by J.R. Blackwell | Apr 12, 2006 | Story
The couple broke fast in the mountain retreat, dining on fresh red melons and purple berries. Marta, their robotic guide, served them with diamond plates on the giant stone balcony overlooking the forest. In between delicate bites, Rae remarked that the whole residence was rather ostentatious. Bello didn’t notice her ire, he was wrapped up enjoying deep breaths of the cool morning air. Afterwards, they took the skimmer and flew over the extensive forest country.
Marta gave a running dialogue on the features of the landscape, the climate of the poles and the wildlife, her features always pleasant, operating the skimmer without looking at the controls. Rae stared ahead at the horizon while Bello hopped from one side of the skimmer to the other, pointing out features to his wife.
“Is that a wooden bridge?†he asked.
“Oh yes!†said the impeccably quaffed Marta. “Built by the native people.â€
Rae afforded the bridge a glance. “Looks like real wood.â€
“Oh, it is! All the sentient made structures on this world are made by natural products grown right here, and all the structures, with the exception of the residences, are made by the native peoples.â€
“Ah yes, the natives. We are scheduled to see them today, aren’t we?â€
“Yes. Our team worked carefully over their design, combining artistry and technical excellence to complete these charming natives. They are engineered to enjoy aboriginal environment and build their homes in the large Nobo trees that are common in this region.†Marta tapped a screen and rotating holograms popped up in the middle of the skimmer. Bellos face glowed.
“Oh! They are lovely!†he said, smiling at the pictures. Rae shrugged.
“Are they all that same color?â€
Marta tilted her head to the side in an acceptable parody of human movement. “All of the native people range from a light pale blue to an aqua marine. When they reach the sea one day, they will find they are the same color as the water. We anticipate this will generate some delightful creation stories. If you like though, genetic strands can be introduced to-“
Rae waved her hand. “No, no. Blue is fine.â€
Bello reached out toward the flashing holographs. “These primitive peoples are friendly, yes?â€
The screen flashed to corresponding images as Marta spoke. “The primitives are very peaceful. Their religion focuses on finding inner enlightenment through nature. Tribal elders devote themselves to contemplation and teaching traditions to the young. They have yearly festivals and lovely rituals that reflect their reverence for nature. Because these are a peaceful species, we have imbedded a few defensive skills that you might find of use, should it become necessary. For example, they have a great capacity for the quick computation of numbers that would make them useful on space fairing vessels.â€
Rae frowned at the holograms. “They appear rather fragile, don’t they?â€
Bello scooped up Rae’s limp hand. “I think they are charming.†He said. Rae shook her head.
“I don’t know, they don’t have any hair. Don’t you think it’s odd that they don’t have any hair?â€
“Rae, we can’t replace the Arrgio, even if we wanted to.†Bello put his arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “I loved them as much as you did.†He looked out onto the landscape.“It’s time for us to move forward.â€
Rae’s face cracked and she leaned her head onto Bello’s shoulder. Marta ignored them for a few minutes, suddenly entranced in landscape navigation. Bello wiped Rae’s eyes with his sleeve, the fabric absorbing and evaporating the droplets into mist.
“Look,†he said, pointing. Rae peered over the edge of the skimmer and below the green and red leaves of the canopy she could see tall lithe runners moving swiftly on the soft earth. They wore no clothes, their willowy bodies smooth and graceful. They were ululating in dark, sweet tones. Rae closed her eyes and listened to their echoing voices.
“I think I could guide these people.†She said “I really do.â€
“We’ll take it.†Said Bello.
by J.R. Blackwell | Apr 10, 2006 | Story
Tycho Villiare never asked why his employers had chosen to duel.
Gentlemen seldom fight duels themselves. One gentleman may challenge another to a duel, but since duels end in death, a state most gentleman find inconvenient, Men of Arms are employed to fight duels for them.
Men of Arms do not come cheap. Tycho Villiare was one of the most expensive Men of Arms on his colony world. He had been a solider of Her Majesties Royal Marines, a combat Iron in a heated mech-suit, cutting out insurrection like a scalpel. He could kill a household without harming a hair on the head of the family dog. After ten years with the service, his employment as a Man at Arms was his retirement. The large sums he demanded for his time meant that he only need work one day out of a year. When the Duke of Rodchester found himself engaged in a duel of consequence with the half-blood bastard Count of Carlo, he found it quite natural to use a good section of his fortune to employ Tycho Villiare to fight the duel for him.
The Count of Carlo, being of royal blood but little royal wealth, would have found it difficult to employ a Man at Arms to fight for him. Even so, he could have begged a loan in order to secure such a man, but he did not. The half blood bastard came to fight the duel himself.
