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Whirlybirds

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Infinite City, Lucerne Village, Unknown with tags , , , , , , on June 8, 2012 by javedbabar

Danny woke up sweating, tossing and turning. He thought he’d left this feeling behind but here it was again.

He’d come to this village for peace and quiet; to be away from the City; away from its noises, stresses, and crimes. Originally he’d had no problems living in the inner city. It was rundown for sure, but it was a happening area, earmarked for redevelopment. It was only a matter of time. But life was not the same after he was mugged there. Every dark corner held fears; car horns made him jump; groups of guys caused him to cross the road; most of all the police helicopters, whirring and shining strong beams at night, made sleep impossible. He’d left the City and come to Lucerne, the beautiful “village beneath the white mountain”.

Danny slipped out of bed and looked through the window. He saw bright waves in the distant sky, mainly blue, shooting and dancing; was it the Northern Lights, this far south? Maybe a seasonal variation had enhanced their visibility. He looked for the source of the mindless whirring; a sign of something going wrong here, a criminal incident turned into a nightmare for every citizen sleeping; saying you are not safe in your homes. Slim dark shapes moved through the sky; yes, it was helicopters, and here on the edge of the bush, their uproar was magnified.

They woke Danny the next night, and the one after that, every night for a week. Sometimes he saw them in the daytime too; just after dawn, or just before dusk. A few minutes either side would have tripped day into night.

The helicopters were landing near the Lucerne Valley Medical Centre, and Danny went there to ask about them. “We deal with occasional emergencies,” said the unfamiliar poker-faced receptionist.

“But why fly them to such a small village?” asked Danny. “Surely facilities in the City are better? And Strattus isn’t so far away.”

“In such cases every minute is precious, Sir. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

“Okay, thank you,” said Danny but he left unsatisfied. It didn’t make sense to fly patients to Lucerne’s little medical centre. He passed men in air force uniforms as he left the building. There were many scattered around the building and grounds – specks of blue among medical whites.

The number of helicopters increased, and also the number of air force personnel. He even saw some in the coffee shop near the highway, and overheard one saying, “The enemy was surprised and took a big hit, but we paid a heavy price for our advance. We lost a quarter of Strike Force Twelve…”

Danny edged closer to hear better, but someone said, “Let’s continue this discussion at base.”

He awoke one night sweating more than ever, and ran to the window. The noise was louder. The Northern Lights were brighter, their blue waves now transformed into fierce orange streams. He saw bigger darker shapes, larger helicopters, flying in and out. Danny couldn’t bear the noise any longer and needed to get out of the house. He went for a late night walk heading towards the medical centre.

As he strolled by, a rear door opened and a patient ran out. He ran up to Danny and grabbed him by the shoulders. “This space war is horrible!” he raved with eyes blazing. “They say they are peaceful – why won’t we believe them? They’ve taken out our blue lazers and are hitting back with orange beams. We’ve got no defence against them! They’re coming south! We have to get out of here!”

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Black Light

Posted in Infinite City, Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, Unknown with tags , , , , , , , , on May 25, 2012 by javedbabar

The city had got too hot for Shama. Things seemed hopeless, like a blackout blind pulled over his life.  The landlord would keep his damage deposit, but he hadn’t paid last month’s rent anyway, so all’s fair-square. Not that he had any wish to please that asshole, but it was the easiest way out. He threw what he had into his backpack, took the bus to the edge of town, and stood beside the Sea to Sky Highway.

It wasn’t long before he caught a ride to Strattus, and on to Lucerne. Shama didn’t want to go way into the bush, what would he do there? He could barely manage urban survival; forget wilderness survival. Being in the bush may also attract attention. Fewer people but more bears.

He pitched his tent at the base of a mountain near a natural spring. The one thing he couldn’t do without was water. The river was nearby, good for washing. He walked into Lucerne Village daily, which took an hour each way. A few people started saying hello to him. He wasn’t rude, just unresponsive. He said hello back and moved on.

A weird-looking old guy became familiar, over six feet tall, unshrunken with age. His beard was a strange golden white. He walked around in monk-like black robes, and was clearly ethnic, though from where was hard to say. People seemed to treat him as special, but he remained always alone. His only activity seemed to be walking along the Lucerne Valley Road, at a steady speed, to God knows where. Shama had only been here two weeks, but couldn’t recall an occasion when he hadn’t passed him on the road when going in or out of the village.

