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Ancient Warfare 6

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amir raised his eyebrows. “Is that allowed?”

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

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

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

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

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

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Dark Web

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Cosmic Pillar

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Mystical Experience, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , , , , , , on April 4, 2012 by javedbabar

I awoke at 6am on January the first with my mind filled by the vision of a cosmic pillar. It was more a shape than an object, with dimensions that were incomprehensible. It was both see-through and substantial, though how that could be I can’t say. It arose from somewhere beneath me to somewhere high above, the space around it filled with fireworks exploding with brilliance of every kind. There were crimson flowers, old gold whirls, and neon green stars, set with bright blue puffs and lilac trails, plus tangerine flashes and clouds of silver sparkles. The darkness was forgotten, overwhelmed by teeming lights.

The pillar seemed a luminous tree trunk, rising out of some unknown earth, and into a boundless sky; the fireworks great bunches of bright foliage, filling the heavens. This tree of light shone in the night, with my soul set as a lamp upon it. It was the Tree of Life in the midst of all three worlds – memory, presence, and fantasy – making communication between them possible. It was nourishing and sheltering, inexhaustibly fertilizing, representing both evergreen, everlasting life, and deciduous regeneration. All roots fused and rose through the trunk, their journey ending as fat fruits with a mystical seeds of potential.

This ethereal vision also had a physical manifestation. My huge erection wouldn’t go down. It was a sign of a potent year to come. Full of potential.

I may as well make use of what I’ve got, so called my occasional girlfriend Kitty, who was always in the mood for some action. Afterwards she said, “Wow, what’s come over you babe? I won’t be able to sit down for a week. Everyone will think I’ve been herding cattle. Have you been eating Superfoods? Or taking Superpills? Does it ever go down?”

I told her I didn’t know, but wanted to make good use of my blessing. “Well I’m out for the rest of this week, babe. You better find yourself another willing volunteer.” This was easier said than done. Who do you call on such an occasion? Then came divine inspiration. I called “Hot Rod” Escort Agency, who asked me what I’d be willing to do, and I said, “Everything”. I quickly became their most popular escort – always available, and never disappointing.

One of the ladies I serviced took me on as her gardener. She claimed it was a way of keeping me busy between our sessions, and had nothing to do with Lady Chatterley’s Lover. I grew to like my second profession involving fertility and planting seed. She had a “big job” for me, she said: planting a white oak tree in her rear garden. Using a buddy’s excavator I dug a hole and placed the tree in the ground carefully. At night it held a ghostly glow, with a million stars shining through its yet-bare branches, as if related to the heavenly tree of my vision.

My employer recommended my services to her friends. One was a very adventurous lady, especially in the area of landscaping. She wanted her garden to have the feel of an English village, so I suggested installing a maypole in the centre of her lawn. We celebrated Mayday with twenty handsome youths and twenty fair maidens drinking country cider, and clutching bright ribbons, weaved in between each other, losing our grips and our inhibitions, right there and then, not even making it to the woods.

My English village design was noticed by a City firm. They called me in for a meeting. “We love the thrusting nature of your work,” said the lead architect, licking her lips. “Its raw energy. We would like you to help us design a skyscraper.”

“But I don’t know anything about designing buildings,” I said.

“You’re a versatile guy, I’ve heard,” she said, winking. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You start Saturday at my home office.”

I told her that a building should really mean something. Imagine it as the Centre of the World. Show everything whirling around it. When Thrust Tower was completed, its metallic swirling design of caused a sensation. “This represents our new nation,” said the President on his visit. “Something to which we can all aspire.” He was photographed with me so many times that people began to associate my name with the highest public office. I thought why not aspire to that? A photograph of my pointing skyward became iconic. I used it on my campaign poster, and won the election.

One of my main achievements in office was doubling funding for scientific research, much of which went to our under-resourced military. It was a proud day indeed watching the Thrust One missile shoot out of its silo into the sky, blazing fire behind.

What should be my next achievement? To boldly go? Yes of course! I doubled funding for the space program. Within three months we had developed the world’s most powerful rocket, ready for launch. My announcement on launch day stunned the nation – that I would lead by example. I would head the mission, and be the only one in the shuttle entering the Black Hole. The first man ever to do so.

Via the external monitors I saw my slim silver pillar arise into the sky, surrounded by clouds of glowing fire. And some days after, I left the main craft and went beyond the Event Horizon, and as predicted by Dr. Einstein, entered the realm of curved time-space. In the Dreamtime I entered, each day lived is the First Day, a world of pure imagination. I awoke at 6am on January the first with my mind filled by the vision of a cosmic pillar.

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Cash Centre

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Lucerne Village, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on March 30, 2012 by javedbabar

Harry had worked nightshifts at the Cash Centre for five years. It was boring but steady work. Lord knows there are few good jobs in Lucerne. Most families sent their earners to Strattus, but here was a way for an unskilled man to support his family locally, for which Harry was grateful. He was not an ambitious man, and had a friendly yet somewhat oppressive relationship with his boss.

