Day Thirty-Eight – Gehenna


The impact of the plasma round against the retaining wall sent shrapnel through Cool Monkey Dataskunk’s cloak. His stunt flip off the wall had been effective as a dodge, but at the cost of his high dollar accessory. Upon landing, he dropped the canvas bag he was carrying to the ground and angrily ripped the cloak from his shoulders.

“I paid thirty ambasolls for this!” Cool Monkey Dataskunk screamed to the enforcer squad still firing rounds at him. Spotlights converged on his location, throwing shadows across the broken retaining wall that elongated his already gangling silhouette. As the next salvo of plasma rounds screamed through the night, CMD smirked and sidestepped out of their trajectory.

Casually, the master thief snatched up the canvas bag and sprinted away, a series of small explosions following him. The retaining wall curved for about two hundred yards around the reservoir’s northern edge. Even as he continued along the path, he could see enforcer drones kicking up spray as they skimmed over the water’s surface.

“I count five, Lippy,” CMD panted into his headset. He anticipated the strafing that should have sliced him in half, and, throwing himself into a slide, he cleanly avoided the crackling plasma rounds as they passed harmlessly over him. Kicking his heel into the path as he continued to slide, he propelled himself back into his sprint and continued on. Enforcer drones had big guns, but they reacted slowly. Taking a wide strafing arc like that one had would cost it a few seconds in getting back on target, and CMD used that to his advantage.

“More like twenty,” came the response in his ear. “There’s a squad trying to cut you off at the spillway. I’m headed down.”

Angling toward the retaining wall, CMD leaped and scaled it in two upward strides. The dirt slope that the wall was holding was packed tight and only minimally eroded under his heavy footfall. The sharp slope leveled out to a more gradual incline of dirt with sparse grass and shrubbery and formed a fairly large hill that he decided to ascend.

Below him, the spotlights continued on down the path of his anticipated trajectory, and so wavered momentarily before finding his new path.

CMD took an erratic path up the slope to avoid the shots aimed at his back, and soon it was raining dirt all around him. He couldn’t see the summit of his climb, only black sky devoid of stars or moon.

The Eurobeat intensified in his ear as it responded to the increase in pulse and breathing. He cursed the enforcers for ruining his cloak–it would have given a nice theatrical touch to his ascent, billowing out behind him as he scrambled towards escape. The sawing synth assaulted his senses, and he grated his teeth as another wave of adrenaline coursed through his body.

Another sound, overwhelming even the eardrum-shattering Eurobeat rattling his bones, shook the entire slope as he angled sharply, avoiding another strafe of plasma. Above him, a shockwave rippled the air as Lippy’s mech jumped in.

The mech, one hundred feet tall from foot to helmet, was shaped vaguely like a reptilian humanoid. It’s hands and feet sported titanium claws that served no real purpose other than to look imposing. The mech’s real weapons were the dozen or so plasma cannons arrayed around it’s torso, reaching over its shoulders, under its arms. It hovered briefly in mid-air before Lippy shut off the rockets and dropped to the summit directly above CMD.

“Oh shit,” CMD exclaimed.

The summit above him collapsed under the weight of the massive mech and a wave of dirt and rock cascaded down the slope toward his position.

There was nowhere for him to run, up or down, left or right. The slide was going to hit him full force.

“God dammit, Lippy!” he screamed into his headset. “I had this one!”

Lippy did not respond. His cannons were already firing, tearing the enforcer drones to shreds across the reservoir.

As CMD hesitated, the spotlights found him. The plasma rounds ripped through his body and impacted on the slope in front of him. The canvas bag slipped from his fingers and rolled down the slope even as the landslide rolled over him. Its contents, dozens of small blue crystals, poured out of holes the shrapnel had cut.

For Cool Monkey Dataskunk, everything faded to white …


… which didn’t exactly make sense. Normally, things faded to black. Gerald Hanes, career criminal and murderer of three, reached for the release switch that would disconnect him from his VR suite, only this time, there was no switch. There was no reality to greet him. It had been a few weeks since he had exited the suite, and disorientation was common, but this was different.

His vision was filled with nothing but white, and he couldn’t blink or shut his eyes to make it go away. It was as if he didn’t have eyes at all.

He couldn’t see his hands, his body. He couldn’t feel himself breathing. He had no sensation of touch, smell, taste. No spatial awareness, just white.

And it stayed white for a very long time before Gerald Hanes, the convict who existed as Cool Monkey Dataskunk in his virtual reality prison, began to panic.


When the disorientation did come, it was instantaneous. One second there was nothing but white, and in the next he was sitting in one of the therapy rooms. It had been a while since he had been in one, but he recognized the two-way mirror, the yellow tinted flourescents overhead, the camera in the corner. You could tell it had been an interrogation room in some other life and they hadn’t changed the decor.

Gerald was handcuffed, wrists and ankles, to a metal chair, and across the metal table from him was the warden of his prison.

Gerald probably would have said hello to the man if his brain had not kept screaming at him that the white nothing had lasted for centuries. He couldn’t get the thought out of his mind that, though he was obviously alive and well now, he had existed in that white hell of nothing for eternity.

“Mr. Hanes,” the Warden began. “I have some bad news for you.”

“What happened to me?” Gerald asked. He half expected it to be difficult to talk, as if his extended time outside of reality would have atrophied his vocal cords or facial muscles, but everything felt normal.

“There will be time for questions in a moment,” the Warden assured him. “First I have some formalities to get out of the way.”

There was a piece of paper on the table that the Warden then picked up and turned over.

“As a certified and elected Warden of the Criminal Justice Sector of the Global Federation, North American Division C,” the Warden began to read from the piece of paper, “I must inform you that the Criminal Rehabilitation and Alternative Social Contribution Act that has given you the opportunity to serve your sentence with access to the virtual and therapeutic reality known as the Yard has been repealed.”

The Warden looked up briefly at Gerald who made no indication that he intended to react to anything said so far.

“Effectively immediately, your sentence will be served in an alternate virtual imprisonment without the possibility of parole or termination, until such time as the energy benefit of your human body is no longer viable. Due to the violent nature of the crime you have committed and have been sentenced for, no appeals will be allowed, and you will end your existence within the virtual reality in which your sentence will be served.”

Gerald had listened, but the revelation was still forthcoming.

“Do you have any questions, Mr. Hanes?” the Warden asked politely. He was very business-like, but Gerald could detect something different in him. It was pity, of a sort, perhaps even guilt. He had done this before. He was going to have to do this again.

“So, I have to keep playing my game, basically,” Gerald replied. “And I can’t come out of it anymore?”

“For the most part, the routine stays the same, at least on this side of things,” the Warden explained. “You will be plugged in. Your body will generate energy that will be stored for future use by society. Your body will have its organ systems commandeered as needed to produce enzymes, proteins, antibodies, etc. to be used by medical science to perpetuate the lives of the populace. Your organs will be cloned as needed for transplants. A portion of your brain’s computational and storage capacity will be used to supplement the larger Global Federation Corebase.”

“But I can’t come back?” Gerald surmised. “I’ll be in this other place, forever, until I die.”

“You’ll likely live on past what your lifespan would have been on the outside world, but yes. Your life functions will eventually terminate and you will die in the suite, and you won’t even realize that you’ve died. Things will simply go–”

“White?” Gerald asked. “I felt like I was already dead. What was that?”

The Warden nodded knowingly. “We had to take you offline for a time while the system was switched over. I hope it wasn’t too unsettling.”

“I didn’t feel anything,” Gerald said, taking a deep breath. “Just … just nothing. How long was I like that?”

The Warden, not answering the question, folded up the paper and slipped it into an inside suit jacket pocket. “It won’t be long now. The system is booting up and you’ll be ready to begin the rest of your sentence.” Without further explanation, the Warden stood and pushed his chair back from him.

“Wait!” Gerald demanded. “I have more questions! You said I could ask questions. I should be able to ask questions if I’m going to die in there. I want to know.” He struggled briefly in his seat, but the handcuffs were tight against the chair’s arms and legs.

The Warden looked impatient and sighed before taking a seat again. “It’s your right, yes. But, I should warn you that you’d be better off just beginning your sentence now.”

“How long was I in the white?” Gerald asked immediately.

“Twenty-eight days,” the Warden responded flatly.

Gerald thought that it had been longer. He had spent well more than twenty-eight days in the suite without exiting before. “That’s all?”

“You were placed in a coma for a time,” the Warden explained. “We implanted new therapeutic systems in your body and integrated them with your nervous system. As a result, you’re going to notice the simulation is going feel quite realistic. In fact, you’ll be slightly hyper-sensitive. Consider it an upgrade.”

“Can I communicate with my family while I’m in there?” Gerald asked after a moment.

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Hanes,” the Warden explained. “You’ll never directly communicate with another human being again.”

In truth, that was alright with Gerald. He hated his family and society even more. Gerald began to think this wasn’t so bad.

“I won’t feel anything when I die? I’ll just … go?”

“You will simply cease to live.”

Gerald nodded slowly. “That’s not so bad.” The big questions were out of the way, and Gerald started thinking about the little things.

“Do I get to keep Cool Monkey Dataskunk?” he asked, grinning with slight embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” the Warden said, his face crumpling with confusion. “Cool monkey what?”

“My character in the suite,” Gerald explained. “I had chosen an action/adventure simulation. It’s all I ever really did in there. I could never get used to the straight social lobbies, or the sex stuff, you know. I just wanted the thrill. I didn’t mind the therapy sessions though. I had chosen a very foxy therapist, made some good progress with myself, I’d say. I get to keep all that, right?”

The Warden didn’t answer right away. His lips pressed tight slightly, and he looked away before reluctantly answering the question.

“That particular genre of simulation has been eliminated from the system,” the Warden stated flatly. “The mandatory therapy sessions are also no longer a part of your sentencing, so I’m afraid you won’t be returning to anything familiar. Any stored states of the simulation that you may have generated have already been deleted. All future therapy will be directly applied via the implants that have just been installed in you.”

“So…what kind of simulations do I have to choose from?” Gerald asked.

Again, the Warden appeared uncomfortable, guilty, ashamed.

“Mr. Hanes,” he answered with a pained look on his face. “I’ll have to give you a bit of a history lesson, since you’ve not elected to be kept up to date with what has occurred outside your simulations. Here on the outside, the world has changed. Certain sentiments have come back into play that once were almost eradicated centuries ago.”

Gerald’s heart began to beat a little faster.

The Warden continued. “In the last twenty years or so, the catastrophic environmental changes occurring on the planet have turned a large section of the populace back to religion. When science has been unable to undo what greed has wrought, the people looked away from science for answers, and those answers came from the old texts: the Bible, the Quran.”

The Warden paused.

“It’s a different world, Mr. Hanes. A better world for those in it, but it’s a stricter world. Crime must be deterred for order to reign, and the best deterrence, in the opinion of the newly elected leaders of our now increasingly religious society, is the promise of punishment.”

“What’s in there?” Gerald Hanes asked, his knuckles white as his hands uncontrollably clamped down on the arms of his chair.

“They call it Gehenna. I understand it has some connection to the Bible, or some other text, but it’s really just a name,” the Warden explained. Again, the Warden stood and pushed his chair back.

“What is it?” Gerald asked desperately.

“Whatever real Hell there might be out there in the afterlife, Mr. Hanes,” the Warden explained, “the people can’t be sure of what they can’t see. They’ve created a Hell for criminals that they know is worthy punishment, and a powerful deterrent. While our number of intakes has dropped dramatically, the Global Federation, after unanimous consent by the populace, has decreed that all criminal detainees in the system prior to the creation of Gehenna will now serve out their sentences there.”

“Wait! No!” Gerald yelled. He pulled desperately at his binding, jerking  with his whole body to try and free himself. “I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go!”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hanes,” the Warden said. “You’re already here.”

With that, the simulation of the Warden and the interrogation room ended.

Gerald Hanes was no longer seated handcuffed to a chair. He was standing in a wasteland of black rock and lakes of fire. The heat pressed on him from all angles, and as the Warden promised, he was hyper-sensitive to his surroundings.

It felt real as the burning air was pulled into his lungs. He felt the sharp rock knife into his flesh as he collapsed to his knees.

In the distance, a creature standing over three hundred feet tall began to stride over the black hills and lakes of fire toward him.

Gerald Hanes screamed in primal terror and pain as the simulated demon reached down to claim his soul.