One day at dusk, Shama spied the old man ahead. He gritted his teeth and prepared to speed past him. A car went by and the old man’s robes caught its headlights; it seemed as if their black glowed.

Shama wondered if the man had any money. If he robbed, or even killed him, who would know? He could wash his knife in the river. This was the thought going through his head as he approached the old man.

“Don’t even think about it.” Shama heard a soft voice inside his head. “Your weapon is useless against me. My mind is greater than your weapon.” He looked at the old man, but he couldn’t have spoken these words; he was too far away. Shama stopped and turned around, and then started walking again, faster. The voice continued, “One truth we know is that you can’t get away from yourself. Wherever you go, there you are.”

“Who’s saying that?” Shama shouted. “Who are you?”

“I am Guru Baba,” said the old man. “Walk with me awhile. Let’s talk.”

“But you’re talking to me inside my head already! Get out! Get out!” Shama moved threateningly towards the old man but knew that it was a useless gesture. From his days of street crime, you know when someone’s untouchable.

“I have a proposal for you. You see me walking every day. Despite the power of my soul, my mind is deteriorating. So many people still need so much from me. I need an assistant. Will you help me?”

Shama was surprised. “Me, help you? How?”

“We’d be helping each other. You can help me with administrative tasks, and I will gift you my lifetime’s knowledge and experience. I will help you imagine better, and become your best self.”

Only at that moment did Shama know that this was the goal he had sought in this and many previous lifetimes. To find his true master and fulfil his true potential. To turn internal conflict into external co-operation, and become part of the cosmic dance.

The next driver on the Lucerne Valley Road was surprised to see a scruffy vagrant and one of the world greatest holy men dancing together. The holy man’s robes gleamed black, showing the truth of illuminated darkness.

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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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Is There Space?

Posted in Infinite City, Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience with tags , , , , on March 27, 2012 by javedbabar

“There’s fifty passenger seats on the bus,” said Norm. “So the first fifty of you will make it to the City today. The rest of you will have to wait. The next bus leaves in four hours.” There were grumblings along the line winding through the morning mist. Norm wondered why there were so many people today. Where were they going? What for? He counted off the first fifty people and separated them from the rest. “Ok I’ll load up your luggage and then let you onto the bus. This is an express City service, with no stops en-route.”

Some people said, “What?” and “Huh?”

“So any of you going to Strattus or Squashy should not take this service. Take the local bus to Strattus, and an express service from there.” Six people left the queue. “Ok, we’ve got room for six more.” Six more people stepped up from the grumbling mass, grinning now. Another couple also came forward but he ordered them back. Norm’s military service stood him in good stead. He was used to commanding people.

He loaded up everyone’s luggage and then opened the door. He checked tickets carefully and counted fifty people on. The last passenger – an East Indian guy – was sweating and seemed slightly nervous.

The waiting crowd was still hoping that seats would appear magically. He said, “I’m sorry, folks, but the bus is full. As I said, the next service is in four hours. If you don’t want to wait that long, you can try your luck at hitching. Either way, I wish you a good journey. Maybe see you on the other side.”

He boarded the bus himself and started the engine. It would take five minutes to warm up – the lights and air conditioning in the cabin, and fluids and motor beneath the hood. There was a tap on his shoulder.

“Excuse me,” said the East Indian guy. “I do not have a seat.”

“Have you looked carefully?” said Norm. “Have you walked right along the bus?”

“I have looked carefully,” he said. “Yes, I have walked right along the bus.”

“Wait a minute,” said Norm. He liked having people around him, if not his buddies then at least these passengers, that’s why he liked working on the bus. He pushed the tannoy button. “Ladies and gentlemen, it seems that one of our passengers can’t find a seat. This service is full, and we need every seat. So anyone taking more than one seat please remove your personal belongings from the extra seat.” There was a slight commotion which Norm assumed was somebody shifting their bag, or their dumb ass, from the seat next to them. “Thank you for your co-operation.” He said to the East Indian guy, “Ok Sir, there should be a seat for you now. Enjoy your journey.”

If he was still in the army, he would have done things differently. The fool taking two seats would have been made to do fifty push-ups, load and unload everyone’s bags, and maybe enjoy the journey from the comfort of the hold. But he was a civilian now and couldn’t boss people around. He had to be nice to them.