“Morning boss,” Harry said to Timothy.

“Morning slave,” he replied. “Did you sleep well today? Do your neighbours still think you’re a vampire? Do you still howl at the moon?”

“All of those things,” said Harry. “Now do you want me to stand around chatting, or do some work so you can get your bonus?” He switched on his Daylight, Ultraviolet, and Infrared lamps and sat down. He often thought how strange it was to work in a place like this – a high-tech workspace on the edge of the wilderness, toiling in artificial light through the darkness.

Harry worked in the Operations team counting cash. Trucks arrived throughout the night, bearing labelled and tagged canvas bags. Workers were allocated eight bags each, one per hour being the standard work rate. Harry emptied the bags into a raised metal bin and worked through the bundles conscientiously. Most were Clean #1, meaning that they contained what they said – a hundred twenties, a hundred fifties, or a hundred hundreds – but some held misallocated notes. There were fake notes and foreign notes; torn and worn ones too. Occasionally there was a cheque – how those got in he had no clue.

The process was simple. Stage One was sorting the notes through machines. They were macro- and micro-weighed, and graphically, structurally and chemically analyzed. Every note, and each batch, must be acceptable, or the bundle was rejected. Stage Two was manual checks. His hands had developed incredible sensitivity. His fingers were like radio antennae – picking up every bump, hollow, and ridge. Stage Three was alerting Timothy to irregularities. Stage Four was the CCTV monitoring everything, though this was out of his control.

“What are you doing?” Harry had warned a new colleague. “You’ll never get away with it.”

He said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know what I’m talking about. You’ve been up to something all week. Why are you being so stupid? And coins! Why coins?”

“It’s a test to see if I can get them out. They won’t care about coins. It could be loose change in my pocket. How will they know?”

“Believe me, they’ll know,” said Harry. “They’ll know.” Harry never saw that worker again. Another man arrived at and left work in a taxi daily. It was only a $10 fare from the Village, but that was $100 a week, and $5,000 a year. He could never afford that on his lowly salary. There was a reason that Timothy called them slaves. After five years Harry was only making $25,000 annually. It was company policy to pay people badly, so they didn’t attract ambitious people – like the taxi guy. Eventually he was caught with notes rolled into his nostrils. That’s why they’d never found them in his ass. You’d think that three rear cavity searches would be warning enough. He was caught when he sneezed one day and Queen Elizabeth shot out. GB. Great Booger. HMS. Her Majesty’s Snot.

With hundreds of thousands of dollars passing through your hands daily, even millions some days, sure it was tempting to steal. But Harry was a practical man. He knew that he wouldn’t get away with it. He also liked to think that he was honest.

Staff were required to be discreet about their employment, and only to tell their immediate families. Wilderness, discretion, and nightshift – boy they expected a lot for their silver. But he knew others that couldn’t resist showing off. It was human nature. Some daytime workers had big houses and flash cars. They must be working in the other half of the operation – Analysis. But there seemed to be so many of them – what did they analyze? Everything was done already by the Operations team.

Timothy called Harry into his office for “a chat”. Harry sensed that it was more than that. He was asked if he was happy with his job. He said that he was, but could do with more money, for he had a family to feed. “Well how about triple your current salary?” Harry didn’t know what to say. Here was his boss offering him a cut in some high-level scam. If he refused then he’d be fired for sure. If he accepted then he’d be caught for sure. He was being set up here. What could he do?

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Timothy. “That I want you to commit a crime. But that’s the furthest thing from my mind. You’ve proved to be an honest and loyal worker. I’m offering you a promotion. You will leave Operations and join the Analysis team.”

“Doing what exactly?”

Timothy said, “Follow me.” and took him into the other half of the building. The labs where fingerprints and DNA from every note was collected, deconstructed, and integrated. Every user of that note was recorded. The Authority used the information from notes to value individuals – their worth to the province, how many services they were entitled to, and which opportunities they deserved. Ordinary people had forgotten that money itself has no value. It is merely a symbol of what can be done by people. They create its worth, and by that, mark their worth.

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Asteroid

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Unknown with tags , , , , , on March 28, 2012 by javedbabar

“Ok! Back up! Back up! More! More! More!” Lugus called out. “Ok! That’s it!”

The truck stopped and hissed, dropping an inch. Its cab door opened but no person emerged. There was a faint noise like someone talking, but someone far away. Was it the radio? Eventually a hand appeared, drawing his attention, beckoning him. Lugus walked to the cab and peered upward. The driver’s ear was glued to his phone, with a hellish woman’s voice pouring out, sounding like pork skin crackling and spitting. The driver listened intensely but also tried to break away. Clients these days were really rude, and changed their minds like the weather. The poor trucker was not to blame.

