Mentalist

Posted in Mystical Experience, Unknown with tags , , , , on March 6, 2012 by javedbabar

Alba said, “I saw you perform at the Transparent Temple last week. It’s nice to see that you’re still here. You must like our little Village.”

“Thank you,” said the Great Shakra. “Yes I do like your Village; I’m staying for a week.” It was strange to see him at the grocery store after all that smoke and mirrors. A man in a top hat and tails was not common in the produce section.

“Oh goody. Will you be doing another show? I’d love to come again.”

“No, just one show per week,” said the Great Shakra. “That’s all I can manage. It takes a lot of effort you know. My job is to make it seem effortless, but there’s lots of hard work involved.”

“Oh, I wasn’t implying that it was easy,” said Alba. “I just meant that…”

“No, no. It’s fine. I appreciate your enthusiasm.” He smiled like he had on stage, his beam like that from a lighthouse, flashing all around. She was caught in its glow – flash-frozen – and then released. “Tell me,” he said. “What did you think of the show?”

Alba recalled the poster in the ATM lobby. It said, “June 21st – First time in Lucerne Village – The Great Shakra – Mentalist Extraordinary.” Tickets were pricey considering it was a local event, but she’d loved magic since childhood and couldn’t resist. Her friends said, “Fifty bucks for card tricks – get out of here! We’ll play snap with you for ten bucks, including lunch.” So Alba went alone to the show. “You blew my mind,” she said. “I’ve never seen anything like it before. I mean, I have on TV, but never in real life. How do you do it?”

“Well, I don’t usually reveal my secrets,” he said. “But it’s always a pleasure to meet magic fans. I’ll give you a little snippet. What would you like to know?” He moved out of the way of a trolley, tickling the baby’s head within it. The baby began crying.

“Right at the beginning you sent us all joy; sudden joy. How did you do that?” Alba believed that real magic existed.

“It was really very easy. When people closed their eyes, I turned up the lights. They felt the extra brightness through their eyelids, which they interpreted as joyous.” Alba looked annoyed, but also amazed. “I possess no supernatural powers. What I am is a communications expert. I send and receive messages. I hope that doesn’t disappoint you.”

“I’m sure you’re being modest. How did you know that East Indian man had a silver Frontier?”

“I’m afraid that was my least impressive feat of the night. When I asked him for a handkerchief for the dove trick, I saw his key ring. That was all.”

“But then you read people’s tea-leaves and told them where they’d been on holiday.”

“Again, no magic there. I am a communications expert. The tea-leaves were just a distraction, giving me time to discover their income bracket. Manual workers go to Mexico; office workers to Hawaii; and business owners to Europe. Everyone aspires to something, it’s just a matter of demographics.” Alba looked unhappy again. “Knowing where they may be going this winter was also easy. I saw a poster in the ATM lobby for Christmas deals to Florida. Many people would be considering those.”

“Why did you ask people for 4-digit numbers?”

“Oh, no reason really,” he said. “Picking up more non-verbal cues.”

Alba was disappointed to hear the Mentalist Extraordinary’s mundane explanations for his feats. Is that all there was to it? she thought. She said, “Thank you for telling me. It was nice to meet you. I’d better get on with my shopping now.”

“It was nice to meet you too,” said the Great Shakra. “You may want to avoid the spring onions and cilantro; they’re looking quite wilted. But they’re not beyond salvation. Let’s see if we can freshen them up.” He twirled his hands at the herbs in the fridge. Immediately the misters began spraying, and double-rainbows appeared beneath the bright lights. The greens looked like they were growing in a little heaven.

“Wow!” said Alba. “Did you just make that happen?” She stared at the rainbows like a little girl dreaming.

“Maybe,” said the Great Shakra. “Your father would have loved to see the amazing variety of food here. He used to plant his own garden, didn’t he? But with a much smaller range of crops in The Yukon, of course. I’m sure his oregano and basil did well though, and tasted great in his pastas. He misses making them for you, bambina.”

Alba’s mouth fell open. “You know that? Are you psychic too? A medium?”

“Well, sort of. Come on, you need to get your shopping done. Why don’t you start with this aisle? Oh yes – artichokes, salsify, and organic mangoes, yum yum; and let’s go there – tiger prawns, tuna steaks, how about some surf and turf – let’s get filet steaks; get two packs; and yes, these special breads, made with sprouted ancient grains; this hand-toasted muesli, get the cashew and macadamia one; you can’t beat artisan goat cheese with caviar crust; its divine.” They strolled around the store, filling her cart with Lucerne’s finest foods. When they reached the till he said, “Throw in some mints and a National Enquirer and this will come to….. $360 exactly.”

Alba was amazed. She shouldn’t have doubted. He truly possessed magical powers

He didn’t really though. The Great Shakra had figured out the greens’ spraying schedule. That Alba was from a poor Italian family in The Yukon. His groceries cost more or less the same in these centrally-managed stores; he just needed to balance the cart with some impulse purchases. He was however skilled at sleight-of-hand, sensory overwhelming, and hypnosis. So he used Alba’s credit card – using the 4-digit PIN number he’d gleaned from her at the show – to pay for what were now his groceries, and then made her forget that she had ever met him.

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The Debaters

Posted in Lucerne Village, Sacred Geometry, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , , , , on March 5, 2012 by javedbabar

It was Lucerne Museum’s Annual Debate. Dimpy (Dimples) was pleased with herself. Who would have imagined, five years ago when she became Director, that an event at the Museum could be sold out – jammed! There was a waiting list for tickets, even a small black market she’d heard. She was a natural bringer together of people. It was her gift from God – or gods if there was more than one.

Dimpy was inspired by many sources. She recalled watching parliamentary debates in her childhood. Though the subject matter was generally uninteresting, members’ logical strategies and emotional appeals were fascinating. She had always enjoyed the Massey lectures – presenting original points of view. Recently she’d been impressed by a radio show called The Debaters, where pairs of comedians tried to provide the best combination of “facts and funny”.

