Questionnaires

Posted in Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience with tags , , , , , , on April 15, 2012 by javedbabar

“What are these for?” said Irene, fiddling with the white envelopes and then holding one at arms length and reading. “The Authority, 10001 The City. Why are you giving them to me? Why don’t you take them to the Post Office?”

“There are questionnaires inside the envelopes,” said Mr. Amin. “I’d like you to hand one out to everybody here.”

He could have done it himself, but then what could Irene do? Just sit there doing nothing? As manager of Open Hearts seniors daycare centre he had to be ingenious at all times, which was the only way to keep the place running. “When completed, they should go back in the envelopes and be returned to me. Then I will take them to the Post Office.”

“What are they for?” said Irene. “I’ve filled out enough forms to last me two lifetimes. We all have. What don’t they know about us already? We’re old and we’re dying. What else is there to know?”

“Irene,” said Mr. Amin. “We are regulated by The Authority. There have been bad news stories about care homes recently, and they are a hot topic provincially. The Authority is doing some Quality Control.”

“What’s the point of doing surveys now? It will take them years to analyse results and implement changes. By then we’ll all be dead!”

Mr. Amin knew she was right. The Authority’s capitalist system was based upon dissatisfaction. Do satisfied people feel the need to buy things to prove that “they’re worth it”? Of course not. They stay at home and appreciate simple pleasures. You may as well do what good you could though. He said to Irene, “We’ll be dead anyway, so why not help future generations of oldies?”

“Okay, I will. Why not? What have we got to lose? Don’t blame me for what they write though. They’re not all in the best of moods, or even sane.”

Irene walked over to Gemma. She didn’t want to interrupt her knitting, so stood over her for a while. There was no appreciable slowing of her knitting and purling of purple and white yarns. Irene cleared her throat and said, “Gemma, may I give you something?”

Gemma’s needles slipped. She grimaced to herself, and looked up furiously. “What do you want! Disturbing a woman doing her knitting. You should know better than that! Who the hell do you think you are anyway?”

“I’m sorry Gemma. I tried to get your attention but you were too engrossed. What are you making?”

Gemma was still irritated and said sarcastically, “Can’t you see? It’s the fabric of life. The knit is what should happen to you, and the purl is what does happen.” She jabbed a needle.

Irene said, “I didn’t know that you took it so seriously. I thought it was just a pastime, making bootees for your grandchildren.”

“I don’t have any grandchildren,” she said. “Or any children, for that matter.”

Maybe Gemma was onto something, thought Irene. The yarn was a good analogy. The Two Laws of the Universe did create a kind of fabric. The weft was the Law of Attraction, drawing you along, and the warp was the Law of Karma, pulling you up or down. Us oldies must be getting wise.

Gemma said, “So why are you bothering me? What’s in that envelope?”

“It’s a questionnaire about the Centre. Please complete the questions and return it to Mr. Amin.”

“You must be joking. I was a high school teacher for thirty years. A damned fine one too. I’ve taught every person in Lucerne under forty to add, subtract, multiply and divide, and the smarter ones square roots, squares, integration, and differentiation too. And then they saddled me with so many forms to complete, lesson plans to create, reports to write, key stages to follow, observations to pass, and endless other bureaucracy that I had a nervous breakdown. Can you understand? Someone who could add real and imaginary numbers, divide by irrational ones, and multiply by transcendent ones with her eyes closed, was made to drown in a sea of stupid papers. Idiotic! Vacuous! Pointless! I never recovered and never returned to work. All I’m doing now is waiting to die. The last thing I want to do is complete any more forms.”

Irene told Gemma that she didn’t need to complete the form. She would explain to Mr. Amin, who would understand surely. She handed out forms to others more successfully, and then came to James. She wondered what to do with his form. He sat there all day, unresponsive to everybody – even to her, his one-time soulmate, so many lives ago, but he couldn’t even look back into her loving eyes now. That was life. Or should she say that was lives? She decided to complete the questionnaire for him.

It was a simple system. There were twelve questions, with a choice of responses – Good, OK, or Bad. She looked into his eyes as she asked each question, hoping for a clue to his thoughts. She asked him what he thought of the location of the centre, its facilities, staff, the food, the information they provided, responses to clients’ concerns, the treatment of visitors, their occasional excursions, overall cleanliness, healthy and artistic activities, daily timings, transport. “Anything else?”

He stared blankly ahead throughout her questioning, and gave no indications at all. She ticked OK for all of the questions. Maybe the conditions of his next life would be Good.

Who knew what The Authority would do with the results anyway? Would they reduce services to dissatisfied respondents for being unappreciative? They were just as likely to reduce services to satisfied ones, thinking that they were getting more than they deserved. Why should unproductive members of society be so happy? If everybody felt like that, The Authority’s economic system, based upon perennial dissatisfaction, would fall apart.

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F@rm

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Organic Farming with tags , , , , , on April 14, 2012 by javedbabar

Robert wanted a lie-in this morning but his body wouldn’t let him. There was buzzing in his organs and all over his skin. This repeated after five minutes, then after four minutes, then three minutes, two minutes, one minute, then continuously. There was definitely a design flaw. Had they not realized that a generalized buzzing would affect his concentration? He knew that it was an Area One alarm, but which crop was hard to say. He couldn’t focus.

He hoped it was Manola, the easiest crop to manage. It didn’t need much tending, just checking  WaterTM and fertilizer levels. It could also be Pootato, spuds whose growth was accelerated by modified manure addition. The third possibility was Aqua, his most complex crop. He hoped it wasn’t that. Aqua’s eco-systematic, multi-level farming required a careful balancing of salts, algae, larvae, and so many other things. Get one wrong and the whole thing falls apart. He’d messed up last year and the consequences had been dire for him. The F@rm had implanted a second chip, meaning that he was now only 80% free-willed.

The buzzing stopped when he got out of bed. His head cleared quickly and an auto-analysis showed that the alarm was for Manola. Robert pulled the USB from his side socket as quietly as possible, but his movements awoke Roberta who said, “What time is it, love? Isn’t it still early?”