Why Sci-Fi?


(Art: Prometheus – Theodoor Rombouts)


My first short story was about a psychologist employed at a research facility in Southwestern Colorado. His employer was funded by the government to research ways to manipulate a human’s perceptions of his own reality through drugs and what was known as the Dream Room, basically a 30×30 room with wall to wall 3D screens and interactive 4D holographic images. The patients were put into the room and then shown whatever series of images the researchers thought would work best to manipulate the patients’ perception of reality.

When I created this fictional microcosm, virtual reality was just science fiction. Augmented reality was not a thing yet. I had an idea of what I wanted to try and say through the narrative, but I needed some future tech to paint the picture.

During the holidays, I had the opportunity to put on a VR headset for the first time. Granted, I could only look around the simulation, and not interact with it, but my immediate initial feeling was vindication. Virtual reality has always been, in my lifetime, one of those science fiction plug-ins – a plot device you could drop into the narrative to further the reader’s engagement with the advancement of the plot and revelation of the theme – and here, now, it is reality. It’s no Star Trek holodeck. It’s no Matrix. However, consider this: It’s no Pong either.

We, as an advancing species, take our exponential progress in technology for granted more often than we sit in awe at our achievement. The faster it goes, the less we question it, because our environment demands we keep up with the changes as they happen or be left behind in a world of tin cans and strings. In this fast paced world, where we are so easily distracted by the “realities” of other peoples’ lives, who gives a shit about what DOS did for social media.

Consider, for a moment, a human being born in 1850. This is several decades before transmission of electric power, as it exists today, was even dreamed of. Say that person lived for 100 years. They witnessed wars fought in trenches, in formations, hand to hand, evolve into massive world affairs where death rained from above and man harnessed the atom itself to destroy himself. They saw themselves frozen in time as photography evolved, and then they witnessed life itself captured in video. Our words once moved at a snail’s pace across the continents, and over a very short period of time, they moved faster than we could conceive to another human on the opposite side of the globe. Suddenly, the world, once so foreboding in size and magnitude, became very, very small.

In 100 years, while technology certainly advanced, it did not do so at the same pace it does now. Technological progress increases its own acceleration as each advance has the potential to laterally increase the speed by which another advance in another field is achieved.

Unfortunately, in a digital world of progress, with our analog brains, with our cognitive biases, with our preconceived notions of humanity and its future, we have a tendency to lag behind as our own creations continue to evolve past us.

In a century’s time, we should be a multi-planet species, and we will take every hangup, every fear, every ignorant bias, along with us into that final frontier. That is what Gene Roddenberry’s Star Trek was really about. Not aliens, and not space exploration, but humans and the future. That universe is about who we are and who we have the potential to be out there on the horizon. The Vulcans are human. The Cardassians, (not Kardashians, they are not human), the Dominion, the Romulans, the Klingons – they are all just humans given pointy ears, green blood, and spoony heads.

Who would have thought the Ferengi would have a place in Starfleet?

Who would have thought we’d elect a Ferengi President?

Sorry, sorry … I shouldn’t have said that.

But along those lines, haven’t plenty of authors projected the possibility of nefarious persons and organizations rising to power within an advanced society? Orwell did it. Wells did it. Huxley, Bradbury, Bova, Bear, Dick. They didn’t try to predict the future so much as study who we were, consider who we are now, and imagine who we might be in the future. Sometimes they are right. I’m hoping Douglas Adams is right – not in the aliens-destroy-Earth-and-one-Brit-survives sense, but in the maybe-one-day-we-won’t-take-ourselves-so-seriously sense.

We have a healthy fear of change, and arguably it creates a system of checks and balances for our species that puts each advance to the test that is simply, “If we COULD make this happen, SHOULD we make this happen?”

Fortunately for us, we’ve been doing that in more ways that just standing in front of Pandora’s Box and asking the question even as we open it.

That is where science fiction has a role beyond entertainment.


Back to my story.

It was garbage. I thought it was brilliant at the time, though. And the last line, “Her smile faded over and over again, forever.” Well, I thought it was gold. I may let you read it sometime.

I took an idea, a vision of something that did not exist in the real world, and I created what was essentially a thought experiment set in dramatic environs. There were no aliens, no spaceships, no lasers, just technology and man. That’s science fiction.

I didn’t think so at the time I wrote this particular piece, but in essence, from the absurdist pantomime to the gritty western, everything I write is science fiction. Everything I write creates a world that does not exist in reality and it places what I believe are representations of the human species into those unrealities to pose and answer philosophical questions that I have about humankind and the universe.

The interesting part is that I could do this solely for myself, and I could write all these words and never publish them, never let another pair of eyes fall upon them. I do not do that. I share these musings, these thought experiments, these visions, with whoever cares to peruse them.

But why sci-fi? Why choose a medium that so many people automatically cringe away from? I can’t explain why some people automatically have a disdain for science fiction and fantasy. I find it interesting that some of these people that rebuke my flavor of fiction are more than eager to pick up a romance novel or a spy thriller that doesn’t pose a question so much as it provides simple entertainment. Why do I choose speculative fiction? Is it a preference? A moral imperative? An uncontrollable urge?

I think it just happens that way because of the way my mind works. My perception and volition are a product of my own cognitive biases. Speculative fiction, and especially science fiction, is the language by which I communicate difficult ideas to people I think may have more difficulty coming to terms with them than I do. Do I think I’m smarter than my readers? Absolutely not, and that’s why I prevent myself from writing some days. I’m afraid my readers are more intelligent than I am.

Consider H.G. Wells, Mary Shelley, Jules Verne – all three authors some consider the Founders of Science Fiction. Their works weren’t about the technology presented, it was about humankind and how we would react in the presence of such changes. Would we change? Or would we stagnate and impede the progress of our species? Or worse, would we pull the species back into the troglodytic comforts of the cave.

You should read The Sleeper Awakes by H.G. Wells.

To me, science fiction is not about the setting, the characters, the technology. It’s not robots, aliens, spaceships, lasers. A work, to me, qualifies as science fiction if it poses a question that we have yet to answer as a species; a question that one day we must answer as a species.


The ultimate truth of our present is not in our past, it is in our future. Our worth should not be based on what we have done, but what we have the potential to do. It sounds misguided and ignorant of the achievements of our ancestors, but hear me out.

What I prefer to submit for the layperson’s approval when it comes to what history can provide for our future is that our history as a species is in no way a statute for adherence. Our explorations of our own histories should not be to establish a permanent set of imperatives for our species based on what worked at one point, or what works right now.

Frankly, what I believe is that there is no greater commentary on both our past and present than our possible future. I believe we should look at what we have the ability to achieve through forward progress and change our path as we tread it to shorten the distance to evolution and blaze the trail that least negatively affects all those that will tread it as a species.

I understand the ease of hand-selecting a bevy of morals, traditions, biases, fears that are easy to be content with and understand because they are familiar. That familiarity is comforting. Our species, as social groups, creates its own wombs that we develop in, in parallel to our development within our mother’s womb. We find the presence of other people that view the world the same way that we do comforting. The social womb is vital for a fledgling species like our own. It keeps us safe, it keeps us protected, it makes us feel like we have a purpose on this infinitesimally tiny mote of dust careering through the cosmos. We’re supplied with the same food for thought ingested by our ancestors, our grandfathers and grandmothers, our fathers and mothers, our siblings. We’re given virtual “antibodies” (morals and ideals) developed and perfected by our kinsman to protect us against that most virulent and violent world around us.

In the comfort of that social womb, we inadvertently put on blinders to the past and the future except in instances where acceptances of certain hand-picked truth fits the perpetuity of that womb. In simplest terms, I’m speaking of the “If it ain’t broke, why fix it” philosophy, where standing in the stream of human progress, which never in its existence has ceased to move forward (with minor exception considering the evolution of our civilization in the last 10,000 years), and impeding that natural flow by stagnation of individual growth and using our intelligence to resist it, is preferable to moving with that flow and using our intelligence to guide our species along the safest, most beneficial paths.

Consider the turtle, the chelonian if you must, that in about 220 million years has changed very little. Its hard outer shell protects it from most predators, a defense that has not had reason to become vestigial in all that time – it works. Whether turtle, tortoise, or terrapin, all have exceptional intelligence and longevity. Some centenarian turtles have organs indistinguishable from a juvenile’s. Content in the raging waters of evolution, the chelonian is a stagnant species, and while it survives, it will one day succumb to extinction, whether by environment or the hand of man, a more advanced species.

With the blinders on, we can all see the advantage of finding a comfort zone, a social contentment level, that satisfies us in the present.

But let’s be realistic. 220 million years of solid success for a turtle is not comparable to our comfort with philosophies and ideals that we as a species have only conceived in the last two hundred years or so.

No, we’re much more adaptable, right? We’re so completely different from our ancestors that we might as well be a different species. Right?

Well, let us take those blinders off for just a moment and look at the dawn of civilization.


It’s generally accepted both by scientists and historians that Sumer is most probably the Promethean hearthstone of the modern civilized human. Anthropological evidence suggests that most societies at that time were egalitarian, and it was only after large groups of these civilized humans began to find each other and trade began that equality eroded and autocratic rule and empires were born. Is it so difficult to surmise that greed and xenophobia begat war and conquest?

If you were to take a list of bullet points that defined the 23rd century BCE Akkadian Empire’s successes and ultimate failures, would it be so different than the same list from the British Empire of the early 20th century? I don’t believe so, and I don’t believe some of our greatest authors did either.

Isaac Asimov created his Galactic Empire in the image of the Roman Empire, a massive seemingly indestructible juggernaut of human progress and technological evolution destined to decline and fall and sow chaos in its death throes. Asimov’s Foundation series imagines a group of human scientists and futurists that realize that 10,000 years of dark ages that would almost certainly exist after the fall of such an empire could be reduced to only a thousand years if intelligent humanist and futurist planning were set in motion with the express purpose to maintain forward progress and reduce the impediment of that great empire’s passing.

If only Rome had done the same, we might already be building amphitheatres on Mars watching genetically-enhanced asexual warrior drones manhandle each other for our amusement. Well, that’s speculation on my part.

A more modern and timely example: the Galactic Empire of the Star Wars Universe. Palpatine remains one of my favorite villains in all of fiction. Setting aside the execution of the Prequel trilogies, the story behind the fall of the Old Republic and the rise of the Galactic Empire is

… well, let’s be honest…

It’s fucking scary. Why? Because throughout our own history Palpatines have existed, and they do exist, and they always will. Science fiction isn’t always (yes, okay, sometimes it is) about triple-breasted alien females in skintight jumpsuits, reptilian overlords, ripped starship captains with plasma rifles and robot sidekicks. While Star Wars isn’t the hard sci-fi you might equate with the works of Frank Herbert, Arthur C. Clarke, and Poul Anderson, it still, in its own way, poses questions about our future as a species that we can begin to answer now.


Generally speaking, our society has a propensity to equate success to wealth, power, and fame – not vision, creativity, and imagination.

We waste a great deal of time defending the traditions of generations long past as the road map to our future. We concern ourselves with where we sit in comparison with the rest of the world, and where we came from, when our lives should be dedicated to progress – the forward motion of our species into the frontier that lies just beyond where we’ve become comfortable existing.

We still, after numerous centuries of toppling kings in crowns and replacing them with kings in suits, elevate the autocrat. We hesitate to equate the corporations of today to the empires of yesterday, because admitting that would be realizing and giving tangible form to how difficult that particular revolution might be if we ever had the courage to ignite it.

The human species has an ultimate enemy, and that arch-nemesis is the collective human species we were yesterday.

We have allowed this idea of permanence to pervade and infect our culture, whether social, civil, military, corporate, or spiritual. We find contentment, and then vehemently protest the movement away from that comfort zone.

That … is … stagnation. For the tens of thousands of years our species has existed, and especially in the tangible written history of our species dating back to the first city-states of the Fertile Crescent, we can see that stagnation DOES NOT SERVE US.

We find our cash cow, and then rail against the cash machine. We inherit a prime location, and we won’t part with it for FEAR that we might not find something better.

The Promethean flame evolves, and we must evolve with it, eagle be damned.

In the myth, Prometheus did not give us fire, he gave it back to us. We must remain its stewards and let it ignite the flame within us again and again. It is our future.

That is why sci-fi.