Topics of debate were chosen by the Museum Board. In the past four years they had included, “Is Lucerne Village an independent entity or a slave to Strattus?” It was felt that Lucerne was basically a big bedroom for the local resort town of Strattus. “Should Lucerne Village retain its capacity or double in size?” It was felt that Lucerne should double in size. “Should Lucerne Village support old farms or modern industry?” This was declared a tie. Last year’s debate was controversial: “Should Lucerne Village create population quotas, or remain laissez faire?” The audience supported gender, racial, cultural, sexual orientation, religious, disability, and age-related quotas. People asked Dimpy why she had promoted debate on such a divisive issue. She said “That’s exactly why. People should speak freely, and think fiercely.”

Today’s topic was safer. More abstract. “Who is the true guardian of Lucerne Village: St. Lucy or Cernunnos?”

It was traditional for debaters to dress up. They did not disappoint. St. Lucy entered. She had long, blonde hair bound in plaits, topped by a wreath of greens which held seven lit candles; she wore a plain white dress, belted by a red sash; she bore a golden platter on which were small biscuits shaped like eyeballs. These symbolized the eyes that she had herself removed to be rid of a pagan suitor. She offered the biscuits to audience-members. Dimpy felt that this may be unfair, but let it go. Being eight months pregnant – the less effort expended today, the better.

Cernunnos danced in to cheers. He was dressed head to toe in a woolly brown goat skin, and bore twisting black horns. His long black boots gave the impression of hooves, and both arms and legs bore heavy golden bracelets called torcs. He carried a goatskin bag of liquor, and criss-cross belts filled with shooter glasses, which he rapidly filled and passed to audience-members. This was definitely not allowed, but Dimply also let it slide.

It was time to begin. She addressed the audience. “Welcome to the Museum’s Annual Debate. As you can see, we have a pair of very engaging characters present this evening. So without further ado, let us debate the motion of who is the true guardian of Lucerne Village. There will be four rounds in total. The first is their Arguments.”

St. Lucy wondered why they were even discussing this topic; the answer was apparent in her name. “Lucy comes from lux,” she said, “meaning light. What is more welcome in this land of long, cold, dark winters? Lucy brings light and warmth to your frozen souls. In Central Europe on St. Lucy’s day, bands of fortune-telling boys sing her songs of life; in Scandinavia, eldest daughters make warm breakfast for their families, and join processions of moon-girls and star-boys, lighting up the streets. Her Italian form, Juno, is goddess of childbirth, bringing babes into the light; and throughout Christian countries, she is the kind-hearted patron of the blind. Wherever she goes, Lucy brings joy and light.”

There was great applause from the ladies in the audience. Cernunnos made obscene gestures and leered, before beginning his Argument.

He said, “Cernunnos is a mysterious god. He moves in dark ways. His name comes from kornan, the Gaulish word for horn. His having horns or antlers shows his kinship with beasts, of whom he is Lord, and he sits cross-legged, surrounded by stags, bulls, serpents, dogs, and rats. His horn is both a ceremonial trumpet and military horn. He loves all kind of adventures, and the wealth they lead to – both as tribute and as experience. But most of all, he is horny, period. His horn shows his love of life – symbolizing its cycles of birth, death, and rebirth. So good people, be horny and vote for me!”

Every man present cheered. St. Lucy averted her eyes.

Dimpy said “Now the Bare Knuckles round,” This became pretty heated, with Cernunnos calling St. Lucy a prude, and her calling him a pervert. He didn’t seem to mind this moniker and made further obscene gestures. The Firing Line round involved questions about Lucerne Village. St. Lucy fared better on social issues and family affairs; Cernunnos performed well on leisure and economic matters. Then their final Summations: St. Lucy spoke of brightness, faith, and culture. Cernunnos extolled self-expression, darkness, and nature.

When Dimpy asked the audience to vote, there were big cheers for both sides. She requested a re-cheer. Again it was impossible to decide. A third and final round of cheering caused her water to break and her labour to start early. Fortunately Dr. Bungawalla was in the audience and took charge. It all happened in a flash, and a babe emerged before them.

St. Lucy said that as goddess of childbirth, this miracle was hers. Cernunnos said that as a fertility god, the credit was all his. Dimpy ruled that the baby was crying out for them both. Lucerne Village was a place of light and dark. They were both her newborn’s guardians.

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Valley Patroller

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Lucerne Village with tags , , , , , on March 4, 2012 by javedbabar

“Every life is priceless” was Lucerne Valley’s motto, and Jo’s job as Valley Patroller was to protect them all. In her five seasons working as VP here, she’d witnessed a huge amount of action. These people from the City just don’t think! Coming for a scheduled outing to the Lucerne Valley Leisure Zone was something they looked forward to. It was a rare opportunity to leave the City; get out of their rut; try something new. But why oh why did they insist on going so far out of their comfort zones?

Her Valley Controller said it was related to their playing too many video games; becoming so used to their avatars performing superhuman feats, having special powers, pausing whenever it suited them, finding energy boosts in their paths, and of course, the ability to die and instantly live again, that they had blurred the boundary between reality and fantasy. It was ironic that they came to LVLZ to escape their reality, and some were so careless that they escaped it forever.

This had been a good week though. She had made twelve successful rescues so far with no broken bones. There were scratches and cuts for sure, but as with sex, they were just part of the game.

The VC’s urgent voice by radio: “Upper Valley – Kalash Area – Water Trouble – Jo can you respond?”

“Yes, I’m on it! What’s the deal?”

“Some guys without Float-Suits. It seems they wanted to try swimming. Never done it before. One of them is in trouble. Head right over.”

Their location was 3 km from her Tech Base. Jo jumped on a jetski and was there in two minutes. A guy was in the icy, fast-flowing river clinging to tree roots on a sand bank. Her first mean thought was, “This is Evolution in Action; the dumbest ones don’t make it.” Then her VP training kicked in. It would be hard to pull him onto her jetski; the best thing would be to jump in herself and haul him out. She left him cold and gasping, but alive, on the river bank, with instructions to await medical personnel.

VC’s voice: “Upper Valley – Kalash Area – Forest Trouble – Jo can you respond?”