This was ok most days, but some days – just some days – when he’d drunk too much the night before, or when he was feeling lonely, or when some young punk gave him lip, or tourists complained about lateness, he felt like announcing to the bus, “Do you know what I have done for you, and where I where been? Can you imagine the things I have witnessed that I can ever forget? Do you know the nightmares I endure most nights, and how scared I still am of loud noises? How I play classical music on headphones and stay indoors every Halloween? Did you know that my marriage disintegrated? She said that she didn’t know me anymore. Did you know that my buddy Tom was blown up trying to save me? He looked like a pile of butcher’s offcuts. Do you know about my sessions with the psychiatrist, and how hard it is to reintegrate into society after killing other men?” But he never said any of these things. He would lose his job. God knows it had been hard enough to come by. He just wished his passengers bon voyage.

There was a tap on his shoulder. The East Indian guy was back. “I am sorry, I have still not found a seat.”

“Ladies and gentlemen. You are making me unhappy. Despite my request, somebody is still taking up two seats. I’m going to walk down the aisle and see who it is. God help them.”

Norm walked down the bus, once more a sergeant-major, inspecting turn out. He checked people’s clothes and shoes; their faces and haircuts. He was back in Afghanistan… No he wasn’t! He snapped out of it. He was a normal guy driving a bus. Every seat was full. He didn’t get it. He had counted fifty people on. There were fifty seats. Why was there no seat available? “Ladies and gentlemen. We have a logistical problem. I’m going to ask you all to leave the bus, and count you on again. Just to ensure all is in order.”

The passengers grumbled and disembarked. The queue of hopefuls cheered, thinking that seats may yet appear. The passengers lined up again. Norm checked their tickets and counted them onto the bus. “One, two, three… forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty.” The East Indian guy again found no seat. “Please Sir, my mother is very sick and I must get to the City immediately. My flight home is at 2pm.”

Norm was about to lose his temper. Bloody idiots wasting his time. Fooling around like this got people killed. He ordered all passengers off the bus again. Then through the mist he saw one extra person exit the bus. He was uniformed, familiar. It was his buddy Tom, barely defined. So Faint. His ghost often yearned for company, and came along for the ride. But this bus was full, and a passenger was distressed. Tom gave up his seat, like he had his life, for another. He saluted Norm and stood to attention, awaiting the next bus.

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Apple Express

Posted in Alternative Energy, Infinite City, Lucerne Village, Organic Farming with tags , , , , , on March 7, 2012 by javedbabar

“Bloody apples!” shouted Farmer John. “Falling everywhere! There must be an orchard in the sky.” He was standing in the middle of a field. Where had they come from? He stamped his right foot and held the top of his head with both hands, as blood seeped from a gash beneath his fingers. They really were bloody apples.

Apples had been falling for almost a month now. They were infrequent to begin with, and quite unripe; small, green sour balls. They had become a daily occurrence of late, now bigger and riper, almost ready to eat.

There was a daily hot wind coming up the Valley, ten degrees warmer than the air in Lucerne. It was a strange, localized occurrence. No one minded the temperature, but its power was a problem: it had blown away old barn roofs, caused tall trees to topple, and excessive wear on Lucerne’s wind turbines. It blew hot up the Valley at noon, and returned cold from the glaciers at dusk – and it seemed to be carrying apples.

Farmer John said in the pub one day, “That fruity wind, it should be called the Apple Express, like the one from Hawaii is called the Pineapple Express.” Other people had thought the same, but he was the first person to say it. He was acknowledged to have coined the term. “It’s causing problems. Those apples are landing square on my spuds; almost like they’re aiming for them. Potato plants are bearing apples – or that’s what it looks like when I walk down the rows.”

“How will you harvest them?” said Farmer Tom. “Apples will be mixed in with your spuds.”

“They will be,” said Farmer John. “They will be. What can we do?” No one wanted to think of the extra labour needed to remove the apples. They considered letting them all rot there, fertilizing the ground. But there was no way to avoid some slipping in with spuds. The apples’ moisture would rot the spuds. They’d have to pick the apples out, before or after harvesting – either way it was a massive task.