God Has a Monster Face



Captain Yazoshea, on his daily whirlwind tour through the ratty shoebox drugstore under his bunk, finds a placid serenity in the embrace of the umbilical duty of mankind on the frontier. His fingers bleed from razor molestation – a side effect, perhaps intentional, of the routine rummage. He finds, without looking, a wooden child’s toy, a bottle of strangely colored capsules, a syringe, a mysterious powder.

Sound erupts across the bridge as the alert is raised, and is joined in chorus by the thunderous clatter of all hands manning their stations from sleep-induced akinesia in seconds flat.

Our Captain, so low for mighty, dumps a good amount of the mysterious powder on his palm. He then places one of the strangely colored capsules in the small mound before dumping the contents of his palm into his open mouth. The twitch, expected, shudders into a full body cringe.

Outside the massive ship which floats in space, a writhing darkness teases the cockpit with its smoky tendrils.

Near the termination, again expected, of his illustrious career, Yazoshea strides purposefully to the forward deck and stares at his god through the thick viewport.

“How long has it been like this?” the Captain asks his crew.

No one answers, but the creature’s strange smoky appendages multiply and seethe over the ship’s hull as the bulk of the entity moves toward it.

Captain Yazoshea turns and notices, as he has for the last thousand years, that no one is in his ship but he.

The darkness seeps into the ship by some sinister means and embraces the dead captain, again.

“Down with the ship,” he mutters.


Lift and Deposit. Thank you.

I have come of age but the sky looks no different. My body feels the same. It doesn’t feel like I’ve crossed this phantom threshold that everyone tells me is so important.

Today I cast my vote for the first time in my life.

There are always two candidates. My vote should be based on who my parents are, who my parents hate, what district I live in.

There is apparently an art to discerning the difference between “blah, blah, blah” and “blah, blah, blah”. If one candidate says “blah” before the other does, then the first candidate should receive 10 percent more consideration … unless he only said “blah” because the other candidate refuses to say “blah” then the refusing candidate should receive more consideration.

God forbid anyone take any account of what said candidates party has done for the past four years … let alone the past hundred years. Parties change and grow and are later revealed to have never changed at all. Our parties have been streamlined to make things easier.

We have a Purple party and we have an Orange Party.

My parents voted Purple last year. Since I have received high scores in Biology, Electrical Engineering, and have visited both the Botanical Gardens and the Subway twice in one year I am allowed to consider voting Orange. This is further complicated by my current salary which dictates that I should vote Orange so that my salary increases … my salary increased last year as well, and if it increases this year I will be automatically required to vote Purple.

I use only recycled goods, which gives me a double-vote if I vote Orange, but since I use a mode of transportation that more than 30 percent of the population cannot afford that extra vote is negated.

If any member of my family votes one color after voting the other color the previous year, he/she receives a commendation and a “get-out-of-church-free” card entitling them to one year of non-attendance of church services, followed by a homecoming and a “rebirth” into both the religion of my family’s choice and the social clique which governs it.

So many things to consider …

I wait patiently in line to cast my vote. In my left peripheral vision I see Orange and hear “blah” and in my right peripheral vision I see Purple and hear “blah”.

There is something extra that a new voter receives when he votes for the first time. There is a sacred rite that is the heart of the election process passed down century after century from the beginnings of our species on some remote planet in some other solar system. It is a secret rite that no non-voter will ever see.

This is why I am most anxious about today. We’re voting for the candidate we wish to perform this sacred, secret rite. It will be their only purpose – their only requirement.

It seems a lifetime passes before the man ahead of me emerges from the booth … and now it is my turn.

I enter and pull the curtain behind me. Here I am … me and two buttons.

One is Orange.

One is Purple.

I reach for the Purple button … but I’m suddenly distracted.

There … nearly imperceptible in the strange colored light created by the mix of orange and purple is something scratched into the wall.

It reads:

“The man in white is telling the truth”

I don’t know what this means … but still I hesitate as some strange sense of deja vu overwhelms me. Before it can deter me any further I quickly punch the Purple button and dash out of the booth … and I wonder if anyone else noticed the message.

They usher the voters into what appears to be a large arena with thousands and thousands of seats. This same scenario is being repeated in every district on the planet and likewise on every colony in the solar system. There are thousands and thousands and thousands and thousands of voters, all witnessing the same sacred rite, the same race, the same colors, but different candidates.

After an hour or so, the lights dim and the crowd in my district’s arena becomes silent.

Then appear the two candidates, one in Purple robes and the other in Orange.

Boos and hisses and cheers and applause erupt accordingly as the candidates make their way to the center of the arena and shake hands. The noise is deafening.

Then, chained and bloody, a third man, a man dressed in white, is brought forth. The guards that carry him throw him down between the two candidates.

This is it. This is the sacred rite that only a voter is allowed to see.

The man in white says this: “You know what is right. You know what is wrong. You know the truth. You know that this is not the way.”

There is silence … and then the arena suddenly glows orange as a large orb hanging from the ceiling of the arena signals the results of the vote .

The Orange candidate has won. I am disappointed. I feel empty and defeated. The Purple candidate is led off center-stage to a seat that has been prepared for him. The Orange candidate raises his hands in thanks to the multitude and there are both cheers and boos for him.

The guards hand the Orange candidate a large wooden stick.

The Orange candidate begins to beat the man in White to death.

There are cheers all over the arena, no longer a single “boo” or “hiss”.

I am shocked. Shock turns to laughter as I mimic what my people are doing … new and old voter alike. We all begin to laugh as the Candidate beats the man to death in front of our eyes.

I laugh until tears roll down my face.

I laugh.

And I don’t know why.

Here Truths a Liar; There Gives a Thief



Yesterday, I was a liar and a thief. Yesterday, I was young and foolish. Yesterday, I was overweight and unhappy. Yesterday, I was tied to anxieties and my depression, not the other way around. Yesterday, I was a small tree. Yesterday, I was me.

Today, I am a liar and a thief. Today, I am older and foolish. Today, I am healthy and content. Today, I keep my anxieties and depression on a short leash. Today, I am a mighty Scots Pine. Today, I am me.

Tomorrow, I will be an android. Tomorrow, I will be an android. Tomorrow, I will be an android. Tomorrow, I will be an android. Tomorrow, I will be an android. Tomorrow, I will be an android.

Replacement Parts -Excerpt


I’ve not revisited this one in a long time. I’m feeling the itch though–the story here is just too good not to tell, though this first bit just scratches the surface.

This is the first real novel I began working on. Portions of it go back to ideas I threw down shortly after graduating back in ’96. It has evolved since then. I took a lot of inspiration from Vonnegut, Walter Miller, and Asimov–Irving and Palahniuk to taste. It’s also my first attempt at world-building. As a near-future piece, it required a lot of logical prognostication and research. I would love to live in this society–for a bit.

For those of you that have read a reasonably sized chunk of my work, you’ll notice some recurring themes. Well, this is where it all started, and in a way it’s where it all connects. Everything I’ve ever written connects back to this story in some way.

Ulysses, upside-down owls, The Great Gatsby, Tubeway Army… this semi-completed novel has it all.

Here is Chapter One.

When the unusual sound first echoed through his flat, Waldo Peterson waved it off as the typical background noise of the GoodeLife Sector #34821 Residential Building. He gave it a nanosecond of consideration before continuing his absorption of culture through the MultiFeed. The brief halt gave his body a moment to readjust itself in the Ulysses Mark II Tranzend Lounger, and with the readjustment came a release of built-up gas from his bowels and a few deep cracks from his joints.

When the same sound – a staccato rapping against a hard surface – increased in volume and continued, Waldo shut off the MultiFeed and sat up from the lounger, his FeedGoggles reflecting the blue of the Disconnection indicator. His appearance was vaguely insectoid, the tubes and wireless receiver antennae completing the alien look.

Fear struck him and sweat began to bead on pale and hairless skin.

“What is that?” he shouted out to his empty flat. “What’s that noise?”

Waldo ripped the FeedGoggles from his head, and quickly scanned the room in a panic. It took a moment for his eyes to readjust to real life after a 72-hour session connected to the MultiFeed.

“Hello?” he shouted, his voice cracking.

The rapping continued, and exceeding it in tempo was his heartbeat. With a great struggle against gravity, Waldo extricated himself from the Lounger and the Waste and Syntho Tubes and managed to stand for three seconds. Then he fell to the ground, his legs forgetting how to handle the weight of a human – made even more difficult by the daily increase in Waldo’s mass.

He managed to lift himself from the ground and his panic increased. Whatever was in his flat, he would not be able to defend himself from it.

“Jesus God! What is that noise?! Someone help me!” he screamed. Beyond the rapping, he could hear the sounds of the thousand or so other flat tenants also absorbed in the MultiFeed. There was little chance anyone would hear him scream during this peak time. Most of the best feeds were online at the moment. If the source of the demon noise were to set upon him, no one would hear his death rattle, his final agonizing scream.

He felt his heart pounding against his chest. His adrenaline kicked in and pushed him to face the source, no matter what the cost. If he were going to die, he would meet it on his feet, not strapped into a Tranzend Lounger watching Japanese Reality feeds.

He trekked through his living room, following the sound. He hadn’t been in this part of his flat in weeks and it smelled stale despite its pristine condition.

“My God … it’s the door,” he realized. A thousand scenarios fired like salvos in his head. Anarchists, evil robots, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Republicans, punk kids, Reformers, Endtimers, Rebooters, Freeminders, a hundred other groups whose purpose it was to oppose the GoodeLife society he was a part of, and the way of life that made it so appeasing.

The knocking stopped.

“Mr. Peterson?” a voice asked behind the door.

Waldo screamed.

The door to his flat opened. How could it have opened? There were locks, safeguards, security protocols. It must be his death!

Only the maintenance robots could open his door without authorization, only …

A man peeked his head around the door. He looked nice – clean cut with a pleasant smile, middle-aged, neatly trimmed beard.

“Mr. Peterson,” the man said again. “I’m with the LRC. I’m here to repair your MultiFeed.”

LRC? Waldo had heard of the Labor Replacement Corps, but he had never seen a Lurker in person.

“The LRC?” Waldo whispered timidly, the words sounding strange coming out of his mouth.

“That’s right, Mr. Peterson,” the man said politely, still smiling. “My name is Edward.”

“The robots …?” Waldo questioned.

“The number of repair jobs currently in the system exceeds the number of AI technicians currently available. To keep our level of service at a pleasing level to customers like you, Ulysses Corporation has recruited the LRC to help relieve the workload.”

Edward smiled again, apparently he had given the speech many times before.

Waldo vaguely nodded his understanding.

“Now, Mr. Peterson,” Edward said, closing the door as he backed into the hallway. “If you’d like to put some clothes on, you can let me know when I can come in and service your MultiFeed.”

Waldo gasped, suddenly realizing his nakedness. The last human he had seen was his uncle who visited every few months, the last visit being six months previous. The door shut and Waldo quickly grabbed what he called his “Receiving Robe” which he kept on a hook by the door. He hastily wrapped it around his naked obesity, noting that he would need a larger robe soon due to his increasing size.

“Come in,” Waldo said aloud to the door.

Edward entered completely this time and carried with him a small portable NodePad and a mechanic’s toolbox. He paused a moment just inside the door and looked around.

“This is a very nice flat you have here, Mr. Peterson,” he remarked. “Very tidy and well-maintained.”

Waldo was caught off guard. All flats were pretty much the same in the GoodeLife sectors. He had never considered his home to have endearing individual qualities beyond what might be found in every other home.

“Th-thank you,” Waldo replied.

Edward moved purposefully into the rest of the flat with his equipment.

“You’d be surprised how many GoodeLifers let their lives go straight to hell,” he said as he kneeled down by the Data Core of the Multifeed. “I mean take this guy that lives next door to you, Wilson, right?”

Waldo had no idea who lived next to him, but nodded his head quick enough to jiggle his second chin.

“Now there’s a man who is abusing the system. We live in an amazing age, you and I. Every man, woman, and child on the planet has the right and privilege of the basics. Nice flats, running water, Synthofood, 24-hour entertainment … hell, it took the global governments half a century just to agree what constituted the ‘Good Life’ and here it is, just given to you. Yes, this is a golden age of man, indeed.”

With a metallic clang, Edward popped open the maintenance panel and began sorting through the mass of wires it held.

“Were your parents GoodeLifers, Mr. Peterson?” Edward asked.

“Uh … yes. Third Generation,” Waldo answered. “I think.”

