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Fruit Trees

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Lucerne Village, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , , , , , , , , on May 27, 2012 by javedbabar

When Danny felt sad in winter he went to the Botanical Garden. It was a vibrant place with lush foliage and bright blooms in a land assaulted by winter; it seemed an oasis of infinite life; maybe even another planet.

His long walks in the forest had provided awareness of local flora, but the species here were unusual, and he barely recognized any of them. They had crazy forms and colours: eight foot tall plants with blue, hand-like flowers, and red chandeliered blossoms that twinkled in the moon and sun. His favourite was the Silva Sanguinara, with its huge pink flowers, made up of hundreds of smaller ones, like a jigsaw puzzle. He imagined the green-suited creator of the Botanical Garden, known as The Gardener, sitting at home on one gloomy day, piecing it together.

Danny spent an hour enjoying the tranquil garden, and on his way out crossed The Gardener striding up the main path. He was always around somewhere, tending to something; the man was a perfectionist; a micro-manager literally, planting seeds, cross-breeding, and hand-pollinating flowers.

“Good day to you, Sir,” said the Gardener.

“Good day to you too,” said Danny. “I’ve told you many times, I’m sure, but I don’t mind telling you again. I love this place. It’s a wonderful thing you’ve done for the citizens of Lucerne.”

“But I too am a citizen of Lucerne,” he said. “You could say it was self-interest.”

Danny pondered for a moment and said, “You are too modest. You work harder than you need to. You’re here every time I visit, doing your rounds.”

The Gardener changed the subject. “Have you seen our new shop?” Danny shook his head.

“It just opened last week. You should go and take a look. I think you’ll like it.”

The Gardener tipped his hat and walked away.

Danny made his way to the shop; it was nestled between the Amazonian Rainforest and Egyptian Oasis areas. One side was festooned with giant fig lattices, and the other side almost hidden by huge rushes and swaying palms.

“Welcome Sir!” said the young assistant. “How is your day going so far?”

Danny was tempted to tell him that his day was terrible. It was filled with despair and unrequited love. He felt worthless and hopeless, and saw few reasons to continue living. But why give this kid such a hard time? Why kill his enthusiasm? So he said, “It is going well, thank you.”

“Great! I’ve got some things that will make it even better. Please follow me.” He led Danny to a display at the front of the shop; a selection of fruit trees. He said, “These are our winter specials. I know it’s not quite winter yet, but it’s good to plan ahead, don’t you think?” Danny nodded. “They bear fruit all winter.” Danny wondered if the assistant had picked up on his despair.

“They’re quite expensive,” said Danny. “I wouldn’t usually spend so much on a plant.”

“But they are specials for a reason, Sir. Look at this winter banana, and this winter cherry. Imagine having ripe yellow and bright red cheering up your house when it’s gloomy outside? Wouldn’t that be something?”

“I guess you’re right. It would be kind of nice. And they’ll grow indoors? Very good. And even a non-gardener like me can tend them successfully? Okay, great. Maybe I’ll take them. How about one hundred dollars for them both?”

After a deal was struck, the assistant told him that he’d also need a heat lamp which was another fifty bucks. Danny was annoyed at this; he should have been told before. But the idea of brightness and sweetness in darkness appealed to him. It may just make the difference this winter. He took the trees home and placed them near his front window.

The trees thrived there at first, but the winter cherry suddenly died. The Gardener hadn’t told Danny the whole truth. The assistant couldn’t, as he didn’t know. These were ancient species, which had arrived on earth before man, locked in a timeless struggle for survival. The Gardener, an initiate of the cult of the Green Man, was not allowed to assist one over the other. His only role was to ensure a fair fight during this process of guided evolution. Whether or not Danny survived the winter was unimportant to him.

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Carrier Bird System

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Lucerne Village, Unknown with tags , , , , , , , on May 24, 2012 by javedbabar

Sharon watched Pinku rise into the sky. She always felt a pang of sadness when a bird left her hand, knowing there was a chance that it would not return. They were trained to return, the same or next day, but you couldn’t be sure. Birds were a blessing to the humans remaining.

It was hard to believe that people had once eaten pigeons – beings whose brave adventures now kept us connected in far-flung territories. The flatlands were all taken; humans who had not escaped were captured and killed.

Communities remained only on the mountains at each end of the Lucerne Valley – the larger one in the meadows atop Mt Alba, and smaller one in Mt Negra’s caves. They were in regular communication by CBS – the Carrier Bird System built upon an aviary bequeathed to the village. The tropical birds were beautiful but not sustainable, and were a luxury in difficult times. Their flesh was eaten and their feathers used for decoration. But the pigeons, hawks, and eagles proved useful. They were nourished and trained.

