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Valley Patroller

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, I’m on it! What’s the deal?”

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

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

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

“Yes, I’m on it! What’s the deal?”

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

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

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

“Yes, I’m on it! What’s the deal?”

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

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

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

“Yes, I’m on it! What’s the deal?”

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

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

“Yes, I’m on it! What’s the deal?”

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

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

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

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

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A to B

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Anything Else?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Great,” said Luka. “See you then.”

“Do you know where I live?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Open Relationship

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

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

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

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

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

“Why not?” he’d asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Vote Night

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Fresh Foods

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Lucerne Village, Organic Farming with tags , , , , on February 22, 2012 by javedbabar

“Darling will you get me some mint?” said Claire.

“Sure, how much do you want?” said Daved to his wife, cheerful despite nursing a hangover. “Just a handful?”

“One of my handfuls, honey – not one of yours.” Daved clipped young stalks from the container using chained-up-scissors. The rush of freshness cleared his head, but the dullness returned. “Oh, and while you’re there, can you get some cilantro?”

“Sure honey,” he said, and moved to other containers.

“Is my hunky husband in the mood for some heavy digging” said Claire, her trailing arm circling his waist. “Some spuds and carrots please. Not too many. Just what we need for the weekend.” Daved pushed his hands into the soil and rooted around. He yanked up ten medium-sized russets, and a dozen purple carrots. The freshness of food these days was astonishing. Since the implementation of Local Food Laws, supermarkets grew produce right on their shelves. It was all fresh, local, healthy food. What could be better for you?

“Perfect,” she said. “Let’s get some tomatoes. Where’s the hothouse section? Why do they keep moving it around? Oh, there it is, I think. Or is that exotics?” She ambled over and pulled open a flap. “No, it’s tomatoes.” Claire snipped off a pound each of Black Princes and Green Zebras. The peppers looked good, and she decided to get some of those, selecting ripe Hungarian Wax, Jalapeno, Cayenne, and – what the hell! – Habanero peppers; all conveniently growing on the same bush.

“What else do we need, love?” she called out of the hothouse.

“I fancy fish today,” said Daved. “What about you?”

“Ok, go catch something Ahab. I’ll be in the dairy.” Claire was still pulling the Gau MataTM  udders – invented by the great Indian scientist Dr. A.W. Cooraswamy-Muchilinda-Moghlai – when Daved appeared with his catch.

“He had some spirit, this one,” he said. “Zipping around the tank like crazy. I couldn’t get him with the line so zapped him. Anyway, we have grilled wild salmon with coriander potatoes and minted carrots on the menu for tonight.”

Claire finished her milking. She loved the feeling of pulling these udders, it was so authentic; just like the rosy-cheeked farm girl in the ads. She wiped her hands and said, “Ok, just some beef now. I think we’ve got everything else.”

The meat section was always quieter in the afternoons. People liked “fresh” beef grown overnight – they said it was more tender – but Claire had never noticed the difference. She felt that they were kidding themselves; they just didn’t want to pay the extra for Veal. Daved carved thick strips of soft red flesh from the block, each piece well textured. That Indian Doctor was a genius, he thought– it’s a shame he was assassinated; think what else he could have invented. The meat block shook and made a squealing sound. The Butcher rushed over and said, “I’m so sorry Sir. Some of these meats are restless this morning. I’m not sure why.”

“The fish are pretty spirited too,” said Daved. “I felt like I was chasing Moby Dick.”

The Butcher smiled and said, “Well Buster here’s not going anywhere. Would you like me to finish carving? How much do you need?” He wrapped up their bloody meat and said, “Enjoy your meal. By the way, have you visited our new Fair Trade Department? It’s across the other side of the store.”

“No, we haven’t heard about it,” said Claire.

“We’ve kept it quiet deliberately; we don’t want any trouble. Look what happened to Dr. Cooraswamy-Muchilinda-Moghlai. That SFPF is dangerous; they say that they don’t condone violence but every terrorist incident seems to involve one of their members. Anyway, good folk like you won’t cause any trouble, I’m sure. Why don’t you take a look?”