Walking along the rows one day, Farmer John picked up an apple and examined it closely. It had been transformed by its warm, windy journey. The apple’s skin was gleaming as if it had spent an hour in a bowling ball polisher, and its cheeks were as rosy as a ruddy farmer’s. He took a big bite. “By God!” he exclaimed, syrup pouring out of the corners of his mouth and over his chin. “That’s the juiciest apple I’ve ever eaten.” He felt a warm tingling in his belly like the fire of a light rum shot. “And it’s full of cider!” He ate many more apples, and went to the pub merry already.

Lucerne Valley farmers were happy, they had an extra crop. Gorgeous apples fell on their fields daily. Farmer John called them Mt. Alba Apples, as they seemed somehow linked to Lucerne’s mountain guardian. Holding an apple high in his hand, it seemed a new sun above the mountain, shining blessings down. They sold really well at grocery stores and farmers markets, and were popular with local kids not yet nineteen.

Beyond the City, the 4,800 acre Glaser Valley Farm’s (GVF) owners were not impressed. The Apple Express had become fierce of late, tearing along the Glaser Valley, over mountain passes and across lakes, through to the Lucerne Valley – carrying their best apples. These delicate apples – grown for export to Japan – had very weak stems. Just before they fell, many were picked up by the Apple Express and carried off to Lucerne. GVF was losing a quarter of its crop this way. They initiated legal proceedings against Lucerne Valley farmers, claiming financial compensation for lost revenues, and punitive damages for theft. It was a very short hearing though.

“This case is unprecedented,” said the judge. “And frankly inexplicable. So we will need to discuss it from first principles. I will consult my most learned friends and establish a philosophical framework, based on agricultural ethics and tort law. Please explain the essence of your case in simple terms. Our sponsors require this for our television audience.”

GVF’s attorney said, “My clients are hard working toilers of the earth. They have a decade of agricultural achievement behind them…”

“Objection!” shouted the Lucerne Valley farmer’s attorney. “Seven years is not a decade.” The judge agreed and changed the record to say “many years”.

GVF’s attorney continued, “They invest much time, effort, and money in growing the best apples for export across the world, to improve our nation’s trading balance. The fruits of their labours are being stolen by others. We demand fair-minded justice.”

The Lucerne Valley farmers’ attorney had a bright idea. He suggested that Farmer John make their statement. “My family’s been growing potatoes for a hundred years,” he said, “and it’s…”

“Objection!” shouted GVF’s attorney. “He’s making that up.”

Farmer John provided the names of his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather, all farmers in the Lucerne Valley. The judge overruled the objection. Farmer John continued. “And now we’ve got fields full of apples. We never asked for them to drop out of the sky. But we know the earth’s cycles. We believe that our brother farmer’s jumbo jet-fuls of exports are directly related to their problem. Climate change is controversial, but here we see it in action. And we are wondering whether to include the two deaths in our community caused by falling apples within the scope of this case, or to file a separate one.”

Glaser Valley Farmers withdrew their case. Despite their 25% annual attrition, they continued to make big profits selling the remainder to Japan. Farmer John continued to have his annual crop of apples for twelve years, but less fell each year. By the time the Apple Express stopped blowing, apple seeds were well established in Lucerne. Mt. Alba Apples became an invaluable companion crop to spuds.

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Blue Man

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Infinite City, Unknown with tags , , , , on February 19, 2012 by javedbabar

“Has he been here before?” the customer whispered.

“I can’t say that he has,” said Hari. “And I’m not sure why he’s here today.” He looked at the blue man slyly; it was the first time that one of them had entered his barbershop. There wasn’t a notice forbidding them, but they knew they weren’t welcome; they weren’t welcome anywhere, but it never stopped them from coming.

This wasn’t your average blue man though, for he had said nothing. From what Hari knew, they never stopped talking. Their incessant chatter drove people mad; it sounded like turning train wheels, and to humans was incomprehensible. They tried to conceal it in public, but were rarely successful. This blue man, however, was very well behaved. He just sat there quietly, looking out of the window.

“What will you do for him?” whispered the customer. “Is his hair like our hair?”

“I’m none too sure,” said Hari. “I’ve heard it’s much thicker, like a horse’s tail.” He glanced in the mirror at the blue man. “A huge curly horse’s tail.”

After their unusual skin colour, blue men’s most distinctive feature was their mass of golden hair. It went down to their waist and often beyond. They wore it loose, never tied up with anything; for it was necessary for their hair to “see the sun”. It was rumoured that if their hair was covered for a day they became ill, and if covered for a week they died.

