This differed
greatly from the more “Urbane” cultures core-ward. Sex there had
purpose, and was well-considered both as a breeding program, but
more importantly a demonstration of superiors lines.
Something for YOU to “Look Up To.”
Their couplings were often, ah, difficult. Eight, sixteen, even
thirty-two interdigitating entities, each with their own Kama Sutra.
Messy, to say the least. The Core People, as they called themselves,
when they could reach any agreement, had disabled all of their
biological safeguards against inter-species procreation. As such, a
given entity could fuck anything in its purview, free of biological
repression.
On a physical layer, maybe. But borking a coconut was still
considered gauche. One tended to fornicate above one’s station,
moving up the phylogeny if one could. Warm-blooded sex with a
cold-blooded creature was frowned upon. You just need to stand for
something. Sex with a superior was a sign of intellect, but always
one-way. Knowing which was the key.
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When they, as a cultural force, spoke in their Sunday editorials
to the spiral arms, it was unkind.
But the Beings of the upstart outer arms knew one thing: Sex
with your own kind is better.
And ya didn’t need to be a BeadHead to see that!
So as timid interspecies differentiation flowered in the more
enlightened quarters of the Milky Way, sex in the burbs was torrid,
alive, and genome-discreet.
Down they flew, to a world they thought they knew.
“Back to Meramec,” asked Dude-Babe.
“Is that what you want, Dude-Babe?”
“One thing I gotta have is a new handle. How about DB?”
“Meramec sounds great, DB.” Crossing the terminator into
nighttime, they spun the Ship around to look upon receding Luna,
it’s signature bluish hue strangely yellow. Jeb leaned forward, and
boosted the magnification, zeroing in on Tycho, the most mammoth
crater on the Moon’s face. Sure enough, what was once a starkly
striking feature was now masked in a mustard fog.
DB said lazily, her eyes barely open,” Jeb, take me to the Moon.”
He smiled at a sudden thought, and made the simple adjustment. The
Ship arced gently out of Earth’s tight embrace, and headed out into
space. At an average distance of two hundred thirty-nine thousand
miles, it’s a stone’s throw away. Jeb set the GraviMetric for a nice
slow approach – one hour. DB adjusted her seat controls, lay back,
and watched the viewplate fill with the fully illuminated Moon.
It was hypnotic, and she fell asleep, Jeb happy for the solitude.
Jeb launched the old ET Movie Soundtrack, and got up. He
walked to the bar, and stared looking for what he wanted, and soon
realized it was behind him: DB, and exploration.
That simple.
Now he had some time to ponder the sundering, say, destruction
of all his gender boundaries, and comfort zones.
The Ship moved into a dazzling hot orbit thirty-eight hundred
feet up, its outboard GraviMetric lenses pushing down against the
inertia that would throw them back into space. A low, tight, fast
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orbit, held forcefully down by the hand of technology. The peaks
screamed underneath, the Ship pitched to look straight down.
Magnificent! But odd.
Maria, craters, grainy mountains, riles, canyons, and snaky
trenches flew by with softened clarity, overwhelming the eye, and
mind with a falling-forward-edge-of-the-cliff-splendor. The onboard
Server, also enjoying the data stream to the best of his ability,
grabbed at details on the run, flashing them across an adjacent screen,
magnified, and powerful. Shattering rocks blasting away from their
mighty, and close passage.
The Moon has many narrow long gulleys that stretch artistically
for hundreds of kilometers. Behind Jeb and DB’s ferocious
overpass, the ground split as if plowed. The two surface features
shared nothing, save the mind-boggling force required during their
construction, however measured, or far away.
Across the shallow Foucault crater in the south of Mare Frigoris,
named after an ancient sea, their Ship sped. Jeb wrapped a light
finger around the control column and nudged them up over the crater
lip, tumbling down the other side at the autopilot’s whimsy.
Borguer Crater ripped by on the right, its cone top above them.
The Moon was four point five billion years old the first time
around, before they all split. At that time, in her blueness, she
encouraged melancholy. But a few months before the Robots had left
Earth in ignobility, when the reality was upon them, some possessed
sorts decided to try a bold, desperate plan. In those final days before
the shame of Departure, they grabbed as many ships as they could
justify, and set off for Earth. Apparently.
With last-ditch-effort abandon, they peppered Luna with surface
penetrating probes. These autonomous drillers burrowed down,
depositing hundreds of caches of spent uranium, other nuclides and
radioactive potassium.
The plan was bold: within a thousand years, these decaying
elements would heat the Moon’s sub-surface up considerably,
driving a constant, volcanic out-gassing that would eventually give
rise to a stable atmosphere. That is, if stability were measured in
atmospheric pressure rather than human breath-ability.
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Which required Part Two of the plan: After the assault with most
noxious poisons man, or actually Robot had ever devised, they shot
hundreds of thousands of pounds of a regolith eating bacteria a few
meters into the surface, and hoped for the best. In time, it was felt
without particular confidence, the Moon would start spewing gases,
and the bacteria would start eating soil, and everything would be
rosy.
It’s just that it had never been done.
The Robots had contingency plans for everything, but seeding
a planet long and always dead was not exactly on the program.
However, some of the boys, working late, and under the influence,
came up with Luna XV7. A nasty, unbelievably fast growing organism
that ate lunar regolith. As a side effect it shit out a granular paste that
could be confused with a primitive, but life-sustaining soil.
Everyone has heard of terra-forming, but this was planet building
on the cheap. With long terms. Six billion easy payments. No credit
check.
That sorta shit.
So, as a last-ditch stratagem, they blended a hardy contagion
with a predator-free environment, save the UV/Gamma, added three
billion years, and split. Not that anyone ever thought it would be
three billion years before they got back.
As DB and Jeb moved up Mare Frigoris, the large crater
Pythagoras, at about thirty degrees west, rose above the plane. As
they passed by its huge expanse, the light levels dropped markedly,
the insistent shower of light bouncing off the Moon flickering out.
Jeb looked down, lost in a trance from the visuals. And freaked.
Greenness everywhere. Not just an errant patch, which some part
of him knew he should expect. After all, there had been rumors.
The carpet of life thickened rapidly. Jeb spoke quietly to The
Server, “Barometrics.”
A display started plotting the bacto-gases. The Earth’s atmosphere
exerts almost fifteen pounds of pressure per square inch at sea level.
The readings here were almost that, and just like Earth, indicated a
surprisingly high concentration of oxygen, and nitrogen.
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Somehow it had all worked, the radio-heated mantle of the Moon
firing the energies of volcanism which in turn evolved gases that
supported, and sheltered the loam-producing bacteria.
Jeb considered landing, if for no other reason than to grab a few
samples as evidence for the parlay. Almost everyone aboard the ship
would doubt him initially. If he could spin the deal right, he’d sew
up the early odds, and take the first suckers clean. He punched a few
buttons on the General Purpose computer before him, applying a
simple cyptogram to keep the cheaters out.
As they crossed over the top to the backside of the Moon, Jeb
registered a deeper shock. He pulled back on the stick, gaining a
hundred miles altitude, and increasing his view proportionately. For
as far as he could see, the lunar landscape was lush, and throbbing
with plant life.
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Chapter 89: WTF!
Jeb leaned over, and shook his life-long companion. “DB, check
this shit out!”
Her eyes blinked open, instant on. “They did it. Or actually,
Father time did.”
They wanted to discuss it aloud, as Humans would, but the data
came at them too fast. Both Robots switched to internal feeds, and
opened an exchange circuit between just for this enquiry. If silent
waters run deep, this stream was bottomless.