A uniformed security guard allowed them entry to what must have been a previously unused warehouse at the back of the store. Daved and Claire gasped in amazement. It was ten degrees hotter than outside, and pretty humid; the lush green area was divided into continents. In “South America” they saw tattooed Amazon tribesmen picking Brazil Nuts. In “Africa”, red-blanketed Maasai warriors tended coffee bushes. In “Asia” Saffron-robed Sadhus picked orange pekoe tea. “Australia” had ochre-smeared Aborigines tending mangoes. “North America” featured Navajo squaws growing corn, beans, and squash. “Europe” had men in black berets and women in bright dresses treading barrels of grapes.

“What do you think?” said the Manager, catching up with them. “We need to fine-tune the costumes, I know, but not bad, eh? Sorry I didn’t welcome you earlier, but I was keeping my eye on the protest outside. It’s those Slow Food People’s Front extremists. Some people just don’t see progress when it slaps them in the face. Whatever we do is never enough for them. I mean, ten years ago who would have thought that our entire food chain would be fresh, local, and organic?”

He chatted with Claire and Daved for a while, and then asked if he could show them something special. “We always like to run things by our customers first.” He showed them a device that the grocery store was testing, called MORE (Modern Organism Replicator Engine). “Wait till we get this going next month. You’ve never tasted food so fresh!”

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One Stop

Posted in Lucerne Village, Uncategorized with tags , , on February 17, 2012 by javedbabar

The gloomy day was disappointing; Jason had been expecting sunshine, at least in the morning to get people out. He needed customers on his first day as a stall holder. His college fees were due by the end of the month.

His uncle had dropped him off on his way to work, way too early, but he was here at the Transparent Temple – nickname for their fancy community centre – before everyone else. In business this is known as an opportunity.

Jason set up three decorating tables, and arranged his Grandpa’s stuff upon them. His mother had not handled his loss well, and her way of coping was to erase his memory entirely. His Grandpa had been a hoarder all his life and she had wanted to throw everything out, but Jason had said he’d sell it instead.

The annual spring sale was a Village tradition – full of juicy jams, wild cakes, herbal candles, and forest art. But no other traders were setting up. Jason’s heart dropped – did he have the right day? He checked the Spring Sale application form. Yes, it was today – March 20th, Spring Equinox.

Midday came, and Jason realized something terrible; there were no other vendors. The plus side to this was that he had the best – and only – place in the market – right in the middle of the hall, visible from every direction. But he wasn’t sure how beneficial this would be as there weren’t any customers either. It was raining very heavily outside, like rippling sheets dropping down. He should have realized that business would be affected.

Jason was alone in the great hall, surrounded by his Grandpa’s memories. His holy books; his English tea set, his German cutlery, and Japanese crockery; his antique typewriter; his pinstriped 3-piece suit; his top hat and cane; his shirts, his socks, and his shoes. There were also many unpacked boxes that his mom had wanted out of the house immediately.

There was commotion in the doorway. What was going on?

A sullen crowd rushed in; Jason didn’t recognize any of them. A man walked over to him. “Oh, it vaz so terrible!” he said with a German accent. “Our bus vaz stuck in vater. It vas up to our chests. Ve had to carry de children on our shoulders. It vas a great big flood!”

Jason hadn’t realized the Valley was flooding. Heavy rain must have burst the dikes. These poor people seemed tired and scared. His first thought was to make them some tea in the bone china tea set, but then realized that he had no means to heat water. But hang on a minute – didn’t his Grandpa have some camping gear? Jason looked inside the boxes and found a camping stove and tin kettle. He filled the kettle up from the bathroom and soon had it boiling. He passed around cups of tea.

“Danke,” said the German man, taking trays of tea to his fellow wet passengers. They smiled at him from around the room.