Sharon wondered if a hawk would have been better for this mission. The message had seemed important to her, and she had alerted her commander upon its arrival. The Signal Corps were meant to relay “but not absorb” messages’ contents, so if they were captured no secrets would be betrayed. Her commander had said to send a pigeon.

Her brother had built the coop himself. Its design was ingenious. When a CBS courier arrived, wires sounded a bell, alerting the guard. Then he or she would remove the steel canister from the bird’s neck or back, decode the message, and relay it upward.

She’d heard that carrier pigeons had flown only one way originally, towards home; hence the common term for them, homing pigeons. But the Signal Corps had trained them to fly both ways, by making them feel that Mt Negra was home and Mt Alba was their feeding station. Hence they flew happily between them, managing the 160 km round trip in a day.

Pinku hadn’t returned by dusk. She began to worry, and again wondered if she should have selected a hawk. She had seen some hawks during her surveillance of the valley; even eagles back early from their winter sojourn in the Gulf. Could a hawk or eagle have got the better of Pinku? It was unlikely. He was a smart bird, always flying close to the tree line, not leaving himself exposed. She had a worse thought – were they cultural, rather than natural, predators? Maybe enemy forces had trained their own birds.

She’d better send a hawk. She prepared another coded message and selected Bubbly to deliver it. As she saw him rise into the dusk sky, she saw an eagle rise with him. Hawks were faster, but eagles were smarter and stronger, and generally got the better of any fight. She knew right then that Bubbly was gone.

Sharon prepared a third coded message, and called forth Azeem. You couldn’t treat eagles like other birds. You had to treat them like people.

She said, “Azeem, my beautiful bird, my powerful companion, I have a request for you. Would you please deliver this message to Mt Alba by daybreak, and then return safely home?” Azeem stood still as she affixed the steel canister, and then was gone. She saw his back shine silver in the half-moon.

The next morning she saw glittering air in the valley. At first it seemed a flock of birds reflecting sunshine, but then she realized that it wasn’t birds. They moved too deliberately, taking no advantage of winds and thermals. If anything, they were pushing against them.

But one shape among them moved differently, and dodged from side to side, dropping down suddenly and swirling. It was Azeem.

When he dropped heavily beside her, she saw he was injured. His breast and wings were bloody, and his feathers tattered rags. “What happened to you, brave bird?” she said as she opened his canister. As she unrolled the hand written message, she had a brief recollection of digital technologies. They were now of no use to humans; 100% too dangerous to use.

The message when decoded read, “Urgent. The machines have adapted. They are no longer confined to land and water. They can fly now. Evacuate immediately.” Sharon looked up and saw a swarm of small aircraft, all remotely controlled like toys, but deadly ones, seeking out humans.

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Cosmic Whee!

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, Sacred Geometry, Unknown with tags , , , , , , , , on May 20, 2012 by javedbabar

Terry wondered whether to join the queue. It was always like this at Lucerne’s Halloween Fair, with lines so long that they put you off the rides; they were up to an hour sometimes – what for? Were some rides really so much better than others?

The annoying thing was that the rides he took were never that good. His friends waiting longer seemed to have a better time. They whirled, jerked, spun, and flipped in ways they couldn’t describe. His best friend tried, saying, “It’s like being in a blender, drunk, on the ice crush setting,” and then putting on a Sean Connery voice, “Schaken not schtirred.” Terry’s ride had been lame, just an irregular creeping that made him feel disgusted. You were meant to feel scared.

This year, he decided, he would be patient and wait. He joined the line for the newest machine, called Cosmic Whee!, which was shaped like a neon tree about the size of a mature fir. When operational, its arms extended more like an oak tree, and they flashed through every colour. It seemed to ascend and expand, and sparked, and shot flames. Terry wondered how safe its electrics were, not to mention the gas lines fuelling the flames.

People waiting were enthralled. Imagine what it must be like for people enjoying the ride! He could see why it had the longest queue.

Then Terry noticed something strange, that there weren’t any people enjoying the ride. Nobody was sitting on the arms. Where were they? What were people queuing for?

He tapped the shoulder of the boy in front of him, and said, “Excuse me, what are we queuing for?”

The boy was annoyed at having his viewing disrupted, but then gave a quick smile. “It makes you disappear, you know.” He saw the troubled look on Terry’s face and added, “The Cosmic Whee! makes you disappear. That’s what they say.”

Terry said, “Who says? The fairground people?”

The boy drew up to him closely. “No, the people. My friends told me. That’s what they say. You’ll see for yourself. Don’t say I didn’t say so.”