The onboard Server’s intellect, optimized for flying, was no
match for their specialized planetology knowledge. From the first
moment, conclusions boiled to the surface of their collective mind:
Species diversity unusually low, but the plants that have taken hold
have grown without limitation. Average depth of covering biomass
seventeen feet. The largest form, a needle thin tree, extends upwards
to eighty feet.
Jeb pushed the stick over, the tiny Ship rolling to the east, and
circling back to the Earth-facing side. Endymion, one hundred
twenty-five kilometers across slid directly below, the once stark
crater now brimming with verdant ground cover. It flowed over the
crater’s rim, and down all the sides like a thick pea soup sloshing
from a bowl.
The north-south Rima G. Bond rille, a long sinuous ridgeline,
swept to the right and disappeared behind them. Jeb dropped down,
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leveling off at one hundred meters, terrain-following set to “nap of
the Moon.” Ahead, the large depression in the lunar surface fell away
swimmingly. Jeb slowed the Ship, spiraling into the amphitheatrelike Romer Crater. Rising from the floor of this forty- kilometer
wide, thirty-four hundred meter deep terraced concavity was a spire
of rock, it’s once stiletto sharpness softened by clinging foliage.
“Glorious,” he yelled as their Ship settled down at the base of
the peak. It towered above them, an impossibly thin sliver of rock
erupting into the yellow air. The Server selected multiple views like
a Disneyland snap shooter, the slide show kaleidoscoping across the
hemispherical screens crowding the command area.
Jeb got up in excitement. “This is beyond anything I’d have
imagined. This could be a life’s work!”
DB got up as well, and entered the small galley. She dropped
ice, fluids and flavorings in the countertop blender, and flicked the
switch. It hummed, and ground with quiet glee. She decanted the
frosty concoction, and walked back, handing Jeb a glass. “To Earth’s
binary twin.”
“Jeb poured the tasty fluid down, and said, “That’s right. It’s just
that one never looks at it that way, the two bodies having been so
polarized in the past. One abundant, the other vacant of life.”
DB responded. “I do hope those bugs they implanted originated
on Earth. That would offer a nice symmetry.”
Jeb thought silently that his old buddy was getting a bit mushy,
but kept that channel locked down tight. Remembering their sexual
frolicking just hours before, he grunted a masculine assent, lost at
sea. Pussy is abundant in the Universe, a Best Friend only happens
once.
He retook his seat, the beauty without suddenly stale.
DB did a little dance, laughed coquettishly, and spoke, the voice
softer than he remembered, “Symmetry is nothing to lose yours
over.” With a running jump, she somersaulted into his lap, perfect
ass first. Their hands flew over each other like two sixteen year olds
hell bent on a first fuck.
A meter away, outside the Ship, the Lunar air drove at thirty knots.
It picked up large grains of the lunar regolith that tintinnabulated
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against the hull, a gentle white noise hissing inward to the struggling
passion play. The captain’s chair, built with rudimentary logic,
interpreted the sexual combat as nervous gas pains, and opened the
seat to an optimal farting angle.
DB yelled out, some expectation the GODs would hear, “Thanks.
This chair knows I’m on top.”
The chair checked its logic for a reference, and went into “stirrup
mode,” expecting an in-flight birthing. The soft suspension system
went battle-hard, and a klaxon lit off, compliments of a Robot who
once liked disco.
DB yelled, “You fucking idiot chair, we’re fucking!”
The chair’s linguistic reserves were meager, it being programmed
to hear simple commands. “Raise lumbar, let the seat bottom down,
lean back.” A product of the industrialization, and eventual capitalism
that developed aboard, and thereafter on Earth, it was intentionally
retarded, the “brains” always last to the workers.
Like HAL9000 in 2001 A Space Odyssey, it could not lie.
At least to itself. And faulted out, shamed by the programmer’s
prideful ignorance. Jeb laughed, catching the chair’s last dying feed
to The Server. Action uncorrectable. Insufficient knowledge to make
judgment.
Low intellects learn first to blame.
Out at the crater’s rim, twenty kilometers away, something tall
stood in the forested shadows. Five meters in height, it looked like
a classic bushel of wheat, hourglass shaped, and furry at each end.
Below, dozens of fibrils, steel strong, reciprocated up and down like
menacing pile-drivers. It tipped forward, and marched.
DB and Jeb lay in each others’ arms, the incandescent warmness
of low light spilling across their slick bodies. The blender burped, a
puppy seeking attention. DB uncoiled, and padded near weightlessly
to the bar. He studied the shapely aspect. Her nominal weight, in
Earth units, would be eleven hundred pounds. A lotta woman.
Here, on the Moon, a demure one eighty-five. But according to
Newton, a body, even her luscious round one, once in motion, seeks
to maintain that motion. Professorial types would say: Conservation
of mass, or ass, depending on tenure.
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Jeb knew from physics. Promises weigh less than money. Hence
they can be accelerated with less energy. Unfortunately, they also
possess less consequent force.
Ebullience obscures all.
“You’re one hot bitch!” A safe play, but he knew she was always
quicker on the uptake. Smart women are a must, but must they…….
“You checking out my ass? Again?”
Hard to fight the logic employed by a woman who used to be a
guy. Jeb thought an instant later, though, that she would doubtless
grow soft upstairs soon, de-selecting reason for feeling.
Going with the current motif, “And a fine ass it is.”
She gave it a fine shake whilst rounding the bar, intent on
another setup for the boys, tom-boy still. Jeb drawled, “Missy, git
me another like I just had.” Sexual innuendo aside, it was piss-poor
English. Reaching into the base of his command chair, he snatched
out a ten-gallon, and popped it up on his head.
She smiled the smile of Greek tragedies; launching a thousand
ships to their doom.
Two lovers, in a thirty foot spherical spaceship in a crater on
the Moon. Without, a hail of flying ground ash, and over-watching
malevolence. All they needed was a bearskin, and a crackling fire.
DB asked, “Did you ever read about Duncan MacDougall’s
experiments?” Before Jeb could hit the server for a full biography,
she stopped him. “No. Don’t look. Let me tell you the official stuff,
and then what I think of it.”
Women love to talk, and share their feelings. Guys like to look
at women, and fantasize until they can take action. It’s a roughly
balanced system. He listened, rapt as a shark.
“Doctor MacDougall’s belief system was traditional, spirits and
souls occupying his thoughts. He was so intrigued with the concept
of Man’s soul that he eventually rigged up a hospital bed to a set of
sensitive scales, and attempted to measure its mass.”
“Let me guess….”
“Hey. This is my story.”
“Sorry.” Jeb wasn’t real big in the apology department, especially
to another guy. This new arrangement was…new.
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DB continued, a trace of amusement crossing her face. “So he
attracted tubercular patients from his practice, and weighed them at
the time of death. He discovered they lost an average of twenty-one
grams as they drew their last breath.”
Jeb rode the tangent of this conversational arc, bemused, and a
little concerned. His buddy of old would have rejected such patter
out of hand as bullshit science. He asked carefully, “What was the
sample size?”
“Six humans, and twenty-eight dogs. Though, he felt dogs were
without souls. Anyway, he climbed up on the bed, and also measured
the mass of his exhaled breath to be critical. The results were always
the same.”
“Yes, but he only made six measurements.” A gentle reining.
“True, but it begs the obvious, doesn’t it?”
“What, that he was a quack scientist with an inductive cause?”
“I thought you always maintained an open mind?”
“Debunking Doctor MacDougall’s investigations don’t really
require any thinking. They are pure bullshit like spoon-bending, and
astrology.”