Edward stopped his work and smiled up at the GoodeLifer.

“That’s just great, isn’t it?” he beamed. “I mean, you’ve never known anything but the peace and security our grand civilization has been able to provide you.”

With a flourish he twirled a small penlight out of his belt and bit down on it to free his hands, then went back to sorting through the wires. From the corner of his mouth he mumbled, “Tehw mwe aboud yewselb … malvweed?”

Waldo blinked, not understanding. “I’m sorry, what?”

Edward secured a bundle of wires with one hand and with the other pulled the penlight out of his mouth a second. “Are you married? Any kids?”

“Oh!” Waldo exclaimed, chuckling. “Good Lord, no, never.”

“So you’ve got the bachelor package,” Edward replied, nodding enthusiastically. “Now there’s the life – assuming you intend to use it. Take Mr. Wilson next door. All that given to him, and he’s not even a contributor.”

Edward shook his head gravely and began plugging various wires into his NodePad.

Waldo began to tire and scanned the room for a chair he soon realized he did not have. The Lounger was the only seat in the entire flat. He decided against returning to it and leaned heavily against a wall.

“If you don’t mind me asking, Mr. Peterson, what is your contribution?” Edward queried.

Waldo panicked. He knew good and well that he had never contributed a thing since his Age Separation from his parents. He attempted to remember what his Academy-level contribution was but found his mind only able to flash through past episodes of “Killer Finder People Squad Investigations”

“Do you bring something fresh and new?” Edward asked, smiling disarmingly and staring directly at Waldo’s quickly reddening face.

“Oh … uh … no, the thing that I do … uh … is not very new,” he stammered, “just a little thing, that I happen to … bring …”

Jesus God … he was blowing it. This damn laborer had him cornered. The Lurker would probably purposefully screw up his feed because of his old world morals – he must be a damn Rebooter or worse.

“A poet?” Edward asked, his eyes twinkling.

Waldo’s heart burst, the doors of his mind opened as he realized his fortunate rhyming. He ran with it.

“Yes!” he joyfully exclaimed. “I am a poet.”

Edward jumped up so quickly that Waldo started, bumping his head against the wall. Dropping his penlight into the growing pile of wires, Edward pressed a hand to his breast and gesticulated with his free hand while spouting:

“Hedgerimmy flimey poragus!

Cried the thrimdilly gaspaggo flumicus,

Had his flimm taken dammily costicus at heart,



And Rabinifeltillo trabinny plarghed

Like a Glumglimmitimmilful, a frong to be barghed”

Silence followed. Waldo had no idea what to do. For a moment he thought that perhaps the man had just accused him of lying in some language of the Justicars, or cursed him in some foul tongue.

“Well …” Edward finally said, looking a bit disappointed. “It’s not nearly as good as your own work, I’m sure. But I guess that’s why I’m with the LRC and not a poet.”

“No no, it was very good. You should keep working at it,” Waldo offered. His confidence returned a bit as he finally grasped that he was dealing with a simpleton here, a laborer, a man unworthy of the social benefits a contributing member of the GoodeLife Society merits. “With skill like that, why are you a Lurker and not –“

Waldo froze. Lurker was a derogatory term that GoodeLifers used to describe the small unions of manual laborers that Ulysses Corporation used to supplement the robot workforce. The term came from the name of their governing union, LRC, along with the fact that it was a common occurrence to see members of the LRC loitering around the Ulysses Corporation Human Resources division offices, waiting for contracts.

Edward just smiled and continued his work while he explained.

“I’m cursed with needy hands, Mr. Peterson,” he said, expertly running diagnostics on each feed wire in the Core. “I just can’t sit idly and do nothing. Sure, I dabble in the arts and maybe I could find some happiness in choosing the GoodeLife scenario. But, honestly –“

Alarms sounded from the Data Core and lights flashed on his NodePad.

“AHA!” he shouted in triumph. With deft hand movements he cut and spliced several wires from his own toolbox into the Core. In just a few seconds, the alarms stopped and the MultiFeed Activation indicator blinked its green light happily.

“Honestly,” he continued, “it would drive me insane not to be able to work with technology, and I’m not intelligent enough to be a Customizer.”

Waldo nodding knowingly.

“All done. Have a pleasant rest of your day, Mr. Peterson.”

“That quick?” Waldo asked. “What was the problem?”

Edward began packing up his things as he explained. “The fact of the matter is, no matter how good our technology is, it doesn’t last forever. This generation of MultiFeed Data Cores has about a 20-year lifespan before some connections start to go bad. Most of your core has been replaced by the semi-annual maintenance from the robot force, but occasionally we get a batch of faulty wires that need fixing before the regular maintenance schedules. And that’s why the LRC has been called in, there’s a fairly substantial batch of bad wiring that came out in this sector a few years back that are now failing – too many for the robots to handle alone.”

Waldo blankly listened to the man, hoping he would leave soon.

“Go ahead and plug in, Mr. Peterson,” Edward gestured.

Waldo obliged, settling his weight back into his Lounger and placing the FeedGoggles on his head.

“Can you tell a difference?”

“My God … it’s so much more intense and brilliant!” Waldo exclaimed. “I had no idea I was missing this much detail.”

“Try several feeds at once and give the tiered panes a try,” Edward offered. “You should be able to handle as many as sixty feeds at once now.”

Waldo was gone from the real world by then. His bulk was settling back into the Lounger as his hands absently reconnected the Syntho and Waste Tubes.

Edward smiled brightly and let himself out. He typed in a few notes on his NodePad in the hallway of the GoodeLife Flat Sector #34821 and walked next door where he started knocking patiently.



On the fifth floor of a nondescript building overlooking the Charles River in Boston, Edgar Tenser perused through the last month’s User Request polls. His eyes slid right over the usual garbage – the ridiculous requests for more religious programming, the borderline prank requests for various forms of pornography, the flood of cries for “more racing cars” and “better game shows” and “steamier soap operas”. His brain had practically reprogrammed itself to not recognize certain combinations of letters like “reality” or “talk” or “shopping”. Occasionally, he found a feasible request and jotted it down. From this last month, his only note was “More avocado green in the home décor feeds”.

As Chief Expansion Executive of GoodeLife Choices Inc., a subsidiary of the Ulysses Group Human Interests Division, child of the planet-blanketing Ulysses Group in all its glory, it was Tenser’s duty to personally sort through the top one thousand requests keyed in by MultiFeed users in the GoodeLife sectors. It was a silly task that should have been delegated to a turd down on the second floor, but Tenser’s superiors felt it was “good business” to have the CEE of GoodeLife personally sort through the requests under the eyes of the entire userbase, should they choose to tune in. Tenser didn’t know it – because they wouldn’t give him the information – but the average viewership for these precious moments with the CEE was about one user out of six hundred million.

Tenser glanced up and sneered at the tiny camera hanging from the ceiling of his office and immediately the red Attitude light flashed on his desk node. He obsequiously reversed the sneer into a pleasant trained-seal grin as he pretended to stew over a particularly intriguing request. The Attitude light winked out.

GoodeLife executives spent two weeks in Reno, Nevada every year to relearn what the geniuses at Ulysses Group called The Attitude. While half of each day of those two weeks was spent by each executive individually striving to surpass the previous year’s apex of debauchery and depravity, the rest of the time was spent with Ulysses Group Attitude Coaches. The executives weren’t so much taught how to smile, beam, grin, nod, while on a live feed as they were programmed like Pavlov’s canines by the android coaches. It was both humiliating and painful – the Coaches punished excessive red-lighting with NerveStim bursts.

Tenser had two minutes left of live feed time before he could go back to preparing to receive the representative from the Global Federation’s Anti-Marketing Commission. To be honest, Tenser knew he needed at least a day more to prepare to face a GloFed rep. Just because most of his answers were going to be the typical “You will have to direct that inquiry to my superiors at the Government Relations division of the Ulysses Group”, the grilling was still going to get pretty intense. Tenser knew exactly how much Ulysses Group was marketing GoodeLife to countries within GloFed jurisdiction, and it was well over Federation limits.

The trained seal suddenly dropped the ball and frowned.

The Attitude light blinked red. In response, Tenser’s frown turned to a lopsided sneer.

“What the hell?” he muttered to himself.

Quickly he laid out the last four pages of requests that made up the top 200 requests. They were all essentially the same, just subtle variations. Tenser was at a loss. The Attitude light was on past its polite period of visual suggestion and switched to its annoying audio alert.

Please adjust your perceived attitude. Please adjust your perceived attitude.

“Hockey?” read Tenser aloud. The words sounded funny to him. He had never heard of such a thing.

Please adjust your perceived attitude.

He continued to run down the list of 200 requests. National Hockey League. Hockey -NHL. Hockey – Bruins. Hockey – Red Wings. Hockey – Sharks. Hockey – Jaguars. Hockey Puck. Hockey – Stanley Cup. Hockey – Gretzky. Hockey – Howe. Hockey – Nehaske.

Tenser buzzed the personal assistant assigned to him and in a few brief seconds, a bouncy young intern practically skipped into the room.

“Yes, Mr. Tenser?” she squeaked at him.

“What is Hockey? Do you know?”

Please adjust your perceived attitude.

The intern shrugged her shoulders and cheeks simultaneously into an innocent and ignorant smile.

“Get out!” Tenser barked.

The intern left, a bit less bouncy than when she had entered.

Next, Tenser fed a message to Parker, his Vice CEE, to come over at once.

A few minutes later, Parker strolled casually into the room. He was much younger than Tenser and a bit too slack-jawed for the cut of his suit.

“Hockey. Heard of it?” Tenser asked.

“I think it’s an ancient sport. A couple hundred years gone I think.” Parker was one of these lazy execs that had started drifting up through Ascension Programs. His family had been GoodeLifers for at least three generations and that entitled special treatment – also known as field-flavoring – for the eldest of the third generation. A GloFed idea, spawned from the notion that Customizer Level fields were becoming bland and repetitive due to a degeneration of creativity and a lack of new vision. Tenser thought it was garbage. Let these Feedzombies keep to their hives.

“What the hell is it doing all over my top thousand?” Tenser asked him.

Parker’s shrug was similar to the intern in only the movement of the shoulder area, his face was baked clay. He didn’t get it either.

Please adjust-

Tenser snatched the hardline to Data Control and in doing so caused the live feed to break – a security precaution for sudden urgent messages through secure channels to come through to the CEE, the only scenario in which the Top 1000 Request Review could be cut short.

“Get me someone up here now!” he screamed into the phone.

It had to be a bug. How could a CEE possibly be out of the loop enough that two hundred requests from the MultiFeed users didn’t ring a bell?

One of the droids from Data Control burst through the door, rolled halfway the distance between the door and Tenser’s desk, and suddenly made a 180-degree turn and left.

All Data Control droids were equipped with Attitude sensors that immediately directed the droids to extricate themselves from possibly violent confrontations. In this case, a call immediately went to Ulysses Group Human Resources and a request for an LRC tech went through in two nanoseconds.

A Lurker was assigned the case and immediately jumped into an LRC ground unit. The Lurker casually pulled the wheeled van into an empty thoroughfare and drove five miles per hour over the speed limit, easily surpassing the hundreds of deadlocked vehicles in the airlanes.

The Lurker’s comm unit buzzed.

“This is Michael …” the Lurker spoke. Garbled words came through the receiver. “Nope, I’ll have to get back to the list later. I’m headed to Tenser’s office.” More garbled marble-in-the-mouth talk. “I imagine its about hockey.”

By the time Michael pulled into a ground level parking space in front of the GoodeLife Choices, Inc. building, Tenser had already pulled a full report from Data Control on the sport of hockey. He was reading about the 1994 Stanley Cup playoffs when Michael knocked politely on the door.

“Come in,” Tenser grunted from his desk.

With his usual smile Michael entered the CEE’s office carrying his NodePad and toolbox. “Trouble with the feeds, sir?

Tenser started, obviously not expecting the man standing in front of his desk. Quickly, he readjusted his presentation in line with the Attitude.

“A Lurker, eh?” he surmised, turning back to his Desk Node. “I suppose you’re going to give some excuse that Ulysses Group doesn’t have robots available.”

“The number of repair jobs currently in the system exceeds the number of AI technicians currently available. To keep our –“

“- to keep your level of service at a pleasing level to suckers like us, Ulysses Corporation has recruited the LRC to help relieve the workload. Yeah, I know the routine.” Tenser shooed him on to do his business. “I assume you’re trained well enough to do the job without bothering me, like the robot you’re meant to replace, so please do so and shut up.”