Lugus waved his left arm about and mouthed to him, “What do you need?”

The driver covered his phone’s speaker and said gruffly, “Road job – Footballs – fill her up.”

Lugus wandered to the loader. Rocky’s was Lucerne’s premier, and only, sand and gravel merchants. The gardening centre and hardware store sold some material too but you couldn’t take them seriously. Any serious project – a road, driveway, or private beach – required a visit to Rocky’s.

Lugus bore responsibility for maintenance of the fourteen bays. It was his idea to give the different aggregate sizes memorable names. The smallest size of sand was called Pollen, the next up was Smack – a British term for heroin, then Coke, Salt, Peppercorn, Coffee, and Granola. The Gravel range began with Pea, followed by Bean, Eyeball, Football, Basketball, Swissball, and ultimately, Asteroid. The latter was anything over a metre wide. The colours of the sands and gravels varied dramatically, but Rocky’s dealt in size rather than colour. The colour was just whatever it was.

The driver’s arm appeared again, wanting attention. The pork skin crackling continued on his phone. Lugus had started up the loader, preparing to fill up with Footballs. He left it running and hopped out. The driver covered his phone and said, “Sorry pal, change of plan – beach job – Salt – fill her up.”

Lugus wasn’t annoyed. His job was to serve. So he nodded and headed back to the loader. His boss had told him about the Wentworth Scale for particle sizes, ranging through Clay, Silt, Sand, Pebbles, Cobbles, and Boulders. It was a comprehensive spectrum but lacked a sense of humour. His Pollen to Asteroid system was way more memorable, and made work fun. That’s why truckers drove to Lucerne rather than Strattus. It gave them a word to reflect upon – for example “Eyeball”– rather than a dull descriptor like “One-inch-minus crush.”

The drivers liked coming here but their bosses tried to dissuade them, saying that Lugus’ system was flaky. What did they know? Had they ever even held a rock? He looked into a more descriptive system covering composition, texture, and genesis – including weathering, explosion, earth movements, and meteoric – but then thought, “Screw them!”

He was about to fill up the truck with Salt. The arm appeared again waving frantically. “So sorry – Dike job – Swissballs.” Lugus closed his eyes and nodded. He pointed the loader towards the Swissballs.

Two years back he’d spent a summer working an excavator. It was really hard initially – with many controls and twelve motions to master – but after some days he’d became proficient. It was a huge infrastructure job on a Valley farm, but seeming more an excavation of an ancient culture. He’d imagined being in Greece, Egypt, India or China, digging out a temple. Maybe it would be fun to work with archaeological teams, finding tombs, treasures, and mummies. Working with a mix of delicacy and brute force. The Mughal culture of India, he’d heard, “built with the might of Titans and the skill of jewellers.” Uncovering wonders also required this approach.

The arm appeared again, and Lugus raised his eyebrows. The trucker was deeply embarrassed saying, “Driveway – Peas”. Lugus nodded and began immediately – to help the trucker as much as himself. Once the load was in, ownership transferred. He filled the truck with four scoops of Peas. That’s it. A dust cloud arose and drifted across the yard. All was lost for a moment. He could be anywhere; any place and time. The trucker waved his arm in panic, then both arms. He jumped out of the cab and spoke into the phone urgently. He called out to Lugus, “Why did you fill it so quickly? There’s been a change of plan!”

“I’m sorry pal. I was just following your orders. I can take it out if you want, but there will be a 25% charge.” The trucker relayed this to the client, and then said, “She says we’ll take it.” He whispered to Lugus, “Thanks pal.”

Lugus knew that there wouldn’t be any problems. The client would be happy with whatever he sent, and would use it for something. All rocks were the same essentially. During his summer excavating at the farm he’d made an important discovery. He had uncovered an asteroid deep in the earth, a smooth black block 2 metres wide, with glassy sides. Set within it were fossilized pollens. That’s what had inspired his aggregate naming system – running from Pollen to Asteroid. He knew that their source was the same.

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Double Lines

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Lucerne Village, Sacred Geometry, Unknown with tags , , , , , on March 26, 2012 by javedbabar

Danny was getting frustrated. He was stuck behind a dark car going very slowly, which he could easily overtake, but there were solid yellow lines along the road. He would have to wait for dashes, or a free-for-all unmarked stretch. He could push ahead anyway, as you do with old ladies and tractors, but a dark car is different. It could be a cop car. Why was it doing steady fifty in an eighty zone? On the blind bends – ok; but on the straights too?

He’d been stuck behind this car for four kilometres. It was getting ridiculous. He considered making a call to say that he’d be late, but what if it was a cop car? Then they’d nab him for talk-driving. He already had a ticket for that, along with speeding, no-seatbelt, and no-lights infractions. He was the local cops’ best customer. Ever since good, god-fearing Albert Samson was elected Premier, no road was complete without them.