Between male friends, these words would be normal, if a bit
undernourished. Bullshit is everywhere, and must be dragged out
and publicly flogged at first whiff. Such action is not received with
hostility; an agreement to serve the greater cause of rational thinking
is its own reward, and master.
DB’s internal circuits went to “sulk.” She got up, and ascended the
fireman’s pole that communicated the three levels of their tiny ship.
A cylinder of space encircling the pole was gravity-neutral, allowing
effortless movement up and down. She disappeared above.
Jeb was mad. Fucking women. And that was, of course, the
problem.
He mixed himself an enormous gin & tonic, and looked out
across the lunarscape. Outcroppings of gray rock poked through
the soft carpet of hugging vegetation. Swirling all about, the yellow
atmosphere cast a pleasant “Gentleman’s Club” incandescence over
all like one huge fireside reading nook.
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He liked it, and parsed off those channels considering
DB’s unstable emotions. He set all seventeen considerations to
“background,” and deleted them from his current thoughts. An
ancient President Bill Clinton has once commented on the power of
compartmentalization. And if anyone had needed it….
How had the Moon changed so?
He called up a link to the MotherShip’s main scientific database,
and read all extant literature on Terra-forming, and atmosphere
generation. Though he knew his fellow Robots had started this
process before they had left Earth billions of years ago, he couldn’t
quite connect the dots leading to the view without.
Such verdancy!
Traditional planet building included creating an eventually
breathable atmosphere. And that had two parts: Generate, and retain.
Ignoring the numerous, and heady problems associated with turning
indigenous materials into gas, one had to consider how to keep
them from evaporating into space. And since the Moon had only
seventeen percent the gravity of the Earth, that would be a concern
right away.
Two solutions presented: Increase the gravity of the Moon, or
create a renewing atmosphere. Both were graduate level problems.
The Robots, expert as they were with the manipulation of gravity in
their GraviMetric engines, decided on the significantly easier path
– give the Moon a method of spewing out an endless plume of fresh
gases to call its own.
They looked at Io, one of the four inner moons of Jupiter. This
tiny planetoid was covered with a pizza-face of volcanoes that
sprayed millions of cubic feet of gas every moment. In Io’s case, the
tidal pressure from mammoth warps, and rips subtended by Jupiter
do the heavy lifting. In the consideration of Earth’s satellite, another
method had to be devised.
Radiation. Always a crowd pleaser, atomic decay can be counted
on to heat things up, and keep ‘em hot.
Jeb thumbed through his memory of late twentieth century Earth
technology. Spent fuel rods, withdrawn from reactors, presented an
evil problem that no one wanted in their own backyard. Often referred
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to as a NIMBY (Not In My Back Yard) Issue, it was a political hot
potato. By their departure date in 2004, no full-time repository for
spent fuel rods in America had been nominated, and accepted by
neighboring communities.
As a “temporary measure,” these deadly fuel rods were stored in
boric acid swimming pools. But nature always has a sense of humor,
and it turned out that even by immersing these nasty little monsters
in particle absorbing boric acid had its limits. The caretakers of this
fission’s absolutely predictable end-product couldn’t resist going
cheap, and packing the pools like a bass fishery.
It was only discovered at the last minute, he remembered, that
the consequent problem was the bad attitude this stuff had, even
among its brethren. Put too many rods in too small a place, and it
went “critical,” spewing the most toxic product Man had ever made
to the winds. Makes dealing with the dog shit in the back yard seem
almost comical.
Jeb was connecting these dots. Somehow the Robots had
swooped down and stolen thousands, perhaps millions of these
unhappily stored rods. And despite the nonsense of that final year
before the Chaos Machines arrived at Earth, and the Robots split,
nobody cared to report the theft. Most of these ombudsmen, in fact,
were quietly pleased with the theft.
And maybe a bit uneasy.
He mused as his drink clinked empty in his hand, DB distant.
So my fellow Robots snatched the hottest swag of all time, and
artificially inseminated the Moon like a devil’s bride. Then time took
over, the rapidly building heat a few miles under the lunar surface
getting toasty warm, and thence seething hot.
Followed by volcanic action, and gaseous release. Small geysers
at first, then more and more until equilibrium with atmospheric loss
was reached. At the same time, they must have seeded the Moon’s
regolith with hardened bacteria that needed only a supporting
shroud of UV-absorbing gas to block the Sun’s more energetic
electromagnetism.
Instant living planet; however evil its roots, and desperate the
methods.
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But three billion years is a long time, even for the slow-chapped
gait of Mother Nature. In that time, on Earth anyway, she had
raised unicellular sludge up to Man. And some insisted she was still
working at the puzzle, driving Man to his new iteration: Robot.
And that, but a way station to non-corporeal existence, after the
GODs.
Sacrilege to some, evident to others. The distance between the
two only observation, and reason.
Jeb wanted to explore, to climb out onto the Moon’s surface, and
walk among the crowding alien plants. He checked the atmospheric
constituents, and wasn’t surprised by the eggy fart nature of the
volcanic chemicals. He knew sulfur dioxide, carbon dioxide, and
water vapor were the common emissions. But this mix was much
more robust, containing that rotten-egg stench of hydrogen sulfide
that makes eating scrabbled egg burritos so contentious later.
But apparently these plants loved it, however malodorous.
Since the original Humanoid explorers had all opted for
Cybernation, and the consequent casting aside of their fragile flesh
and blood forms, they had removed the environment suits from the
Scout Ships. Robots were tough, and proud of it. Jeb got up, and
entered the small airlock that separated the command area from the
outside hatch. It cycled the atmosphere, pushing his low humidity,
sweet MotherShip air out, and drawing in the rank miasma of the
Moon.
Who cut the cheese? he thought.
The hatch hissed open, and he stood on the edge of another world.
Scintillating flecks of regolith eddied past, obscuring his distant
vision. His eye sensors needed time to adapt to these particular
circumstances, and filter out the distractions. But he had all the time
in the world.
He stepped out of the hatch, something whirled at the periphery,
and his new world went black-hole black as he fell.
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Chapter 90: Lover’s Spat
On Level Three of the Scout Ship were two equal size staterooms
sharing a luxurious bath. Each suite occupied a quarter of the upper
third sphere, and was appointed with a circular king size bed, two
comfortable reading chairs, and a small writing desk. DB lay on the
bed, face down in tears.
Our first fight.
During over two hundred years of working side-by-side on
endless scientific, and less accepted projects, they had argued, but
as guys. A quick “fuck you, no fuck you” exchange, and the pressure
gone. Back to work, and a fresh beer.
But why was he so stubborn? Why couldn’t he at least….Why
am I suddenly using the word ‘why? DA was miserable, and clueless
how to re-program her new blend of thought and feeling. As a senior
scientist aboard, she knew the pitfalls of proceeding along any
thoughtful tangent without the guiding force of reason.
Mandated by The Scientific Principal, she understood on a level
more distant than it had once been she was already trading rigor for
warmth, however thin or thick the attending fog. DA got up, and
pushed the silent door open to the bathroom. Plush accommodations
for Robots working in the field.
She started a bath, the tub part bubbling spa, part programmable
sensorium. By choosing complex combinations of aromatic
emollients, or letting the tub do so, a unique zen-state of absolute
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relaxation could be achieved. Each experience was different, no two
alike. She went with the tub’s choice, rumored a treat.
Soon, the air filled with the rich balm of eucalyptus, tea tree oil,
basil, mint, and something that might have been jasmine. She stepped
into the one hundred eighteen degree water, her skin programmed to
recoil from the biting heat. Sliding in, she surrendered, a mandolin’s
muted chords filling the steam like an ancient Japanese garden
musician. Flickering candles completed the moment, her still-dry
hand reaching for a joint.