Hari allowed only classical music in his salon. He knew that his apprentices played dance tunes in his absence, but as long as it was back to sitars and tablas, or the news, upon his return, he was ok with that. He listened beeps, and then: “This is the twelve ‘o clock news on Global 12. Riots continue for the fourth day in the City. There is a heavy police presence. The Authority is not blaming anyone, but says that both humans and blue men are involved. It has threatened stern punishment for anyone caught and convicted of crimes…”

“Bloody hell!” blurted out the customer. There was a mutter of bloody hells around the walls, from others awaiting their short backs and sides. Everyone looked at the blue man, wondering if he’d begin his train wheel chatter, but he didn’t say anything, just kept sitting there, looking out. The customer pushed Hari’s hand away, spun his chair around, and said to the blue man, “What do you have to say about that?”

In Hari’s book this was not good manners. He spun the customer’s chair back round, and said, “There’s plenty of time for chatter later. Let me finish your haircut first.” His years in the merchant navy had taught him the value of running a tight ship. He was captain here and must retain good order.

The blue man turned towards him and smiled. His perfect golden teeth seemed to increase the light in the room. They dazzled Hari momentarily and he lost concentration.

“Ow! Ow!” said the customer, pulling away. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry Sir,” said Hari. “No harm done. It’s just a tiny nick. No bleeding.”

“Leave me alone.” The customer swung his chair around again. “I want him to answer. What does he think of the rioting going on? Is he going to do anything about it?”

Hari swung the chair back around. “You can have a beer with him when I’ve finished your haircut. Till then sit tight. And if he…”

Police sirens rent the air outside; there was thumping and running; garbage cans clattered and car alarms wailed. The sound of a helicopter somewhere and…. turning train wheels.

The customer pushed Hari’s hand away and stood up. “See! I told you! Look what’s going on!” He stared at the blue man.

Hari said, “Sir, you are welcome here. However please stop bothering my other customers.”

“Bothering your other customers? Bothering your other customers? Who are you kidding! I think your ‘other customers’ are bothering us!”

The blue man looked over. He was no longer smiling but his golden teeth still showing. Was he grimacing?

Hari had a flashback. Upon leaving the merchant navy, he’d taken over his father’s salon. Those days were different. People came in once a month, sometimes weekly, and you built good relationships. You sold them razors, scents, creams, first aid materials, and of course, “something for the weekend”. You got to know their families. Now it was only quick ins and outs between phone calls.

Hari wondered about the blue man’s age. Though it was an unforgivable cliché, they really did all look the same – short, sturdy bodies, blue skin, and golden manes. Like those two staring in the window right now – they could be twins. Others running with garbage cans, and those throwing real estate boards and poles, could also be related.

“Bloody hell!” shouted the customer. “They’re coming in here!” But the only action “in here” was that the blue man arose, walked to the window, and went outside. They heard turning train wheels and the radio signal was lost. “That bastard’s joined them! We should have nailed him here while we had the chance. Lads, get ready to fight!”

Beeps and dashes repeated on the radio. Though his Morse Code was rusty, the third time around Hari got it. The message said: “These young ones are foolish. You have done what you can with your people in here. Now I will go and speak with my people outside. Please offer my turn to someone else. I’ll come for my haircut later. What time do you close?”

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SS

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Infinite City, Unknown with tags , , on February 6, 2012 by javedbabar

Simon Smith noticed something strange. That on the 15th of every month there was an entry in his diary stating “SS”. He had no recollection of writing it in, and no idea what it represented. No time indicated, no location given, no others participating – just “SS” written across the page.

The first thing that came to mind, of course, was his own name, Simon Smith. Then he thought of Hitler’s SS, but it could hardly be anything to do with that. Maybe it was work related? A regular meeting that he’d written in at the start of the year, and then forgotten about entirely. Yes, that was probably it.

“Hey, Stephen,” he said to a fellow manager. “What are you doing on Thursday?”

“Erm. I’ve got lunch with the Supervisor, and I’m interviewing a new Supplier. Other than that, just the usual.” He looked at Simon quizzically. “Why, do you need something?”

“No,” said Simon. “I was just wondering if you have something called SS?” He felt silly somehow saying it.