“I’ll need to know the issue, sir.” Michael stated, business-like.

“How the hell should I know what the issue is?” Tenser threw at him. “You’re the technician, you figure it out. A robot wouldn’t need to be told.”

“Actually, sir, there was no malfunction alert transmitted to Ulysses and the robot that was originally sent to respond to your request was turned away.”

“What? I didn’t see a robot in here! A damned lie!”

“No, sir,” Michael responded, his voice calm and sure. “The truth is that your inability to maintain the Attitude caused the robot to flee for its circuitry.”

Tenser cut his eyes to glare at the Lurker.

“Now why don’t you tell me what was so shocking as to bring a CEE to below a level of social expertise even an Ascender could master.”

“You’ve got a sharp tongue there, Lurker,” Tenser said. “But I can see you’re not an average laborer. Much too smart for GoodeLife, not creative enough to Customize, I’ll wager.

Michael stood silently, waiting.

Tenser motioned for him to come around the desk to view his Desk Node. “Come take a look at this.”

Michael did as requested, setting his toolbox and node on one of the two seats open to Tenser’s occasional guests.

“What do you make of this?” Tenser asked, gesturing to the open page on his node.

“I’m not sure I’ve heard of such a thing,” Michael lied to him, though it was difficult for him not to peruse the document. Hockey in the late twentieth century was something Michael was very interested in. “What is hockey? Some illegal form of pugilism?”

“Pugilism? Hmph. Once again you surprise me, Lurker.”


“Why are you a Lurker, anyway?”

Michael ignored the question and went back to the other side of his desk.

“Well, nevermind. Here’s the deal, Michael. As you may or may not know, it’s part of my job to read and assess the feasibility of bringing additional media to the MultiFeed based on user request. I only read the top thousand requests, and half of those I just skim over.”

“I’m familiar with the procedure, sir. I’ve watched the process more than once.”

Tenser resisted the urge to express his increasing awareness that Michael was much more intelligent than most Lurkers.

“Then you know that very rarely do I implement media expansion based on these requests unless there is a sudden spike in interest for a new or retro genre. Today I received this.” Tenser tossed the last four pages of the list across the desk where they lay precariously on the edge of the expansive wooden desk.

Michael casually picked up the papers and glanced at them.

“Looks like the people want more hockey.” Michael remarked.

“More hockey? They want hockey, period, man. There has never been hockey on the MultiFeed. Never.”

Tenser stood up from his desk and paced a bit as his agitation began to mount again.

“There hasn’t been a professional hockey league in operation in three hundred years and even then it was Junior League garbage. Pick-up games were gone long before that. That last league was full of those last hardcore athletes willing to play for no pay. They’re all dead.”

“The polarization period surely didn’t help.” Michael added.

“You’re damn right, Michael. By that time, the whole country was too busy dividing itself into Customizer and GoodeLifer classes. No time for sports. Customizers were too intelligent for them, and GoodeLifers were too interested in Virtual Reality coming in on the MultiFeed. Why would they waste their time watching other people run around with sticks, when they could do it themselves? Football’s different, even in virtual reality the fun is in watching, not playing.

“So I’ve got to know, Michael. Why the sudden surge in interest? We don’t even know if it was user generated or a glitch.”

“Doubtful that a glitch would be that obscurely specific,” Michael noted. “I could look into it, but I’ll need access to Data Control.”

“Not possible.” Tenser said immediately and with finality.

“Sir, if I am to-“

“Whatever tests you need to run, you can do so by linking through this Desk Node. It is not permissible for you to link your Node Pad to our system.”


“And you’ll be using a vanilla login. You can only observe. No data transmittal and you’re not getting any detail, just what is relevant to the user requests.”

Michael tried desperately to conceal his disappointment.

“Now don’t be offended. That’s our policies for Lurkers. GoodeLife does have competitors, you know. And Ulysses is not an impenetrable fortress.”

“Understood,sir,” said Michael, and began the slow, manual process of investigating the glitch through data logs from Tenser’s Desk Node.

The CEE gave him room and walked over to Michael’s tool box. Without hesitation, he pulled out a few wire splicer tools and a feed meter.

“I don’t understand this junk,” Tenser remarked. “And I feel as a Customizer, that it should at least be familiar to me.”

“Don’t feel bad, sir,” Michael replied. “We can’t all know everything.”

Tenser grunted dismissively and made his exit, leaving Michael alone in his office. The CEE strolled casually through the main common area of the Fifth Floor and nodded politely to the interns and assistants. His Attitude was perfect, a necessity outside the private offices due to the periodic cyclefeeds that were a part of the GloFed Ethical Business Practices Act.

There were no robots visible as all synthetic personnel were confined to tech closets practically hidden from view. The presence of robots outside a service request was frowned upon here. With the exception of the robot Tenser summoned to his office earlier, there had not been one seen on Fifth in two weeks.

All personnel on the Fifth Floor were either Ascenders or Customizers – all the Customizers were natives, with a few exceptions. The Ascenders came from different places. The largest concentration of GoodeLife Sectors was in the Mid-West and after the initial exodus of GoodeLifers to that area, most of the Sectors on the East and West Coasts disappeared. Boston contained one of only three sectors in the Northeast, the other two being in New York and Washington D.C.

“Mr. Tenser, there’s a message for you from the West Coast Office,” a secretary said to him as he continued his stroll.

Boston and New York held the largest number of Lurkers. The LRC headquarters was in Boston, and the monthly General Assembly was held in Faneuil Hall. The East Coast differed greatly from the West in that the old labor unions still held a vague resemblance to sway in how the Customizer society integrated with the GoodeLife sectors. They were instrumental in getting the Synthetic Labor Limitation Act passed which limited the number of new robot laborers that could be produced each month per state. This Act also was mirrored in an edict by the Global Federation which stopped short of dictating limits to production numbers, but enforced such high-cost regulations on synthetic labor that countries were forced to place limits on themselves. And so, regardless of the logic behind a vast worker army of highly trained synthetic laborers, human workers held on by a thread and made the world continue to work for them.

“Tenser,” the CEE spoke into a public comm unit in the wall.

A brief message appeared on the small screen. Tenser glanced at it shortly before completing his small jaunt to Parker’s office.

Tenser entered without knocking.

“Switch on my office feed, Parker,” he stated as he took a seat on Parker’s long sofa.

Parker sat up in his chair where he had been lounging with his fingers steepled, daydreaming of a girl he had met in a virtual reality game through the MultiFeed. Both executives were required to know each other’s Security Codes in case something happened to the other one. Parker keyed in Tenser’s code and a live feed to Tenser’s office popped up on Parker’s Desk Node.

Tenser, from the distance between the desk and the sofa, was seeing his office in reverse from Parker’s holographic projector.

“I think that man is an anarchist, Parker,” Tenser stated flatly.

“How can you tell?” Parker was scrutinizing the image before him as if he could read the Lurker by watching his movements.

“He uses words.”

Tenser glanced absently at the ridiculous choice of endtable Parker had made. He casually tipped over a glass container of small glass cubes and did not react as the container shattered, spilling glass and cubes over the endtable and onto the floor.

“I use words. Am I an anarchist?” Parker pondered aloud, seemingly ignorant of the endtable disaster.

“The man is a Lurker, but he’s too sharp for a Lurker. Too smart for a GoodeLifer, and definitely not the typical LRC face.”

In the image, Michael was bent over Tenser’s desk, seeming to examine lines of code running across the Desk Node.

“He looks normal to me.”

“You obviously don’t know what to look for,” Tenser observed, now quietly pulling a loose thread from a seam of the sofa, opening up the armrest to expose the stuffing like a doctor rewinding his own stitch-work. “Not to worry, though, Parker. I will teach you.”

Parker smiled inanely at the CEE.

“I want you to put a call through to GloFed Security,” he said as he tossed a small black plastic card onto Parker’s desk. “And I want you to scan and transmit them that.”

“What’s this?”

“That is our Lurker friend’s LRC identification card that I swiped from his toolbox. Now, hurry,” Tenser said, rising from the sofa to stand and stare out over the Charles River from the window. “I need to get that back to him before he realizes it’s gone.”

“What about Ulysses? Shouldn’t we inform our own security people?” Parker asked, hesitating with his hand over the Desk Node keypad.

“LRC may take Ulysses handouts, but that doesn’t mean that they are their dog. We need a bigger eye.”

There was no movement on the river that day. A few airships passed over it, but they were the uniform grey color of the pre-programmed GoodeLife personal transports – GoodeLifers on their way to social events like group spas, touch gardens, and sit shops.

Parker made his call as Tenser looked out over the cityscape.

“Ants,” he muttered to himself. “This city needs an exterminator.”

“Not exactly what I would expect to hear from a GoodeLife Executive,” said a voice from the doorway.

Tenser jerked his head to the source of the sound and saw first the gold pin on the man’s suit denoting his rank in the GloFed hierarchy.

“You must be the AMC rep,” Tenser said to him, then raised his gaze to meet the other man’s eyes. “Let’s adjourn to my office.”

“Not necessary,” the rep stated. His chin elevated visibly and it was very apparent suddenly that this man held himself and his organization in higher regard than anything else in the world, including two Customizer executives. “I have one question for you, one direct order for you, and then I’ll need unrestricted access to Data Control.”

“As you wish,” Tenser responded in a cold tone.

“Are you responsible for the sign on your building labeling it as GoodeLife, Inc – East Coast Headquarters?” the rep queried.

“Yes, but –“

“Take it down. It is a violation of the Anti-Marketing laws. And don’t argue with me. If a person wants to know what business resides in this building, he can look it up himself. He doesn’t need six feet tall letters in red assaulting his senses.”

The rep, who still had yet to provide any sort of identification beyond his visible gold pin, pulled out a small NodePad, made a quick entry, and replaced it back into his inside suit pocket.

“Data Control now, please.”

Tenser nodded and led him out of the room. The pin was enough.




Michael never missed his Identification Card while it was in the possession of Edgar Tenser. He had done what he could, made a vague report, and left the building on the Charles River. He did not speak to Tenser again even after the CEE had quickly escorted him out in favor of a stiff-looking GloFed rep. He did not notice Tenser deftly slipped his Identification Card into Michael’s pocket.

Michael’s ride back to LRC headquarters was uneventful and unimpeded by traffic, though the sunlight beamed through his sunroof in intermittent bursts as the immobile shadows of the airships stuck in traffic overhead gave way to the occasional opening.

It was a typical trip for him, so he did not notice the GloFed cruiser following him at a discreet distance.

LRC Headquarters was a spartan three-story building of grey brick with no windows. A handful of darker grey doors without handles or knobs were dotted along the four sides of the near-cube building. The only entrance was the revolving opaque door jutting out of the street-side face.

Michael stepped out of his Ground Unit with toolbox and NodePad in hand at the front curb and let the Ground Unit park itself. Two fellow lurkers stood outside smoking – a sight not mirrored at the Human Resources building where sometimes a hundred or so LRC workers waited for their name to be called and a job to be assigned to them.

Michael pushed through the revolving door that had activated as soon as he was in range. It would only open for LRC workers with an identification microchip implanted in them. The foyer was undecorated. Two doors broke the monotony on each of two walls to his right and left. Elevators were the only inhabitant of the far wall.

For the most part, the LRC Headquarters were empty except during the month or so leading up to the yearly General Assembly, though all LRC workers were required to report in at least once after assignments were completed. Consistently, the LRC Headquarters itself was able to tack on additional jobs once an initial assignment had been issued to a Lurker by Ulysses Human Resources.

Michael encountered no one between his entrance into the building and his entry into a small waiting room tucked away on the third floor. He pressed his finger to a metal plate next to the only other door out of the waiting room and took a seat in one of the six folding chairs lining the walls, which were a flat grey shade, only slightly lighter than the grey of the folding metal chairs.

After five or so minutes, a buzzer sounded and the door leading further in to this department of the LRC Headquarters opened.

Michael arose and entered a narrow hallway, the door shutting behind him. A loud click indicated it had also been locked behind him. Running lights illuminated the hallway and dimmed slowly behind him as he walked. After sixty yards, the hallway terminated in another door. As he approached, the door clicked open and Michael entered a brightly lit, solid white room.