“Sorry baby, an Area One alarm was buzzing. It’s Manola. I’d better take a look.”

She flopped her arms towards him, but he was out of reach. “Do you have to go now? Can’t you ignore it? It’s only Manola. Even a MonkeyTM could grow it.”

Robert smirked. “My semi-simian sweetheart, that’s why we grow it.” They’d been told that if they didn’t consume ten-a-day, stem-identical materials, their human genes may deteriorate back to apes. “Would you feel differently if it was called Womanola?”

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “I just meant that it grows perfectly well by itself. We don’t need to do anything.” She waved him off and flopped her arms back under the covers.

He checked the Area One / Crop Control Panel and realized that Roberta was right. Nothing was the matter at all. It was a false alarm. He’d had no choice though, the buzzing wouldn’t let him sleep. Damn that second chip!

He returned home to bed. There was no need to re-plug himself as his electric components were fully charged already. Staying on wireless would be enough. Plugging in caused a light buzzing which was generally pleasurable but sometimes annoyed him. It felt like fine sugar in your blood – making life sweeter, but also causing decay. His electric components were 100% safe officially, but who knew really? All he knew was that he’d never heard of anyone having chips removed, only chips added. Some people said that the old ones disintegrated, and new ones were required to maintain functionality.

Robert slept for an hour before he was awoken by another buzzing. This time it was an Area Two alarm. “I hate this job,” said Robert. “It’s worse than being a peasant in the Middle Ages. At least they got a good night’s sleep.”

“What’s it this time?” she said. “The Beefs?”

“Probably. It usually is.” Robert hoped it was Temp, which like Manola was easy to grow. This valuable crop grew just about everywhere, and since climate change, even Antarctica. Temp could be eaten, juiced, woven into clothing, compressed into bricks, distilled into fuel, made into furniture, used as currency, its stalks formed into small boats and light planes, and – taking you even higher than that – its essence was an aphrodisiac, and hallucinatory. It had initially been banned by The Authority, but mass civil disobedience had caused them to relent, and it was now grown legally.

It wasn’t the Temp though. When his head cleared, he said, “You’re right again. It’s the Beefs. I’ll be back when I’m done with them. Don’t wait for me for breakfast.”

He entered the Meat Shed. Something had spooked the Beefs and there was a chorus of groaning. He patted the most shaky meat blocks and they settled quickly. That’s all they’d needed – some loving. He waited awhile to check all was well.

Robert was about to head home when an alarm buzzed in The Wilds. This was really annoying, as there was no Crop Control Panel for him to check there – it could be anything. Something must have damaged the fencing. He hoped he wouldn’t have to go in there physically. He’d never entered this self regulating part of the F@rm before. Regulations required 10% of farmland to be set aside for Wilding. People who lived there were not disturbed on condition that they produced a weekly supply of potent, natural food. They used no fertilizers, pesticides, or fungicides; no irrigation, electronic management, or additives of any kind. Their pure food was sent to labs for cloning – though everybody knew that a good proportion was sold illegally to traditional doctors.

“Oh my god!” said Robert. Standing near a hole in the fence was one of the unchipped, unplugged people. She was barefoot, naked, and dreadlocked. Apart from, yet part of, this world. Robert was scared, but gulped and waved at her. He said, “Hello, I’m Robert.”

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One-Do

Posted in Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , , , , on April 13, 2012 by javedbabar

Kenneth felt sorry for the boy walking along the Lucerne Valley Road. He was always out, regardless of weather, scampering home alone. He seemed brave and fierce like a guard dog, while Kenneth floated past in his car. Kenneth had twice stopped to ask if he wanted a ride, but he’d declined politely. He didn’t stop to ask again, as he may get accused of being a paedo. That was one of the sickest things about the world today. Now adults feared children they didn’t know. What a perverse situation.

The boy’s face was often bruised. Was it another kid, Kenneth wondered? Was it a parent? Should he ask him what happened? Should he get involved?

Kenneth waved to the boy as he passed him, but he never waved back. He seemed to be moving his arms about, but more like dancing than waving. He must be listening to music. Was he alone by choice, Kenneth wondered? The kind of boy who was shy, and not yet ready to handle the world. Or was he alone by rejection? Someone who yearned for company but was denied. Kenneth had been the former when younger, but now as an old man he was the latter.

He didn’t see the boy for a while. He must have moved on like they all did eventually. This place is too small, thought Kenneth. Kids need a bigger town, maybe with a hockey rink or a swimming pool. However a month later the boy returned. On a silvery full moon night, there he was again, walking up the Lucerne Valley Road, but this time on metal crutches. Kenneth pulled up and said, “Hey son, do you need a ride today?”

The boy said, “No thanks, I’m building up my strength again.”

Should he ask him? He decided to. “What happened to you?” Then he made it a less pointed question. “A sporting injury?”

“Yes it was, but I’m almost healed now.” He indicated his legs.

“What sport do you practise? I used to play cricket.” In his mind Kenneth heard a leather ball smack a willow bat.

“I’m a martial artist,” said the boy. “It’s a style called One-Do.” As soon as he said that, Kenneth felt his limbs burning. He shivered slightly and then grimaced. “Are you feeling alright, Mister?” Kenneth said yes. “You know I think I will take that ride after all. Thanks for asking. Is that ok?” Kenneth said yes. “You can drop me at the Golden turn-off.”

They drove in silence initially, and then Kenneth said, “Please tell me about One-Do.” He felt that he should know already, but didn’t, or couldn’t remember.

“It’s an ancient martial art developed by the Golden King in 3,000 BC. Some say it developed in Arabia or India, others say China or Japan. It requires internal and external training.” Kenneth asked him to elaborate. “Internal practice like awareness and focus. External development of muscular flexibility and cardio fitness. Are you interested in martial arts?”