They must be pretty hungry too, thought Jason. He rummaged around in the boxes and found some powdered egg and hard biscuits. He’d seen his Grandpa’s army uniform and campaign medals, but never his rations. He’d kept them for over sixty years! Jason recalled him describing army food as “indestructible.” He’d said, “They should have made the tanks out of that stuff!”

Jason pulled out a pan and cooked up a mess of scrambled eggs, and laid blobs of it on biscuits. His German friend passed them around his fellow passengers, and there was a chorus of “Dankes”.

The caretaker of the building came in looking troubled, but smiled when he saw the catering operation. He said, “Good job, lad. Keep our visitors happy. The tourist dollar is half the Village economy.”

“Excuse me,” said the German man. “Do you know vat iz de situation regarding de vether?”

“I’m afraid the whole Village is flooded,” said the caretaker. “I think you’ll be here for a while. Maybe a day, maybe a week; no one can say.” The German man’s face fell, but then recovered. “Just make yourselves as comfortable as you can. I’ll come back with news.” The German man shared the news with his tour group; a wave of muttering ran around the hall perimeter.

Once the shock was absorbed, people began wandering over to Jason’s stall. They rummaged through Grandpa’s stuff, asking questions about items, and how much they cost. He had a captive market. He thought of doubling the prices, but thought that Grandpa would not have approved. Grandpa had both seen Prisoners-Of-War and been one himself. “They were just like us, boyo,” he’d said to Jason. “Cold and hungry and frightened. They were just like us.”

A lady examinded cooking utensils. The caretaker appeared with bags of spuds and carrots. He said, “A farmer left them here yesterday but hasn’t shown up today. Can you use them?”

“Yah,” said the woman, and called over her friends. They grated the potatoes and cooked a stack of rostis. Flour and sugar appeared – and soon there was also carrot cake. Someone began to play Grandpa’s accordion, and an old man raked spoons along the washboard. People began dancing in pairs, and then in groups, like flowers opening outwards, and then returning to their centres. They began opening their suitcases, removing items, and sharing them out – Schnapps, fruit breads, chocolates, and ginger cakes. It became a great festival of spring gift giving. “Just is like Fruhlingsfest,” said a pretty blonde girl.

Jason too offered his items freely, but the Germans insisted on paying for them. They had heard that he was raising money for college. By the end of the day, all of his grandpa’s items were sold and Jason had made $5,000. The only thing left was a framed photograph of his grandpa, which someone had purchased and then returned, saying, “Your grandpa saved us today. You mustn’t forget him.”

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Bloody Tree

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Lucerne Village, Unknown with tags , , , on February 12, 2012 by javedbabar

“Lovely day,” said Mavis, sniffing the air and casting a glance at her fat neighbour.

“Yes it is, indeed,” said Lucy, also sniffing.

“How long since you hatched?” said Mavis.

Lucy thought for a moment, and said, “I’m twelve – God I feel so old! Look at those young ones having fun. Where do they get their energy from?”

“We were just the same,” said Mavis, but thought, maybe you were a little less so, my chubby friend; or maybe you’re carrying more eggs than me; I’d like to know, but we’ve only just met.

“You’ve got nice long legs,” said Lucy. “Does it run in your family?” She didn’t wait for an answer and continued. “My family is chunky; we have sturdy legs. That makes take off and landing easier, but sometimes walking on water is awkward; especially in my state.”

Mavis felt mean now. She decided she would be nice to her neighbour, and said, “I started feeling whiney a couple of nights back; surprisingly soon after my last batch of eggs. It was Saturday night so I would have gone out anyway, but was now a girl with a mission…”

“I know what you’re saying, Sister!”

“I have to say, I did feel old though. There were all these young lads flying around in circles, showing off, and full of juice. For a moment I lost my nerve. What would they see in an old girl like me – bigger and harder-bodied? But I know they have a fetish for older females these days. They call us MILF’s…”

Lucy interrupted, “Mosquitoes I’d like to F…” They both burst out laughing, their wings vibrating with a little whine. “Don’t you start that now,” said Lucy. “You’ll have one on your back again before you know it – double dipping!”