Four minutes later, she floated in a sea of contentment, lost to
Earth, the Moon, or the MotherShip. Outside, the breeze built to a
cutting wind, and then a torrent. Something large dragged Jeb by the
feet, uncaring of the rocks his body struck as he twisted unconscious
in the other’s grasp. It rounded a tall outcropping, and made a bowing
gesture, a watching eye within receiving the simple signal.
A small crack yawned open, and the thing descended rough-hewn
stone stairs, Jeb’s head bouncing off each like a dribbled basketball.
The wind drove in behind them, howling as a wounded beast. A
moment later the opening ground harshly closed, by all external
appearances a slightly discernible fissure running down the rocky
spire. And still the storm rose, yellow mist moving like a specter;
deliberate, and cunning.
DB awoke sometime later, refreshed, and ready to talk to Jeb
about her feelings. She dressed quickly, suddenly in love again. Six
desperate minutes later, she knew she was alone. Possessed of a first
rate mind, she channeled all of the Ship’s resources to search nearby,
only to as instantly get entirely negative returns.
She bit back on her tears, confident a decision had to be made:
search alone or get help. The Scout Ship lifted off an instant later,
MotherShip bound.
In sixteen seconds it was screaming at imponderable speed, her
mind way out ahead. It’s one thing to be killed by a dinosaur on
one’s native Earth, it’s quite another to just disappear on a Second
Generation Moon. GOD only knows what evolution has done
there.
Now she was pissed, a lioness finding her claws.
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Twelve horrible minutes passed before the ship bumped
and skidded onto the Hanger Level, onboard guidance hindered
sympathetically by DB’s mood. Emotive pleas were a rarity, each
instructive, and to some, evolutional.
Since Cybernation, when the shipboard scientists had traded in
their withering humanoid bodies for timeless Robotic ones, they had
added some plasticity to their physical feature sets. On-the-fly, they
could change hair color and length, and even facial characteristics.
This made movie night more entertaining, but obeyed one practical
rule: you may not imitate another member of the crew.
That would be tacky, and open an entirely new Pandora’s Box
of identity confusion. Just being a Robot was enough of a struggle
for most. DB wanted to bolt out screaming, but her uber-scientific
mind called for pause. First, she was harbored within a stolen body,
certain to be interpreted as poor form, or something worse. Second,
she and Jeb had ignored a direct order from The Soothsayer: No one
was to visit Earth, and by association, the Moon.
She knew she occupied an untenable position, and recalled the
humorless mentality of the former hairdresser’s companions. The
Deltas from the lower levels.
It was a pretty little problem.
Time for an ally. She scrolled through the entire ship’s company
in a nanosecond, stopping at two candidates. Both might be
sympathetic, even useful for their own reasons, and one was overtly
susceptible to feminine wiles. She set her hair to a luscious flowing
red, raised her cheekbones a patrician notch, and walked steadfastly
off the Scout Ship.
The Soothsayer, always an iconoclast, even during his MIT
professorship days, rolled off one the Cheerleaders, and farted.
“Thanks, babe.” She padded away to the bathroom to reset for
another presumed round. He stood, and called The Server. Protocol
demanded he maintain a constant link, but he didn’t like that rule,
and never allowed interruptions to his lovemaking.
Another ship had left and returned, this time to the Moon. Heads
were going to roll. He did a quick count of “souls aboard,” including
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even the ServoBots, and got a puzzling result. The physical count
was low by one, yet two registered MIA.
Time for some hands-on leadership. Naked, he bolted out the
door, the elevator opening in fear. He said aloud, “The dungeon.”
Like all Leaders, his first official act was to rename everything,
even if some were kept to himself. Give them some time to see my
vision.
The tiny room plummeted along the arc of the MotherShip,
stopping a little too suddenly at Level Six. The elevator identity
software sniffled a bit, waiting for remonstration, but The Soothsayer
simply walked off, bigger fish to fry. The doors closed silently, the
car racing away like the gutless wimp it was.
That cute hairdresser, he thought. Her locator chip put her on the
MotherShip, but the signature was irregular. My first clue.
During his personal Cybernation, he had retained his height, it
being an irrational, though constant comfort in Human days. Now
he approached a swarthy ServoBot, squaring his wide shoulders.
“Hey, you, ServoBot.” That was quickest way to piss off an underling
– pigeon holing. In the surrounding dark, smelly, and cramped
quarters of Level Six’s physical plant, the ServoBots felt protected,
their home turf advantage most vividly imagined.
Eight threatening feet separated them, each sizing the other
fearlessly.
The Soothsayer preferred audible discourse when addressing an
inferior. “Hey, ServoBot, I’m looking for that cute little hairdresser.
Where is she?”
“I have a name, just like you. It’s Reginald. Use it!”
The Soothsayer smirked. The ServoBots, lacking genuine
presence, had dallied with adopting regal sounding names as a halfmeasure. The Soothsayer remembered most had eventually dropped
such nom-de-plumes, the holdouts ridiculed even among their own.
He laughed harshly, the syllables gnashing like ground gears.
“You buffoon. Like they used to say in Texas, ‘Big Hat, No
Cattle’.”
The ServoBot rushed him, all their collective frustrations,
and animus behind the first punch. The Soothsayer took the blow,
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surprised at its murderous fury. These guys are really pissed, he
thought as he rotated a roundhouse kick into the other’s groin. It
bounced off, the ServoBot encouraged by his own dullness.
The Server picked up the fight immediately, and routed the
security camera feed to Level Eleven, a croupier standing watch.
Two seconds later, the gambling board was up, and running. Bets
tumbled in, both sides enjoying the proxy war.
Reginald bellowed, and rushed again, hitting eighty miles per
hour instantly. At seventeen milliseconds to collision, The Soothsayer
faked left, and blurred right, exposing a heavy pipefitting. The crunch
was sickening, Level Eleven erupting in fresh wagers.
Robots don’t have blood, but they had all upgraded to a fluid
transfer system to convey toxins to intended receptors. Reginald’s
head gushed a clear thick liquid, the gash deep, and ragged. He slung
his head around violently, sluicing a huge arc of sticky goop. And
screamed with indignant hatred.
The Soothsayer knew he was in some danger, but it felt great.
His first impression of living amongst the Robots, after they had just
left Earth, was one of placid sameness. Individual expression, and
fireworks traded for security.
But since stopping in space on the way back from Andromeda,
something had happened. And he had to admit, he liked it. The
Robots had changed, become less passive, more variant.
Evolved. Maybe fear had made them mature just a bit.
He grabbed an overhead pipe, twisted it free, and brought it down
on Reginald’s head, his opponent temporarily blinded by the spray
of liquid in his eyes. It landed with a satisfying clunk, and he swung
it around, and up under the other’s slack chin with vengeance.
Reginald dropped, wager chits flying in disgust. Someone on
Level Eleven yelled in frustration. “Not only are they stupid, they’re
pussies!”
The Soothsayer grabbed Reginald, and shook him mercilessly.
“Where’s that goddamn hairdresser?”
Reginald looked up, and spit. “Fuck you, asshole.” The
Soothsayer yanked, and rotated with all his might, Reginald’s head
tearing free. He pushed the corpse away, it falling clumsily to the
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deck, turned, and left holding the head dangling from his right hand.
It drooled as he walked, a small trail of gummy guts marking the
trail back to the headless Robot.
Somewhere far off, Screech could be heard, the echo of
approbation clear.
Up to Level Nine: Science & Medical. He propped the head
up on a workbench, and plugged in a general service coupler. The
Server stated matter-of-factly, “Unit 44RY, nee Reginald.”