What could Kenneth say? He had watched a Bruce Lee film but that was it. Yet the moment the boy had said One-Do, Kenneth’s body came alive. “Yes I am,” he said. “But I’ve never tried any.”

“Would you like to start now?”

“Are you serious?” said Kenneth. “At my age? I’m seventy-seven you know.”

The boy said, “I think you’re much older than that.”

“Cheeky bugger!” said Kenneth. “What a thing to say!”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. I was trying to be funny. It’s a One-Do joke.”

“There’s One-Do jokes too?” said Kenneth. “It must be a truly holistic system.”

“Yes it is.” The boy said that he was fully conversant with Techniques, Forms, and Stances, but needed to practice Applications. If Kenneth wasn’t too busy, he would like him to become his practice partner. How about it?

Kenneth was speechless. He didn’t know what to do. But there was also another explanation. He knew exactly what to do, so there was nothing to say. Somewhere deep inside, this was what he had been waiting for. He knew it would happen. It must.

For the next week he practised rudimentary techniques, conditioning exercises, and simple movements performed repeatedly. The second week he focussed on stretching and meditation. The third week was striking, throwing, and jumping. The fourth week he worked on adapting the techniques he had learnt to hunting and military applications, by fine tuning his muscular strength and flexibility, breath and energy management, and proper body mechanics.

The boy worked with him daily, with endless patience and full support. It was clear that the boy was not just a martial artist, he was a Master of the Art. He taught Kenneth the wisdom of animal mimicry, the powers of religious ritual, and hidden meanings of legends. They practised with curved and straight swords, fighting knives, bamboo sticks, and bladed nanchuk. For closer work there were brass knuckledusters, Cretan cestus gloves, D-shaped tekko fist extenders, and Indian push daggers. For longer distance they used four-pointed shuriken throwing stars, Aztec atlatl spear launchers, 3-balled bolas, and ebony knobkierrie. The boy taught Kenneth both Hard and Soft techniques. It was clear that the boy preferred blocking head on force, and diagonal cutting moves – Hard techniques. Kenneth’s inclination was to yield, and turn an attacker’s force to his disadvantage – Soft techniques.

Within one month Kenneth had re-learnt everything that he had known in his previous incarnation 2,000 years ago as the Floating Turtle Warrior. He now fully recognized his cyclic foe, the Thunder Dog Brave. His noble opponent had retrained him well, for it would not be a fair fight otherwise. And following this auspicious full moon of the ninth quarter their time had come. As soon as the boy’s leg was fully healed, they would engage in mortal battle once more beneath the holy peaks of Mt. Alba and Mt. Negra. Kenneth also had the benefit of his current knowledge. He could lead his opponent into a disadvantageous position and then snap his weak leg, exerting of course only minimum force.

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Shaky

Posted in Mystical Experience, Unknown with tags , , , , , on April 12, 2012 by javedbabar

Dada always went to bed at eight o’ clock. He would say “God night,” and walk down to the basement. They’d tried to get him to move upstairs to the spare bedroom, but he said that he preferred downstairs where he was “closer to the earth.”

Asha and Adda said to him one night, joking, “Every night you say God night, but you go down to the devil.”

Dada stopped dead in his tracks. He couldn’t speak for a moment and then said, “Children, that is a terrible thing to say,” and continued down to his room as usual. Papa sent Asha and Adda after him to apologize, but his door was locked and he wouldn’t open it.

“What does he do down there?” Asha said to Adda. “He stays up for hours.”

“Who knows?” said Adda. “We should spy on him and find out.”

Dada’s room was generally quiet at night but they sometimes heard strange sounds. Little bumps and bangs. There were no windows, but through door cracks and ventilation grilles they saw lights and flashing colours.

“Does he watch pornos down there?” said Asha. “I guess he’s on his own.”

Adda said, “He wouldn’t watch them at his age, silly. You only watch those before you’re married. Then you do those things with your wife.”

“But Dada’s wife is dead,” said Asha. “Maybe he’s started watching them again?”

“What would he watch them on, his radio?”

They’d sometimes sneak into his room and poke around. He had the things you’d expect an old man to have – books, newspapers, pipes, and slippers. There was no TV set or computer, just his radio. Asha and Adda’s curiosity was unbearable and Asha said that she would ask him that night. However after dinner she said, “Dada, Adda would like to ask you something,” and swung her sister forward.

He said, “Child, what do you wish to ask?”

Adda was on the spot now, and said, “Dada, what do you do at night in your room?”

Dada looked saddened and said, “I write, child. I write.”

Asha said, “But what about the bumps and bangs?”

Adda added, “And the lights and flashes?”

Dada looked even sadder and said, “There’s nothing like that children. They must be echoes and reflections of other things. I just write.” Asha and Adda looked at each other and then at Dada. He did his best to smile at them but failed.

The next day Asha said, “He’s gone to the park. He’ll be an hour, so let’s take a look in his room.” Their parents were out so there was no danger.

Adda said, “But we’ve done that so many times before. We never find anything interesting.”

Adda said, “But now we know what he does. He writes! Let’s see what he writes.” They crawled down the steps to the basement. They couldn’t see any papers around so presumed that he must write in notebooks. It was hard to spot notebooks among hundreds of other books, but eventually they found a whole shelf full.

The hardbound black books were completely filled with spidery scrawl. It was shaky and diagonal, looking more like Himalayan contours than intelligible writing. They couldn’t make out the words – if they were words. Is this what Dada did every night? Write these crazy, slanting lines? Just looking at them made your head spin.

“Put them back quickly,” said Asha. “I can tell he’s coming.” They could somehow both sense things. They often knew when someone was coming, what they were feeling, and what they would say. They were back upstairs playing Ancient Warfare 6 before Dada returned. They laid on their sweetest voices and smiles for him. He may have been suspicious, but said nothing.

Adda had a photographic memory and retained images of the pages. They decided to research Dada’s writing online. The diagonal script made things easy as only a handful of scripts were anything other than horizontal or vertical. They found that it was an ancient script called Aramaeli that died out 2,000 years ago, whose translation was unknown. “How old is Dada anyway?” said Asha.