Terry was confused. How could this ride make you disappear? He watched the next customer walk up to the contraption. A small round door slid open and he climbed inside. Then the door shut. It was only one person at a time – no wonder the queue was so long! Again the ride’s arms extended, flashed, ascended, expanded, and sparked, and flamed. Three minutes later, the round door opened, and was empty. Where had the rider gone? Had he disappeared?

The boy in front turned and raised his eyebrows, and said, “See?”

Terry noticed a figure at the back of the ride. Was it the rider? No, it was a young girl, much too young for this ride.

Terry waited in line for an hour and a half. He thought there must be some trick being played, with people exiting elsewhere. Maybe there was a tunnel to another part of the fairground, where they popped up and went home. He looked around at the other rides – traditional ones like dodgems, carousels and rollercoasters, and modern ones like Booster, Freak Out and Top Spin. There were also games of strength, skill and luck. But there was nothing as dramatic as Cosmic Whee! and nothing with a longer line.

Terry reached the front at last, and was greeted by a man in neon blue tailcoat and orange trousers and hat, who said, “Come on in! This is the real show!” He directed Terry towards the round door, which slid shut behind him. He felt claustrophobic at first but soon was comfortable on this bridge of darkness.

Twisting light rings appeared around him and then slid downwards with increasing speed, as if he were in a giant elevator with a crazy barber’s pole spiralling down around him. It was disorienting initially but became habitual. It seemed quite normal; a part of life. He was alive and part of life, at the heart of life, a twisting strand of DNA. He lost track of time. He could be here forever.

He didn’t disappear, just appeared in a different place, almost like this one. A parallel universe within the multiverse. And a being from a fairground there came to the fairground here. In ancient times there were shamanic flights and ecstatic rituals. Now there was technology and leisure. The goal was the same as ever – to cross-fertilize universes. A diverse cosmos is healthy.

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Tectronix

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Infinite City, Lucerne Village, Unknown with tags , , , , , , , on May 15, 2012 by javedbabar

Jerry found Tectronix via an unexpected source: The Authority’s website. It looked like a good skill-building game that would improve his coordination quickly. He was sick of being beaten by his friends all the time. It downloaded in a minute.

After the Terms and Conditions and Install dialogue boxes, he had the choice of One Player or Two Player. He wondered how the game would work with two players so clicked that first, but then changed his mind and decided to go back to the Menu. The menu was inaccessible though. He was stuck on the Two Player screen.

He had a bright idea. Why not improve both hands’ skills together? There were two remote controls. He could be Player One and Player Two. He was naturally left-handed, but competent with both hands, so would be a good match for himself.

Tectronix was a variation of the classic multi-coloured, block-building game. Blocks advance steadily towards you, and your job is to spin them around until they are in the right position and orientation to slot into a wall. As more blocks fall into place, your wall’s layers become complete.

The Two Player game had blocks coming from both sides. Player One was on the left hand side, and sent red blocks out, heading right. Player Two was on the right hand side, and sent blue blocks to the left. The objective of both was to take control of the blocks heading towards them and use them to build their wall. It was also to launch blocks in tricky ways to destroy their opponent’s wall.

Jerry’s left hand was Player One, playing from the left. His right hand was Player Two, playing from the right. It seemed natural enough.

Player One was good at launching his red blocks, but not skilled at targeting Player Two’s weak points; he quickly caught blue blocks coming towards him, but was poor at orienting them correctly to build his wall. This resulted in a weak wall whose chunks fell away. He was fast but clumsy.

Player Two was slower than Player One. It took him a while to launch his blue blocks, but he targeted them precisely at the opposing wall’s gaps; he missed many red blocks coming towards him, but the ones he caught were carefully turned and fitted into his wall. Player Two was slow but precise.

Player One’s speed won the first level. For the second level, plain blocks were replaced by lego blocks, requiring more attention. Because of their Nobbys, they only fitted together in certain ways. You needed to play more carefully, but once again Player One’s speed carried the day. He smashed Player Two’s wall completely. It seemed that speed always beat care.

The third level had fancy tiles used to build a floor. It was a closer game, but again Player One won, cracking and then smashing Player Two’s tiles to smithereens.

The fourth level featured teeth, used to build up a mouth. Each player had thirty-two teeth, divided into incisors, molars, and pre-molars, which you positioned well to chew. Player Two came into his own here. He lost a few teeth but new ones were placed firmly. Player One’s reckless handling caused most of his teeth to be lost.

The fifth level was bones. Two hundred and six of them. Player One built up his skeleton with care, having good joints, orientation, and rotation. It was resilient enough to take a few hits and not get damaged. Player One’s skeleton was hastily assembled and fell apart quickly.