“No shit, Sherlock. I want this fucker routed. Find that
hairdresser.”
The Server was about to remind The Soothsayer about a
heretofore-held natural law mandating one’s individual identity
barrier was his own, open only upon permission. Instead, considering
all his own vulnerabilities, he said, “You got it Boss.”
“How long?”
“Give me a coupla hours. It’s only a ServoBot, after all.” This last
comment, gratuitously racial, sounded good on a level The Server
had just found. The Soothsayer said nothing, simply leaving.
DB and Jeb had long ago hacked The Server’s most private
channels, the implications of the entire exchange now heavy in her
aching heart. So many tangents, she thought.
She scanned the Robotic locator, realizing with a smile her
own signature was the only one garbled. And set off, topside to the
Executive Level. Jeb had been real close to Ordog, and knew of the
secret chamber she now sought. Up the elevator, stolen password
accepted, and through the long corridor.
Swish, the door opening to opulence, and the sounds of rutting.
Before her, Gerald and Sam going at it. They acknowledged her
presence mind-to-mind, unabashed, and undeterred. After a polite
waiting period, DB said aloud, “Gerald, I need your help.”
Admission of need between Robots is always received with
suspicion, no shortage of odious chores undone.
Sam giggled hoarsely, saying, “No sharing, he’s mine.”
DB opened her To Do List, and docketed the notion for later,
some probability implied. “I’ll come right out and admit it, I’ve
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stolen this body. I used to be Dude, senior planetologist. And my
friend, Jeb has been abducted.”
They unfolded, and sat up. Gerald said, “We’ll put aside the
ethics of the first admission for the time being. The second problem
can’t be too big, seeing as the Ship is only fourteen million cubic
feet, and allowing for…” Sam cut him off. “Come here, darling, and
tell us your story.”
DB, late of being Dude, had no sensitivity to Sam’s radiant
nudity, and squeezed in between them, the musk of sex heavy. She
gave it to them on a private channel, this one firewalled and set to
low gain to ensure it traveled no further than the chamber. Gerald
was perfectly still, part awestruck, part in doubt.
She finished with a spoken plea for emphasis. “He saved me
from probable death on Earth, and it’s my turn to repay. Please help
me find him.”
Gerald said slowly. “I’ll handle the diversion.” He got up, and
left.
Sam and DB sat next to one another, something passing rapidly
and not at all. After a few minutes, an All Hands Alert sounded from
The Server, The Soothsayer commanding everyone to Level Eleven.
Sam said, “Let’s go, hon.”
On the Hanger Level, DB said with affected recessiveness, “That
Ship.” Sam replied softly, “Gerald is already aboard. He had to load
some special equipment.”
They boarded without ceremony, and eased into space, the
MotherShip Server temporarily blinded by Gerald’s phantom. “My
little virtual pet will keep them occupied for hours.”
Gerald pushed the thrusters forward to their stops, and pulled up
a summary of the last journey. Romer Crater. He selected it, and got
up, walking to the bar. “What’ll be, ladies?”
Sam piped up, “DB and I’ll have a couple of battle drinks. Full
munitions.”
Gerald wanted to chuckle along, even as an outsider, but
circumstances had moved considerably during his masculine
ushering to the ship. He mixed, affecting great barmanship as his
giant mind kicked itself for losing the thread. But instead of making
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half-felt apologies, implied, or real, he hit the receding MotherShip
Server for fresh data.
The lifeblood of any thinking machine. Or entity.
Since an anonymous drunk Robot had developed Google one
night on a dare, and stuffed it down The Server’s throat, finding
that one instance of knowledge you sought had become tougher.
Something about being backwards compatible to Windows 3.1. He
tried repeatedly, questing for that gem he had tucked away so long
ago like a sleeper waiting for jihad.
Clara Harlowe Barton. 1821-1912. Yeah, her. Youngest of five
children, home schooled. No medical training. Founded the Red
Cross, but not before riding side-by-side with Civil War troops to
face the atrocities of war. Endured incredible tragedies, and danger.
He reached for the Sambucca, building the perfect war grog
one toxin at a time. The blender growled, some premonition of its
birthing. He selected tall tubular flutes, four hundred centimeters
high. Ice splintered in, all slitting edges. The thin, sinuous fluid ran
self-aware along frozen edges, gouging deep embattlements.
It was mesmerizing. Carbon black with undulating ribbons of
crimson, swirling, but seemingly immiscible. Corners of frozen
water poked against the glass, awash in death, and blood.
The smoke, and gore of battle.
He carried all three drinks to their command area, and stood
waiting.
They faced each other with intense silence. He selected Sam’s
innermost channel on suspicion, and got voicemail. Voicemail!
The voice was sweet, but direct: “Sorry, I’m communicating with
someone more intelligent than you just now. If you can construct a
perfect sentence, do so, and maybe I’ll call.”
Sounded like Joe Walsh singing Life’s Been Good So Far.
Their ship sped out, crossing the same space that had once
enticed Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin to the Moon. One hundred
thirty nine thousand miles, a tobacco spit in the bucket, even on an
interplanetary level. And Gerald had this baby cooking, the sub-subtext of Sam’s anxiety bleeding across their linked minds.
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Lanced apart as they now were, after absolute intimacy, was
strange, like the phantom sensations of an amputee. The transmission
time between thought emission and receipt was perceptibly no
different, but worlds different. Akin to lovers traveling separately for
an extended time, and getting, slowly, to know one another again.
Emplaced barriers. Primal stuff.
“Hon, tell us what you know.”
DB anticipated the renewed struggle of storytelling, and upended
her glass. Sam gently disengaged her hand from the vessel, and
moved to the bar for another round. Gerald stared ahead, affecting
the absent bus driver.
“We’d had a disagreement, and I went up to lay down. When I
came back to Level One, he was gone. I searched everywhere.”
“Did the ship record anything?” asked Gerald.
“Yes. The hatch had been opened, and then strangely had cycled
closed automatically.”
Sam faced DB. “That means Jeb didn’t close the Ship’s hatch.
It’s programmed to close after twenty seconds if no command is
received.
Gerald seized the thread. “He opened the hatch, stared out,
and something happened. He left the Ship, and forgot, or couldn’t
perform one of the most important things we’re all taught to do.
Secure the Ship.”
He took a deep draft of his drink, and continued. “I know Jeb.
He wouldn’t have neglected procedure. Somehow he was unable to
close that hatch, which means he was unconscious. And since he
wasn’t within the Ship’s scanner range, he was knocked out, and
carried off.”
DB sobbed quietly, Sam giving Gerald the evil eye. “I think we
knew all that already.”
“Sorry. It helps me to state aloud the facts. Now that we’re clear,
let’s develop a plan.”
The Ship settled into Romer Crater with a soft thump.
They all stood, deer-in-the-headlights stultified. Gerald said, “I
say we follow the track of Jeb, and his abductor. When we find them,
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we kill everyone associated with this outrage, and then split.” The
women nodded their assent.
Sam laughed, and said, “That’s my man.”
DB asked, “What do we have in the way of non-defensive
weapons?”
Gerald and Sam looked at each other, unsure who should speak.
By silent agreement, Sam said, “We’re bringing along something
a friend of Gerald’s made. This can never be discussed on the
MotherShip.”
DB nodded, a waxing smile spreading across her face.
They exited the Ship, and immediately picked up the tracks.
Gerald spoke, the thinner Lunar air making his voice wimpy. “If
I was a breathing organism, I’d flush this shithole. Smells like a
summer camp outhouse.”