There seemed to be double solid lines right along the road. The few sections that didn’t have lines held road works, with, of course, no work going on there – just signs, boards, and cones. At least there was a reason for doing fifty here – because the little girl on the board says, “My mommy works here.” Maybe her mommy was still making her breakfast.

There used to be long stretches with just tarmac and common sense, meaning “You’re smart enough to know how to drive.” There were dashed sections meaning “Buddy, keep your eyes open.” Places with lines and dashes on alternate sides meant “You are members of a civilized society; this is a tricky curve, so please take your turn in an orderly manner.” But now there were double lines everywhere saying “We make the rules here, and you do what we say. Drive nice and easy along this laneway that we’ve made nice and smooth for you. Keep a steady speed. If someone before you is going slowly then you go slowly too. Why do you need to get ahead anyway? Take it slow. Good boy.”

Danny took an executive decision to overtake the dark car. It was probably just a foolish tourist overwhelmed by the beauty of the Lucerne Valley, or nervous about driving on the right and wanting to stick to the rules. Danny pulled out on a short straight stretch and pushed his Frontier forward. There was no battles of wills here, and it was over in five seconds. He was now the car in front.

A blue light began flashing somewhere. He was unsure where it came from. Then he saw it in his mirror, coming from the dark car behind. Shit! It was a cop car. They were signalling for him to stop. He indicated and pulled over, and the dark car crept in behind.

Danny sat in his car as per the protocol. Last summer he’d stepped out without thinking and almost been shot. Nothing happened for a while. Then the dark car’s door opened and a man stepped out, and walked towards his car.

“Hey, Danny, remember me?” said the bulky man with short orange beard. “Jim from the pole yard?”

“Sure I do!” said Danny, relieved. He’d had a few drinks with this guy. Why was he driving a cop car though?

“Did you want me to stop?” said Jim.

Danny said, “No, you were flashing me. I thought I’d better.”

“Flashing you?” Jim looked confused. “Oh! I see! You mean the blue lights? No, no, pal. Those are transceivers, front and back, aligning positions.”

“There wasn’t anything at the back,” said Danny. “Only the front. I thought you were signalling me.”

“Damn, that rear light must have broken again. I was having trouble with it yesterday. I thought it was fixed. I’d better take a look. You must have wondered why I was crawling along. Hell, you must have been cursing! Why didn’t you overtake me earlier?”

“There were double lines all along the road, and I thought you were a cop. What are you doing?”

“I’m working on the IQ project,” Danny recalled finding little white posts in the forest when hiking. They used to say IP – for Iron Point, indicating official property boundaries – but they now said IQ. He’d thought that this was the next level somehow, to be followed by IR. “It stands for Investment Quadrant, the new government model for land value, following Native traditions of respect for all land. Every feature is seen as equally precious – the road, river, swamp, forest, ancient sites, towns, and mountains.”

“How can everything be equal? What does that mean in practical terms?” It’s like everyone having to drive at the same speed, thought Danny. It’s false and frustrating.

“We use the ADAM apparatus – Advanced District Allocation Module – the blue light you saw flashing – to divide areas into EVEs – Equal Value Entities.”

“How’s that?” said Danny.

“We ensure that each EVE has equal assets. For example, Lucerne Valley West has Kalash subdivision, Mt Negra, and the Taxila ruins. Lucerne Valley East has Lucerne Village, Mt. Alba, and the Golden mines. ADAM is based on Biblical principles – to be stewards of the earth. The first step is to divide this land into fields for us to tend as holy guardians.”

“But how do you divide Lucerne Valley into East and West? It runs north to south.”

“We’re dividing it along the Lucerne Valley Road. The double lines are the boundary.” He winked at Danny. “Never to be crossed.”

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Funk Patrol

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Lucerne Village with tags , , , , , on March 25, 2012 by javedbabar

The child has a computer! The child has a computer! The child has a COMPUTER! Hunza’s instinct was to run but that would draw too much attention. Instead she walked towards the child and sat down nearby. Maybe it wasn’t a real one, she thought, it could be a toy – but even toy computers were forbidden in the Black Zone. They were allowed in the Brown Zone, and of course real computers resided only in the White Zone. Hunza could walk away, pretend she’d never seen it, but it was too late. A camera was sure to have seen her. She had no choice.

She said, “What are you doing, child?”

The child was young – three or four – and not aware of his actions. That was good. It wasn’t his fault. It was faulty parents. No, not faulty – that was a Brown Zone term – more stupid. Yes, stupid parents. Oh My God! It was Brain Training! It was Brain Training! It was BRAIN TRAINING! Hunza couldn’t believe this was happening. She had found a child with the highest form of contraband! She snatched the child’s computer, and he burst into tears. When he’d stopped crying, she said, “Where did you get this?” and he burst into tears again. This wasn’t getting her anywhere, so she said, “Where do you live?” The child pointed towards a crazy mosaic tree house, 200 metres away. “Come on, let’s go.”