“I might not mind if someone did,” said Mavis. “What did I get on Saturday night? Ten seconds of glory? You’d think after all that wing-beating and whining, they’d do better than that!”

“They never have in my long lifetime, Sister!”

The trees in the forest were thick with their sisters; boys tumbled about in swarms. Mavis looked across at Mt. Alba; what a beautiful place, she thought, but something inside her knew that it wasn’t a good place to live; much too high and cold. She laid her last batch of eggs in a lovely, swampy area across the river. She’d started off laying them singly, jerking on the water, and once she’d got a rhythm going, then forming them into rafts. She’d waited to check the eggs were settled, and then flown away. She’d never see her eggs become wrigglers, or tumblers, or emerge as adults; but she’d love them all the same.

Mavis and Lucy had already detected the presence of prey – through smell and heat sensing – but were waiting till dusk, their feeding time. While Mavis was musing, Lucy had been scanning for a full blood meal. “Look down there,” she said. “That looks juicy.”

“Which one?” said Mavis. She saw two different preys: a fat white one and a thin black one, both laid out across the edge of a pool of flat water. How inviting, she thought: a place to feed, and a place to lay eggs, so close together. Rather than answering though, Lucy shouted, “Whoa! Watch out!”

An iridescent shimmer tore right past them into the crowd of males, which scattered immediately; but the dragonfly then hunted them individually till he’d had his fill. This seemed unfair as they lived only half as long as girls anyway. Mavis and Lucy returned their attention to the prey below. It wasn’t moving, just lying naked, sweating, smelling, beside the pool of flat water. “Well, we shouldn’t wait around all day,” said Mavis. “It’s getting dusky. Time to move in.”

“Ok sister,” said Lucy. “Shall I lead the warrior ritual?” Mavis nodded, her proboscis waving in the air. “O Great Liquid Mother, we thank you for this day. Bless our noble sisterhood which hunts life and creates life, and will continue until we die.” They beat their wings, making a light whining. “Grant us one drop of holy blood, which shall feed hundreds of new lives.”

They flew off together. Mavis headed instinctively for the fat white prey and Lucy for the thin black prey. Lucy flies beautifully for a heavier girl, thought Mavis; she has more weight, but also more strength. Look how she twirls and jives, working with the slightest breeze, like a swirling snowflake. But Lucy suddenly disappeared. Where did she go? She must have found a sweet spot. Hee! Hee!

Mavis homed in on her prey. She had species memory of feeding on these creatures since the beginning; and on many beasts that they herded; there had been a time of luxury; of fatted bellies; of excess. Mavis felt a swishing sensation. Her prey was suddenly on its feet, and was moving quicker than she was. Her final memory was the shock of slamming against something where there had been nothing before.

The naked humans jumped up without warning, brandishing large circular pans. In this world destroyed by radiation and disease, the only animals that flourished were insects, which grew to ten or more times their previous size. They provided vital sustenance for survivors still inhabiting the ruined homes of the Lucerne Valley, who regularly lay naked, sweating, smelling, to attract clouds of giant mosquitoes, and then caught them in steel pans. They mashed and roasted them into protein-rich burgers. There would be a poolside barbecue tonight, even though the old pool now stank and was being farmed for mosquito larvae.

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Tea-Jay

Posted in Global Travel, Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience with tags , , on February 11, 2012 by javedbabar

Natasha waited in line at the Transparent Temple – the nickname for their state-of-the-art community centre. Damn, she thought, there’s almost two hundred people here already; I wish I’d come earlier. Still, she remained hopeful.

“What do you think of our chances?” said the boy. He was being friendly, but also chatting her up, she thought. He appeared somewhat nerdy, but didn’t make her feel uncomfortable. There was no need yet to pull out her pepper spray.