The women smiled, fear apparent. Six minutes later they
reached the rock spire, and examined it with the best eyes within
nineteen thousand parsecs. The Fall of the House of Usher crack
that proceeded from above in a zigzag fashion to the crust at their
feet, though barely perceptible, beckoned.
Gerald pulled his backpack off, withdrew some putty-like
material, and packed it into the widest part of the crack. He said,
“Ladies, let’s step around this outcropping.” Once behind the boulder,
always the historian, he twisted an ancient wooden detonator. The
rarified air of Luna had lungs, and attitude. A compressive wave
reached them accorded by an enormous explosion.
Sam said, “Think you used enough dynamite?”
“Gerald laughed, and said, “Butch Cassidy, and the Sundance
Kid, right?”
“Yes, my dear. Whoever’s in there knows we’re from Earth.”
They rounded their protective barrier, and approached the spire.
At one hundred yards it looked different. At one hundred inches,
gaping. A huge chunk of rock had been torn away, obviously fake. A
twenty foot wide hole was blown out of the side of the spire, a dark
stairway leading down within.
DB said, “I’ll lead. What kind of weapon can you give me?”
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Gerald struggled out of his heavy backpack, and set it down on
the regolith. He withdrew a short tube with a knurled grip at its base.
“Just point this at whatever you want to stop being alive, and jab this
button.”
DB was businesslike. “Got it.” They descended, Gerald taking
up the rear. As his foot touched the first step, he pressed a tiny button
in his pocket. Two hundred twenty four thousand kilometers away,
on the MotherShip, just as The Soothsayer was calling the troops to
order, a klaxon started wailing.
The Server announced, “Intruder, intruder, intruder” relentlessly,
and with a little relish. Gerald was a friend, after all. The Robots
didn’t really have battle stations as their mission had always been
scientific, but The Soothsayer yelled “Split into equal groups, and
search every level.”
He left with the departing Robots, intent on checking his own
quarters. As he ascended, his suspicions grew, and he checked the
Server for a map of all personnel’s whereabouts. Two floors later,
he was fuming, but decided to let the ruse go. The others were best
occupied, anyway. He reversed his direction, heading to the Hanger
Level.
As he suspected, the complement was short, and he climbed
aboard another Scout Ship. He called up the Server on the Command
Channel, and said, “Unless you want to replaced by my blender, tell
me where they went.”
“Feeding coordinates now.” Even non-corporeal beings want
job security. The Soothsayer blasted away, not a little amused.
Back on the Moon, the stairway had ended. Thirteen steps.
“That figures,” said Gerald on their private inter-Robot channel.
He placed his hand on the rock wall before them, and shuddered a
bit with its sticky texture. Funky atmosphere, he thought. But there
was something else. He motioned for the others to place their hands
alongside his, and they all instantly agreed – there was machinery of
some kind operating not far away.
More than simply operating, it was thumping out a steady
bass note reminiscent of Three Dog Night performing One is the
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Loneliest Number. A coalmine deep, regular pulse. Sam spoke
silently, “They’re either jamming, and making something.”
DB replied, “I don’t like primal music, and I don’t need any
cheap consumer goods. Let’s go in hard, and kill everything.”
Sam and Gerald had seen some violence in their time together,
but they each took a step back, the body language lost on no one.
“What? I want these fuckers swatted out!” DB was mad, and the
edges of her transmission crackled with raw anger, and sympathetic
nervous system mandates.
Sam wanted to minister equanimity, but couldn’t quite make
the breach, understanding her sister’s anger, and desire for action.
Gerald unpacked a large quantity of explosive as Sam moved her
hands slowly over the wall probing for false cracks. “Same bullshit
as above, it’s all fake. I say put a shitload at the edges, go back up, and
detonate it. Apparently they didn’t register the outside explosion, so
if you use enough go-juice, we can enter under the cover of a first
class distraction.”
Gerald nodded, their voiceless inner communication in sync. “I
decided to use it all. It’s going to big a very large bang.” DB smiled,
the she-devil within placated for the moment. They all packed the
putty in a lumpy string around the periphery of the wall, and turned
to face up the stairs. A yellow wash of light flowed across the stairs
and narrow entrance, odd in so many ways.
Gerald said, “In all the time I spent with the Robots, I never got
up here. It’s funny to think that was billions of years ago. Kinda
messes with your head.”
Sam said, “Come on, Buck Rogers, let’s head up, and get this
party cranking.”
They bounded up, anxious for the next chapter. DB asked, “Can
I do it?”
Gerald handed her the small wooden box, a million movie scenes
filling his mind. Just as she turned the crank, he saw Kurt Russell
twisting a like device in the John Carpenter remake of The Thing.
As the inner video spooled, he could hear Kurt yell, “Fuck you”
at the creature as the rock spire erupted, shook violently, and shed
hundreds of tons of rock down.
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They ran for their lives, separating in panic.
Open field communication between Robots is very fast, but
limited to a few hundred feet in distance, and optimized for
MotherShip use. That means numerous repeaters, and clean power.
On the lunar surface, they had neither. Amidst the smoke, falling
debris, and airborne dust, they switched to simple radio, the likes of
which Marconi had never visualized.
But still lacking. In numerous key ways, such as encryption, and
obstacle penetration.
Gerald couldn’t see shit, and hear farts. A local storm seemed
to be forming, perhaps an unintended consequence of too much
GraviMetric Emploder Dust. The stuff of dreams, and Black Holes.
A handful, uncontained by an aggressive acceleration puckers a little
corner of the universe for its own.
The bomb works like this. GraviMetric attraction, the shit used
to suck Robot Ships to the farthest corners of the Galaxy, and even
beyond, is induced benevolently by tumbling a known mass around
a small dogtrack at supra-light speed. The resultant waveform
propagates willingly through a series of gravity bending lenses, and
is directed at mass sufficient to suck.
Space instantly puckers at the focal point of this string-theory,
quark & charm waveform, and a lusty attraction is born. Never was
a more tawdry couple fused. We’re talking quitting time “drink her
pretty” horndog mating! The distant mass, say an unsuspecting
planet, suddenly gets an out-of-nowhere lip-lock that won’t quit.
Total prom-night malingerer desperate-for-a-kiss horny.
So the planet gets boned with a big yank, and the MotherShip
starts reeling her in. It’s the sort of deal the Galaxy’s Ruling Class
allows. It all balances out in the end, and that sort of thing. But the
Galaxy Rulers all live on Bloatus Prime, a massive, rocky planet
twenty-eight Earth diameters across.
Yet, when you’re living on a tiny rock, enduring the slings and
arrows of minimal gravity, it can be catastrophic. One minute you’re
bopping along, walking the dog, and the next Fido is gone, sucked
into the void by a silent freeloader. The kind of stuff never accurately
portrayed during the sales process.
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Happily, in the early days of interstellar travel, agreements were
reached, and many planets, and stars were certified to be suckcompliant, like a girlfriend before marriage. But so many more
complained, and got added to the no-suck list, which really led to the
main problem: The interesting places all lay in direct paths proximal
to no-suck planets.
The rub was this: If one wanted a quick attraction, and resultant
short transit rimes, one would grab a good planet hard, and do the
handoff from planet to planet. This is wrenching to the “grabbed”
planet, and always leads to coordinate wars, where the galaxy-wide
registry of Places gets hacked.
Though banned, this practice is sadly still quite common.
The GraviMetric funnels, much like a Kansas twister, reach
down on the unsuspecting planet, or town, depending on the size
of the sending ship, grabbing hold. Things not nailed down get
accelerated, which is a polite way of saying ripped out into the
vacuum of space.