“You are this child’s parents?” Hunza said to the couple within.

“Yes we are,” they said, not seeming concerned. “What’s the problem Officer?”

“I must report a very serious offence to you. Here is the charge sheet. Your child had a computer.”

“He had a ‘puter?” said the mother.

“Yes, a ‘puter.” said Hunza.

“You are a puta!” shouted the mother. “A big fat puta!”

“A Cosi Fan Tutte!” shouted the father, his voice transforming into singing. A Cosi Fan Tutte! You are a big fat COSI FAN TUTTE!”

Hunza sang too, “Shut up or I’ll shoot ya! I will, I’ll shoot ya! Honest to God, I’LL SHOOT YA!”

The father grabbed a mandolin and began plucking its strings. The mother ran to another room, and returned banging bongos. The child was bemused at first, and then realized what was happening, and blew into a plastic trumpet, creating broken birdsong and a baby camel’s groan. Neighbours heard the commotion and ran to join in. A tall white man rapped about his “cracky homey hood”. An East Indian woman performed barely-perceptible, moving-nonmoving, Tai Chi moves, while her midget partner practised kendo. A black bodybuilder chanted the Kabbalistic names of God. A Chinese girl made yoga-bridges, almost becoming a hoop. A man in a wheelchair told racist jokes which everybody laughed at, while a woman on a drip and oxygen support mimed filthy porn. Hunza ripped up the charge sheet and threw it in the air, and as it fluttered down like snowflakes, began breakdancing. Everybody made a human pyramid, with the man in the wheelchair at the top, and the woman on drip and oxygen pretending to pleasure him. The pyramid soon collapsed with uproarious laughter.

What a fabulous community I live in, thought Hunza, so wonderfully eccentric, filled with every kind of art imaginable and the highest proportion of Crazies in the Valley. She was doing a good job, she felt, as a Senior Officer of the Funk Patrol.

She encouraged Crazies to join in with the Funk, but most stood on the sidelines. Every now and then a Wacky Wallflower would summon courage and share their inspiration with others – this was a big step in their returning to the fold. There was also a parallel movement of disillusioned Funksters drifting away to the sidelines, to remain there till their inspiration returned. Crazies were the most highly valued members of the Black Zone, and this crossing back and forth was precious. It enhanced their in/sanity.

“Funk Patroller!” shouted a man known to her, who had good form. “Have you considered changing your title to ‘Funk Petrol-er’? That’s what they called gas in Europe –

you know, petrol – before it ran out. Isn’t that your job really – to add fuel to the fire? To make it roar? I’ve been thinking about that a lot. The metaphor of fire. It’s an element that doesn’t exist of itself. It’s more a transformative state. A way of being free. If you…”

Hunza had to think quickly. This man was a poet, but was now becoming a philosopher. In the Black Zone, that was a truly crazy thing to do. Truly crazy! TRULY CRAZY! If he was thought to be logical, White Zone computers would see him as a threat. The cameras that watched them around-the-clock – as entertainment feed for the liquid brains in huge, cooled metal buildings – would pick up on it quickly. They would instruct slithering robots from the Brown Zone to come and deal with the matter. The robots would caution the local Funk Patroller and remove the Logical Aberration. Humans were retained for fun, not for thinking. The computers were much better at that.

Hunza snatched a bamboo pole from the midget kendo practitioner and bashed the philosopher on the head with it. He fell, clutching his temples, and shook on the floor, frothing and laughing. Cameras whirred nearby. Hunza wondered, “Did I deal that with that comically, not logically? I really hope so.”

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Titaniq

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Global Travel, Sacred Geometry, World Myths with tags , , , , , , on March 24, 2012 by javedbabar

There was screaming and shouting and people running scared. Shocking din rebounding along the corridors with no means of escape. Older and fatter people fell to the floor. There weren’t many children but those present were screeching. Their parents were wailing. Their grandparents were silent, afraid for all their generations – those present and to come.

The crew behaved dishonourably. They fought through the crowds, shouting. The only difference between passengers and crew was that the latter knew the points of egress, and made towards them quickly, rather than getting stuck amongst the rabble. They rapidly located food stocks, space suits, and emergency shuttles. It was as if they’d never heard of the Birkenhead Drill. Women and children first, my ass. They ran to abandon ship.

There was irony to this situation. The recent campaign by Inter-Planetary Adventures (IPA) was a Titanic spoof. Except this time things were different. The experienced Goan and Filipino crew roped up the iceberg and pulled it along behind the ship, using its ice to make cocktails, and offering mini-water/ski excursions. They pulled the iceberg into New York harbour, where cheering crowds lined the Hudson River. The world’s greatest steam ship plus all its passengers and crew had a safe, enjoyable arrival.