The sixth level was cells, to be assembled into flesh and organs. Once more Player Two’s care was rewarded. He had a hale and hearty body in rude health. Player One looked somewhat like Frankenstein’s monster.

The seventh level dealt with the brain. Neurons require networking and firing simultaneously. Player One kept rushing things, and creating crazy sparks. Player Two built vital connections and engaged in structured thought.

Player Two’s brain was complete and more stable than that of Player One. Player Two launched a cold, calculated attack on Player One and was triumphant. Jerry’s character was set for good now. His introverted personality. His mean streak. His goals.

The Authority’s Tectronix programme was successful in its purpose. It had created one more right-handed, heartless bureaucrat for the system.

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Brainspam

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Unknown with tags , , , , , , , , , on May 14, 2012 by javedbabar

“Area O has 42% activity. Area M has 12%. Area H has only 4%. Area T has 9%. Area C has 14%. I am using these as the Rest State Benchmarks.”

Martin wasn’t sure that he was meant to hear these remarks, but the door was open and he hadn’t been drugged. It was a young female voice. He wondered what she looked like.

His experience so far was not interesting. After an hour in reception, they’d taken him up or down some levels – the elevator was strange and he wasn’t sure which – and brought him to this room called the ScanLab, where spots of gel, and then electrodes, had been attached to his head. He’d asked them how many; they’d said twelve. He’d sat here for half an hour with nothing happening. It was not a great way to spend a day, but he was getting paid a hundred bucks for two hours work, so who cares.

A tall lady with dark hair and brown glasses came in and said, “Hello, I’m Joyce, your researcher.”

“My researcher?” he said. Maybe she looked tall because he was lying down.

“Sorry, I mean the researcher. Thank you for agreeing to this. It took longer than expected to set things up, so we’re a bit behind. You can leave after two hours if you wish to. But if we need to keep you longer, and it’s okay with you, we’ll give you an additional hundred dollars per hour. How does that sound?”

“Keep me all day if you want!” This wasn’t a bad gig.

“Wonderful. Let’s begin.” She adjusted her glasses. “We want to show you some items and record your responses. That’s it.”

“And I presume you’ve wired me up for a reason?”

“Yes indeed. As well as your conscious behaviour, we would also like to test your unconscious behaviour. You don’t need to be sleeping for this; we just need to know what’s happening in your mind.”

Martin would have liked to see too, but the monitor was in the room next door. He wasn’t getting paid fifty bucks an hour, going up to a hundred for overtime, for watching TV.

Joyce passed him a card bearing mathematical symbols, which he realized were Greek letters. He noted Alpha, Beta, Theta, Gamma and Pi, but couldn’t make out any larger meaning.

From the other room he heard, “Look – Area T has hit 38% here.”

“What is this?” said Martin.

“It’s some early advertising. A lost and found poster from Ancient Greece. Can you make any sense of it?” He said he couldn’t.

She passed him another card, with hieroglyphs. He recognized the Ankh and Eye of Horus; palm trees, people and animals were easy; the blue curls must be water.

He heard, “Area C now, look… 48%.”

Joyce said, “This is a home rental ad from Ancient Egypt.” Martin raised his eyebrows. She continued, “Beautifully laid out, isn’t it?”

Before he could answer, she passed him a third card bearing Indian letters. He’d seen similar script on people’s tattoos. He recognized the curly 3-like letter as an OM sign, but that was it. He heard, “Area O is 68% and Area M is 34%. Area H is minus four.”

Joyce said, “These are personal ads from Ancient India – families advertising for marriage partners for their daughters. They were way ahead of us in dating!”

“Now try this one,” she said, pushing a fourth card towards him. It held Chinese letters, none of which he recognized, but which for some reason gave him a sense of great wellbeing.

“Woh!” he heard from the next room. “Area H is 100%! All other Areas are high!”

Joyce looked up suddenly. She’d lost her cool.

“What was that card?” he asked.

She hesitated and looked at the mirror, and then at him. “A poster for medicine from 3000 BC China.” She pulled out some other cards. “Now please look at these.”

There was a tortoise.

There was the sun.

There was the ocean.

There was gold.

His sense of wellbeing remained. That Chinese medicine must be a strong one. The images were harmonious, and all of long-living or imperishable things.

There was excited conversation in the room next door. A man said, “Is that it? Have we found the leverage point?”

Another man said, “That’s it! We’ll check the relevance of his surrounding content, and traffic received, but I think we’ve got it. Area H, the Hypothalamus, fully engaged with the Elixir of Life poster. That shows we can directly control biological functions with archetypal advertising. Prepare the Brainspam.”