They tried to copy the script but couldn’t. It was so shaky and crazy that it was impossible to get anywhere close. They tried using their wrong hands but that just looked like bad writing. They put foam beneath their notebook, but it wobbled too much and sent the pen off the page. Then Asha wrote while Adda shook the table, but the table fell over. Asha threw peas for Adda to dodge as she wrote, but one hit her in the eye which led to a fight. Then they tried writing while playing catch, but this also didn’t work – creating a strange kind of word tennis.

Adda tied a helium balloon to her wrist, which proved the best method yet, though still not quite there. It gave Asha an idea though. She said, “Let’s tie our hands together and I’ll pull your hands about as you write.” Their spidery, scrawly, diagonal writing improved rapidly. Soon a page of Asha and Adda’s script was almost as good as Dada’s. They showed him the page and said, “Look Dada, we can write like you.”

Dada had needed a hobby to amuse himself after his wife’s death, and had studied alchemy. Twelve years ago when Asha and Adda were born, his alchemical writings had tapped powerful forces, but he was unable to handle their power. That’s why the Nigredo and Albedo, Red Queen and White King, Base Metal and Philosopher’s Stone had become confused. That’s why his beloved granddaughters Asha and Adda had two feet and two legs, but also two joined bodies and two heads, and four arms and four hands that could be tied together to copy his magical writing.

Dada cried and cried.

 

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Mission Critical Destructive Data Simulations

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , , , , on April 11, 2012 by javedbabar

Client (in a pompous voice): “XOXOX is your name?”

Voice: “It’s my working name.”

Client: “Isn’t that usually a woman’s email sign-off? Meaning love and hugs?”

Voice: “I am a woman, but it’s not my sign-off. It’s my working name.”

Client: “How do you pronounce it? Just say the letters individually, or read it like a word?”

Voice: “It doesn’t much matter to me. Say it how you like.”

Client: “What does it mean though? It’s a strange thing to call yourself. Why not MCDDS?”

Voice:  “You are a curious fellow, so I will tell you. I specialise in the field of Semiotics. People often write XOX, which seems pessimistic to me – X, a sign of negation, then O, a sign of creation, then another negation; that’s it. But OXO is overly optimistic – presuming that creations are followed by negations, and then recreations. XOXOX is more realistic. Correct symbolically. It represents creative and destructive cycles – but starting and ending with the Void. The world is germinated and will end with nothing. We are nothing. But until that final cycle, we may as well all do our best.”

Client: “Are you a Buddhist? A nihilist?”

Voice: “Yes I am both.”

Client: “But we work by strategic and scientific principles. Can you work within rational parameters?”

Voice: “I only work within rational parameters.”

Client: “But what you say is more mystical than rational.”

Voice: “Are they different?”

Client: “Yes they are. Aren’t they?”

Voice: “I’m not so sure.”

Client: “Emotional things and rational things come from different places. Emotions come from the heart, and thoughts come from the brain. Isn’t that right?”

Voice: “That may be true for you, but I feel differently. Emotions are underpinned by logic. You feel a certain way for a reason. Intuition and instinct are powerful forms of knowledge. I feel the truth first, and then analyze it. For example, I feel right now that Time is precious. My daily rate is $200,000. I suggest that you use my time and your money wisely.”

Client: “Yes, you’re right. I don’t know why I was acting so casually. We must press on. Have you read the brief? It was edited by the President himself.”

Voice: “I haven’t read it yet. I’ve been too busy.”

Client: “What! You haven’t read the brief! Do you know how serious this situation is?”

Voice: “I do know that. That’s why I’ve been so busy. My services are much in demand.”

Client: “But we’re not talking about just anyone here. We’re talking about the President of Canadia. You should put him first.”

Voice: “Does he put me first?”

Client: “But he doesn’t even know who you are. How could he?”

Voice: “Exactly. He doesn’t know me. He should.”

Client: “Well who are you? I will tell him.”

Voice: “I am everyone who didn’t want this war to begin.”

Client: “But he didn’t start it. What could he do?”

Voice: “I agree it wasn’t him individually, rather it was the system he promotes. However, we have now spent 4 minutes discussing general matters rather than the situation at hand. I suggest that you allow me to begin my work. I will call you in exactly 236 minutes with a status report. The task will be completed 240 minutes after that, inclusive of any further discussions. Is that all to your satisfaction?”

Client (in a deflated voice): “Yes thank you.”

XOXOX examined the brief. It required the standard process but on a larger and longer scale. She initiated analysis. It amused her that clients always assumed she was male. The scrambling software disguised her voice completely, making it robot-neutral. This was a good reflection of her character. Her instincts as a woman, mother, and grandmother told her one thing. But her professional persona often disagreed.

She called the Client in 236 minutes as agreed.

Voice: “Hello, it is XOXOX.”

Client: “Things have got worse. I’m sure you know. The threat is real and growing. Where have you got to?”

Voice: “I have performed initial analysis of your Financial-Telecomms-Military-Energy-Knowledge-Agricultural-Industrial Systems, plus a selection of Soft Systems. If the threat is executed, I predict that 52% of all systems will be harmed irreversibly, 38% will be recuperable within 12 months, and 10% will remain largely operational. 91% of the human population will not survive. Many won’t be harmed directly by the onslaught, but will become indirect casualties of failed systems, and will die through lack of water, food, power, products, medicines, communications, co-operation, and hope. However the 9% remaining will be lean, healthy, smart, and strong, and will provide good genes for their descendants, who will be able to build a lighter, better, more balanced, and more sustainable culture. It will take seven generations to rebuild a standard of living comparable to today.” She felt pretty bad saying it, but the conclusion was clear. “I recommend that you allow the threat to proceed.”

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Ten-A-Day

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Organic Farming, Unknown with tags , , , , , , on April 10, 2012 by javedbabar

“Buck a bowl!” the trader called out. “Buck a bowl! Buck a bowl!” He held up coloured plastic bowls. People stopped to examine their contents, and if pleasing, proffered a cloth bag in which to pour them. Bowls were refilled immediately. Trade was brisk.