IPA cultivated this image for its greatest space ship: Titaniq. It was a clever ploy in many senses. The clue was in the name, they said: their path was inter-planetary rather than intra-planetary, and they remained in between heavenly bodies at all times, avoiding the dangers of planetary docking manoeuvres (and also associated charges). The journey was virtually riskless. Critics said they were being cheap – what kind of adventure was that, not landing on any planets at all? But customers loved their low prices and every flight was full.

Sandee had waited ten years for this trip. She first heard about Titaniq in science class in Lucerne. Mr. Ismay had shown them the designs. He said that this 12,000 passenger space ship would be the marvel of its age. She decided right then that she would board it one day. Her husband had not proved keen on space travel, or on much else, and last year she’d kicked him out. Now there was no reason for her to not go.

She had been having dunch – scientifically proven to be healthier than having both dinner and lunch – when the commotion began. The Goan waiter had spilled soup on her, and was apologetic beyond belief. She told him never mind and went back to her room to wash. Though Titaniq was half the price of other space cruises, it still wasn’t cheap. Her holiday fund had only just bought her a cabin in the bowels of the ship, with no views whatsoever. But the real-time digital projections were really-good. Jupiter’s red spot seemed so close that she felt able to pick it like a cherry and pop it in her mouth.

Sandee decided to shower quickly before changing her dress. The shower shook strangely. Then her lights went off and the bathroom door wouldn’t open. That’s the problem with electronic gizmos, she thought – when they fail, you fail. Not like mechanical things, which you can fiddle with and fix. Thanks to a childhood episode, Sandee never panicked. She accepted situations and took charge.

Her brother had been mean to her one day. He had offered to push her on the garden swing. At first it was great fun as he pushed her higher and higher. With the sun on her face, and wind in her hair, she felt like a bird flying. But then she felt sick and suddenly scared, and called for him to stop. He laughed and laughed, and pushed harder and harder, till she feared for her life. She couldn’t hold on, she thought, and would soon fall off. There was nothing she could do. But then she felt her heart jolt, its power filling her body. Rather than panic and grasp and try to slow down, she did the other thing, the harder thing, the better thing. She flicked her body forward, changing the balance of Centrifugal – outward – and Centripetal – inward – Forces by the addition of her Fictitious Force, a pseudo force, an apparent force that acts on all masses in a non-inertial frame of reference. She swung right around the metal frame, completing a revolution, a cosmic cycle, and came up behind her brother, giving him the biggest kicking of his lifetime, and sending him flying twenty feet. Sandee was always good in a situation.

In Titaniq’s bowels, she kicked the bathroom door open, slipped on her red dress, and went into the corridor. The ship lurched violently. The corridors were abandoned, the lifts were gone, alarms were ringing, and all locks were open. She decided to try the stairs, and being closer to the ship’s rim it made sense to walk downwards. But after forty flights she decided to exit, to see where she was and what was going on.

Sandee emerged near the engine room. All doors were open with no souls about. She walked right in there. There was the WARP drive, the huge spinning core. Its manual controls had been accessed but lay abandoned. She could handle this – how hard could it be? When she had bugged Mr Ismay for answers, he’d said that WARP stood for “We Are Reasonable People”. She was a reasonable person. Machines were just a matter of common sense. All reasonable too. What was that? It looked like a crank shaft. Sandee turned it gently, then forcefully, and felt her heart jolt. The Centrifugal and Centripetal Forces were stuck. She added her Fictitious Force to change the non-inertial frame of reference, and kicked Titaniq’s ass.

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Space Spuds

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Lucerne Village, Organic Farming, Unknown with tags , , , , , on March 19, 2012 by javedbabar

“What’s in the safe?” said Dimpy (Dimples) to Mrs. Roseman. “I’ve meant to ask you for ages but never got around to it.”

“Oh, nothing much,” said Mrs. Roseman, her white curls bobbing as she shook her head. “You’ve got enough on your plate with the little baby. Don’t you worry about it.”

It annoyed Dimpy when people told her not to worry about stuff that she wasn’t worried about. It was the same when people said “You’ll be ok” or “You’ll think of something.” Yes she would! She was a single mother fending for herself. Dimpy would always think of something and be ok, and had no time to worry, and even less time to listen to people who told her not to!

This Director’s job was the worst-paid job she’d ever had, but beggars can’t be choosers. She’d needed a job, and this was the only provincial museum recruiting. The local potato industry was booming, driven by their patented Space Spuds: blue Saturn Spuds and golden Solar Spuds. Great product differentiation had saved this otherwise struggling industry, this town, and importantly, this museum. She said, “I’m not worried Mrs. Roseman, just curious.”