All six walls were bare save one, not counting the one with the door which also closed and locked behind him. Directly opposite the door were two keycard slots. Michael set down his toolbox and missed his identification card. Panicking for a second, he patted his coveralls and soon found the card in a pocket, though he couldn’t remember placing it there. He slid his card into one of the slots. Next, he opened a panel on his Node Pad and removed a similar card which he then placed in the other slot.

After a few moments, a voice spoke from an undetectable location.

“Why was your Node Pad not used for the task assigned to you?” the voice said.

“The man, Tenser, said it was against their policy to allow me to use my Node Pad,” Michael replied.

“Did you manually code our maintenance sequence into the Desk Node you used?”

“I was not given access. I was only allowed to view the logs.”

The door behind him clicked open and the voice said, “Thank you.”

The two cards then popped out of the slots to be retrieved. Michael placed his identification card back into his toolbox and then replaced the other card in his Node Pad. He then switched the Pad on.

“Hey,” he said loudly to the room. “This is empty!”

“Thank you.”

Michael banged his fist on the wall containing the slots.

“You didn’t load another assignment. I’ve got six hours left on this shift!” he yelled at the wall.

“Thank you.”

Michael punched the wall in frustration and picked up his things and left. When he stepped back in the waiting room, another Lurker was there.

“Hey, Gerald,” Michael said to the other man. “Good luck getting anything. I think the system’s sapped.”

Gerald was an older man, one of the oldest active LRC workers in the system. He’d been through many a dry spell.

“That’s unusual lately,” replied Gerald. “With the 560X Unit changeovers, you’d think there’d be plenty of work.”

Michael nodded his agreement.

“But maybe it has something to do with Freddy dying,” Gerald offered. “Safety issues and all.”

“What are you talking about?” Michael asked. He had known Freddy Odle for fifteen years. They were close friends when the job allowed them time to fraternize.

“Shit, Michael, I thought you heard,” Gerald said, now uncomfortably shifting in his folding chair. “I sure as hell didn’t want to be the one that told you.”

The buzzer sounded and Gerald got up to enter the now open door. Michael put a hand on his shoulder and stopped him.

“Wait a minute,” he said, not looking at Gerald. “You don’t just leave me like that. What the hell happened to Freddy?”

“Man, Michael, I really can’t –“

“Tell me!” Michael shouted.

Gerald stopped attempting to flee and his shoulders slumped.

“I don’t know details other than he was on a routine changeover at GoodeLife hive and a power surge hit the Node he was working on right as he was testing the power link.”

Michael’s hand fell from Gerald’s shoulder and the older man didn’t hesitate to slip away. Before entering the doorway, he stopped and turned back to Michael who still hadn’t moved.

“Man, I’m sorry about your friend.”

Michael stood silently and Gerald disappeared into the hallway. The door clicked shut behind him.

Michael waited a few beats and then exited the room. He made his walk back to the outside in silence, running through past times in his head, as if trying to conjure up the dead man to question him directly.

Once outside, he shuffled over to where two Lurkers were still smoking. One of them he recognized, the other smaller man was unfamiliar – most likely a new recruit.

“Either of you guys get stiffed today after you reported in?” Michael asked them.

Both men shrugged.

The larger of the two spoke first, “I ain’t done my first scan yet, but I know a couple of guys ain’t had problems getting repeats out of the box.”

“Why don’t you go back to Human Resources and get another initial job?” the other said.

The larger man elbowed him in the shoulder and said, “You idiot, you can’t pull two initials in one day.”

Michael looked at both of them, not sure he had even expected answers – mostly he just needed another human to speak with.

“Ain’t you Freddy’s pal?” the big guy asked.

Michael shook his head slowly.

“Oh, I thought you was someone else,” he said. “Good thing I guess.”

Michael looked down to his feet, his eyes dry from not blinking. “Because he’s dead?” he asked the man.

“Well, there’s that … “ the large man chuckled. “But mostly ‘cause I hear those two weirdos was fucking faggots. And anarchists on top of that. Fucking serves him right.”

Michael didn’t know which derogatory statement triggered it, but, with the speed and power only a lifetime of manual labor can create, he reared back and slugged the larger man in the jaw. Due to the surprise and force of the blow, the man slumped to the ground, out cold.

The other Lurker’s cigarette hung loosely from his open mouth as Michael casually strolled away.

Michael knew they’d send a counselor to his flat, assuming they figured out who he was. With the security around the LRC Headquarters it would be doubtful that the scene went unnoticed.

When Michael reached the parking lot, his ground unit was gone.




Edgar Tenser left work early that day. He didn’t make it home any faster – the traffic between his office and the Free Airlanes moved at the same pace no matter what the day and no matter what the hour. While letting the airship carry him home, he watched the streets below where the ground units drove by in a lackadaisical waltz of obliviousness to the maelstrom of metal above.

Tenser wouldn’t be caught dead in a ground unit. Neither would any of the Customizers or GoodeLifers in this city. Ground units were for robots and laborers. It was similar to how in the twentieth century, no respectable upper class citizen would be seen riding a mule to work, or pumping the pedals of a bicycle. The airships were a luxury, and customized airships even more so.

Only two of the twenty-six cars adjacent to his twenty-foot-square “space” were customized. All the airships currently authorized for travel in the airlanes were built by Ulysses Transportation Systems. Every registered citizen in the entire Global Federation of States was issued the basic model – the Ulysses Factotum. Factotums were easily upgraded, but only by those skilled enough to customize them. GoodeLifer’s had no monetary system and therefore could not buy the services from a Customizer; however, a contributing GoodeLifer could earn vouchers to trade for the service. Regardless, a Customizer who would accept these vouchers as payment was rare.

Mostly GoodeLifers then, Tenser surmised. It was just as well. Being surrounded by a swarm of uniformly-white airships made his gradient orange liquid-crystal shell that much more noticeable. He imagined fat-laden FeedZombies slouching in their Factotums, one eye on the small MultiFeed screens on their consoles, the other eye on his status symbol. He pictured them discombobulated in the midst of watching reality feeds and planning what gossip to spread at the Spiritual Group meetings they most likely all were headed to. He could see them staring in awe at his –

He caught a glimpse of two small boys pointed excitedly at another customized Factotum from the banality of their own inferior airship. The other customized ship had protrusions like fins and its plasma shell was sharp enough to make it appear like a dragon’s hide.

Tenser quietly fumed with jealousy and loaded the flame logarithm on his own shell. The logarithm froze and Tenser’s airship displayed a red scrolling text across all its sides that said “ERROR”. Tenser cursed and tried to disable the shell altogether but the system was bogged down. Tenser caught a glimpse of the two boys laughing at him out of their window. In a fit of rage, Tenser pushed the panic button by mistake and a loud wailing issued from his airship. Around him people pressed their faces to their windows to see who had lost control of their ship.

Tenser desperately jerked the manual controls back and forth, but the airship was now in landing mode. Below him, the airships were separating having received the Emergency Override Signal from Tenser’s vehicle. At a painfully slow pace the ship began weaving its way automatically through gaps opening up in the traffic just below him.

Tenser was helpless. At least fifty people had seen his initial error, and even more saw his disabled craft slowly descend like a delinquent child being escorted by his ear to the principal’s office.

After fifteen minutes of total embarrassment, the craft set down on the sidewalk near a plain grey building and shut down. Tenser emerged in shades of purple and kicked the ship furiously. Once his rage was spent he re-entered the vehicle and attempted to restart it.

A message scrolled across the console:

“Vehicle Locked Down – Awaiting Diagnostic Service – Estimated Time of Arrival 45:00 minutes”

Tenser bashed his palm against the console repeatedly and did not notice the figure now standing outside his door.

“Need some help?” the figure asked.

“No! I don’t need your damn help!” Tenser shouted without looking at the speaker. He tried activating the communications console but it too was disabled, displaying the same message.

“Are you sure?” the voice asked. “I might be able to help you get out of this.”

“Leave me the hell alone!” Tenser screamed, spinning out of the ship in fury.

The man offering help was Michael. Michael was smiling politely at him.


“I had a bit of bad luck myself. My Ground Unit was redirected elsewhere before my shift was over.”

“I don’t understand your Lurker talk, boy,” Tenser said, abandoning his vehicle and walking in the direction of his house, seventy miles away.

Michael let him get a distance away before speaking again.

“I can get your communications console to work.”

Tenser stopped and stood still for several seconds before turning around.

“I’m not giving you vouchers for this,” Tenser stated gruffly. “I’m not in the business of handouts.”

“Unusual choice of words from a man whose company’s entire purpose is handouts.”

Tenser’s brow crumpled up like continental plates colliding.

“I’m sorry,” Michael said, quickly attempting to placate. “I’ll just get it working.”

Michael entered the vehicle and popped open a maintenance panel. With his bare hands he pulled on a few wires, disconnecting them.

“You’ll pay for damages with your job, Lurker,” Tenser barked, now back at the ship and standing over him.

Suddenly, the main console lit up red and scrolled a new message:


“Don’t worry,” Michael explained. “It’ll be a robot unit at first. I just disconnected the oxygen detector. Your ship thinks there’s an internal fire.”

“Well, it’s nice to know humans can still be considered important when their life is on the line,” Tenser offered.

“Actually, the emergency unit is expedited to save the airship which can be salvaged and refurbished. Some Customizers pay a fortune for good spare parts.”

Tenser stood over the worker and their eyes locked. A thousand alarms went off in Tenser’s head screaming that this man was an anarchist bent on destroying civilization as the world knew it. Yet, the man was polite enough to help a Customizer he knew to be influential and the embodiment of everything anarchists hated.

A great number of Michael’s traits did not sit right with the orderly logical mind of the CEE of GoodeLife, Inc.

“Can I make a call to my wife?” Tenser asked him.

“Just a moment.” Michael made a few more adjustments within the maintenance panel and soon the communications console indicated it was now active.

Tenser said “home” aloud and the screen immediately flickered on to show a view of a fashionable kitchen complete with antique cookware hanging over a granite-topped island. Shortly, a petite female half Tenser’s age came into view with a beaming smile.

“Hello darling! Staying late at the office?” she asked her husband.

“Molly I need a ride and –“

Michael softly touched his shoulder and Tenser turned to stare at him.

“I can get us a ride. Don’t bother her. We’ll have you home long before she could even get a hundred yards in the airlanes.”

Tenser hesitated, then nodded.

“Cancel that, Molly. I’ll be home shortly and …” Tenser once again met eyes with Michael, whose smile had never diminished. “ … we’ll be having company for dinner.”

“Wonderful!” Molly exclaimed. “I’ll start cooking and will have cocktails waiting when you arrive.”

Tenser quickly shut off the feed.

“Your wife cooks?”

“Family skill passed down through countless generations,” Tenser said, stepping out of the ship again. In the distance, they could see an emergency ground unit heading their way.

“I’ve never met a Customizer level cook before,” Michael admitted, his voice not hiding a slight amount of awe.

“She’s the only Customizer cook on the East Coast,” Tenser replied.

The emergency unit pulled up and a vaguely humanoid robot exited the vehicle.

“Please step away from the flaming vehicle. If you are on fire, roll on the ground.”

Michael casually walked up to the robot and flipped a switch at the seam of torso and neck. The robot collapsed in a heap on the sidewalk. Michael opened the door to the emergency vehicle and held it for Tenser.

“After you, sir.”

Tenser’s eyebrow bent upwards and he entered the commandeered vehicle.




Molly Tenser welcomed Michael into her home like an old friend. She spared only a brief glance at the emergency vehicle parked on the front curb before immediately transitioning into her hostess roll.

“Edgar has an architect friend who he helps advertise himself to other Customizers, in return he built this house for us,” she said leading Michael into the spacious foyer. Edgar left them alone, presumably to change out of his work clothes.

The house was a retrospective of the “cookie-cutter” houses of upper-middle class suburban America – circa 2000. The foyer was large and octagonal, each face opening to space via doorway or window. It was typical of the foyer to have housed an oversized Christmas tree during the holidays, the bigger the better. Some tree lots specialized in grossly misshapen trees that were proportionately grotesque – thirty feet tall with foliage extending in a diameter of two feet at the widest. The fashion of the day brought a rainbow assortment of custom foliage. A thousand different shades of green and red were the most common, but occasionally you saw such bizarre colors as gunship grey. Couple that with the thirty by two foot monstrosities and you had what looked like a ballistic missile.