This pairing was most irregular. Men at Arms may fight each other in a duel on behalf of other gentlemen, and two gentlemen, so motivated, could fight a duel themselves. However, it was unnatural for a man such as Tycho, a talented commoner, to fight a royal, even a half-blood. Tycho himself was not terribly concerned, for he expected that either the half-blood royal would become scared and back out of the duel, or the Duke of Rodchester would find his honor so affronted that he would dismiss Tycho from the fight.
Tycho did not fail to consider the Dukes considerable weight and age in his estimation of the Dukes ability. What Tycho failed to consider was a fault of his own character, for he could not comprehend that the Dukes love of his own skin was far greater than his love of honor and duty. The Duke, though powerful, was never a man who was prone to any great exertions.
The day of the duel was a fine crisp spring morning, all blue skies and dewy grass. The Duke sat in the stands with his company, sipping his morning tea. The Count was alone and standing, a long and lean figure, in well-worn boots and an ancient raygun that bore the dull gleam of constant cleaning.
Tycho used the pulse gun of Her Majesty’s Royal Marines, standard issue, set to single fire. It was an unremarkable weapon, and certainly nothing compared to the ornate weapons that hung unused on a Dukes belt.
The Cybernetic Judge instructed the two men to stand back to back, to walk fifteen paces, to turn and draw. The Count and Tycho both took their shots. The Cybernetic Judge timed Tycho to be point one three seconds slower than his average draw time. Some say he was hesitant to shoot a royal, nervous about the consequences of such an action.
A moment after the shots were fired there was a scream. The Duke was slumped over in the stands, blood on his pale pink chair. The Count was on the ground, convulsing, red on his white shirt. The young fiancée of the dead Duke ran out of the stands, picking her skirts up high, heedless of her ankles exposing to the world. She did not go to the side of the Duke, but ran past him to sprawl next to the Count on the grass. She cradled the Counts head in her arms and wept, caressing his face, kissing his forehead. She did not look at Tycho, the man who still held the weapon that killed the Count. Tycho was no more than a force of nature to her.
Tycho carefully placed the pulse gun on the grass and walked away, his duty done.
by J.R. Blackwell | Apr 8, 2006 | Story
On the surface, everything is smooth. On the edges, the shiny plastic cracks, dirt comes out of nowhere, and doorknobs pinch the skin. Tear at the wall a little, underneath is not solid, it is a metal matrix, mostly air. We live in a kind of illusion, frayed at the edges.
In the middle, things must constantly be replaced with new things to keep the façade. The illusion that everything is smooth and glowing, round soft edges, harmonious, modern and stylish.
At the edges, things begin to rot, to give way, and folks can’t afford to replace them. They must make do with what is rotted, what has given way. They have to live in a broken picture.
I am a photographer, and I have earned some degree of note for taking models, beautiful girls and boys, to the very edge, to where it is all rust and metal and lighting them in glorious plastic symmetry, snapping pictures, putting the illusion directly next to the crumbling façade.
Rachel and I used to go through the tunnels together, we used to hold hands and run through the sewage in our filter suits, we used to find locations together and she would pose and I would take her picture.
The pictures spread, and soon I was taking products to the edge, perfect plastic to a rotted world. I lost Rachel. It was too much work. I still took models, but they weren’t Rachel. To be honest, they were prettier, but also empty. They were afraid of sewage. All the crews were. We were all inoculated, but they were afraid of smells, and what moves out there.
I punched a reporter. It wasn’t the drugs although the e-zines will all say it was. It wasn’t the meth. He said that I showed the juxtaposition between the core and the edges. I knew he was wrong. What I made out there, in those pictures, was a construct. The contrast was in those homes, with the people living week to week, the peeling basements, the rotted and biting plastic.
Of course, there is no style in those places. That would be considered tacky. It would become tacky, no matter how well lit. But there, in the dying middle class, where you will never see it, there is art.
by J.R. Blackwell | Apr 6, 2006 | Story
After four months of backed up deadlines, CD came to the hard conclusion he already knew was coming. He needed one more of himself.
CD had to present his application in person, which he felt was a ridiculous waste of time. He wondered why the psychologist couldn’t just see him on video over the web, receive his application electronically and wave him through the process. This had been the process for all his previous replicas and he saw no reason why he had to see a councilor now. CD expressed this opinion to the bell-girl, the receptionist and as the first order of business when he got to the psychologist. The psychologist was dressed in fashionable blue robes and her face had a designer friendly smile.
“CD, I needed at least one of you present for this application because studies have shown that we are better able to evaluate a candidates application if one of you is present for a physical meeting.†The psychologist sat behind a wooden desk flanked by tall bookshelves. CD thought the books were a gaudy display of her obvious wealth.