“Pretty good,” said Natasha. “But I wish they were better.”

“I came at six am, and there was hardly a soul here,” said the boy. “So I went for a…”

“A coffee!” Natasha burst out laughing. “That’s what I did too. How stupid. I was only gone half an hour, and came back to this. By the way, I’m Natasha.”

“Hi, I’m Bobby. Have you attended a Tea Party before?” The queue eased a little, and they moved forward two feet.

“No, but I’ve been dying to go for ages. I missed the one in the City, and the one in Strattus. I’m so glad they decided to do an extra date here.”

Tea Parties began in England last year, and were now a global phenomenon. Their Anglo-Indian founder had very fond memories of clubbing from his youth, but now he’d hit forty, could no longer take the pace. He decided his future lay in being Teetotal: totally devoted to tea.

There are two origin stories for tea. The first concerns the Chinese Emperor Shen Nung. He was sitting beneath a Camellia Sinensis tree while his servant boiled water, a common practice to purify it. A leaf from the tree blew into the water, creating a pleasing aroma.  Shen Nung tried the brew and declared it an auspicious drink. The second story is that of Indian sage Bodhidharma, who spread Buddhism to China. He practiced very fierce austerities, believing in the power of ceaseless meditation and prayer. He fell asleep one day, and was so disgusted with himself that he cut off his own eyelids, and threw them away. From these holy relics the first tea bush sprouted.

The founder of Tea Parties was inspired by this story, and adoped the name of the sage. The new Bodhidharma decided there was a higher way to have fun, to connect with others, to avoid the toxins of alcohol and drugs, and negative effects of dehydration and sleep deprivation. The Way was all day Tea Parties.

“One of my friends has gone crazy,” said Bobby. “He’s taken a year’s sabbatical from his law firm, and attended Tea Parties all over the world. He started in England, where he had the most amazing luck. A girl he met in an arty bar knew one of the Tea-Jays. She got him into the Tea Party at Buckingham Palace! It was a classy affair; Will and Kate were there.”

“Wow!” said Natasha. “Now that’s what I call networking. Where else did he go?”

“The English Party was prim and proper. There was Earl Grey tea in bone china cups, followed by ballroom dancing. He wanted to try another country so went to India. He must have turned on the charm, because he got invited to attend a Tea Party at the Taj Mahal. They sat in rose-gardens and drank spicy chai from small clay cups, and then engaged in bhangra dancing, before smashing them. Next he went to Russia, and believe it or not, made it to the Kremlin. They mixed teas from a giant samovar, added vodka, and did Cossack-dancing. He particularly enjoyed that one. He went on to China, Korea, and Japan. In Japan they…”

Bobby cut the conversation when the line jumped forward. Within a few minutes he and Natasha were at the front of the queue. The bouncers waved them in. “Well aren’t you going to search me?” said Bobby. Natasha was surprised; most people would have gladly been spared the indignity of a body search. However you attempt to civilize it, it is, essentially, hairy dimwits groping you. But Bobby insisted upon it. And now that this protocol was established, bouncers searched Natasha and everyone else.

“What was that about?” said Natasha. “Because of you my pepper spray and mickey of rum got confiscated. No one else seemed bothered.”

“I’m sorry to upset you. But the essence of a Tea Party is purity. We can’t have people bringing in additives. That would ruin the whole effect.” Natasha shook her head. Maybe he was a creep after all – and now she was defenceless. She decided to distance herself from Bobby. She smiled and said, “See you later.”

The Tea Party wasn’t starting for another hour yet, but the Tea-Jay was already at his blending desk. And it wasn’t just some local lad with an ipod. Tea-Jays undertook a one-year, full-time apprenticeship. Internships in Ottawa – or at Google, Facebook, or Goldman Sachs – were child’s play compared to acceptance onto the Tea-Jay program. It was said that twelve people had been trained by Bodhidharma, of whom only six graduated. Their identities were never revealed. Today’s Tea-Jay wore a V for Vendetta mask. It was a little creepy.