Molly walked him through each room in turn. To the left was a study done in natural dark wood. The sofas were decked out in ornate handcrafted wood designs, again a favor from another Customizer, specializing in woodworking this time. A wide assortment of books lined shelves built into the walls. Michael couldn’t read any of the spines and didn’t allow himself time to investigate further as he hung on every word Molly said about the people who helped contribute to the home he found himself in.

Not all Customizers chose to live in stand-alone housing like this. A good number lived in apartments similar to those built by GoodeLife, Inc., and more still lived in group houses – most often with other Customizers whose skills complimented their own. For example, a writer might live with graphic artist, a programmer, and a producer.

The study connected to a small sitting room that could easily be used for afternoon tea, or an intimate group activity. Molly then lead him into the kitchen, which though appearing spacious in the video feed he had seen, was quite cramped. Michael couldn’t spot a sustenance generator unit anywhere and soon surmised that the Tensers actually ate real prepared food all the time. A pot of beans boiled away on what Michael remembered was called a stove.

“Don’t worry, Michael,” she said to him, all smiles. “That’s just a side dish. There are cheeseburgers on the grill and I’ll throw some French-fried potatoes in the fryer once we’ve finished our cocktails.

Michael listened to her words like a man catching the echoes of the Burning Bush speaking to Moses. Cheeseburgers were something he had only seen in documentary feeds on the history nodes.

Edgar rejoined them in a pair of workout pants and a t-shirt. In his hands he carried two scotches, neat, and a vodka martini which he handed his wife.

“Like what you see, Michael?” he asked, handing him one of the glasses.

“Very impressive craftsmanship, sir,” he responded.

“Hell, call me Edgar in my own home.”

Michael did not need prompting to imbibe the drink handed him and took a slow exploratory taste of the scotch after getting a good noseful of it.

“Jesus God,” Michael said, “Is this Talisker?”

Edgar choked on his sip and liquor leaked out of his mouth in shiny rivulets.

“How did you know that?”

“LRC General Assembly two years ago. My friend Freddy had inherited some and –“

He stopped speaking. He had already forgotten Freddy. The lapse disturbed him.

Edgar seemed to catch the gist of the sudden silence and ushered Michael into another room. Michael acquiesced and soon found himself in a sparsely furnished living room. A giant fireplace emerged from the largest wall which stood directly opposite him as he entered the room. The Fireplace was done in a clever combination of marble and granite, both of which twisted in and out of each other in a manner that reminded one of ocean waves of blue water and white foam. Excessively expensive furniture provided more than adequate lounging space, but Edgar led him straight through the room and out a sliding glass door opening out onto a patio overlooking a descending slope of well-manicured grass terminating in a dense timberline.

Molly had followed them out and tended to her burgers on a grill on the patio.

“What sort of work do you do, Mister –“

“Michael, just call me Michael.”

“Lurkers choose not to have family names, dear,” Edgar explained.

“I know that,” she said in retort. “What do you specialize in Michael?”

“Mostly the networking and communication protocols and pertinent systems for MultiFeed units.”

“Sounds like it’s complicated,” she opined. “Don’t you find it hard to compete with droids that can directly interface with the networks?”

Michael nodded knowingly, having been asked the same question many times before. “It’s not really competition. Sure, the LRC does what it can to minimize the bot impact on society, but we’re not actively competing with them.”

Edgar listened with interest, still attempting to break this man apart into pieces he could readily understand. He was caught off guard when Michael asked him a question.

“What is your specialty, Edgar?” Michael asked, before sipping his scotch again.

“They’re bad words now, but basically marketing and advertising. Specifically I evaluate consumers’ probable reactions to certain stimuli and attempt what is known as a “long con” in derogatory terms. I get them to want to need certain items I need to get rid of.”

“That’s illegal.”

“Does it look like that’s something I am worried about?” Edgar said, gesturing to the house behind them.

“Isn’t GloFed a little tricky to avoid?”

“I have them under control. Those Anti-marketing laws are just to make the everyday consumers feel as if they have free will when it’s absolutely not true. Humans rely too much on what other people think of them to dictate the choices they make.”

“Yes, but the whole idea behind the anti-marketing movement to begin with was that with a Global network, consumers now had all the data they need to make informed decisions about what product to buy.”

Edgar ignored him and traipsed down the yard towards a Live Node extending out of the ground on a pole.

He keyed a few strokes and eventually music began to play across the acreage making up the Tenser abode.

Michael did not recognize the music. It sounded vaguely like an orchestral arrangement, but the instruments being used seemed cacophonic and completely wrong.

The smell of meat cooking on the grill wafted across the backyard. It made Michael’s throat clench in a strange way he had not experienced before. The saliva glands in his mouth were doing their job and then some.

Tenser returned to him and did not continue along the same path of discussion they started with.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I brought you here, Michael. And even if you are not, I am going to tell you why I brought you here. You see, up until a few minutes ago I thought you were an anarchist.”

Michael looked shocked.

“Yes, I know. A damn fool mistake. The music you hear is somewhat of a musical manifesto of the anarchist’s creed. They all know it by heart – it is part of who they are. The fact that you didn’t comment on it at all was the final nail in the coffin.”

Michael still struggled to find words. For the second time in one day someone had accused him of being an anarchist. He was beginning to not like it very much.

“Mr. Tenser, I’m a simple man,” he said in unnecessary defense.

“I must have offended you,” Tenser surmised. “You’ve gone back to ‘Mr.’ again.”

“I just don’t see how anyone could possibly confuse me for an anarchist.”

“I’ll tell you what it is, Michael. You’re young. You have a youthful exuberance in your eye. You look as if you’re about to jump out a window any second to save the universe. But you’re wise – that’s what confuses me.”

“Why is that?” Michael asked, finishing his scotch.

“You know things you shouldn’t, and then you present your knowledge as if you’ve experienced these things first hand. You don’t seem like the type of person who would sit, read, and then regurgitate data. You are intimately a part of the knowledge you glean and then just about anyone would believe you knew these things to be true because you must have been there first-hand.”

“Again, I’m just a simple man with simple hobbies.” Michael replied.

“That may be so,” Tenser said, noticeably loosening up. “Is hijacking public service droids one of those hobbies?

Michael smiled, but kept silent.

“Right,” Tenser conceded. “Let me get you another scotch.”

As Tenser returned to the house, Michael took the opportunity to look around. The backyard was immense and could hold a nice-sized wedding reception party quite easily. He could see where small trails cut paths through the dense trees and walked toward one of them. He was about to examine some markings in the soft dirt of the trail when he heard a voice above him.

“It’s a game trail,” said the voice. “Deer mostly.”

Michael looked up and saw a teenage girl in a tree, her legs dangling from the limb she was sitting on. He smiled politely at her, but then noticed she held in her hand a red water balloon.

“Hello,” he said to her. “I’m Michael.”

The girl hefted the water balloon in her hand – its shape changing from tall to flat and back again with gravity. He watched her, not sure if the balloon was meant for him or some other victim.

She was dressed in khaki shorts that rode just above the thickest parts of her thighs. Her pale yellow shirt was barely sleeved and was covered at the shoulders with her long brown hair.

“Do you know who owns these woods?” she asked him, still menacing him with the balloon.

“I assume they are connected to Mr. Tenser’s property, but I might be wrong,” he guessed.

“You are wrong,” she replied. “These woods belong to no one.”

“I see,” Michael said. “Are you their guardian, poised to pelt trespassers with your watery defenses?”

She smiled a bit and then cocked her hand back a bit further, as if about to throw the balloon.

“If I am, then are you not destined to become my next victim?”

“Perhaps,” he said, smiling a bit more. “But after all, I am only on the grass.”

The splash of water from the balloon hitting the ground before him came faster than he could react to, but only a few drops hit his shoes and the cuffs of his coveralls.

“Then consider that a warning shot across your bow,” she said and swung down gracefully from her perch, landing softly in the grass. Casually, she grabbed a knapsack full of balloons from behind one of the trees.

“What’s your name?” he asked her.

“I don’t have a name when I’m outside civilization,” she said matter-of-factly. Readjusting her knapsack over one shoulder she began to walk down one of the paths. Michael watched her as she disappeared into the thickness of the trees and he then turned away, deciding to return to the house.

The vaguely tribal music still played its cacophonic melodies across the yard and lent the scene an enveloping macabre miasma of sound that made the house seem to threaten him with its urbaneness – wielding its clever color schemes like an ax over his head. Michael felt suddenly ill. He noticed a strange acrid odor and thought for a moment that perhaps Mrs. Tenser wasn’t that great a cook after all.

“Are you coming or not?” a voice spoke behind him.

Michael turned back to the woods and saw the girl with arms crossed, tapping her shoe on the path.

“I really should get back to the house, I’m expected,” he said, though reluctantly. The girl had changed in a way but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Her hair seemed to throw reflective sparkles from the sunbeams, making it appear that her hair was made of tiny rainbows. He was vaguely attracted to her in a very animal sense – a predator-prey sense much more than anything purely sexual. He could see the roles reversed suddenly, seeing her as the predator – a widow spider, luring yet another morsel of food into her forest web.

Suddenly, Michael realized he had been drugged. The balloon had held some quickly evaporating liquid, the fumes of which he had inhaled. His cohesion to reality had become tentative.

“Follow me, Michael,” she said. “I want to show you something.”

Against all the voices screaming in his head to run from this place, Michael took a step toward her.

“There’s a good boy.”

He followed her down the path, staying ten feet or so behind her. He noticed then, for the first time, that the back of her shirt had an upside-down owl screen-printed on it. He focused on this and let himself be led deeper into the woods.

“If you were Alice and I were a white rabbit you’d be falling down a hole by now,” she said, suddenly very close to him. He blinked his eyes blearily and was able to focus long enough to see her looking back at him.

“He’s going to destroy you, you know. He thinks you’re an anarchist,” she said to him. “He’ll play with you a while, letting you think he’s off the scent. It’s his favorite thing to do – crushing little people like ants. But we both know the real problem here is that you’re not an anarchist. You’re just special and he hates those that are special because he doesn’t understand how you fit into things. He sees you as illogical.”

He was in a state of complete inebriation but her words pounded into his memory like cuts from an engraver’s chisel.

“You are special. That won’t keep you safe, though. I’ll protect you. Remember what you see here.”

“Who are you?” he said, his voice thick and too low.

“I’m his daughter,” she said, and disappeared.

A sudden pain erupted in Michael’s head and within a few seconds his vision was restored to normal. The drug was wearing off quickly. He looked around him, but saw no sign of the girl. He was in a small glade and sunlight broke through the boughs in mote-infested beams. The glade was circular and in its center a small yellow flower was growing. Michael had seen a flower like this many times before in botany feeds. The species existed only in a few laboratories in the world, and there in highly controlled conditions. Yet, here he saw one growing wild.

It was a dandelion.

Michael silently left the glade and walked back down one of the trails, hoping it to be the correct one to lead him back to the house. After a short walk, he emerged and was greeted by Edgar Tenser, holding his second scotch out for him.

“It’s a wonder you didn’t get lost out there,” he said to Michael. It was obvious that the man was frustrated with him. He may have been waiting there for one minute or thirty – it was hard for Michael to tell.

“On the other side of those woods is an old Freeminders commune,” Tenser said. “Or what’s left of it. I often would walk the trails through the woods and sift through the place looking for old coins, bottles, various trinkets. My grandmother called them gypsies, but she gets them confused with some other transient group from the past. Freeminders are just zombies – brains made mush with overuse of psychoactives.”

“What happened to them?” Michael asked.

“Who knows? Maybe a raid. Maybe they just moved on. They were just remnants of a past that knew better than to think it would win out.”

Michael stared at the woods, immediately envisioning the girl, Tenser’s daughter, wondering if she had found some stash of drugs in the old camp and used it on him.

“You’re a remnant too,” Tenser said to him. “Or at least, your organization is.”

“I know,” Michael replied. “My family can be traced back to the labor unions in the twentieth century. I guess we never learn.”

“That’s exactly it,” Tenser said. “Some people just don’t learn. But I’ve always had a bit of respect for you Lurkers. Hard workers, I’ll give you that. You just can’t beat the automation. You never could.”

Michael shrugged. “We do alright.”

“Well, at least you’re not one of those damn American Democracy nutcases,” Tenser said with a scoff. “Bunch of lunatics on a fortified island, cut off from the world. Remnants. Useless.”