And since even Einstein admitted these interactions can happen
at any distance, undeterred by the pedestrian speed of light, you get
no advance warning. One minute your gals on your arm, the next
she’s sucked at incomprehensible speed upwards, screaming, and
pissing all over you.
Those are the lucky ones.
Sometimes the descending “hook” of gravity, especially from
Generation One Emploders just dance over the surface, frapping
everything under their influence. That can get messy, and political.
And then the lard-asses from Bloatas Prime will call, holding on
line four.
Not advertised anywhere, however, was the gotcha for this
too-good-to-be-true discovery. Every product has one, and the
GraviMetric Engine, once started, must remain at tear-your-headoff-speed forever. There is no way the spitting worm of Gravity will
be teased back into its bottle.
A sudden loss of power, and the device implodes, sucking the
universe in upon itself. The first time this principal was tested, some
money rode on the supposition that the Universe at large would be
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drawn through this tiny point, and turned into a linguini noodle of
prodigious length. Though that didn’t happen, a terrific explosive
force was discovered.
Later, the effect was harnessed at the nanotechnology level, and
packaged in a gritty dust as an industrial explosive for shifting orbits,
and other galactic heavy lifting. Apply a current, reverse polarity to
piss it off, kill the power, and be somewhere else. Very handy stuff.
Just avoid static charges.
Back to Gerald’s buddies. Smelling a turn of the tides, they
agreeably whipped up some Be-Gone dust for his adventure. They
had some issues cracking The Server’s remaining secrets, and Gerald
had some old backdoor codes.
Quid pro quo.
Gerald heard faint, but animated whispers, a suggestion of
Robotic transmission, or possibly Art Linkletter bouncing off the
Heliopause. But when he heard Sam yell, “Hey fuckhead, you
nearly blew the Moon in two,” he burst into laughter; a riotous,
belly shaking roar of joy. That Be-Gone had some ginger alright,
but “dosing it” for a given job took experience.
He stood, and swept his view around. Thick, choking moon dust
hung in the air like pre-war London soot. He strained with mental
constipation, willing his radio voice to reach the others. Broken
fragments from the other two reached his state-of-the-art analogto-digital converter, and immediately rendered into precise garbage.
GIGO.
“Shit,” he screamed aloud, his voice carried with surprising
richness in the swirling rarified air. A moment later, “Gerald, it’s
me, DB. And Sam is right here. Where are you?”
Gerald tried desperately to transmit his coordinates, getting only
white noise. In frustration, he shouted, “I’ll walk to the spire. Meet
me at the two o’clock position where the sun is twelve.” He started
off, amused at the distance traveled at his maximum velocity just
before the explosion. Two miles later, a shadowy rock rose above
him, and he oriented to the sun.
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And saw his girls. Waiting like they’d been there for a while.
That could be really good, or bad. He decided to play it cool. “Wow,
glad we all…”
“How much Be-Gone did you use? And where the Hell did you
run to, you chicken-shit?”
He thought he heard that, but instead the gals just smiled through
the hanging haze, genuinely glad to see him. “Hi, Babe. Good
job.” He listened ten thousand times at super high speed to ensure
accuracy, and allowed a tiny, retractable laugh.
His leadership intact, he grunted tersely like Arny in Predator,
“Let’s go.”
The hole in the spire was larger now, and the stairs more
treacherous. But, owing to the avaricious nature of a hungry, young,
far-reaching unresolved GraviMetric sucker, when the power goes
away, the sucking gets crazy. And anything in the frenzied snake’s
eye is fair game, and going somewhere else. Fast.
Before them, the stone wall was gone, and the room beyond,
absolutely vacant. Not even a trash can. “That shit sure can clean a
house,” quipped Gerald, his cavalier attitude masking fear.
“But,” he continued, “’wish I had so’more. Might be handy
later.” Sam barked back, “Cut the masculine forewarning. We will
all beat this thing together.”
DB thought within her growing mind, This bitch gets it! Visions
of a rough-and-tumble childhood filled her mind, a random indexing
event that was marketed as instructive, but ill-regarded among
the Direct-Thinkers. Those of that lofty aerie regarded such as
advertising, or even filibustering.
Just when you’ve throttled the cusp of meaning, an unbidden
jangle intrudes, scattering the nascent tendrils. Poof, another good
joke snuffed!
That kinda shit.
Inherit, and endure. But not with the premium upgrade package,
a cottage industry that sprang up even among a hundred recent
cybernetic scientists, and their ServoBot underlings. If you moved
a little more of whatever was currently valued their way, you got
quicker updates, tighter code, and bug fixes.
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Scott Patterson
Without the package, bugs were regarded as undocumented
enhancements. Even the personal ones. The directed ones. Makes
ya think before you piss off the guy building your next mind.
Since Cybernation, the elite of the MotherShip had progressively
asked for, and gotten greater and greater control over their Robot
bodies. Every function, most never imagined to be used, were reprogrammed, and released for general consumption.
A bad code-jammer, or worse, a jilted one, is the stuff of class
actions. Since there is always overlap in coding ramifications,
untoward, and unconsidered things happen. Like when the voices
we all hear in our minds are really there, and truly not on our side.
Makes it rough to get out of bed. Necessary covenants forbid
broaching such sacrosanct boundaries, but shit happens under the
pressure of deadlines, and spurned affections.
But back to our heroes.
Stout walls surrounded them; grayish, rough-hewn though they
may be.
There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how
we will. Gerald said, “Hopefully Jeb wasn’t in here.”
He didn’t mean anything by it, more than an affirmation of his
friendship, and genuine concern. Walking ahead, he instantly picked
up the burning stares at his back. As part of Robotic communication
technology, their eyes send out a hearty infrared signal to assist in
rapid target acquisition. It can have several unintended, but alarming
consequences.
First, its intensity is user-selectable, and that prompts the question,
“why?” At less than one hundred feet, it can be used to start real or
spiritual fires, warm up a room for lovemaking, or remonstrate for
lack thereof.
And the history of such capability is far from intriguing. Think
tawdry, with a blush of influence from the fashion industry.
Circa 1989, during the era of Me. Reaganism was resplendent,
and blacktie was all the rage. The Robots took to that pomp like
stink on shit, and started dropping in on affairs of state. To keep up,
they devised increasingly flamboyant, and severe costumes, intent
to be the best dressed, or most possessed.
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DOWN AT FLATHEAD
That’s when the boys in engineering got involved. Never satisfied
with the word of another Robot, they cried for ratification of allure.
Simply put, they wanted a ready means to determine, and gamble
upon, the most successful outfits.
And the solution was a doozy. It went something like this:
“I believe we can whip up a dress, and sender combo before the
Conventions,” the senior engineering Robot said to his collected
“off the clock.” homeboys. A few nods through the thick cannabis
malaise. A week later, they were flying down to the Democratic PreNomination Parties. With untested gear.
Six Fembots, and Six matching studly escorts stepped gracefully
up into the Scout Ship. The smell of roses presented, and champagne
waiting filled the Hanger Level. It was a gala time, and everyone
seemed charged.
The babes really wanted to test the crowd, and see if they could
match anything Man might conjure. The escorts just wanted to suck
free booze, and sample the local fauna.
They rented a few limos, arriving fashionably late sans invitations.
One look at their entourage, and no one bothered to ask. They were
duded up!
All six men wore identical black Armani knockoffs, skillfully
mimicked by machines more accurate than Earthly surgical tools.
And red bowties. But who cares about the guys.
The women had gone all out. High albedo white gowns, lustrous
in ways that are unnatural, and not naturally occurring. Beautiful
accents; an equal number of bustiers, three crimson, and the rest
depthless cobalt blue. Hair coiffed impossibly, their superfine
polymer trusses defying gravity.