Since the passing of the 2012 Local Food Laws, every Village in the Province, and every area in the City, had a dedicated Vegetable and Fruit Market (VFM). It operated daily and was always packed as people tried desperately to meet their ten-a-day requirement. The Authority was not severe on those who tried but didn’t make it, but was unforgiving of those who didn’t bother. The VFM operated year round. Its roof was rolled back in summer months, and in winter it provided vital cover. It also lived up to the impression created by its acronym VFM – Value For Money – with its prices being half those of the grocery store.

The market was a huge gazebo designed to optimize light and ventilation. Sunlight slipping in didn’t hit produce directly but made it glow. Customers walked around in the slanting sunshine, swinging their hemp bags in alternate bands of warmth and shade.

Shannon liked to shop daily to ensure the freshest produce possible. She may as well extract maximum benefit from her ten-a-day. “Same as usual, love?” said the flat-capped, thick spectacled guy from Jolly Good Farms. She didn’t know his name but referred to him as the Jolly Good Fellow.

“What’s my usual?” said Shannon, smiling. This guy was always flirting with her. She didn’t fancy him but didn’t mind. “Come on I’ll test you!”

“You’ll want one portion of red apples – preferring small ones, one portion of firm green pears, one portion plantains, two portions medium local bananas, two portions baby purple carrots, one portion sprouting broccoli, one portion German Butter potatoes, one portion Russian garlic. How did I do?”

“Pretty good,” said Shannon. “How did you know? Have you been spying on me again? I thought those bug-eyes staring through binoculars looked familiar.”

“The Authority helps us small farmers,” he said. “They know this is a challenging business. We attend special marketing classes. I chose to specialize in servicing pretty, young ladies.”

“You’re sounding a bit pervy now. I thought you were a Jolly Good Fellow. Don’t ruin the image. I may have to take my business elsewhere.”

“Oh, Miss Lululemon, please don’t do that.” Shannon wasn’t sure why but she became self-conscious. Her brand of clothing was obvious to anyone, but his comment felt intrusive. “I’ll give you an extra portion. How about some local pomegranate?”

Shannon nodded. “Ok Mr. Fellow.” As he filled up her bag, she decided to shop elsewhere in future. This guy usually had the best selection though, and her spiritual teacher, OM – short for Ozwald Melchizedek – recommended Jolly Good Farms. He said their produce held more prana. OM approved of The Authority’s ten-a-day requirement, and recommended eating five of the fruits and veggies before midday, and the other five between twelve and six. He said, “That is the way to be lean and mean. Lean because you consume food as you need it and nothing gets stored unnecessarily, and mean because you are always slightly undernourished and on edge. Lean and mean.”

Shannon looked around the market. It was true, everybody was looking leaner than ever. The VFM had made them health conscious, and was a real step forward in provincial wellbeing. But how did they sell things so cheaply? A buck a bowl was unbelievable. Even the tropical fruits grown in local hothouses were a dollar. She searched online and asked around but people were tight-lipped, only mentioning “efficient production models” and “modern technologies”. The Local Food Laws made it impossible to visit farms, which were deemed “Fundamental Framework” installations for Future Food Security. You couldn’t get anywhere near one and all workers signed confidentiality contracts.

The sun was especially bright today. It dazzled her momentarily and she lost her footing. She would have fallen if not for a fellow shopper who grabbed and held her up. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m not sure what happened to me.”

“I know exactly what happened to you,” said the woman, who wore strange golden glasses. “Do you want to know?”

Shannon found this woman intimidating, but was intrigued. “Go on then, tell me.”

“Come with me,” she said, leading Shannon to the edge of the VFM. “Try these.” She handed her the golden glasses. As soon as Shannon put them on, all the produce disappeared. The stalls were empty. There was nothing there.

“Oh my god!” she said. “What’s happened? Where are the fruit and veg?” She removed the glasses and saw the produce reappear.

The intimidating woman said, “These glasses perform nutritional screening. They screen out everything unnatural, showing only vitamins and minerals. This food is all junk. Ten-a-day is a fraud.”

“How can that be?” said Shannon.

“Yes it’s all produced locally – but it is structured using holographic, nature-identical, seedless, hydroponic, container-ripened, genetically modified, and other industrial methods. Everybody is eating nothing. Don’t you wonder why people are so lean? They are emaciated nutritionally.”

“Who are you?” Shannon said to the woman.

“I have given my life to the Slow Food Action Front. I believe in fighting for good food.” Then her eyes opened wide. “Shit! That guy over there is an agent.” She indicated the Jolly Good Fellow. “If he recognizes me, he’s sure to do something. Let’s get out of here.”

Shannon still wore the golden glasses. She saw that some of his fruits appeared again, glowing brightly. He had injected his apples and mangoes with a nightshade-derived neurological virus. He beckoned them both over, smiling in a jolly good way.

 

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We Say Wow!

Posted in Lucerne Village, Unknown with tags , , , , , on April 9, 2012 by javedbabar

“Isn’t that easy?” said Dimpy (Dimples). She finished turning the handle on the GAIATM processor and smiled at the other ladies in the kitchen. “Just one turn and the work is done.”

“That’s it?” said Kira, the hostess. “The vegetables are all cut?”

Dimpy smiled, enhancing her dimples. “Yes, that’s it. That’s why We say Wow!” She assumed they’d all seen the ad: “GAIA cooking systems – We say Wow!” She was here to give these ladies a product demo and free dinner, and hopefully make some sales. She said, “Ok, we’ve prepared the Sa-lad.”

She’s got a bit of an accent, thought Kira. I hadn’t noticed that before. It must be her quirk. Kira was enthusiastic about her commission – ten percent of anything sold tonight – and said, “I can’t believe it’s so easy. I mean peeling and chopping veggies is no big deal, it only takes a few minutes, but this is so quick. You just pop them into the top, crank the handle once, and they’re done. How does it work?”