“Yes, I’m on it! What’s the deal?”

“A gang of bears has surrounded a tent. The E-Fencing is keeping them out right now, but they’re picking away. Head over before they’re through it.”

Bear gangs had been a nuisance of late. Smashing, trashing, taunting, and robbing people – where they had picked up their destructive habits was unknown. Her VC again blamed video games. Jo raced to the location on her ATV. She saw a blue tent near the spring, 0.5km off the road. The bears scattered as she approached. The E-Fencing was still good. She instructed the family to return to Main Base.

VC’s voice: “Upper Valley – Kalash Area – Mountain Trouble – Jo can you respond?”

“Yes, I’m on it! What’s the deal?”

“A family stuck on Camel Mountain’s humps. They say their Auto-Ropes are not working. Have you ever heard of Auto-Ropes not working? They probably don’t know how to use them. Head over there within the hour.”

Jo would have liked to rest awhile before responding. But losing a man last month had been expensive. It wasn’t her fault of course. He was an urban idiot, thinking that drinking and waterfalling mixed well. But he was in her Area so she took the hit. Every life is priceless. $10,000 was a lot off her annual salary, but his worth to the Authority was much greater. Adding up his DNA enhancement value, economic multiplier, consumer infomatics, his voting/lobbying rights, social networking dynamics, racial admixture, socio-demographic balancing, and population growth potential, must stretch into millions. Of course they couldn’t charge her the full amount, but a $10K hit was incentive enough to do everything in her power to keep visitors alive.

VC’s voice: “Upper Valley – Kalash Area – Snow Trouble – Jo can you respond?”

“Yes, I’m on it! What’s the deal?”

“A group nude-skiing. One of them has fallen into an ice hole. He’s freezing his balls off. Head over within fifteen minutes.” Evolution in Action again came to mind, but her role was to save, not to judge. She hauled him out with the winch on her snowmobile. Mr. Blue Balls.

VC’s voice: “Upper Valley – Kalash Area – Air Trouble – Jo can you respond?”

“Yes, I’m on it! What’s the deal?”

“Guy stuck up there and can’t get down. I think you know who it is. Take your time. Teach him a lesson.”

Jo spotted the blue parachute immediately. She drove to the low launch and took off from there. The wind was good and she was on him in two minutes. She flew in behind, hooked onto his back, collapsed his parachute, and flew him down on hers. Removing her helmet she said to him, “You have to stop doing this! I’m working. Something could happen to you!”

“But darling, you’re so sexy in action,” said her husband. “I can’t resist.”

He kissed her cold lips. She realized that she would save him anytime, anywhere. His life to her was priceless.

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A to B

Posted in Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, Unknown with tags , , , , , on March 3, 2012 by javedbabar

Camp A and Camp B were now established. It was strange how they had both sprung up at the same time, but without being connected. Rumours said that neither had gone through the proper process, scared by rumours of burial grounds, which if identified would end all construction. But they’d kept the in-joke. A stood for Apparition, said Camp A’s residents; Camp B’s dwellers said that B stood for Banshee. How the hell had he ended up here, Antoine wondered? What had he done to deserve this? And then he remembered.

He was legally obliged to mention his conviction, which tended to make him less attractive to employers. There was no escaping the fact that twelve years ago he had killed his boss. The boss was a mean son-of-a-bitch who had started the fight, and their fight had been fair, but Antoine should have stopped when it was clear that the issue was settled – by his bosses’ teeth being broken, and his lying unconscious in a pool of blood on the floor. There really was no need to smash his skull in with a fire extinguisher. But Antoine had been driven to a point beyond reason, and that’s why he could now only find jobs on the edge of the wilderness – a place he would always inhabit.

Out here things could be different though. Here was a convicted killer wearing a shirt and tie, in his air-conditioned office-trailer, having meetings with respectable people. He was only employed two days a week by the Village, and had to make best use of that time. One day was for fieldwork, the other for meetings. Today he was exploring options for connecting Camp Apparition to Camp Banshee with the three main interest groups.

His assistant Laurence was great at prepping. He could rely on her entirely. He wondered if she knew about his conviction. He reckoned that she did, but never mentioned it. What a pro. He was very lucky to have her. Why a sassy girl like that worked out in the bush though, he had no idea. At 11am she said, “The Lucerne Valley Merchant’s Association is here. They look like a fun bunch. Watch the one with two moustaches.”

“The one with two moustaches” turned out to be the grocery store owner. Antoine couldn’t help smirking when he walked in; he had a regular moustache, and a monobrow. Two moustaches. He said, “Merchants want the most direct route possible. Twenty kilometres of new road is not going to come cheap. We see the need to connect the two camps and are supportive. But as the biggest taxpayers in town, we want value for money. So we say built it straight, and build it cheap. Don’t drown us in more taxes.”

After lunch Laurence said, “Lucerne Valley Families First are here. I’m not sure why, but they seem to have brought their pet caterpillars.”

A group of people with fat sideburns walked in, and Antoine smirked again. That girl needs to behave herself, he thought, or she’ll get me into trouble. But he wondered when this hirsute fashion had started; was this Valley’s heritage Middle-Eastern?

A hefty lady was their spokesperson. She said, “We would like the road to take the scenic route between the two camps. If you run straight between them, you cross swampland and flood zone. You also skirt bluffs where bears and cougars have been spotted. So for the safety of our children especially – they’ll be on their bikes, or walking – we want the road to stick to higher areas away from the swamps and bluffs.”

At teatime Laurence said, “The Lucerne Valley Developers are here. They are very keen birders. Habitat will be their main concern.”

A group of men with beards and wigs walked in. This time Antoine could not help laughing. They were surprised at first, then angry. “What is the meaning of this?” said their chairman. “Is this a business meeting or a clown show?”

“I’m sorry,” said Antoine. “My assistant told me a joke earlier. It was a killer.”

“Well, do share it with us,” said the leader. “We like a good joke too.”

“I’m sorry, it’s a personal joke.” I will kill that girl, he thought; but only in a nice way.