“Oh, it’s just some old potatoes,” said Mrs. Roseman. She became rigid, but her white curls continued to bounce. “I mean some old machinery from Peru, where potatoes come from.”

“Really, that’s fascinating. From Peru? May I see it?”

Mrs. Roseman was still rigid, but her eyes were moving rapidly, and her white curls ending their motions. “Or maybe it’s from Pakistan, where you come from. So you already know what it looks like.”

“Really, from Pakistan?” said Dimpy. “I had no idea.” Mrs. Roseman seemed very nervous. Dimpy wondered why. “Look I’m Museum Director, and should know the resources we have available. This could make a great exhibit, even anchor a show. We could get a feature in the City Sun.” Mrs. Roseman had moved between Dimpy and the safe. “Do you have the keys?”

“I’m not sure where they are right now,” said Mrs. Roseman.

“Well who would know where they are – another trustee?”

“Yes, yes, another trustee. I will ask them at the monthly meeting.”

The monthly meeting was scheduled for Tuesday, but nobody was there when Dimpy arrived. She called Mrs. Roseman. “Where is everybody? The meeting was planned for 7pm.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. We moved the meeting to Monday. Didn’t Mr. Roseman call you?”

“No, your husband did not call me. Why did you move the meeting?”

“Oh, it was unavoidable. The trustees had clashes.” Dimpy wondered what clashes these dinosaurs had. Their average age must be a hundred. Maybe their hip-replacements were double-booked with prize bingo, or polishing their walking frames impacted a retelling of the Great Flood of ‘45. “But I asked about the safe for you. I was mistaken. It’s not machinery from Peru or Pakistan. Its private items held for the Old Families. It’s not things to show or feature.”

“Private items like what?” said Dimpy. “Do you mean valuable items?”

“Yes, very valuable things. That’s why we keep them locked up.”

“Well, I need to see those things, Mrs. Roseman.” The line went quiet. “Mrs. Roseman, are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here. Sorry, my hearing’s not what it was. They are private things. Why do you need to see them?”

“I’m legally responsible for their safety,” said Dimpy. “I must ensure that insurance documents are in order. If anything were to happen to those items, we would not be covered for their loss.” So irresponsible, thought Dimpy. This wasn’t the Guggenheim, she knew, but come on! Keeping personal stuff in the museum safe!

“Nothing will happen to them here,” said Mrs. Roseman. “Don’t you worry about it.”

“Mrs. Roseman, I am worried about it! We need to discuss this matter further. Will you be in tomorrow as usual? Ok, good. Please come and see me at 10 am.”

Mrs. Roseman did not appear the next morning. She also didn’t answer her phone. She appeared the day after, looking unsettled. She couldn’t look Dimpy in the eye when speaking with her. “I spoke with the Old Families about the situation,” she said. “It seems the private items were returned by the previous trustees, for the reasons you mentioned.”

“But haven’t you been a trustee for twenty years?”

Mrs. Roseman looked down. “Oh, I was in hospital last summer. It must have been then.”

“But I was here,” said Dimpy. “Nobody told me.”

“I think you were on holiday. Anyway, there’s only museum cash in there now. The Treasurer accounts for it. So don’t worry about it!”

“Mrs. Roseman!” shouted Dimpy. “Please stop telling me what not to worry about! You have made me very worried indeed! I am the Museum Director – top of the food chain – and the buck stops with me. Please ensure that keys to this safe are on my desk tomorrow morning at ten.”

Dimpy had a rare date that night. Single mothers with young children had their work cut out. He was pretty hot, and said he’d like to see her again. She smiled as she drove home… Hang on! There were lights on at the museum. Who was in there at this time?

She quietly entered the back office. Mr and Mrs Roseman had the safe door open. Mr Roseman walked towards her with a hammer but Mrs Roseman called him back. She said, “No love, it’s time she knew.” Then she said to Dimpy, “A hundred years ago we had some very special visitors. Only the Old Families know. They sought permission to extract pumice – vital for their wellbeing – from Mt. Negra. In return they gave us their seed potatoes. The old timers were not trained marketers like you. They simply named the Space Spuds by their provenance – Saturn Spuds and Solar Spuds. The original seeds are kept in this safe. The Old Families take cuttings from them yearly, using each scraping to create a new culture. This is Lucerne Museum’s secret, and now it is also yours. Assuming of course that you love your daughter. Who’s her babysitter tonight? Joanne Millman? That sounds like an Old Family name to me.”

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HOT Chicken

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

It was embarrassing. Everyone had brought the same dish to the party – and because they had all brought the same dish, they knew two things. First, that they hadn’t made it themselves – they had brought it at the grocery store. Second, that it was on special offer – that’s why it had caught their eye.