CD rolled his eyes. “I am a very busy man. The reason why I have replicas of myself is because I have so much to do.†CD arched his fingers on his chest. “I am anxious to return my thoughts to my research, art, school and work.†He pushed the plastic pad across her desk. “I would appreciate it if you signed off on this application so I can get the process started.â€
The psychologist didn’t even look at the pad. “Why do you need another replica?â€
CD shrugged. “I’m just not getting done everything I need to right now. There aren’t enough of me to go around!â€
The psychologist looked at her comp-pad, her eyebrows tight. “What are most of you doing right now?â€
CD cocked his head, accessing the network and pinging his replicas. “Sleeping, eating, a few of us in holo-movies, and one of us is at work on the novel.â€
“It seems that most of you isn’t really working.â€
CD threw his arms down and let out a long hard breath. “Everyone needs rest time.â€
The psychologist put down the pad and folded her hands on top of it. “CD, do you know your total number of replicas?â€
“Of course I do, it says on the form. Total number; four hundred and ninety nine.â€
“CD, we have found that around the area of five hundred replicas, something profoundly strong happens to the human mind. The mind can only take so much before it changes in a dynamic and permanent way. Now, I’m not saying that you might change on your five hundredth replica, but maybe by your five hundred and fiftieth or your seven hundredth, maybe the structure of your mind is already beginning to change. The point is, CD, if I approve this application you will no longer be classified as human. You will be classified as a sentient hive, a community.â€
His mouth hung open. “I won’t be human?â€
“The law has limits on what is considered human. If you want to be protected and understood under human rights, you must stay within the confines of what is considered human.†The psychologist looked hard at CD, and then at the application. “I don’t like to recommend that people exceed the limit, but your files are in order and I do believe that you are mentally stable enough to make this choice.â€
CD smiled. “I’ll take it doctor. Make me a community.â€
The procedure took less time than the interview. The download and connection of memory and consciousness was just like waking up from a long nap. CD looked at himself, smiling in admiration. The painting in his studio was only halfway done and he needed to get to the lab to work on his research. Instead, he and his new self decided to celebrate their new birth by hitting the bar and the holovids. The research, the school, the art could wait.
by J.R. Blackwell | Apr 1, 2006 | Story
“I don’t understand.” wrote Becky. Why did you ban Gabriel?” Becky had been on the forum for almost a year, and she was one of the most frequent posters. Rachel thought Becky was a bit like her when she was thirteen, nattering on about internet stars and how she had found the meaning of life in the movies she was watching.
“Becky.” Typed Rachel “I had to ban him. I’m sorry. He was a bot, a spider, a program. He wasn’t human.” Becky’s green words glowed on her screen almost immediately.
“He talked to me! Every day! What do you mean he wasn’t human?”
Rachel exhaled; this was going to be tough. “Didn’t you notice he kept trying to get you to buy games?”
“I like buying games! Who cares? I really liked Gabriel. You two were the only people on this forum I could talk to.” Becky sent a little picture of herself along with the message, her soft little face wrapped in an over exaggerated frown. Rachel has seen her face before. Becky used to have a picture of herself on her profile, a badly lit angled shot of her freckled face. Rachel had made her change the picture, she was always careful about the kids on her forums. She was afraid the picture would make Becky a target for perverts. Now Becky had a picture of a cartoon panda bear as her profile picture.
Rachel pulled the keyboard into her lap. “Becky, Gabriel is not a person.”
“You don’t know that. Gabriel was my boyfriend! He said he would go out with me last week.”
“Becky, honey, he was not your boyfriend. He’s a bot. There are thousands of Gabriel’s on thousands of forums sweetheart. He’s a program, designed to promote games and movies. I’m sorry baby.” There was a long red pause before Rachel got a green response.
“I just want someone to talk to.” Becky lived with her single mom in a little apartment somewhere in the Midwest. With how often she was online, Rachel though it was pretty obvious that Becky didn’t have many meat-space friends.
“Oh Becky. I know it’s lonely sometimes, but you should have real people to talk to. I’ll talk to you.”
“How do you know Gabriel is a bot?”
Rachel thought for a minute, trying to translate the code into something that would make sense to a thirteen year old that had never even seen a programming language. “Becky, everyone’s got little signatures under their addresses. Bots get launched by the same signature, a hundred operations happening on one name. If that’s going on, you can just send them a little code and-“ Rachel zapped the code over to Becky to show her. “-the bot shuts down and has to reboot.”
“Becky?” She paused and went into the code. “Oh God.” Rachel pushed away from her workstation and put her hands on her head. “Shit.” Rachel stood up and walked away from her computer to find some sunshine.