When Martin went home he felt very different. Everything was wonderful, and would remain so as long as he kept taking his medicine.

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Survival of the Fishest

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Lucerne Village, Unknown with tags , , , , , , , , on May 13, 2012 by javedbabar

Mr Cooper loved the light glittering on the ceiling. It looked like a sea in the sky. He’d managed to convince the project manager to put reflective paint on the ceiling by telling him it would save on heating and lighting costs.

This was his favourite part of the job, teaching kids to swim. “Right! We’ll begin with the principles of buoyancy,” he said. “Who knows what happens when humans enter water?”

No hands went up, so he picked on a small boy at the front. “You – what happens?”

“We sink,” he said quietly, and looked scared.

“Wrong! We float. The human body has high water content, so its density is close to water. Due to its cavities – I mean your lungs, not your teeth – the average density becomes even lower and we float. So your natural state is floating, not sinking. Got it?”

The small boy pulled in his lips and nodded. A tall boy at the back was not paying attention, and made his friend laugh. Mr Cooper said, “You – what’s funny?”

“Nothing Sir.”

“Well, why is your friend laughing? Are you both such imbeciles that you laugh at nothing?”

“No Sir. We were wondering why it is important to swim when you can use a boat? I mean, you can enjoy the water and not even get wet.”

Mr Cooper was a master of the long game. He said, “You’re right there, we could use a boat.” The boy nodded happily. “In fact why bother going on the water at all when you can play the Titanic video game? That way you can have a really exciting adventure, safe in your home.” The boy continued to nod.

Oh dear, thought Mr Cooper, it’s even worse than I imagined. The noble tradition of movement through water using one’s limbs, without aid or apparatus, is in dire straits indeed. He thought of the epic stories of mankind. Would Gilgamesh have swum to the bottom of a deep pool and found the Plant of Immortality? Would Beowulf have dived into the boiling lake to slay the monster Grendel? Would Odysseus have survived his twenty year voyage sailing home? Heroes have always been swimmers. It shows their mastery of nature.

There are Stone Age paintings of swimmers, five thousand years old. If the power grid went down, today’s useless kids would be thrown right back there. No Hotmail, no Google, no iPhone, no PlayStation, no television, or microwave. Back to basics for everybody. Hunting, gathering, and swimming!

Mr Cooper rubbed his hands. It was time to have some fun.

He picked on a brown boy. “You – where are your parents from? Guatemala? Okay, that’s close enough. Imagine if they needed to get across the Rio Grande to get from Mexico to America. Do you think they’d make it?”

The boy was confused, and said, “I don’t know, Sir.”

“Well, let’s see if you would.” Mr Cooper pushed him in.

He pointed at a stocky boy. “You – are any of your family in the army? Good. What about the navy? No? Well you can be the first.” He pushed him in.

The children drew away but their backs were against the pool; they had nowhere to go. He pointed to a boy with glasses. “You – you look like a good student. Do you like biology? Good, try marine biology.” He pushed him in.

“Now the rest of you can jump in too, before I use one of you to illustrate what good exercise swimming is for amputees and paralytics. Fortunately you have use of your limbs.”

Some of the children were scared of water, but they were more scared of him, so climbed and jumped into the pool. The ones that couldn’t swim clung to the side.

“Great, you’re all in the water. Now we can begin.” He threw floats into the pool. As the children at the edge reached for them, he said. “Don’t be complacent though. You could easily die from drowning. You could panic in the water, become exhausted, catch hypothermia, or become dehydrated. Something could hit you in fast-flowing water and cause blunt trauma. In open water you could suffer bacterial infection, or in places like this, suffer from chlorine inhalation. Jellyfish can sting you, crabs can puncture your skin, even small sharks can bite and cause blood loss, sea snakes are venomous, and eels will shock you.”

The children were scared and some momentarily forgot to swim, and sank. “Right – all of you must stay in this pool for an hour. Get to like it. If you try to crawl out I’ll throw you back in.”

He was being hard on them, he knew. But we have evolved from water. It is our natural home. Only when we rebuild our relationship with water will we respect the earth’s life force, become Water Brothers and Sisters.

As a Water Master tasked with carrying our racial memory – that of fish crawling from oceans, becoming mammals, then apes, and humans – Mr Cooper took his duty seriously. He looked at the light glittering on the ceiling, as if there was a sea in the sky. This is what it must have looked like, he thought, to our earliest ancestors. The bravest and strongest ones. The ones who knew that the purpose of life was survival of the fishest.

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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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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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