“We Developers would like to see a network of roads. Not just a straight stretch between two armpits. We need roads to spread through the area, to create access to new neighbourhoods. A road from Camp A to Camp B will not attract anyone. People prefer eyesores out of sight. But a complex network will induce demand. That’s capitalism at its best, creating something from nothing.”

When everyone had gone, Antoine and Laurence put their heads together. Both were history buffs. They brainstormed the many types of roads in antiquity – dirt-tracks, flint-covered, stone-paved, corduroy-timbered, timber trackways, clay-brick-paved, Persian Royal Roads, Roman straight roads, Arab paved roads, and roads besides rivers, along which materials were hauled by horse-drawn boats. They discussed some related structures including bridges, tunnels, supports, junctions, crossings, interchanges, and toll roads, and of course the continuous right-of-way required.

Antoine suggested that he and Laurence use a fieldwork day to walk the proposed routes. They found the straight route involved much bushwhacking. The scenic route was easier, largely following animal tracks. A network could follow natural breaks and contours. But none of them felt right to Antoine. Was there anything else?

As dusk approached, they fell onto a pine forest track. There was a full moon tonight so they continued walking. Mushrooms grew profusely, and owls were hooting; wisps of blue light appeared and disappeared; someone had hung coloured glass balls at intervals; they heard rustling and whispering, and felt shadows. They had found an ancient corpse road, where bodies were transported from the Village to forest burial grounds. The Apparitions and Banshees were lonely here; they were long forgotten. They liked to see the living, especially those who were close to death themselves. This man they knew had killed someone, and the woman was here to avenge her father. They were pleased that company would be arriving soon.

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Lightcone

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Mystical Experience, Sacred Geometry, World Myths with tags , , , , , on March 2, 2012 by javedbabar

Albert worked in the Lightcone. It was all he’d ever known. The hard whiteness of the Highest Light broke into fragments far above, and bounced off crystal walls. It created a spectrum of infinitely clear hues, which filled the cone with endless brightness, like the heart of a jewel. Everything was illuminated everywhere, and shadows were simply not possible. The Highest Light seemed a vast jewel itself, so intense was its fire.

“Howdy, brother,” Albert said to his fellow worker.

“Howdy, brother,” the worker replied, and bumped Albert’s right fist, then his left fist. This was the only interaction encouraged between workers. It was a hard job seeking the perfect jewel; casual distractions and unnecessary affiliations were forbidden. The penalties for disturbance were not harsh, but the shame was strong, and the knowledge that you had lost a week of searching; a week in which another worker could have found your jewel.

Albert’s job was seeking, selecting, and grading the finest jewels. They had flaked off the crystal walls for millennia, and lay scattered in patches around the cone. Access to these areas was restricted to Jewellers; strong men like him whose fathers had done likewise, and their forefathers, back to the beginning of the Lightcone.

Each Jeweller had a general purpose and also a specific one. His general purpose was to serve society by offering it the finest jewels, used in factories for cutting weapons, traded for spices and metals, and used to decorate holy temples and shrines. His specific purpose was to search ceaselessly for his personal jewel. Some jewels – not necessarily the biggest or brightest – held the same vibrations as people, the same awareness as their soul. Albert’s life would be complete once he found his jewel. He would take it to the Temple to be tested and approved, and then begin the great journey to the top of the Lightcone, the journey that was the highest honour and greatest ordeal.

He recalled the pride he’d felt when his father had found his own jewel. “Son, I have completed my life’s purpose,” he had said to twelve-year-old Albert. “The priestess has confirmed its vibrational match and blessed my life force. Now I will climb to the light, as my father once did, and all of our forefathers.”

Albert recalled the dark, muscular figure, clad in short white tunic, begin to climb the rock-cut steps around the Lightcone’s rim. For three days, they saw this white speck rising higher, reflected as multiple specks in the crystal walls. It was as if his father had become many fathers. The higher he climbed, the more he multiplied, till it seemed to Albert that the cone was filled with fathers, all looking down. When he drew near the Highest Light, he diffused; he lost all separation and definition; he merged.

Albert’s mother had comforted him, saying, “Come son, let’s go to the Transparent Temple. There we will look into the Great Jewel. Maybe your father will send us a message.”

“I don’t want to go to the Temple,” Albert had said. “I want to go home.” In truth he wanted to run up the rock-cut steps after his father, and join him in the Highest Light. But it was a dangerous way on slim paths, along loose cliffs, through jungles, past waterfalls, along rope bridges, and where they were broken, crawling and grasping across gaps. Only a man who had found his jewel – and within it, seen his holy vision, and heard his holy vibration – was ready to go. Not boys like him.

Albert knew that it would be unforgivable of him to not attend his father’s rites. He went to the Temple with his mother. His extended family sat around the Great Jewel; the younger members an even mixture of boys and girls, but the older ones mainly women whose husbands had already undertaken their holy journeys. They looked into the Great Jewel together. Maybe they imagined it, but as the Highest Light poured onto the Great Jewel, they witnessed Albert’s father lighting the heart of the gem.

“He’s made it,” said a Great Aunty, hugging Albert’s mother. Other Great Aunties did the same.

Twelve years later, still a young man, Albert found his jewel. It was a fist-sized, grainy gem, with clear streaks running through its core. It seemed to throb with the same vibration as his heart. When he looked deeply into its clear channels, he saw his father walking and himself as a child crawling behind him, rising within the Lightcone together, towards the Highest Light.

“Don’t tell anyone,” his mother said. “You’re too young to go.”

“But mother, I have had my calling,” he said.

“But you haven’t found a wife or had children yet. It’s too early. I won’t tell anyone. Just put it back somewhere. No one will know.”

“Mother I will know. It must be so.”

After bumping fists with his fellow workers, Albert said farewell to his family and began to climb the rock-cut steps. He rode the slim paths on loose cliffs, went through jungles, past waterfalls, along rope bridges, and crawled and grasped across gaps.