Dimpy said, “The handle has a very high gearing. One turn by you creates a hundred turns within. It’s like an unhappy marriage. One cruel word triggers many others. God, I used to be so miserable, but look at me now!”

The other ladies were unsure how to react to this, but it was true, she did look fabulous, so Kira added, “We say Wow!”

Everyone laughed and then Dimpy continued. “Next is the Mister-y soup.” Again Kira noticed her accent. She thought how strange. Dimpy got a big pot of water boiling and sang to herself, as if chanting over the bubbling.

“Now I’m not sure I’m going to get a straight answer to this question,” said Kira. “But why is it called Mystery Soup?”

“Mister-y soup,” said Dimpy. “Mister-y soup.”

“Ok, why’s it called Mister-y soup?” said Kira.

“Well that’s a mystery of course!” said Dimpy. “No, no, I’m only kidding. It’s called that because cooking is magic. It’s alchemy. We transform raw, inedible ingredients into something nutritious and delicious. Soup is a miracle. You take water – plain old water – and infuse it with spices, flavours, and textures. It becomes something else entirely. We say Wow!”

“I’m not trying to be funny,” said Kira. “But isn’t all cooking – well, like that? You take ingredients and make them into a dish.” She was trying to keep the chatter going – like they do in children’s movies – but may have said the wrong thing.

Dimply looked annoyed, and said, “Yes it is, sister. But who does it mostly? That’s right, its women. Men choose to be absent, or useless, in the kitchen. There are celebrity chefs of course, but how many of us are married to them? My ex-husband never lifted a finger. I’m much better off without him.”

It’s not just the pot that’s boiling, thought Kira. There must have been some fireworks in her marriage for sure.

Dimpy said, “Now for Sir-fry.” Did she say Sir-fry, thought Kira. That accent again. She must have meant stir-fry. “Frying is a killer. There’s no need for it really. You can get the same results without using any oil at all – crisped skins and juicy texture. The GAIATM pans are made with a special alloy containing iron, silver, and calcium, minerals which build your bones and boost your blood. Every meal cooked in these pans will improve your health ladies. Say goodbye to anaemia and osteoporosis.”

“That sounds amazing,” said Kira. “How much are the pans?”

“They’re expensive,” said Dimpy. “You’re paying for the very best. But we make them affordable. We know that many women have financial constraints so we offer microcredit. Just buy one pan at a time. We want you to have them. We want you to eat well and be healthy, like I’ve been feeling since my husband died.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Kira. “I thought you were divorced. You’re widowed. Was it recent?”

“Just last year,” said Dimpy. “That’s when my life changed. That’s when I said Wow!” She finished cooking the stir fry and said, “Now we’ll make a light fruity custard called Man-go Fool.”

“Why do you pronounce it like that?” said Kira. “Man-go?”

Dimpy ignored the question and began to beat double cream. She said, “My husband died suddenly. I’ve never gotten over it really. The GAIATM system saved me. It has become my way of life. It’s what supports me and my baby daughter.”

All the food was ready now. Dimpy asked the ladies to take their seats. She brought out the Sa-lad, Mister-y soup, Sir-fry, and Man-go Fool. It was the most delicious meal any of them had ever had. This was because of a special ingredient that she’d not yet mentioned.

GAIATM cooking systems had been developed by leading chef Roland Agneau-Beurre. He was a horrible, brutish man who had disappeared mysteriously. The business had been taken over by his widow, who recruited a network of other recent widows, as a way for single women to support themselves. However none were widows before becoming GAIATM distributors. In their last moments, their husbands had all said Why? Their wives had replied Wow!

 

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Guru Baba

Posted in Mystical Experience, Unknown with tags , , , , , , on April 8, 2012 by javedbabar

Guru Baba didn’t know who these people were. They stood before him expecting something, or maybe he was expecting something from them; it was difficult to say. It always paid to be friendly so he decided to smile. The people seemed pleased when he did this.

They certainly looked fancy, all dressed in robes and wearing elaborate hats. The one in red pressed his palms together, the one in white made finger shapes in the air, and the one in black rocked back and forth. They were still waiting for something. Guru Baba raised his right hand, and their motions stopped immediately, then they all looked lost.

The one in red had a bald head. He looked at the other two for permission and stepped forward, and said in a sort of Indian accent, “Guru Baba, it is a great pleasure to see you again. The last occasion was not a happy situation. My people couldn’t take more oppression and had risen up spontaneously. The crackdown was brutal, but your involvement transformed the situation completely. The Chinese government saw their errors, and granted our autonomy. When my time comes, I can now expire with satisfaction. My life’s work is done. On behalf of Tibetans, our Chinese brothers, and peace-loving sentient beings everywhere, I thank you.” Tears rolled down his cheeks. Guru Baba wondered what he was crying about, and also what he was talking about.

The one in white wore a tall pointy hat. He now stepped forward. Guru Baba admired his bejewelled staff. He would like one like that. Maybe the one in white would let him hold it for a while, but before he could ask him, he said, “Guru Baba, I have much to thank you for. When I became the Vicar of Christ, the Church was in a fractured state. Contentious issues such as abortion, homosexuality, women priests, and paedophile priests, were ripping our holy community apart. But your intra-faith work was invaluable. Your universal principles of belief became the glue that held together our altar of faith. The holy brethren of the Church Universal honour your noble person.” Guru Baba nodded and smiled at this glamorous man. Should he ask now to borrow his stick?

The one in black stepped forward. Guru Baba liked his beard. It was long and black and curly. He also liked his wide-brimmed hat that seemed like a furry flying saucer, and his accent that went “khh”. He said, “Guru Baba, my people were exiled from the Holy Land for a hundred generations. Some of our faithful returned but didn’t find peace there. And the last few years have been especially painful for us and for our Palestinian brothers. There are few excuses for both our and their inhumanity. Thank you for bringing us together at last – for bringing peace to our homes.” Guru Baba liked this man speaking with “khh”. He wondered where this Holy Land was. He would like to visit it.