Natasha seated herself on a cushion in half-lotus position. There was an even split of girls and guys, maybe 250 people in all.

The lights were dimmed, and soft chants filled the hall. The first cup was served. It was a delicate brew.

Chants became stronger. The second cup was served. It had a fresh flavour.

Light beats kicked in. The third cup was served. It had a hint of cinnamon.

Beats became harder. The fourth cup was served. It tasted of maple and chocolate.

A counter melody came in. The fifth cup was served. Its taste was of peppermint, and vanilla, and clotted cream.

The melody ascended. The sixth cup was served. It held many flavours – toffee, whisky, and yeast; melons, quail, and burnt caramel.

The melody expanded, and filled the room. The seventh cup was served. It was the agony of leaves unfolding, giving every part of themselves. It did not contain the previous mistakes of starting at the bottom – with bohea leaves, and working your way up to flowery orange pekoe. Instead you started at the bud, and worked downwards, encompassing all possible flavours. There were no broken leaves that had been crushed, torn and curled; only whole leaves that were withered and rolled by Masters. High rainfall and high elevation were there. Black, White, Oolong, Green, and Fermented teas. This final cup was brewed at the highest temperature to extract the large complex phenolic molecules. These active substances were shared with all the Tea Lovers present here now. They spoke of love, and beauty, and poetry; of hope, faith, and courage; of sadness and despair; and of dreams coming true, and spending forever immersed in bliss.

Bodhidharma didn’t mind filling in for his Tea-Jays in a crisis, and he enjoyed queuing up with the crowd. It gave him a feel for the energy present, plus helped to preserve his anonymity when entering and leaving. He preferred being known as Bobby rather than Bodhidharma. He smiled behind the blending desk and thought, “Another successful Brewing; Complete Infusion.” He wondered if they even knew that they were all on their feet, dancing and chanting, “Camellia Sinensis!”

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Where To?

Posted in Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience with tags , , on February 1, 2012 by javedbabar

Mr. Wise waited to take the body from the decedent’s residence to the cemetery. They had kept him waiting for half an hour now, but he was in no hurry. This was not a job for those in a rush.

He looked over his black Rolls Royce Phantom VI; till recently the “Number One State Car” of Queen Elizabeth II. Its long, dark, flowing lines, and commanding grill; its coil springs in front, leaf springs in rear, for unparalleled smoothness of ride; it’s twin SU carburettors and four-speed automatic gearing; its walnut and gilt fittings by fifth-generation English coach builders; its appearance unchanged for three decades of production. There was no vehicle more fitting for a person’s final journey; a journey led by The Spirit of Ecstasy statue, leaning forward, trailed by billowing cloth-wings.

“That’s a nice car,” said a small boy. “Did you put the windows in yourself?”

“Thank you son, do you mean the rear glazing?” Mr. Wise approved of the boys smart black suit.

“Yes, a Rolls Royce doesn’t come like that, does it?”

“You are correct. The donor vehicle is converted by specialists. They extend the body, raise the roof, and enlarge the glazed area.” He could tell him more, but you shouldn’t chat too much to children at funerals.

“And what’s that hatch at the back for?”

He’s a curious one, thought Mr. Wise. “We can fit another coffin in there if necessary. But we don’t use it often. Right now there’s just the spare wheel and my spare uniform.”

“What kind of engine does it have? About six litres like a truck?”

“You are correct. It is a 6.2 litre V8 engine, built in the Crewe factory, in 1968.” He couldn’t help his chest swelling as he said this. He was enjoying talking with this – what was he? – eight year old.

“What did you do before this?” said the boy.

“I worked in the Rolls Royce factory for forty years. I took early retirement when they computerized the systems, and retrained as a Funeral Director. Then I came here to be near my grandchildren. They’re…”

The son of the decedent rushed out. He completely ignored the small boy, and interrupted Mr. Wise. “Some relatives got carried away with crying,” he said. “I think they’re done now. I didn’t fill in the form you sent me, I’ve been too busy. But you know the way to the cemetery don’t you?”