When he reached the Highest Light, he realized that there was no light there. It was the Lightcone itself that was the source of light, reflecting itself endlessly. He had emerged from the Lightcone, which was now a glowing well beneath him. The realm outside was one of darkness, where the only light present came from his glowing hand. Holding his jewel before him, Albert wandered into this strange gloomy landscape. He now understood the higher purpose of his people. It was to spread their light here.

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Anything Else?

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Lucerne Village, Unknown with tags , , , , , on March 1, 2012 by javedbabar

There was a beautiful new guy at the coffee shop. He was six-feet tall, with long dark hair tied in a high knot, and a diamond nose stud. His ethnicity was unclear – perhaps Hawaiian and Asian, or Caribbean and North African – it was difficult to say. But he affected Karen deeply; she was wet the moment she saw him.

He was really nice whenever she went there, and seemed to have all the time in the world. Such attentive service was rare. Even when there was a queue of girls behind, he wouldn’t rush her. He often asked “How is your day going so far?”, and, “What are you doing this afternoon?” He also asked about her evenings, and ended with the retail mantra, “Anything else?”

She hated when people said that. If she had wanted something else she would have put it on the counter, or asked for it by name, or said “Hang on a minute,” and run to get it. She didn’t want anything else! That’s why she wasn’t presenting “anything else” for scanning, or offering additional payment. But it was different when he said it.

His accent was hard to define – British, but not quite; maybe Scottish with some Italian or French. “Anything” was not one word when he said it, but two words. Anything usually meant “a random item, aka. whatever.” But any thing sounded to her like “whatever you desire, O beautiful one; any single thing from this universe bursting with ravishing possibilities”. It was impossible to say if he was flirting with her. The coffee shop’s clientele were mostly female, and many were much prettier than she was. What would he see in her? Karen didn’t want to think about it too much though. She stopped going to other coffee shops. She only went there.

Luka – it took a while for Karen to gather enough courage to ask his name – was a skilled barista. His espresso, cappuccino, mochaccino, Americano, Canadiano, ristretto, and Bungacino – named after the Village’s long-serving doctor – were always the best. Whenever she went in, she asked if he could make her coffee. This annoyed other workers. They often had to summon him from the depths of sandwich-making, but he always seemed happy to see her. They hated her even more when she began asking which sandwiches, which soups, which muffins, which wraps, which cakes, and which salads he’d made. Her choices were not guided by flavours;, only by which items had passed through Luka’s hands. He never seemed annoyed or embarrassed. There was something about him. He made her feel beautiful.

Karen was drawn towards a thrilling conclusion, and wondered why she hadn’t seen it before. Why else would he treat her so special? He must like her too! This time when he asked her, “Anything else?” she said, “Yes, a hot date with you tonight.” She couldn’t believe that she’d said it, but by the time she realized, she already had.

If it didn’t go well, she could pretend it was a joke; an ironic comment on corporate psychology, how it dehumanizes and objectifies both the vendor and customer – turning what could be a natural, enjoyable encounter into an empty monetary exchange, with a subtext of inadequacy, both of the item – suggesting that it isn’t enough – and of the purchaser – implying they are lacking something, of which they need more to feel “happy”.

But to her surprise, no joke was required. He replied, “Sure, what time shall I pick you up?”

After stunned silence, she said, “7pm?”

“Great,” said Luka. “See you then.”

“Do you know where I live?”

“Yes I do, it’s on the computer.” She looked at him unnerved. “From your loyalty card details.”

She smiled and said, “Ok,” then walked out smiling.

Luka came at exactly 7pm. They went for drinks first, then for dinner, then to her apartment for sex. It was a thrilling, unbelievable evening.

In the morning he was gone, and Karen panicked. She thought, “What the hell was I doing last night? I hardly know the guy. It was our first date and I let him sleep with me. What comes next?” She decided not to go to the coffee shop that morning. Instead she went to the one across the road.

Karen had a shock. There was Luka making coffee! He’d cut his hair short, and lost the nose stud; WTF? Was he trying to hide from her too? She had already joined the queue, and it was best to just stay there now, giving her time to think. Luka took a long time with the girl in front, but eventually Karen’s turn came. He was as friendly as ever and asked his usual questions, but nothing more. He didn’t return her sly smile of something delicious shared. She ran out and began crying.

She couldn’t go to work in this state, so instead went to the Village’s third coffee shop. There was Luka again, now with a crew cut and diamond earrings, and a line of girls before him. What was going on?

Karen was not aware of Commodity Oligopolies and the new field of Retail Psychographics. World Coffee Corp had bought the rights to all coffee shops in BC, but not wanting to scare customers away, they had retained branches’ separate identities. The coffee blends, sizes, flavours, and finishes – and the numbers of i’s, c’s, and o’s – were exactly the same; they always had been, only differing in the minds of gullible consumers. But what to do with the staff spectrum? WCC cloned their most attractive, multiracial, multilingual male staff, and sent one to each outlet to train other staff. Their goal was to give their mostly female clientele complete customer satisfaction.

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HEARTH

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Sacred Geometry, Unknown with tags , , , , , on February 29, 2012 by javedbabar

Amy and David were excited by their new HEARTH home. An enhanced home had always seemed out of reach, so when they heard about “50% OFF” this January – making it as cheap as a regular home – they jumped at the chance.

They knew that they were the man and woman of each other’s dreams, and their next step was making a home together. But everything was so expensive – how could young people afford anything these days? Well they could if they were happy to live in debt for 30 years. David said that they shouldn’t have a mortgage. He invoked the symbolism of Jesus upturning the money changers’ tables at the Temple. People didn’t realize that everyone borrowing money simply meant that everyone had more money available, and supply and demand – basic economics – ensured that prices went up. So ultimately, borrowing money was worthless. In fact, with inflation, it was less than worthless.

They used their savings to buy a plot of land, and lived in an RV there for three years. Their house fund built up quickly, and they were set to self-build, so visited the Ideal Home Show for ideas. That’s where they saw the HEARTH home.

“Darling, let’s go in there,” Amy had said. “I like the look of it.”

“Doesn’t that one look better?” said David, pointing to a glassy structure with pronounced, angled timbers, which gave the effect of ascending and expanding.