“What do you mean, SS?” said Stephen.

“Oh, nothing,” said Simon. “Just something in my diary. It’s probably a mix-up.”

He wondered if it was Something Social? At home that evening he asked his wife. “I don’t know honey,” she said. “Maybe you’ve got Something Sexy planned. Lucky me! Or maybe it’s for some other hussy, that’s why you’ve been keeping it quiet.” Thank God he had a wife with a sense of humour. She hadn’t made him feel more of an idiot than he already was.

Ah! Something Spiritual! He recalled making a resolution along these lines. He did plenty for his mind and his body, but didn’t take time to nourish his soul. Maybe that was it – one day a month to de-stress and rebalance. Though he wasn’t religious, he felt it may be best to ask a professional, like a rabbi or priest. Luckily he bumped into Shanti, a yoga teacher, at the coffee shop. “That’s Paramatman,” she said. “Super Soul. You may be ready to begin the journey of many lifetimes. Why don’t you join my class? Or I can give you lessons.”

Simon felt that he was onto something. Yes, that must be it – Super Soul. He looked into it. Hindu holy books described the relationship between the Individual Soul and the Supreme Soul as being “Like two birds of golden plumage, inseparable companions, the individual soul and the supreme souls are perched on the branches of the selfsame tree. The former tastes of the sweet and bitter fruits of the tree, and the latter, tasting of neither, calmly observes.”

It was clear now! He, the individual soul, would seek the supreme soul! This cramped modern man had a date with boundless eternity – on Thursday! When he tried to book a class with Shanti though, she said she didn’t teach on Thursdays. Could he have a private lesson then? Sorry, she said, she was away that day. Simon felt frustrated. His answer had appeared but then disappeared just as quickly.

Flicking through his diary some more, he saw that SS appeared not only on the 15th of future months, but also on the 15th of previous months; but he had no recollection of previous occurrences. He wondered if “Super Soul” had been a false alarm. Could it be something else? What was so secret that it couldn’t be written explicitly in his diary?

Was it just that – Something Secret? Was he a member of the Secret Service, somehow brainwashed – a sleeper agent activated only once a month. It was safer that way. If captured he could honestly say – even under torture – that he didn’t know anything. But the secret service scenario didn’t ring true. It wasn’t that.

Was it something that his wife had written, and was too shy to say? He’d been working full-time for three months now; his probationary period was over. There was no need to reconsider Social Security. But maybe they wanted update meetings.

Was he broadening his knowledge of Social Sciences? There were many part-time courses; was Thursday their monthly meet? He’d love to cruise on a Steam Ship; didn’t SS Canberra dock regularly in the City? It was boring to always see the same things on your computer; maybe a reminder to change his Screen Saver? As a child he’d been interested in transistor radios, and built one in his bedroom; Solid State. There were complex calculations required for work; Spread Sheets. You could catch diseases even when married; Safe Sex. He would really like to fly a Space Ship. Maybe live in a Space Station. Save money on gas; Self-Service. Go Vegan; Savage Species. SS-SS-SS-SS-SS-S-S-S-S-S-s-s-s-s-s….

Power surged in a socket and there was a shower of sparks. Simon Smith came to a halt. Pah! How annoying, thought his wife. She’d thought a Super Spouse Enhanced Partner, would be less trouble than a human one. But every single month, just before System Set, his cerebral circuits went into overdrive and blew components. Then once repaired and rested, he forgot all about it – till next month. She’d complained so many times, but they’d never fixed him. Shoddy Service.

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Mirror

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Infinite City, Mystical Experience with tags , , on January 29, 2012 by javedbabar

The fundraiser was much better than expected. Sam had been bullied into attending by the Library Director; every time he went to get a Sci-Fi book, she emerged from her office to ask if he’d got his ticket yet. But he wasn’t ready to commit. He may be somewhere else; somewhere better; who knew? But eventually under pressure he’d handed over twenty bucks.

It was the best investment he’d ever made. He won first prize in the raffle – a night in the Wells Suite at the Regal Hotel. He’d seen that place when visiting the City, but had never imagined staying there. It was the grandest place in town. The only snag was that it had to be this Tuesday. Why couldn’t it be next week, he thought, or last week?