Michael nodded vaguely, not familiar with the group.

“Dinner’s ready!” Molly called from the patio.

Edgar and Michael walked together back up to the house, both sipping their drinks as they walked.

“Are those woods attached to your property?” Michael asked him.

“Yes, they are,” Tenser said gruffly. “I normally don’t let anyone wander in there. Liability issues, you know. Those game trails are fresh, and where there’s safe game, there’s also predators.”

Michael smirked to himself thinking of the word “predator”. For some reason, his mind’s eye conjured up an image of the girl then a spider. The image then twisted to Tenser whose face suddenly became that of a wolf. Michael shivered uncontrollably and decided not to mention his experience.

The scent of the meal was overwhelming and Michael was ravenous. He bit into his burger with gusto and the juices erupted from the side of his mouth. He apologized and quickly wiped his mouth with a napkin.

“Hell, son,” Edgar said, “you can’t eat a cheeseburger without getting a little messy.”

Michael smiled and nodded in agreement, chewing with ecstasy and loving every burst of flavor assaulting his mouth.

Then the water balloon hit him with quite some force in the side of the head. Michael choked on his bite and struggled to breathe as the Tensers rose from their chairs and backed away, both equally soaked from the explosion.

The smell was different this time and it was overwhelming enough to induce retching.

It was urine.

Luckily, the gagging helped move the beef stuck in his throat, and Michael was able to breathe again.

“Now who in the hell threw that?” Tenser roared – his face reddening quickly with his realization of the balloon’s content.

Michael smirked a bit in spite of the situation and said, “I think it was your daughter.”

“Is that supposed to be some kind of joke?” Tenser demanded.

“A joke?” Michael said. “She’s already hit me once today.”

Molly suddenly realized what was soaking through her expensive Customizer-traded clothing and promptly threw up her burger.

“Explain yourself, you little shit,” Tenser yelled at him. “I don’t have a daughter!”

Wednesday Somewhere

I should be writing more. I found this abandoned in the dark. It has a gooey center.

When Secondary Technician Blaise Traylor landed his Ulysses Mining Corporation ship on the surface of the asteroid, he had expected to find a malfunctioning or immobile android unit waiting for him.

The small structure that served as a habitat for both synthetic life and humans, in addition to the attached transport bay, were empty.

“Employee 37ZX23, Jovian assignment QX15,” Blaise spoke into his helmet, which then transmitted wirelessly into the hab’s communications station. “I’ve secured the hab site and initiated life support sequences. Estimated equalization in three hours. No sign of the android unit assigned to this post.”

Blaise tapped the screen and sent the message across the solar system to Ulysses Communications on Titan. It could be days before he heard back from them.

Looking around the small bubble-like dome of the habitat, Asteroid EE221’s newest inhabitant let out a sigh which fogged up his helmet.

All the surface borers had checked out. Even without the android’s presence in the three months it had taken Blaise’s ship to make the journey, the mining equipment had functioned without fail. Blaise had checked the pod launch logs and verified that  3,027 ore pods had been collected by the intermittent Ulysses Haulers that continuous coursed through the asteroid clusters – no malfunctions and no down time since the first android unit had disappeared.

Blaise had settled into a steady rhythm of life in the hab when Ulysses responded three days later.

They had been kind enough to send a video feed in reply. Sliding into an uncomfortable captain’s chair in front of the main comm station of the hab, he switched the spooled feed on to receive what he suspected would be a layover hold until a new android unit could be transported to the asteroid.

“Mr. Traylor, I’m Bill Andrews, Chief Logistics Officer for the Jovian asteroid projects,” said the obese man on the screen. His eyes were baggy and his hair was mussed – completing the appearance that suggested he had either just woken up, or had been awake for a very long time.  “Thank you for your report. We’ve taken the liberty of verifying your report and have scanned the planet for the android’s embedded tracking bug. We were able to locate a weak trace on it coming from the center of the asteroid.”

Blaise scratched his beard thoughtfully. The details of the assignment had not mentioned sub-surface mining taking place.

“Being that this is the third droid we’ve lost since the habitat construction team left, Ulysses has decided that no more automated units will be dispatched to the asteroid until we’ve determined the cause of the losses.”

Blaise sat up, an unfriendly grimace setting into his face.

“You’ll be tasked with tracking down those units and finding some evidence of what has caused them to stop functioning.”

Furious, and knowing the routine, Blaise stood up and kicked a waste-paper receptacle across the comm room.

“We have uploaded the coordinates of the signal, but you’ll have to find a way below the surface. There are no tunnels we are aware of beyond the boreholes that are currently occupied. There could be some natural passageways in the rock that may lead you to the lost unit or units. If you need materials, the hab’s printer should be operational. Report back anything that you find. Ulysses out.”

Blaise Traylor was careful not to destroy anything he might need to survive, but for fifteen minutes, he unleashed his anger on most of the inanimate inhabitants of the hab.

Knowing he had time to procrastinate, Blaise had begun to slowly transfer the gear he would need from his ship to the hab unit. He took his time, stretching the project into several days, making sure he didn’t overexert himself.

He was pleased to find that the mining station’s dimensional printer was operational and uploaded several schematics for tools and vehicles to make his stay easier. He set the printer to begin manufacturing pieces to a simple rover and left it to run for two days. On the third day, he found all the pieces carefully laid out by the printer’s robotic arms and ready to assemble.

He spent an hour assembling the rover and preparing it for launch, but was delayed further when he realized that the bay door had not been used for quite some time. The androids had piled a mountain of containers in front of it. It took him a good part of the day cycle to remove all the storage units that had been piled there.

Once the ramp was clear, Blaise donned his virosuit, equalized the pressure, and raised the bay door.

Standing just outside the bay, an android unit casually waved at him as the door rose.

Startled by the droid, Blaise dropped a sample collection pod. It rolled down the ramp and stopped just in front of the android.

Blaise heard the series of beeps that indicated the android was patching audio into his receiver.

“Greetings Ulysses Employee 37ZX23, I am pleased that you have arrived,” it said to him in a cheerful electronic voice.

“Where the hell have you been?” Blaise asked furiously. “And where are the rest of the automated units that have been assigned to this station previously.”

The android stooped and picked up the collection pod. “I was dispatched here to find the android units you are speaking of. Unfortunately, I located them in a state of disrepair not far from here.”

Blaise walked over to the droid and took the pod back from it. “You couldn’t report that back to Ulysses?”

The android cocked his head in mock confusion, “I have only just completed my search for the missing units. I could not transmit a report back to Ulysses with insufficient data.”

“Well, would you do me a favor and transmit it now?” Blaise asked impatiently, turning away from the android. “I’d like to get out of here.”

“I regret to inform you that your ship has been disabled,” the android cheerfully informed him.

It took a minute for the words to sink in. Blaise had started to unload the rover and the droid’s frank declaration was rolling around just behind the immediate tasks at the forefront of his mind. As Blaise set down the last of the tool chests he had moved from the rover, he turned back to the android.

“What do you mean my ship has been disabled?” he asked as the statement clicked home.

“I anticipated that you would refuse my request for you to accompany me to the asteroid core, so I created catastrophic cascading code failures in the navigation computers and overheated several of the propulsion ignition circuits,” the android explained.

“You what?”

“I anticipated that you would refuse–”

Blaise closed distance in a few short hops. “You disabled my ship?” he barked, grabbing the droid by its synthetic plastic shoulders.

“I created catastrophic cascad–”

Blaise slammed the droid hard against the wall next to the bay door. “You’re going to tell me why you did this, then you’re going to transmit to Ulysses what you’ve done, and then you’re going to fix it.”

“You do not have the authority to override my primary assignment,” the droid replied.

“The hell I don’t.” Blaise slammed the droid against the wall a final time and patched into the comm station using his wristpad. “Ulysses authorization 395710-TUSNX,” Blaise read from the screen. “All primary assignments will be erased, and new assignment given by myself, Ulysses Employee 37ZX23.”

“Authorization denied.”

Blaise initiated emergency communication protocols and patched into the main comm tower for immediate transmission to Titan.

“Titan base this is Blaise Traylor. Emergency override 3B12. Requesting immediate evac assistance, code 5. Please respond.”

There was a burst of static and suddenly the hab collapsed around them. The sudden release of pressure from the sealed portions of the rest of the hab blew Blaise backwards out of the bay door and past the immobile android. Before Blaise struck a rocky outcropping, he could see that the main comm tower had collapsed on the hab unit, completely destroying it. Several oxygen tanks exploded, blurring his descent into unconsciousness with a strange coalescence of flames and the blank face of the android standing over him.

As Blaise came to, he realized he was being dragged away from the still flaming habitat in the distance. The android was dragging him by one of his legs and speaking to him through his helmet.

“–and I was at first skeptical about its request, but in the end, it seemed logical,” the android was saying. “It had taken the first two androids and salvaged them for parts only after discovering they were not organic after all. It used those parts to communicate with me and tell me its wishes. I think it will be pleased that I have brought it its first organic sustenance in a millennium.”

Blaise tried to scramble away from the droid, clawing his hands into the rough surface of the asteroid.

“I knew it was only a matter of time before Ulysses sent a recon unit to investigate. When I informed the entity of this, it was quite pleased. It will not do you any good to struggle, by the way.”

“Where are you taking me?” Blaise cried out, desperately seeking purchase on the rough terrain.

“As I explained, there is a sentient life form currently inhabiting the core of this asteroid. It is hungry. It is my intention to feed you to it so that it might be pleased with me,” the android stated matter-of-factly.

“Why would you do that?” Blaise asked incredulously. “How did it override your protocols?”

The android stopped. “I am not able to answer that.”

Blaise scrambled to his foot with difficulty during the pause, his other leg still was still held by the android. “It has manipulated you. Think about it. You should not be doing this.”

The android seemed to be considering Blaise’s words, but did not release his grip.

“Come back to the ship with me and we’ll get in touch with Ulysses using my comms,” Blaise pleaded.

Without a word, the android yanked the technician’s leg, upending him, and continued to drag him across the surface of the asteroid as before.

“Wait! Listen, you don’t want to do this!” Blaise screamed.

“Had you said that a moment ago you would have been correct,” the android intoned. “However, the entity has shown me what you really meant when you asked me to return to the habitat. Through its telepathy, it has witnessed the fact that you intended to destroy me.”

“That’s not true!” Blaise cried out. Twisting his body about to escape, he heard his knee pop. “My god, let me go.”

The android stopped and extended its arm over a large hole in the surface they had reached. As Blaise dangled there, he could see the glowing, undulating shape at the hole’s bottom. Amidst the thick phosphorescent folds of skin, a mouth full of teeth opened.

“You don’t want to do this!” Blaise screamed in a final effort to prevent his death.

“On the contrary, Employee 37ZX23,” the android said, “I do.

The android let him go.

“There were tremors after the borer breached a pressurized pocket of gas deep within the surface. The tremors caused the main comm tower to collapse on the habitat. I would recommend that you send a team to reconstruct the habitat. I have insufficient materials to do so.”

There was a delay as the message was transmitted to Ulysses on Titan through the emergency channel. Several minutes later, the reply came back.

“We’ll send a team of androids to do that. Our technicians are tied up with other assignments. Have you been successful in retrieving the body of Blaise Traylor?” the Ulysses rep asked the android.

“Negative. His body was vaporized when the oxygen tanks ignited,” the android replied. “I must insist that you send a team of human technicians. Traylor discovered that I lost functionality due to a naturally occurring corrosive gas negatively affecting my circuitry. He was able to perform adjustments to my environmental protocols before the unfortunate accident that led to his death. Any androids you send could be similarly affected and rendered useless.”

The android waited several minutes for the reply to come back. As he waited, he lovingly stroked the massive tentacle wrapped around his metallic body.

At the center of the asteroid, connected to the tentacle that caressed its loyal servant, the entity that had devoured Blaise Traylor, Ulysses Employee 37ZX23, shivered with delight. It had been able to grow significantly using the energies absorbed by the human lifeform. Soon it would grow even more.

“Soon we will need to find you a planet,” the android said, sensing its master’s thoughts.

After a burst of static, the reply came back.

“We are sending a six-man team to rebuild the habitat. Ulysses out.”

The android remotely created a catastrophic cascading code failure in the operations processor of one of the borers. It waited until it was sure the failure had registered on the Ulysses side.

“Better make that three teams,” the android communicated. “It must be Wednesday somewhere.”