“It looks like the Transparent Temple’s unwanted child.” said Amy. “You know what happened to the budget of our beloved community centre. Let’s not go there.”

“I just don’t see the attraction?” said David. “It looks like a shiny black box to me; hardly West Coast architecture.”

“Darling, I’m drawn to it,” said Amy. “Can we go see?”

They were dazzled by their walk around the HEARTH home, and booked a full demo at the City factory, which was followed by a bubbly sales lunch. This was where the salesman had mentioned the “50% OFF” promotion for “selected customers” like them. The only condition was that they had to choose from an existing model. They were allowed minor modifications, but no structural changes, or they would be back to “50% ON”.

Amy and David were the first people in the Village to own a HEARTH home. They required a month to lay the foundations and get utilities primed. The HEARTH home was delivered on the Monday after. Its components came on four tractor trailers, and the eight-man construction crew completed it by Friday.

They were told to stay out for the weekend to allow adhesives, paints, and varnishes to cure. The HEARTH home would require a further month of commissioning, giving time for the structure to settle. “There will be thumps, cracks, snaps, creaks, ooh’s and aah’s,” said the salesman by video call. “The house needs to get to know you. It needs to understand your physical movements, and your personal behaviour. Our structural work is the easy part. It is the house that does all the hard work.” He beamed hugely. So many teeth, thought Amy. “It is filled with components that you’ll never see – there are heat, sound, respiration, odour, electromagnetic, and tension sensors, plus as a bonus to my favourite customers I’ve authorized ECG and EEG feedback loops, that pick up your heartbeats and thoughts, which become the house’s heartbeat and thoughts. Can you hear them?”

“The sensors pick up our thoughts?” said David. “How do they do that?”

“I don’t understand the details myself,” said the salesman. “Only the principles. Once your personal pattern is established, the house identifies key emotional stages of your desired outcome, and then works through them progressively. It’s all very subtle though, very natural. You won’t even know. In Ancient Persia, every house had a hearth at its centre, a holy place for offering sacrifices and prayers. This is what we have recreated in this modern house. You are its hearth.”

Even within its first few days, the house functioned beautifully. Rooms lit up as they approached them; just the right music played; beautiful fragrances created delight; micro-cleaners didn’t allow a speck of dust or a stain to remain; the water’s temperature was perfect always, both in the kitchen sink and in the bath. The HEARTH home ensured that their dinners were awesome, their conversations sublime, their yoga divine, their work productive, and their sex out of this world.

The HEARTH home never got in their way. It took them to where they wanted to be, and left them to continue alone. “Darling, this is perfect,” said Amy. “This is how I wanted our life to be.”

“I guess you were right about the house,” said David. “It’s helped us to become more ourselves.” He kissed her passionately, causing classical guitars to play, and roses to scent the room. “Our neighbour’s houses have taken over their lives. They live for their houses. They spend their weeks working to pay their mortgage, and their weekends scrubbing and fixing them. Here we can just be ourselves.”

But one day they had a silly argument about cheese. Amy said that it was still alive, and David said it wasn’t. And because it was a silly argument, the house didn’t know how to behave. Rather than reason, its response was passion. Red colours flashed, whisky smells filled room corners, rap music thumped harder, the air became hotter and steamier, and chilli tastes heightened their emotional disharmony into physical distress. Amy grabbed the cutlery nearby. The HEARTH house played The Ride of the Valkyries, and she became a winged maiden choosing slain warriors. “God help us!” cried David. Both his and their home’s heartbeats stopped together.

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Open Relationship

Posted in Lucerne Village, Uncategorized with tags , , , , on February 28, 2012 by javedbabar

It is a long haul home in one sense, thought Antonio – three long ladders, all strapped together, rising thirty feet. It seems like an endless series of steps, like railway sleepers running past you at increasing speed; plus it’s trickier when you have shopping bags.

The fourth floor isn’t that high, he thought, but the ladder isn’t going straight up like a ship’s ladder. It’s angled about 45o, so the only things it touches are the ground and my apartment – my apartment, not theirs – on its √30ft2 x 30ft2, approx 45 ft length using Pythagoras’ formula for triangles. Clever guy that Pythagoras; I wonder if he would have approved of this solution.

Antonio’s ascent was somewhat awkward and entirely outdoors, but still quicker than walking all the way round to the apartment block entrance – up three sets of stairs – along many corridors – though endless sets of fire doors – past fire alarms – sprinklers –

CCTV – all to get to his apartment. It had been a year since Antonio had walked into the manager’s office and said to him, “I’m not paying any more management fees.”

“Why not?” he’d asked.

“Because I own this apartment, and pay $800/month to the bank for the privilege. And then for some unknown reason, I must pay a further $800 to you. That’s disgusting.”

The manager looked away, and fiddled with his desk toy. Five steel balls on wires were set in motion – by pulling away and releasing a ball at one end that bashed the others, and sent a ball at the opposite end outwards, which returned and continued the motion in reverse – and never stopped. Then he said, “But you must pay your fees to cover facilities. You have signed a contract. It is your obligation.”

“Screw my obligation. There is no such thing. There is free will and choice. That’s it.” He fixed a stare to the manager. “I’m not going to use your facilities. I’ve got my apartment. That’s all I need.”

“How will you do that?” said the manager, staring at his desk toy. “How will you get up there? How will you get in and out? You need our facilities.”

“You’ll see,” Antonio had said. “You’ll see.” He didn’t have a clue, but had set things in motion now and didn’t wish to back down. He realized that the management company fully owned the paved approach, the entrance lobby, the stairs, the corridors, and safety doors. He couldn’t set foot, or lay hand, on any of them without owing dues. So there was only one solution – an external approach.

He borrowed long ladders from a builder friend, and engaged the spirit of Pythagoras. Pythagoras was a mighty mathematician, of course, but more than that he was an idealist – some would say extremist. His commune in Croton, South Italy was a radical place, where all activity was directed towards the study of mathematics. Eating beans was banned – as flatulence was distracting. Like many great philosophers, Pythagoras was persecuted by the State. The great Socrates, for example, had been made to drink a cup of hemlock. Antonio decided that he would not allow the System to treat him like Socrates, but neither would he hide away like Pythagoras. He was a landowner, dammit! A man’s home is his castle. And a castle is home to a king.