On Tuesday his girlfriend was working late and said she’d join him later, so he checked in alone. The receptionist said, “Welcome, Sir. It is a privilege to have you stay with us. We hear that you attended a charitable event, and won first prize. Indeed good deeds are always rewarded. We hope that you will enjoy our humble lodgings. If you need anything at all, please do not hesitate to ask.”

The 20th floor penthouse was amazing. It was hard to describe the decor – maybe “retro modern”. Chandeliers brightened its blue-striped walls. The reception room contained a large green table, sofas, and footstools. The bedroom had a four-poster bed, all draped in blue. The bathroom held golden fittings and a claw-foot bath. If only his girlfriend would hurry up – they could make good use of the bed and bath; though he doubted things would get as steamy as they had with some other girls. Maybe he should have invited one of them.

Sam hit the mini-bar – the library was paying after all – and he smoked a joint. His girlfriend texted, saying, “So sorry, love. It’s an emergency. I can’t get away. Will call you later.”

“Bitch,” he said to himself. For some reason he didn’t believe her. Once he’d dreamed of making her his wife, but recently changed his mind. It just wasn’t like it used to be. Their endless laughter and passion were gone, and were unlikely to return. So why bother?

Sam noticed a locked internal door. Had they forgotten to open a room? He called downstairs. The formal receptionist appeared, sniffed the air and said, “Have you been smoking Sir? You do know that this is a non-smoking hotel?”

“Of course I haven’t,” said Sam.

“Very good, Sir. I will take your word for it. Many wouldn’t.”

“I would like you to open this door.”

“Sir, are you sure?”

“You said I shouldn’t hesitate to ask.”

The receptionist unlocked the door and left. It was a spacious windowless room, with a dark desk at its centre. There were bookshelves filled with science texts and holy books. The only other notable item was a full-size mirror with an ornate golden frame. Sam peered into the mirror, cut some smiles, and left the room.

He couldn’t believe it at first. Was he dreaming or drunk?

The room’s decor was completely different. Gone were the blue-striped walls and green furniture. The whole room was white. It had a few sleek items of furniture – more loungers than sofas – and there was no obvious source of light, but everything was glowing. As he moved forward, the light increased around him, as if an aura. A wall-sized screen came alive slowly, showing waves lapping a beach at dawn. Sam peered outside, and saw flying cars. He was so surprised that it took a while to realize that his movements were jerky; he was stumbling along. Then he noticed his hands were wrinkled and knotted with rope-veins, and his feet were like clubs, which shunted rather than flowed. What had happened to him? He tried to return to the study, but the door had locked.

“Knock! Knock!” He wasn’t sure whether to answer the front door. “Knock! Knock!” But what else could he do? There stood the receptionist. He spoke in a too-loud voice. “I thought I’d check up on you, Sir. Is all well?”

“You can see that it isn’t.” Sam’s voice was different. It held a rasp. “What has happened to me?”

“I’m afraid that only you know that, Sir.”

Smug bastard, thought Sam. “Can you let me back into the study?”

“Of course, Sir.” He unlocked the door and left.

Sam sat on the edge of the desk and tried to comprehend the situation. Then he thought he’d better see himself, and looked in the mirror again. He looked just like he should; still forty years old. The futuristic world must have been a delusion. He really should drink less. He left the room.

The room was different again. There was a huge orange wall-hanging, filled with circles, and a fat yellow sofa beneath. The carpet held mixed yellow and orange squares. There was a boxy brown television with many chrome knobs. Sam heard the bells of trolley cars outside. Again he was stumbling along, but in a different way. He tensed his face, and looked down at his hands. They were chubby and small-fingered. Child’s hands. He turned instinctively, but the study door was locked once more. And just at that moment, “Knock! Knock!” He toddled over to the suite door, pawed and eventually opened it.

The receptionist smiled in a patronising way. “Sir, is all well?”

“Nooo. It bad. O-pen door?” He sounded so cute, even to himself.

The receptionist unlocked the door and left.

Sam went straight to the mirror. He looked unchanged; still forty. He decided to leave the hotel immediately. Sure, he’d taken some crazy trips before, but nothing like this. This was way too weird. But when he tried to leave the study, he found that he couldn’t. However much he walked towards the door, it never got any closer. The desk was always before him, and the bookshelves to the right. But the door remained far away. He was stuck in the mirror with no future or past; no fantasy or memory. Just all the time in the world to reflect upon the present.

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