The ones in red, white, and black repeated their earlier motions – pressing palms, making finger shapes, and rocking back and forth – and stepped back slowly. Guru Baba wondered if they were going home now. And if so, would they come back tomorrow?

Three men in blue suits replaced them. Why were they all wearing the same colour, he wondered? The first one stepped forward and held out his hand. Guru Baba held out his hand too, which the first man in blue shook gently, and said, “Guru Baba, you have brought us great honour by making this land your home. We were a vast nation in terms of land area, but under populated. Our larger neighbour was always more powerful, and the chaos they fell into was disastrous for the world. Thank you for suggesting this brave solution. I was not sure that my government was ready to serve an additional 300 million people, but the United States of Canadia is now the world’s most stable and affluent nation. That’s why I have come to Lucerne today, to relay the appreciation of all of its citizens.” His chatter rung a faint bell. Yes, he remembered coming to this beautiful valley. But when and why he couldn’t say.

The second man in blue suit approached him. He used too many s’s in his wordage, which made it sound like he lisped. What language was he speaking? It was a sort of English. He said, “Guru Baba, as the President of Europe, I thank you for your work in stabilizing our currency. It was vital to our Union, so hard won after murderous great wars.” He carried on like this for a while. The third man in blue suit was a black man. Didn’t he look smart in his suit? He said, “As Chief of the United Nations, I would like to thank you for bringing peace to the world…” and other things.

More people came to see him. There were scientists, musicians, artists, writers, dancers, sportsmen, media and business people, and others. They were all friendly people, but he didn’t recognize any of them. Should he? One of them held a newspaper saying “World in shock: Guru Baba has Dementia and is Dying”. What was dementia? It sounded serious.

Then he saw some people he recognized, but they were far away. Somebody was being mean to them. A tall man in a black suit, with a shaved head and a gun, was shouting at them. These little people – what were they called again, children? He beckoned them over. They were excited but scared. Some were laughing and some were crying. Both were sounds he knew. They were the sounds of the universe announcing itself. Wailing sadness and screaming hope. Comedy and tragedy. These were the people that he had wanted to see, not all of those others. Those men in robes and suits talked a lot but knew nothing. These little ones only laughed and cried, which showed that they understood everything. He stepped down from his throne and kissed their feet. He was pleased to meet these little gods.

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Ancient Warfare 6

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Mystical Experience, Unknown with tags , , , , , on April 7, 2012 by javedbabar

David was banned from playing video games. He was usually allowed one hour per day, plus whatever he sneaked in here and there, but his mother had checked with his father and realized that he’d been playing them off against each other. “Can I play my hour now?” he’d say to his father while his mother was out shopping, and he’d say “Sure son;” then when his father was out drinking he’d say to his mother, “Can I play my hour now,” and she’d say, “Sure love;” and David ended up with two hours-plus of gameplay.

He mostly played Worldball 2016. His hand-picked team, King David’s Defence XI, would battle and often beat mightier nations such as Italy and Germany. King David’s Defence XI had a rock solid rear formation that few teams could penetrate, and their unorthodox attacks bamboozled opponents. They made it to the final but then lost to the faultless teamwork of Chairman Mao’s Select Party People. David took this loss badly and stopped playing Worldball. He bugged his parents for Ancient Warfare 6. “It’s really, really good,” he said to his father. “It has powerful weapons and amazing avatars. Dad, can I have it as an early birthday present?”

“Ok, but don’t tell your mum how much it cost. Tell her there was a half-price offer. Here’s sixty bucks.”

Ancient Warfare 6 was so much better than Ancient Warfare 5. Whereas before you had only personal weapons, now there were group weapons such as siege towers and battering rams. The Avatars were built upon your own photos, and so realistic that it felt like looking into a mirror sometimes. The Point of View (POV) was smooth and sharp but retained peripheral vision. It was a virtual/real-life experience.

His friend Amir would come around to play most days. King David’s Defenders conquered much of the Holy Land, but Amir’s Arab Armies made inroads too. Now that David was banned though, they just got bored together.

Amir said, “When can we fight again, my tribal foe?”

David said, “Next week, when my ban comes to an end.” Amir said that David’s mum was at the neighbours, so they could squeeze in a quick game right now, but David said, “She’s told me already that if there’s any mischief, the ban’s extended.”

Amir threw a mini-Mars bar at David, but he defended himself successfully. It didn’t really hit him, just disappeared somewhere.

“Do you think that warriors had real powers?” said Amir. “I mean in ancient times? Magical powers?”

“Like what?” said David, still searching for the mini-Mars bar. It must be somewhere. His mother would be angry if it melted and left a mark. Where had it fallen?

“Well there symbols in the game – the coins, swords, beer, and meat – are empowering. The warriors become stronger.” Amir looked up as if heavenwards. “But they also capture holy symbols like Om signs, Stars of David, Allah banners, and golden Crosses. They have mystical properties. They can do special things.”

“Well if they absorbed the symbols, then I guess they would have magical powers.” David felt a sudden rush of energy and said, “Hey want to play catch?”

Amir raised his eyebrows. “Is that allowed?”

“Sure it is,” said David. “It’s just a gentle children’s game, right?” Of course it wasn’t. Their version of catch involved pitching items as hard as possible at each other, and when the item was deflected or hurt them, saying, “Should have got it!” David said, “Ok, I’ll start,” and threw a ball hard at Amir, which hit him in the ribs somewhere. “Should have got it!” Amir responded by launching a dollar coin which also struck its target. “Should have got it!” David grabbed a hardback maths textbook and sent it spinning towards Amir’s stomach. “Should have got it!” Amir whirled a music CD into David’s shoulder. “Should have got it!” David flicked a datastick which hit his opponents head. “Should have got it!” The laughed and chased each other around and upset a side table, just as David’s mother returned.

“Right!” she said. “Your ban is extended by a week!”