The management company tried everything to remove Antonio. He was locked in, locked out, and kicked out. He was roughed up, blackmailed, threatened, and arrested. But his strength as an orator from his fourth floor window, and his unkempt, philosophical persona, saw him through these trials. People were moved by his arguments for the dignity of man; they were inspired by his notions of free will and free action. He said to them, “No one is free who has not obtained the empire of himself.” Here was someone to believe in at last; a true person. The manager sensed the local mood and stopped hassling him for now, saying they were looking into “structured legal positions”.

Despite his successful ladder setup, it was tiring getting in and out, so Antonio spent much of his time in his apartment reading Karl Marx. Yes, workers were duped by capitalists all over the world; they must rise up to reclaim their dignity. What was this bullshit notional rent they were charging for facilities he owned already? The apartment was his, so his access was implicit; he had eternal right-of-way. He would not accept their hidden charges; a filthy mixture of corruption, theft, profit, and tax.

Antonio’s neighbours liked his style. They hated paying management fees too, and never really understood their purpose, or where they went. The block’s facilities were functional and complete; the only ongoing costs were hallway lighting, lift operation, and occasional cleaning – how did that cost $800/month per owner? The managers were clearly crooks that must be challenged and resisted. Why should honest, hard-working folk shell out for made-up, bullshit costs? The apartment owners locked out the manager, and elected Antonio their leader. When the manager complained, Antonio said to him, “Be silent or let thy words be worth more than silence.” The manager kept quiet.

On his first day in the manager’s office, Antonio calculated the monthly bill for communal services. It came to $600 per property owner. So they had been ripping him off, the bastards! He drew up bills for his comrade-owners – $600 costs plus $200 admin charges for all his efforts. This was much fairer. Every man must be rewarded for his labour.

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Vote Night

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Lucerne Village with tags , , , , on February 27, 2012 by javedbabar

The Election Officer addressed the assembly. “Here are the results for all candidates standing for Mayor of Lucerne.” Excited murmuring ran throughout the Great Hall. To people passing, the Transparent Temple seemed like an aquarium with larvae wriggling within, one of whom would gobble up all others and become the Big Fish.

The Election Officer continued, “I shall announce them in alphabetical order by surname, with their stated affiliations.” The room hushed.

“Samir Bungawalla, Ethnic People’s Alliance: 200 votes.” People whispered that the Doctor’s son should really have done much better than this; the party founded by his father was on the wane.

“Davy Choo, Sustainable Fuels Forum: 50 votes.” Davy was a popular guy, but everyone knew that he was simply a front man for failing logging companies.

“Pinky Dada, Ethnic People’s Gay Alliance: 150 votes.” People congratulated Pinky, who blew kisses to everyone. Her breakaway group had done quite well.

“Simonique Jahanara, Ethnic People’s Gay Disabled Alliance: 120 votes.” People said that Simonique shouldn’t have stood, for she had split the ethnic and gay votes. Her response to this was, “Kick a queer black girl in a wheelchair, sugar, why don’t you?”

“Breda Mopa, Ethnic People’s Gay Disabled Autistic Alliance: 60 votes.” There was a time when the EPA was a rising star in local multi-cultural politics – but it had split into ineffective shards that continued to break further.

“Simon Palmer, Lucerne Valley First: 499 votes.” There was a general cheer. The current mayor had done very well, as hoped for and expected. It was almost a given that he would make his second term.

“Gracious Trabant-Berliner, Equestrian Horizons: 110 votes.” There was a time when horsey people were very popular, but people had, frankly, just got bored with their endless whinnying.

Di@ne W@tkins, Future Focus: 499 votes.” People gasped around the room. Di@ne W@tkins had a clear space around her, in which she stood surprised. Lucerne’s first-ever robot candidate had done very well and matched the incumbent!

The Election Officer asked for quiet; she had yet to finish announcing the results. “Toni Wicca, Ethnic People’s Gay Disabled Autistic Psychic Alliance: 12 votes.” This was clearly one split too far.

“And finally, Bongo Zephaniah, Ganga Potty Party: 160 votes.” A respectable showing from someone who had been treated by the press as a clown. Pot was no laughing matter in BC. Well it was – when smoking it in your yard with friends – but not in municipal elections.

“So there is a tie between Simon Palmer and Di@ne W@tkins. I will consult with my colleagues and shortly make further comment.”

A din of voices, like spring insects buzzing, rose around the Great Hall. There were jovial conversations and hidden whispers. The hottest topic was the robot candidate, Di@ne W@tkins. She was a petite woman with long dark hair, who had lived in the Village quietly for five years. Last year she’d announced that she no longer wished to live as a closet-robot; she publically declared that she had undergone the HST – Homo Sapiens Technology – Program, and was proud to represent this new branch of humanity.

Local people were shocked. There was a robot living right amongst them, undetected for years! They felt for some reason that robots existed only in the City – near factories, technicians, and charging stations. How could they exist out here? Their information however was out of date. Yes people over 50% android must exist near technical facilities, but the 50% boundary was rarely approached.

Most robots were under 20% android. Some were just cosmetic conversions, but most were medical enhancements of various degrees – a nose enlargement to assist breathing; a new heart for one that was failing; new lungs for those about to collapse; a new penis for erectile dysfunction; new legs for paraplegics; a new voice box for those with throat cancer. Robotics was the marvel of the age.

Having electrodes, polymers, and metals in bodies, however, frightened people who didn’t have them. “Are these people less human than we are?” they wondered. In truth many of these people were more human – because they had suffered and faced their mortality. Their alien structures made them whole, and they were compassionate to others who seemed weak or afraid. Test cases had challenged their legal status, but the Supreme Court had declared them equal and deserving of all rights, though the question of robots with extra powers was yet to be resolved.