“Sir, you haven’t told me to which cemetery we are taking the gentleman.” The decedent was head of a large family business; “a no-nonsense guy, who didn’t suffer fools gladly,” Mr. Wise had heard. Who knew what he was like under the skin though? You never could tell. But his son was clearly a rascal.

“Lucerne Cemetery,” said the son. “About twenty kilometres up the Valley. Just keep going straight. Only a fool would miss it.” He rushed back in, and quickly came out again. “Did you bring someone to walk in front of the procession?”

“Sir, I am sorry, no. You did not request this service, and I did not wish to presume…”

The decedent’s son glared and stormed off.

The small boy said, “He seemed quite angry. Is he upset about his father?”

“I’m sure he is, son. I should have insisted on him completing the details. That way I would have known the requirements. But he never returned my calls. Never mind.”

“I could do it,” said the boy.

“Do what?” said Mr. Wise.

“Walk in front of the procession. Look, I’ve got a nice black suit.”

“I’m not sure about that.”

“Let me check with the head of the family. I’ll see what he says.” The small boy ran off and returned five minutes later. “He says that’s a grand idea. Do you have a top hat I could use?”

“Not one that would fit you?” The boy insisted, so Mr. Wise retrieved his top hat from the hatch. Miraculously, it fitted the small boy. The man-sized cane was also usable.

They loaded the body, and Mr. Wise pulled out of the driveway onto the Valley Road. He took great care as it was very misty. The small boy walked ahead. He started awkwardly, but soon hit his stride. Did he have tails on his coat before, thought Mr. Wise? He must have.

The mist became thick and Mr. Wise lost sight of the other cars. Unbelievable, he thought; they were only a few metres behind but invisible to him. The small boy, however, was not deterred. He just kept walking. In fact, he sped up. How fast was he going? Mr. Wise checked his speedometer – over five miles per hour. He wondered how he could walk so fast. When they’d travelled about one kilometre, Mr. Wise decided it was time for him to stop. The small boy seemed to sense this, and walked back to the vehicle.

He knocked on Mr. Wise’s window and asked him to play some music. “This is highly unusual,” said Mr. Wise, and refused. But the boy looked so deeply sad that he changed his mind and switched on the stereo. It was his grandson’s CD. He recalled being told that it was a British dance band fronted by a bald black man.

The music blared out more loudly than he’d wanted. The little boy ran ahead, and continued leading the procession. He began stepping forward and back – which under the circumstances, wasn’t ideal – in time to the music. Then he threw his arms out theatrically. He spun around twice, and tripped around his cane like Fred Astaire. He began leaping ahead as if he were a D-Day soldier, then hoed like a third-world farmer. He body-popped – is that what it was called? – and twisted, and acted like a robot. The mist flashed repeatedly. He whirled around performing Capoeira – like Mr. Wise had once seen in Rio –

which eased into Sufi whirling – like in Konya. He did a Moonwalk, a Scottish jig, and some Irish dancing. Then he threw his hat high in the air, caught it on his head and bowed.

Mr. Wise was dazzled and clapped, which wasn’t wise when driving. He saw a group of vehicles parked ahead on the road, and recognized the car of the decedent’s son. Through the mist he saw the cemetery’s entrance, and pulled in.

The decedent’s son rushed out, irate. “Where have you been?” he shouted. “Where did you go? We’ve been waiting an hour!”

“I am sorry, Sir,” said Mr. Wise. “We must have become separated by the mist.”

“If my father were here, he would be so angry with you, you fool!”

No he wouldn’t, thought Mr. Wise. I think he rather enjoyed his journey. Just before they’d reached the cemetery, the small boy had approached the Rolls Royce and said, “Thank you, I’d always wanted to do that,” and disappeared.

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