And a lot of leg. Short gowns for perfect dancing, and flashes of
feminine beguilement. They diffused out upon the dance floor, and
got to it. But this was a masked ball, and everyone wore minimalist
face disguises, all doctored by the advance team of scheming
engineers.
By design, each opera mask had been fitted with a tiny sender.
When a guest looked at one of the Robot women, a “hit” was
recorded by their gowns, and uploaded to the MotherShip. Their
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sheik hosiery, also, recorded kindly and lascivious stares, as did
their shoes. It was like having a radar screen wrapped around your
body, recording praise.
Duration, pan and zoom were measured, and factored into the
personal equation, and everyone got a starting value of zero. Let the
games begin!
Even before the Robots had infused the party, the gambling
board was lit, and chits were flying. Reefer burned everywhere, and
the kegs were popping. All was right with the world, and it promised
to be a grand evening.
One little cretin of a Robot was screaming, “Three hundred
Blue Two, the one with the killer ass, scores highest in the next five
minutes.”
Someone yelled anonymously, “She sure is big and small in all
the right places.”
Each Babe, on team Red, and Team Blue got the wager on the
priority channel, and fanned out. Already the hit counters were
beeping, the twirling numerals setting, and upsetting the odds.
But Blue Two was ahead, each look at her tits or ass by “senders”
recorded, and thrown up on the Big Board. One deceptive croupier
sent that moment’s tally down to the losers, each turning to the Blue
Two for a stolen five hits.
It can get tough working the Big Board.
The party started warming up, and the numbers were coming
in. Each girls’ agent called down the moment-by-moment odds, and
payouts, and offered tactics. “Right, I know we agreed to pull that
panel off later, but yank it now!”
On the floor, Red Three pushed a tiny magnet aside, and her
entire midriff went nude, the banished material disappearing. In her
belly button was a live gem, flickering the spectrum with wanton
charm, and not a little suggestion.
Her numbers took off, nearly every eye in the place turned.
Beep, beep, beep. She blushed demurely, and the numbers doubled
with the fresh action. And her top slipped, the crowd whooshing
with the ascending tally.
The other gals were pissed, certain the fix was in.
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Every new second of ogling granted a new point. Ten tit-seconds
later, ten points to Red One. But this crowd was fickle, and wanted
another shock. Didn’t have to wait long. Each white gown was in
truth a clear garment with an opacity rheostat installed. All the way
up, opaque white. Turn down the juice, everything you were born
with is up for hock.
But that wasn’t good enough. The couture makers from above,
betting their designs, screamed orders to the dresses directly. Each
separate stitched panel was addressable, and they started flashing
white to clear like semaphored peep shows.
Ass, pussy, tits, repeat. The wagering board was smoking, data
sparking in. Burlesque music roared, everyone was loaded, and
having the time of their lives’. Beep, beep, beep. Robots, natural
voyeurs all, the croupier scrambled to eliminate the false positives
blinking in from the ladies’ escorts. A command barked down the
wire, and all of the male Robots removed their glasses.
Cheaters!
Red Three turned to group of elderly Hasidic Jews topless
and shrieking, her panel opacity setting jammed off. The ol’ boys
regarded her with a bloom of points, all kosher. Suddenly one of the
group clutched his chest, and Red whirled away, boobs following.
Like a stroboscopic effect, each degree of rotation was captured by
a hundred hungry eyes, none meeting hers.
The gala was a diplomatic success, ancient enemies’ smacking
each other on collective backs. Assholes that needed relaxing finally
did. Racial barbs lashed out impotently, finally as a funny as intended.
And Team Red was wiping up, flashing nudity as always winning.
The final dance brought the tally, Red ahead by more than a
nipple. Money, and promises for favors exchanged hands all over
the ship. On the ballroom floor, Ronny was taking Red Three’s hand,
a gentle kiss as Pat Reagan stared on, fuming. Her dress, though
gaudy with sequins, had no receivers, nor needed any.
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Chapter 91: Journey’s End at Lovers’ Meeting
Gerald, DB, and Sam stood in the middle of a huge, stern room.
It was now vacant, whisked clean by the sucking vortex of an
imploding GraviMetric bomb. Every crumb was gone, just rocky
walls.
Sam was being protective, and pissy. “Well, junior, you really
know how to make a good first impression.”
“If you want to lead, do so. Just don’t bitch. When you were
sharing my body, I seem to remember you followed my lead pretty
often.”
“Did I have a choice?”
“When I let you.”
DB shouted, “Shut up, both of you. I’m here to find Jeb, not
officiate this bullshit.”
They spread out like repelling electrons, seeking the configuration
granting maximum separation. Their high-resolution optical sensors
scanned the irregular features of the walls, intent on false cracks.
The room, roughly circular, spanned six hundred feet in diameter.
The ceiling was a hazy nothing, a hundred feet away. The floor was
more dusty Lunar rock; hard, gray, and unfriendly.
A soulless, empty space.
Grayness everywhere. Dusty, grainy, wormy gray.
Gerald called Sam on an old channel, kind of a secret clubhouse
frequency used before their separation. They both sensed it then,
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in this dreary rock on a seemingly moribund moon – a postpartum
yearning to tear your heart out. NextGen sexual receptors snapped
to, and they scrambled in the dust, intent on each other.
Pow! They came together as an immovable might seconds later,
DB shrieked back, and then sent forth her lance, “What the fuck,
somebody get coded ‘male’.”
Sam and Gerald peeled apart, suspicious fluid draining off their
bodies, and turned to their now common nemesis. They barked as
one, “Haven’t you ever wanted just a little private time? Bitch?”
The last ingratitude was more punctuation than additional insult.
That they had suddenly banded against another Robot was sufficient
to violate most early, and largely revered rules of conduct ran deep
enough. DB shook her head, booted some soap opera movie, and
wandered off, frustrated, and pissed.
Sam and Gerald got down to it. Their SynthoDerm skin grated,
and bruised against the worst the Moon could offer, pain centers set
to minimum. Sam rode him like a banshee whore, he reciprocated
with pirate miming, and swashbuckling manliness. Their bodies
gyrated in the yellow mist whilst eyes cool, and deprived watched
on.
And a little depraved.
After two hours of orifice tours, and lust, they sprawled out, and
lit up Cubans. The watching eyes were supposed to punch out for
break, but overtime’s good when you can get it. Everything was
recorded.
Though the rank miasma of an atmosphere was only punching
out eight hundred millibars, their smokes flared joyfully with the
additional airborne toxins. It was like being home in New Jersey.
Sam lay back against Gerald’s willing shoulder, drawing deep
on her cigar. “I remember Elizabeth, New Jersey. The sweet tang
of butyl in the air.” Suddenly she was all business, her maternal
programming on alert.
“We’re being watched.”
Gerald was chewing on a flaxen shaft of wheat, one of his last
from a bad assignment eons ago in Iowa. “Let ‘em. Fuckers might
learn some’em.”
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Sam wasn’t thrilled with his response.
“Hey, I’m being straight with you. We’re being surveilled.”
“What do you want me to do, sweetheart?”
Her hypermind did a fast reverse to their first lovemaking, worlds
before, in the front seat of a Porsche. On payments. But sexy still,
even though everyone knows if you gotta ask about financing in that
showroom, you shouldn’t be there.
“Nothing,” and she reached out her strong arms to him.
Three hundred thousand miles away, The Soothsayer burped, and
checked his nails. And in their shiny reflection, he saw a stranger’s
face. The world slowed down, everything dissolving to a grey mist.
And He woke up, the key recovered.
The End
Catalina Island
December 31, 2005
www.lifeseeker.com
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