The crowd hushed as the Election Officer returned. She said, “As you know, the most accurate and efficient form of assessing the electorates’ wishes is electronic voting. However, mistakes are occasionally made. Under advice from Legal Counsel, we will have a recount for the two leading candidates. This simply involves myself pressing a button, and the computer re-running the vote counting program. I will do this right now.” She pushed a button and the Great Hall remained hushed. Then she announced the recounted results. “Simon Palmer: 498 votes. Di@ne W@tkins: 500 votes.”

Most people cheered, as Di@ne was popular in Lucerne. She was hoisted onto shoulders amid flashing cameras. However others in the room stared at the petite, dark-haired robot suspiciously, thinking, “How did she do that?” and, “Is she connected to that computer?” and “Is this the first step towards Overmind?”

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Always Sunshine

Posted in Alternative Energy, World Myths with tags , , , , on February 26, 2012 by javedbabar

Safra preferred the children’s sections of waiting rooms. They were often orange or yellow, had funny seating, and a range of wooden and cuddly toys. The adult sections were always so boring – full of old chairs, old magazines, and old people – and if you were visiting a medical professional, they generally made you feel worse. It had been a year since he’d last visited a doctor, and it was never something he looked forward to. But at least he was seeing Dr. Bungawalla – healer of his family for fifty years. Safra sat in the adult section, enviously watching the children playing.

As a boy he’d loved the sun and wished that there was “always sunshine”. You should be careful what you wish for! The world was now four degrees warmer, and there was lots more sunshine – most would say too much. Climate change had caused global upheavals, but for the owner of GPS: Gaia Power Systems, that hadn’t been a bad thing.

“Mr Safra?” the fake blonde receptionist called out. He walked over to the desk. “Would you please complete this form before seeing the doctor? It’s just lifestyle information for our metrics.”

“Is that you?” he said. “On the poster behind? What’s it for?”

“Oh, it’s a sponsored walk I do every year. We raise money for children’s charities, mainly for skin cancer.”

“That’s very good of you,” said Safra. “When’s the next one?”

“Next month we’re walking from Mt. Alba to Mt. Negra; that’s 100 km.”

“Wow! Put me down for a dollar-a-kilometre. Make sure you’re wearing plenty of sunscreen though. That will be a pretty hot haul.”

“Thank you Mr. Safra. That’s very kind of you. Now, if you wouldn’t mind completing the form, the doctor will see you shortly.”

Safra filled in the personal data and then began the travel section. There was never enough space. His work as an alternative energy specialist took him all over the world. He spent weeks on end in deserts during installation, and his larger projects required annual checks. This year he had already visited solar farms in Texas, Morocco, Arabia, and Tibet; places where there was “always sunshine”.

Someday he’d like to visit the Southern Wind Belt – joints like Congo, Brazil, and Indonesia – but with all their crazy storms – a hurricane here and tornado there – you were putting your life at risk. Those were adventures for men younger and braver than he.

There was always the option to explore the Northern Wind Belt – American East Coast, Central Europe, and Upper China – but what would he do there? Their populations had shifted, their monuments were crumbling, and infrastructure destroyed.

There were no opportunities in the Wind Belts for energy production; the elements were just too fierce. Maybe there would be stronger materials soon, and more robust systems, but for now GPS would stick with solar power in central deserts, and wind power in polar seas. Leave the hair-raising stuff to the kids, he thought.

He returned the completed form to the receptionist. “My, we are a world traveller,” she said. “We’re lucky to have you in Lucerne.”

“Well, even a salmon returns to its river once in its lifetime,” he said. “This is home.”

“I’ve been here for two years, Mr. Safra. I’ve never seen you before. You must be an extraordinarily healthy man. Good for you!”

“If I had seen you before,” he said. “I would also have remembered.” She blushed as he said this. “Miss…?”

“Mrs.” She emphasized, and looked at him in a mock-stern manner. “Mrs. Bungawalla.”

“Mrs. Bungawalla! So Dr. Bungawalla is your…?”

`           “Dr. Bungawalla is my husband.”

Boy he’d kept that quiet, the old rascal. He was in his seventies, and she was in her – forties? Fifty, tops. Wasn’t this the fifth wife in as many decades? What was his secret? “How is the good Doctor?” he said to fill the silence.

“You can ask him yourself. He’s expecting you now.”

Safra felt foolish hitting on the doctor’s wife/receptionist. He wondered if she would tell her husband. He knocked on the door marked “Dr. A.K. Bungawalla” and entered upon hearing a muffled hailing. Dr. Bungawalla was a small, dark man with luminous skin, which absorbed and reflected all light in the room. Despite having treated Safra since boyhood, he maintained his professional air. “How can I help you, Mr. Safra?”

“I’ve got these strange blotches on my skin. I’m concerned it could be skin cancer. Can you please take a look at them?”

Dr. Bungawalla examined the blotches and said, “Nothing of concern.”

“My eyes have been hurting on the insides. I wonder if my retinas are burned.”

Dr. Bungawalla pulled Safra’s eyelids and peered in with a small torch. He said, “All quite normal.”

“Also I’m feeling feverish. Do men have menopause? I didn’t think so.”

Dr. Bungawalla said, “Well not quite, but tell me more.”

Safra told him about the hot flushes and panic attacks; the temper tantrums; the insomnia and self-loathing.

“Mr. Safra, it’s good that you came to see me about this. I am not able to help you personally, but can recommend a good psychotherapist. It’s a common complaint these days called “Oedipal Overheating”. As the world’s temperature continues to rise, people feel guilty about humanity’s part in climate change. They feel that they have caused their Mother, Earth, so much pain that they must punish themselves continuously. A few sessions of Alternative Therapy – to match your Alternative Energy; how’s that going by the way? – should do the trick.”

Safra told Dr. Bungawalla about GPS, then prepared to go.

“Wait! I have some good advice for you,” said Dr. Bungawalla. “Keep your face always toward the sunshine – and shadows will fall behind you.”

“That’s very good. Is it yours?”

“If you were a lady, Mr. Safra, I’d say yes. But I will admit to you that those words are Mr. Whitman’s.”

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