There was a table full of steaming HOTTM chicken, which everyone knew was past its shelf life, and had been reduced from $9.99 to 99 cents. Was it legal to sell out-of-date food? People weren’t sure, but presumed that the grocery store wouldn’t have offered it otherwise. On the bright side, everybody loved HOTTM chicken. Its unique combination of Habaneros, Olives, and Truffles was unbelievably good. As its millionaire fitness instructor/chef inventor said in the ads, it was “Hot, healthy richness to die for.”

Nobody would dispute that the Habaneros – fire for your tongue; Olives – lubrication for your heart; and Truffles – joy for your mind, created pleasure divine indeed. But a table full of HOTTM chicken was too much to handle. For a start, HOTTM chicken was way too hot for children to eat. They were told not to touch it, but couldn’t resist. Little hands reached up and sneaked around. Others openly raided the table’s edges. Every few minutes a new wailing began, as tender pink tastebuds were slaughtered.

The HOTTM chicken had all been unwrapped (to remove evidence of its out of dateness) and heated (to provide evidence of its just having come out of someone’s oven) – so it couldn’t be returned to the store. Yet a tableful of it couldn’t be wasted either.

Shaun called his son. “Tain, what are you doing right now?”

“Uh, nothing.” He was looking down, bored. A little moody. “Just talking to Egan and Baird.”

“Ok, tell them you’ll be back in a minute. Go upstairs and use my computer. You know Level One of TimeworkTM.” Tain nodded. “Find an offer for the kids – something they’ll like.”

“I’m not sure, dad. Can you do it?”

Shaun snapped at him. “No – you do it! I’ve got to stay with our guests.” He hadn’t realized he was so stressed; guests are meant to be a pleasure but are usually a pain. Still, he shouldn’t have snapped. “Go on Son, please find something for them.”

Tain headed upstairs. “Where are you going?” said Nola. He told her. “Can I come too?” She didn’t wait for an answer, just tagged along.

TimeworkTM was a popular low-level programme. Serious time programs were reserved for government use. Hackers sometimes jumped across from TimeworkTM to restricted programs, but were caught and punished. In most cases their TimeworkTM access was curtailed – easily done with DNA and sensory digitization. They remained forever in the extant present – how dull!

Tain found a good offer on MMMTM Muffins. He dragged the Mango Maple Marshmallow muffins to their household account, and was about to close down, when Nola said, “Wait! Wait! Wait! Why don’t we make another change?”

“My dad only said about the offer,” said Tain. “Don’t you like MMMTM Muffins? They’re the best, even…”

“They’re great. I’ll eat six of…”

Tain said, “Looks like you already have!”

Nola smacked him. Being a tomboy she wasn’t scared of boys physically, and they couldn’t hurt her inside. Sticks and stones and all that stuff.

“Look, I like the muffins but I also like HOTTM chicken. Have you ever tried it? I bet you haven’t, you wimp! My dad let’s me try some. It’s so good. And they let you change the formula. That’s why it’s so popular.”

“How can you change the formula?” said Tain. “It’s Habanero, Olive, and Truffle. It’s famous.”

“That’s what made it famous.” She manoeuvred herself before the computer. “But people change it all the time. It’s a Level Two program. Let me show you. What’s your password?” Tain told her without thinking. “Ok – look at this. You can change the ingredients according to letter. H can be Haddock, Halloumi, Ham, Hare, Haricots, Hazelnuts, Herbs, Hickory, Honey, or Hummus. O can be Onions, Okra, Oranges, Oxtail, Omelette, Oatmeal, or Oregano. T can be Tomato, Turkey, Tofu, Tuna, Turnip, Tortilla, Toast, Tarragon, Tamales, or Toblerone. Why don’t’ we try Hazelnut, Orange, Turnip? Or Ham, Omelette, Toast – just like my best breakfast?”

“We can’t change the HOTTM chicken,” said Tain. “They’re eating it already. We don’t know what will happen.”

“Well, we’ve got to change something,” said Nola. “It’s just too boring. Ok, I’ll just change the T. Eating Truffles is disgusting anyway. They make poor pigs find them in the forest and then kill them and mix them to make truffle sausages. People in Europe are very cruel. So let’s change the T to Toblerone.”

“Isn’t that European too, from Switzerland?”

“Yes, but it isn’t cruel. They just use honeycombs.” Nola confirmed the change to Habanero, Olive, Toblerone Chicken. Almost immediately there was a commotion downstairs. They rushed to see. There was Shaun with his face puffed, writhing on the ground. Dr. Bungawalla was attending to him.

Tain knew that his father was allergic to peanuts, but Toblerone contained almonds, so it couldn’t be that. And TimeworkTM had filters to prevent such accidents. However special offers to consumers require cost cutting by producers. How else could they make a buck? In this batch almonds had been replaced by peanuts. Tain had two minutes to reverse the ingredients. This was a more advanced operation. “Nola! Do you know Level Three?”

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