“No mum! Please no! We weren’t playing video games. We were just playing catch.”

“Look at the mess you’ve made. What were you catching – cannonballs?” David looked down, ashamed. “Well go on then! Pick up that stuff and put it back on the table. If anything’s broken, you can expect another week’s ban.”

Two weeks later David and Amir next played Ancient Warfare 6. It was the most intense game they could remember. Amir collected ball symbols, before throwing cannonballs with incredible power that destroyed David’s walls. David hoarded coins, and had so much wealth that he built them up again, bigger and stronger. Amir gathered books, and invented new technologies and projectile methods to augment his attacks. David amassed discs, creating new sonic weapons using the vibrational potency of rhythmic sound. Amir’s assembly of data symbols changed the game entirely; they now fought in machine code rather than with graphics. Their virtual/reality threshold thinned, and their bodies and avatars were much the same now. Each item pitched at their bodies had been absorbed by, and now empowered, their virtual selves. Modern and Ancient worlds had merged for them. They heard drumbeats and shouting, and then a flaming boulder smashed through the roof of David’s parent’s house.

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Dark Web

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Lucerne Village, Unknown with tags , , , , , on April 6, 2012 by javedbabar

Jens’ computer crashed for the fourth time this week and was stuck on a black screen. “Piece of shit!” he said. “You’re going to the dump next week!” He tried all the tricks he could think of – pressing Esc, Ctrl-Alt-Del, Log Out, and F12 – but nothing worked. He should have gone to Future Shop like everyone else, rather than bought it from Seo. It had seemed like a great idea at the time, this local guy building a computer to your personal specification, rather than a Chinese child screwing together his 400th machine of the day. By the time you added tax, shipping, software, and extended warranty – all of which Seo offered “for free” – there was little price difference, but he was regretting his decision now. Piece of shit. And their relationship had soured since Jens began seeing Seo’s ex-wife Maggy.

The fan and hard disc were still spinning.  Despite the black screen, the computer was still working on something. Hints of lines, and then shapes, began to appear. It seemed like an early math class. Circles, triangles, and squares were followed by more complex shapes, like pentagons, hexagons, and septagons, all ghost shapes, faint glows on the dark page, enmeshing each other, absorbing, expanding, and fragmenting continuously. Very beautiful in a way, but not responsive to his commands. There was no going forward or back, just shapes unfolding. He decided to return the computer to Seo right now and tell him to fix it or else.

Seo took a while to answer the door. He often had a dozen machines hooked up, running a dozen programs each. “I just can’t abandon them,” he’d said before. “They’re like schoolchildren. Look away for a moment and there’s a pencil in someone’s eye.” When he appeared, rubbing his eyes, he said, “What’s up, my computer illiterate friend?”

“Your machine’s broken down again. I’m getting fed up with it. Can you please fix it once and for all, or return my money?”

“Mister Jens, don’t be so hasty. What makes you think it’s broken down?” There was the sarcasm, so apparent since he’d heard about Jens and Maggy.

“Shall I send it to Future Shop for checking? I’ll give you the bill.”

This proposal had a sobering effect. Seo said, “No no, of course not. I will take care of it. What seems to be the problem?”

“The problem seems to be that I’ve got a black screen with strange shapes appearing. That’s very pretty but not very useful.”

Seo fired up the laptop and pushed buttons. “Mmmm… You know it seems to be working fine. You are online…”

“What do you mean I’m online,” said Jens, scanning Seo’s roomful of junk – scattered circuit boards, computer shells, and coloured cables, plus beers and takeaway boxes. No wonder Maggy couldn’t bear it anymore. “If it’s working then why can’t I sign into my hotmail?”

“You’re in cipherspace, my friend – encrypted cyberspace.”

“What do you mean?” said Jens. This didn’t sound good. He shouldn’t have viewed those German websites while Maggy was away. They must have left their Deutsche Mark on his computer.

Seo said, “What we use daily is the visible web, but there’s lots more besides. The internet grows and decays in a chaotic way. The Dark Web, for example, picks up abandoned addresses, technical failures, and disputed domains. It uses them to divert traffic or mask illegal activity.”

Jens shuddered and said, “Is someone using my computer for illegal activity?”

“I’m not saying that. I’m not sure. But there’s also the Invisible Web – areas that can’t be indexed by standard search engines. It’s not really sinister, just uses alternative protocols. Many pages don’t exist until they are created dynamically – by a specific action or search – so there’s no way to find them.”

“Is that what the shapes are?” said Jens. “Information being formed?”

“I’m not sure yet. I think you’ve gone beyond the Dark and Invisible Webs, into the Darknet.” Seo sounded like a scary teacher.

“What’s the difference?” said Jens, clicking his fingers nervously.

“The Darknet consists of private file-sharing networks. Some of it is benign – just music and film swapping sites – but it’s also used by shadowy groups like political activists and drug dealers. And terrorists. How did you get into this area?”

“I didn’t get into any area,” said Jens. “I told you. My computer crashed. That’s why I brought it to you to fix.”

“Ok, I’ve reset the defaults and beefed up the filters. Sorry for the trouble.”

“That’s it? You’ve fixed it? Will it be ok now?”

“Do not worry, my friend. It won’t take you anywhere you don’t deserve to go. Sorry I mean want to go. Just stick to Google and you’ll be ok. Give my regards to Maggy.”

Jens was tired of computers and didn’t switch it on again that night. He was awoken at dawn by a loud banging on the door. Before he knew it a team of black uniformed men had burst through the door, guns trained upon him, all shouting. They immediately seized his laptop on which they later found anarchist, animal activist, and pro-life items; images of gang rape, child porn, and bestiality; criminal, extremist, and terrorist literature; and top secret political, financial, and telecomms documents. During his interrogation he told them about the Darkweb and how Seo had said that the problem was fixed. They said that no one called Seo lived in Lucerne. There was no record of him. They had however found an unidentified female body tonight with abusive messages from him on her phone. Where had Jens been this evening?

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